Arthur M. Melzer, Philosophy Between the Lines [end of year Aristotle series]
Was Aristotle an esoteric writer? Aristotle the Cuttlefish, squirts ink as a defensive measure..
Arthur M. Melzer wrote:
Preface
In a letter to a friend, dated October 20, 1811, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe speaks of an act of forgetting taking place before his eyes: “I have always considered it an evil, indeed a disaster which, in the second half of the previous century, gained more and more ground that one no longer drew a distinction between the exoteric and the esoteric.” The intellectual life of the West, Goethe reports here, has gradually been undergoing a strange and unfortunate transformation. Through a slow act of collective amnesia, a well-known phenomenon has quietly been dropping out of awareness: the philosophic practice of esoteric writing. By this is meant the practice of communicating one’s unorthodox thoughts primarily “between the lines,” hidden behind a veneer of conventional pieties, for fear of persecution or for other reasons.
Although unheeded, Goethe’s warning turned out to be remarkably prescient, pointing to a philosophical forgetting that would continue to spread and deepen for another hundred years. For during the first half of the eighteenth century, esoteric writing was still very well known, openly discussed, and almost universally practiced (as it had been since ancient times), as can be seen from the epigraphs [earlier]. …
… It was rediscovered principally by Leo Strauss—the University of Chicago political philosopher—who began publishing on the subject in the late 1930s. As Alexandre Kojève declared in recognition of this achievement: “Leo Strauss has reminded us of what has tended to be too easily forgotten since the nineteenth century—that one ought not to take literally everything that the great authors of earlier times wrote, nor to believe that they made explicit in their writings all that they wanted to say in them.” Still, Strauss’s efforts at recovery also went largely unheeded.
The present study is an exercise in historical recollection and retrieval. It attempts to more clearly display, document, and, above all—if possible— reverse this extraordinary act of forgetting. It aims to reestablish a general recognition of the several reasons for and the near-universal prevalence of esoteric writing among the major philosophical writers of the West prior to the nineteenth century. My goal here is not to get people to like esotericism (I am no great lover of it myself ), or to engage in it themselves (as I do not), but simply to recognize, understand, and accept it as a historical reality— indeed a monumental one affecting the whole conduct of intellectual life in the West over two millennia. I seek a restoration not of esoteric writing but of esoteric reading—the recovery of a crucial but long-lost element of philosophical literacy. …
Chapter 1
The Testimonial Evidence for Esotericism
… Pierre Bayle [in his] encyclopedic Historical and Critical Dictionary (1695–97) … In his article on Aristotle, he states: “the method of the ancient masters [i.e., philosophers] was founded on good reasons. They had dogmas for the general public and dogmas for the disciples initiated into the mysteries”. …
… John Toland’s [1670-1722] claim about the virtually universal use of esotericism among the moderns (as well as the ancients) is supported more broadly by an important letter written by Diderot in 1773 … It is addressed to François Hemsterhuis, a minor Dutch author whose book—which apparently employed esoteric restraint to avoid persecution— he had just read:
You are one example among many others where intolerance has constrained the truth and dressed philosophy in a clown suit, so that posterity, struck by their contradictions, of which they don’t know the cause, will not know how to discern their true sentiments. The Eumolpides [Athenian high priests] caused Aristotle to alternately admit and reject final causes. … Me, I saved myself by the most agile irony that I could find, by generalities, by terseness, and by obscurity. I know only one modern author who spoke clearly and without detours; but he is hardly known. …
… When, in the letter quoted above, Diderot attributes esotericism to Aristotle, he is imputing to him not a mystical esoteric doctrine but something closer to a materialistic one—disbelief in final causes (something that Hobbes too suspects him of), which, they think, Aristotle has hidden primarily to appease the religious authorities of his time. Whether correct or incorrect, how could this suspicion derive from reliance on early medieval legends of Aristotelian mysticism? In fact, virtually none of the testimony quoted in this chapter thus far is about mystically motivated esotericism. It all concerns the four motives discussed above—defensive, protective, pedagogical, and political …
… Such thinkers as Bacon, Bayle, Leibniz, Diderot, and Rousseau [all discussed earlier] were not mindlessly repeating some legend inherited from medieval times about the books sitting before them. They opened those books and studied them for themselves. And when they declared them esoteric with such confidence, that is because they actually found them esoteric. They saw for themselves, that is, the manifest problems and puzzles on the surface of the text. They experienced for themselves the real progress one could make in slowly resolving those problems if one allowed the supposition that the author might sometimes be employing irony and indirection. Esotericism, for these thinkers, was not a “legend”: it was a personal literary experience. …
Aristotle, the “Cuttlefish”
After so quick a run through two millennia of Western philosophy, it would obviously be desirable, if not obligatory, to pick at least one thinker for a sustained examination. For a variety of reasons, the best candidate for this illustrative exercise is Aristotle.
First, he is, I think, the hardest case, the (pre-1800) thinker least likely to be esoteric. There are philosophers whom one can at least picture engaging in this practice. Maimonides, for example, is so open about his esotericism and so obscure in other ways—so generally “medieval”—that people incline to think that anything is possible with him. But Plato’s writings too are so manifestly playful, poetic, and puzzling that scholars have found it difficult to entirely rule out the possibility of esotericism.
Aristotle is altogether different. He seems to be so straight and literal-minded, so intent on avoiding all misunderstanding, so eager to be clear, precise, and methodical at all times—as if writing for a contemporary philosophy journal—that claims of his esotericism seem utterly absurd. Being the hardest case, he is also the test case. One feels that if Aristotle, of all thinkers, was esoteric—well, then anyone can be.
On the other hand, Aristotle is also the philosopher with the single largest “secondary literature.” Beginning in ancient times, there has been a long, largely unbroken tradition of commentary on his writings. And up through the early modern period, a near-constant feature of this tradition has been talk of his esotericism. So with Aristotle there is broader evidence and testimony to explore than with any other thinker.
Finally, the combination of these two factors has made modern Aristotle scholarship unique in ways that are crucial to our investigation. Owing to the second factor, modern scholars found that with Aristotle, unlike other thinkers, it was impossible to simply ignore or “forget” the issue of esotericism. The historical testimony was just too explicit, widespread, and long-standing. But owing to the first factor, they also found it impossible to accept this testimony. Thus, for a brief but crucial period starting in the nineteenth century and continuing into part of the twentieth, classical scholars of the first rank felt compelled to devote fierce and sustained attention to the otherwise-neglected issue of esotericism. They sought to apply all the tools of modern philology to the task of dismissing esotericism, once and for all, as a foolish legend. In short, with Aristotle, we have the best and almost the only opportunity to witness an elaborate prosecution of the missing side—the case against esotericism—conducted at the highest levels of scholarship.
For all these reasons, Aristotle is the standout candidate for careful analysis. Having, to this point, conducted a breezy, high-altitude survey of the philosophical landscape, we descend, for the length of this section, to a slow and punctilious crawl. As before, but at greater length, we will focus on the historical testimony to Aristotle’s esotericism. But in addition we will examine the scholarly critique of that testimony. Last, through a brief look at some of Aristotle’s writings, we will try to reach a final verdict on the historical testimony and the scholarly critique of it.
The “Exoteric” vs. the “Acroamatic” Writings of Aristotle
Prior to the nineteenth century, as I have said, there was incessant talk of Aristotle’s esotericism. Indeed, since ancient times, he was seen, not as the hardest case, but as the classic case. In the second century AD, for example, he was so well-known for his esoteric doubleness that this trait is identified as one of his most distinctive characteristics by the Greek satirist Lucian (117–c. 180 AD). In his comic dialogue The Sale of Lives, Lucian depicts a slave auction of philosophers arranged by Zeus, with Hermes as the auctioneer. We pick up the action after the sale of Pythagoras, Diogenes, Heraclitus, and some others.
ZEUS: Don’t delay; call another, the Peripatetic.
HERMES: Come now, buy the height of intelligence, the one who knows absolutely everything!
BUYER: What is he like?
HERMES: Moderate, gentlemanly, adaptable in his way of living, and, what is more, he is double.
BUYER: What do you mean?
HERMES: Viewed from the outside, he seems to be one man, and from the inside, another; so if you buy him, be sure to call the one self “exoteric” and the other “esoteric.”
The initial source and ground of all this emphasis on Aristotle’s esotericism is the once famous and still undeniable fact that on nine distinct occasions in the extant writings, he refers in passing to “the exoteric discourses” (exoterikoi logoi). In the Nicomachean Ethics, for example, he says:
But some points concerning the soul are stated sufficiently even in the exoteric arguments, and one ought to make use of them—for example, that one part of it is nonrational, another possesses reason. (1102a26)52
Again, in the Eudemian Ethics, in the context of a brief discussion of Plato’s doctrine of the ideas and his objections to it, Aristotle remarks:
… the question has already received manifold consideration both in exoteric and in philosophical discussions. (1217b20)53
A massive scholarly literature has grown up to interpret these nine brief passages—but without ever reaching a clear consensus. The reason would seem to be that Aristotle does not use the term “exoteric” (literally, “external,” “outside”) with the precision or specificity that we are looking for and that it later came to possess. In some cases (most clearly Politics 1323a22), he is clearly referring to certain of his own writings that are of a more popular, subphilosophic character. But in other cases (see especially Physics 217b31) Aristotle seems to be referring to writings of this kind produced by other thinkers and perhaps even to the informal theories and thoughtful discussions of educated men at large. In most of the remaining cases, it is impossible to say with certainty which of these he meant. Thus, as [Alexander] Grant emphasizes, the only solid generalization that can be made about this infamous term is that, in Aristotle, “exoteric” refers to a simplified, popular, subphilosophic account of some kind, given by someone. Thus, on this understanding, an exoteric account is not necessarily false or fictional or defined against something “esoteric” in the sense of secret or concealed—although it can be. And by itself, the term tells us virtually nothing about the character or systematic divisions of Aristotle’s writings.
But looking beyond these passages that have stolen so much scholarly attention, we can find more fruitful ground. For virtually everyone agrees, based on much other evidence, that Aristotle’s corpus (putting aside the letters, poems, and collections) was indeed divided into two broad categories of writings: a set of earlier, popular works, addressed to a wide audience (the now-lost dialogues and perhaps some other writings) and the more exacting, strictly philosophical works, addressed to the Lyceum’s inner circle and probably composed, originally, in connection with oral presentation there, which includes virtually all the works we now possess. And the names for these two categories of writings—at least according to later, ancient thinkers and editors—were, respectively, “exoteric” and “acroamatic” or “acroatic” (literally, “designed for hearing only”).
I would suggest that it is possible to further refine this distinction as follows. It seems that the category of “acroamatic” is susceptible of degree, that some works in this grouping are more acroamatic than others. Some works— like the Ethics and Politics—were beyond the reach of popular audiences only through their more advanced and exacting philosophical method, but others—like the Metaphysics and Categories—transcended the popular level also through the abstruseness of their very subject matter. Indeed, we can see for ourselves that the latter two works clearly address a more specialized audience than the well-educated citizenry addressed in the former two, although all alike fall within the acroamatic category. Further evidence for this distinction can be seen in the fact that, so far as we know, Aristotle devoted few if any dialogues or other exoteric writings to these more abstruse subjects (the main exception being the dialogue On Philosophy). But concerning subjects of broader concern—ethics, politics, and rhetoric, for example—he produced extensive exoteric as well as acroamatic treatments.
Two Distinct Forms of Esotericism [Aristotle continued..]
All of this is relatively noncontroversial. The critical questions concern both the relation between these two broad categories of works and their internal character. On the most general level, the question is this. Should these works be understood—as modern scholars insist—on the model familiar to us from contemporary thinkers who have written both popular and technical works? Then there would be no question of esotericism—no issue of intentional concealment or secret communication or noble lies. On this view, the two sets of writings would present the same essential doctrine, only the one in a more elementary and popular way, appropriate for beginners or laymen, the other in a precise and scientific manner, suitable for more advanced and dedicated students. Or, alternatively, should the character and relation of these works be understood in terms of esoteric motives and techniques? But here things become a bit complex. There are two distinct forms of esotericism that Aristotle may be employing, so this general question needs to be resolved into two subquestions (which themselves will have subparts). Much misinterpretation of the historical record has arisen from the failure to make this distinction.
First, do the two different categories of works present, not two versions of the same doctrine, one elementary, the other advanced, but rather—to begin with the extreme case—two altogether different doctrines, one false and the other true: an exoteric teaching for the benefit of popular audiences, which makes crucial concessions to political needs and prevailing prejudices, and an acroamatic one reserved for the philosophic reader, which resolutely rejects every such concession? This first kind of esotericism, however, can also take a less extreme form, in which the exoteric doctrine is different from the acroamatic but only by being incomplete, not positively deceptive: it leaves out or conceals certain ultimate truths deemed harmful to most, but it does not propagate an alternative, mythical doctrine.
Second, one must also raise a question about the internal character of each group of writings, regardless of the relation between them. Even if the teaching of the two sets of writings is fundamentally the same (or if there is only one set), one still needs to ask whether, within each set, that teaching is presented openly or hidden between the lines. Similarly, if the two sets of writings present different teachings, the same question needs to be raised. Do the acroamatic writings, which contain the true philosophic teaching, present that teaching right on the surface or only beneath it? And conversely, do the exoteric writings wholly confine themselves to the exoteric teaching or do even these more popular works also contain something between the lines that would point the careful reader in the direction of the philosophic teaching?
In other words, there are two entirely distinct ways in which a writer may contrive to speak differently to different audiences: either by giving each audience its own separate set of works (although, over the long run, it is nearly impossible to maintain this separation) or by conveying, within the same work, one teaching on the surface and the other beneath it—multilevel writing. Teachings can be separated either by work or by level. In exploring Aristotle’s manner of communication, we need to ask about both techniques, as well as the—not unlikely—possibility that he combines the two (given the inherent difficulties of the first technique).
In what follows, I will argue for the latter possibility, that Aristotle puts forward two distinct teachings, separated by both level and work. The testimonial evidence from the ancient commentators, we will see, is virtually unanimous and uncontradicted in depicting Aristotle as a multilevel writer. It is divided, however, on the question of whether Aristotle assigned distinct teachings to the two sets of works. Yet that question can be answered in the affirmative, I will argue, by consulting the evidence of the texts themselves.
The Earliest Testimony concerning These Questions [Aristotle continued..]
One thing making it difficult to answer these questions is that we do not possess any of the exoteric works, but know of them only by report. On the other hand, we are aided by the existence of a huge ancient and medieval literature of commentary on Aristotle. Just the ancient Greek commentaries alone run to over fifteen thousand pages. Yet two problems threaten to undermine their usefulness. They disagree regarding at least one of our questions. And, as modern scholars emphasize, most of them were influenced by neo-Pythagoreanism, Neoplatonism, and other mystical tendencies in the later empire period, which may have significantly biased their views on these questions. We need to consult this voluminous evidence, then—but with caution.
The first clear statement on these issues that has come down to us is found in Plutarch (46–120 AD) and seconded, several decades later, by Aulus Gellius (c. 125–after 180 AD)—both of whom are relying, as the latter indicates, on Andronicus of Rhodes (c. 60 BC), a philosopher and the authoritative ancient editor of Aristotle’s works. Plutarch claims that the second, less popular category of Aristotle’s writings concerns the “secret [aporrata, not to be spoken] and deeper things, which men call by the special term acroamatic and epoptic and do not expose for the many to share.” (He is especially speaking here of what I’ve called the “more acroamatic” writings on nature and logic.) He continues that when Alexander the Great, Aristotle’s former pupil, heard that his teacher had decided to publish some of the acroamatic discourses, he wrote to him in protest. Aristotle then replied in the following letter, which is featured in Andronicus’s edition of his writings, and which Plutarch carefully describes and Gellius quotes in full:
Aristotle to King Alexander, prosperity. You have written me about the acroatic discourses, thinking that they should be guarded in secrecy. Know, then, that they have been both published and not published. For they are intelligible only to those who have heard us.
The authenticity of this letter is doubtful. But regardless of who wrote it ([Ingemar] During conjectures that it was Andronicus himself ), it may well present an informed account of the character of Aristotle’s writings. What we do know is that a thinker and historian of the stature of Plutarch finds the content of the letter accurate in light of his own personal reading of Aristotle. For, as he goes on to explain:
To say the truth, his books on metaphysics are written in a style which makes them useless for ordinary teaching, and instructive only, in the way of memoranda, for those who have been already conversant in that sort of learning.
These statements directly address—if only partially—our two questions. Regarding the first, Plutarch and Gellius (and probably Andronicus, their source) clearly embrace the view that the distinction between Aristotle’s exoteric and acroamatic writings is not simply reducible to elementary vs. advanced, as our scholars claim. It obviously involves something esoteric: a firm desire to conceal from most people certain of his deepest views (by excluding these views from the exoteric works), while also revealing them to others (by including them in his distinct, acroamatic works).
But Plutarch et al. also clearly affirm that Aristotle employs the second, multilevel form of esotericism as well—in answer to our second question. While the “secret and deeper things” are contained only in the separate, acroamatic writings, even there they are not presented openly but secreted behind a veil of artful obscurity. The acroamatic works are both “published and not published”: they are multilevel writings that speak to some people and not to others.
Let us momentarily put aside the first question (concerning the two sets of works), since it is the more complicated, and continue to explore the ancient testimony regarding the second question, as well as the critique of that testimony by modern scholars.
Evidence concerning the Second Question: Is Aristotle a Multilevel Writer?
Several scholars, seeking to impeach this earliest testimony to Aristotle’s esotericism, have attributed it to the influence on Plutarch of neo-Pythagorean ideas prevalent in his time. It would be as difficult to sustain as to refute such a claim, since Plutarch’s relation to neo-Pythagoreanism is complex and poorly understood. But there appears to be no evidence of neo- Pythagoreanism in the case of either Gellius or Andronicus.
However that may be, Grant also turns to a second, more direct line of attack, ridiculing Plutarch’s reading of Aristotle and his testimony (just quoted) reporting the intentional obscurity or multileveled character of Aristotle’s writing. [Alexander] Grant asserts: “Such a statement does not require refutation.”
Here, he is drawing upon the deep and indignant skepticism that, as mentioned at the beginning, is aroused in modern times at the very suggestion of Aristotelian esotericism. Still, to buttress his point, he adds confidently:
After the Renaissance, when the works of Aristotle in their original form were widely studied, all the nonsense about his double doctrine was at once dissipated; and the simple, plain-sailing character of his philosophy was admitted on all hands.
But here we may say that Grant, in his supreme confidence, is entirely mistaken. The evidence he summons to support his view speaks powerfully against it. From the Renaissance to about 1800, the esoteric character of Aristotle’s philosophy was acknowledged by almost everyone who discussed the subject.
In turning now to the other ancient and medieval commentators on Aristotle we will find exactly the same thing (although, again, modern scholars have tried to argue the contrary). Simplicius of Cilicia (c. 490–c. 560), who, though a Neoplatonist, is widely regarded as the most learned and reliable of the Greek commentators (after Alexander of Aphrodisias), remarks in his commentary on the Physics that in Aristotle’s acroamatic works, “he deliberately introduced obscurity, repelling by this means those who are too easy-going, so that it might seem to them that they had not even been written.” He is clearly endorsing as well as elaborating the view reported by Plutarch. Similarly, Themistius (317–c. 390), who was only tangentially related to neo-Platonism, states in his paraphrase of the Posterior Analytics that “many of the books of Aristotle appear to have been contrived with a view to concealment.” The Neoplatonist Ammonius (c. 440–c. 520), in the first paragraph of his commentary on the Categories, lists ten questions that must be addressed before beginning the study of Aristotle’s book. The eighth is: “Why has the Philosopher obviously made a point of being obscure.” He gives his answer a few pages later:
Let us ask why on earth the philosopher is contented with obscure [asaphes] teaching. We reply that it is just as in the temples, where curtains are used for the purpose of preventing everyone, and especially the impure, from en- countering things they are not worthy of meeting. So too Aristotle uses the obscurity of his philosophy as a veil, so that good people may for that reason stretch their minds even more, whereas empty minds that are lost through carelessness will be put to flight by the obscurity when they encounter sentences like these.
In the Islamic tradition as well, we hear Alfarabi claiming:
Whoever inquires into Aristotle’s sciences, peruses his books, and takes pains with them will not miss the many modes of concealment, blinding and complicating in his approach, despite his apparent intention to explain and clarify.
Alfarabi sees perfectly well what we see—that Aristotle often displays a meticulous effort “to explain and clarify”—but he and the others also see that that is not the whole story. Among the Greek commentators, artful obscurity was in fact so well established as a major characteristic of Aristotelian writing that, in their discussions and disputes over the authenticity of various manuscripts, they used this quality as a crucial marker of authenticity. Thus, we find the Neoplatonist Olympiodorus the Younger (c. 495–570) arguing:
Some people have condemned the first book [of the Meteorologica] as spurious, in the first place because it goes beyond Aristotle himself and practices clarity [sapheneia]. Against them I shall maintain that there is a great deal of unclarity [asapheia] in the book.
If it is lacking in obscurity, it cannot be genuine Aristotle. Similarly, among writers in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries—including such confirmed non-Neoplatonists as Pierre Gassendi and Joseph Glanvill—it became something of a standard trope to liken Aristotle to a cuttlefish, for, like the squid, the cuttlefish squirts ink as a defensive measure. In sum, concerning the question of multilevel writing—our second question—there is impressively clear, widespread, and uncontradicted testimony that the use of intentional obscurity to convey different messages to different readers is one of Aristotle’s most characteristic features as a writer.
The Evidence concerning the First Question: The View of Alexander of Aphrodisias
Let us return then to the first question: is there also a fundamental difference of doctrine between the two sets of writings, exoteric and acroamatic? Thus far, we have seen the partial answer of Plutarch and Gellius (and perhaps Andronicus): Yes, in the sense that only the acroamatic writings contained what Plutarch called the “secret and deeper things, which men . . . do not expose for the many to share.” Yet, this answer leaves unclear the precise character of the difference between the two kinds of writings. Specifically, are the exoteric works simply incomplete—simply silent on the subject of these excluded “deeper things”—or do they go on to present an alternative, fictional doctrine in their place? In other words, do Aristotle’s writings present a full-blown “double doctrine,” one fictional and the other true? On this particular aspect of the first question there is important disagreement among the commentators (in contrast to the unanimity regarding the question of multilevel writing).
The most important statement on the issue was made by Alexander of Aphrodisias (c. 200), and it strongly supports the “double doctrine” thesis. Unfortunately, the work in which he states his view—most likely his commentary on De anima—is not among those that have come down to us. We know his position only from the report of his chief opponents—three Neo-platonist commentators, Ammonius, Olympiodorus, and Elias (sixth century). According to Elias’s account, the latest and most fully elaborated of the three, Alexander claimed that “in the acroamatics, he [Aristotle] says the truth and what seems true to him, but in the dialogues, falsehoods that seem to be true to others.”
This statement carries great weight because Alexander of Aphrodisias is perhaps the most authoritative source we possess on Aristotle after Aristotle himself. Known for over four centuries, among pagans, Christians, and Muslims alike, as simply “the Commentator,” he is the most informed, judicious, and philosophic of the Greek interpreters of Aristotle. His importance regarding our issue is all the greater in view of the fact that he may well be the last commentator to actually have had full and direct access to the exoteric as well as the acroamatic writings. Finally, he is also the last ancient commentator to be wholly free of Neoplatonist influence. There is no trace in him of either the syncretistic or the mystical and spiritualistic tendencies powerfully emerging in his time.
One would therefore expect that the modern scholars of this issue— having identified Neoplatonist bias as the great obstacle to the accurate assessment of Aristotle’s manner of writing—would seize upon this claim of Alexander’s as the single most important piece of evidence we possess. Instead, most of them completely ignore it.
The great exception is [Ingemar] During, who focuses intently upon it—in order to prove that Alexander never made such a claim. We know of this claim, after all, only from the report of the three commentators, who could be mistaken. Therefore, During makes bold to prove that the commentators, in reading Alexander’s text, grossly misinterpreted it (a text that During himself has of course never seen). His argument proceeds on a conjecture: What Alexander really asserted in his lost commentary is only the obvious point that in the acroamatic writings, which are treatises, Aristotle speaks in his own name, whereas in the exoteric writings, which are dialogues, he includes different characters expressing their own opinions. But Elias, somehow not comprehending this simple point, mistakenly ascribed to Alexander the very different claim quoted above, that in the exoteric works, Aristotle endorses false opinions. And that is how this erroneous report arose. During’s conjectural reconstruction of these distant events seems far-fetched on a number of counts. First, it is hard to see how the mistake he attributes to Elias could be made by any person of ordinary intelligence, let alone by a brilliant and renowned commentator, rigorously trained in the art of close textual analysis. Second, it is necessary to assume that this quirky mistake was made not just once, but three times, first by Ammonius, then by Olympiodorus, and finally by Elias—since all three give essentially the same report of Alexander.
Furthermore, Elias and Olympiodorus make it perfectly clear that their understanding of Alexander’s view in no way hinges—as During assumes here—simply on the interpretation of a few sentences spoken about Aristotle’s manner of writing. Rather, it is firmly rooted in Alexander’s whole interpretation of Aristotle. As they explain—with stern disapproval— Alexander denies the immortality of the soul and believes that that is also the genuine Aristotelian view. The acroamatic works, including De anima, can (arguably) be interpreted in that manner, but the exoteric works manifestly cannot for they “loudly proclaimed the immortality of the soul,” as Olympiodorus puts it. Therefore, it is perfectly obvious from the content of Alexander’s interpretation of Aristotle that he did indeed believe that the acroamatic writings presented Aristotle’s genuine doctrine, while the exoteric writings conveyed a fundamentally different teaching, closer to popular beliefs. And this view of Alexander’s is the best evidence we possess concerning the precise relation of the two sets of Aristotle’s writings.
The Great Debate: Alexander vs. the Neoplatonists
Thus, if [Ingemar] During and the others want to defend their strict anti-esoteric stance regarding Aristotle, they cannot simply dismiss Alexander’s contrary view with the dubious claim that he did not really espouse it. They will have to confront and refute that view—by appealing to the testimony of the three commentators who explicitly contradict Alexander: Elias, Olympiodorus, and Ammonius (buttressed by some others like Philoponus). But before this confrontation, two initial observations.
First, one must note the great irony that the anti-esoteric scholarly camp, which began by attributing all the talk of esotericism to the malign influence of Neoplatonism, must now stake its whole case on the hope to use these neo-Platonist commentators to refute the one commentator who remained wholly free of Neoplatonist influence.
Second, During seems to believe that, however it turns out with Alexander, at least these three commentators are wholly on his side and against the esoteric interpretation of Aristotle. But even that is not true. If one is looking at the first question—whether the exoteric and the acroamatic writings both teach the same doctrine—then these interpreters do indeed argue for the anti-esoteric answer: the teachings of both sets of writings are essentially the same. But During seems to be unaware or somehow neglects that esotericism can take a second form, multilevel writing. And, as we have seen, there is a very large consensus of philosophers and commentators—pagan, Neoplatonist, Islamic, and Christian—affirming that Aristotle did practice this second form of esotericism. It turns out, moreover, that the three Neo-platonist commentators on whom During must rely are themselves all firm members of that consensus. Indeed, I have already quoted from Ammonius and Olympiodorus above when illustrating that view. As for Elias—of the three thinkers, the most open and fervent critic of esotericism of the first type (different doctrines in different sets of writings)—here is what he says, eleven pages later, concerning the second, multilevel type:
When Alexander [the Great] blamed him for publishing his writing, Aristotle said, “they are published and not published,” hinting at their lack of clarity . . . [which is like] what Plato said [in the Second Letter, 312d8]: “if something should happen to the tablet [i.e., the writing] either on land or on sea, the reader because of its obscurity would not understand its contents.” Thus [one should write] in order to hide; in order to test those fit and those unfit, so that the unfit should turn their backs on philosophy.
Thus, the three commentators whom During considers to be on his side are in fact all firm believers in Aristotelian esotericism—just not the kind that Alexander is speaking of, the first kind. Indeed, the record of commentary on Aristotle is full of heated debates regarding these subsidiary questions of esoteric technique. But, so far as I can tell, there is no debate at all about whether Aristotle was esoteric in some form. That is accepted on all sides.
So in the intracommentator debate to which we now briefly turn, all parties agree that Aristotle uses obscurity to withhold certain higher truths from most readers. The disagreement concerns whether—especially in the exoteric writings, but possibly in the acroamatic to some extent as well—he goes beyond the withholding of truth to the positive endorsement of falsehoods, that is, to the provision of an “exoteric doctrine” in the strict sense of an alternative, fictional teaching, a “noble lie.” To restate the question in terms of its practical meaning: if we are trying to read Aristotle esoterically, should we simply be looking for subtle hints of unstated ideas or should we also be questioning the sincerity of the doctrines he openly affirms and argues for? The three Neoplatonist commentators all take the less extreme of the two alternatives: Aristotle leaves much unsaid, but what he does say, he believes; he conceals but does not lie. He seeks to exclude part of his audience but not to deceive them. This view is crucial to the commentators because, as Neoplatonists, they interpret Aristotle in a religious or spiritualistic manner, and themes of that kind figure more prominently in the exoteric than in the acroamatic writings. Thus they are eager to maintain that the former works, although more popular than the acroamatic, nevertheless propound the same doctrine and so are equally valid and in some respects more useful. In their own writings, they certainly make crucial use of them. Alexander, by contrast, has a more skeptical, naturalistic interpretation of Aristotle’s ultimate doctrine and thus maintains—as he would have to—that the more spiritualistic exoteric writings contain much that is “merely exoteric” or pious fiction.
So who is right? I have already argued above that, for a variety of reasons, Alexander is regarded as the far more reliable source in general. But perhaps we can also judge between the contradictory claims of these commentators by examining Aristotle’s texts for ourselves. This is difficult to do in a definitive manner since we do not possess any of the exoteric writings. But we have some knowledge of them and, at least regarding one crucial issue, the immortality of the soul, we are able to make a fairly reliable comparison of how the two different categories of works treat a major philosophical question.
Concerning the exoteric writings, Elias informs us that “the dialogues very much seem to herald the immortality of the soul,” a claim also made by many others, like Proclus and, as we have already seen above, Olympiodorus. What is more, we possess, in fragmentary form, large parts of the Eudemus, Aristotle’s famous dialogue on the soul and the afterlife, loosely modeled on Plato’s Phaedo. And these fragments clearly seem to substantiate the claims of the commentators. Specifically, Aristotle appears to assert the immortality of the soul, meaning the personal or individual soul, which, as such, includes the memory of one’s former self and life on earth.
But if we turn to the other set of works, we find that nowhere in the entire corpus of the acroamatic writings does Aristotle ever make a comparable assertion. In two famously brief and obscure passages in De anima (408b18– 29, 430a23), he asserts the immortality of a small part of the soul, the “active intellect,” but he leaves very unclear what this is and how we know it is immortal. Still, it seems clear from what he does say that, once the body dies, there is no continuation of our personal memory, since this is not an operation of the active intellect. So there is no true “personal immortality.”
If, to gain greater clarity on this crucial issue, we turn to the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle’s work dedicated to exploring the fundamental questions about how we should live, we find, remarkably, that he never once raises the question. The closest he comes is in book 1, chapter 10, which considers a related but much smaller question: can a man who lives a happy life to the end be said to become unhappy when, after his death, utter ruin befalls his family and estate? With the deftness of a tightrope walker, Aristotle manages to explore all the many ins and outs of this conundrum without ever once tipping his hand on the larger question that it inescapably points to: is there or is there not an afterlife of some kind? In its teasing evasiveness, the discussion seems to show us, without telling us, that he is unwilling to openly address this question. Two books later, however, in a very different context, Aristotle does remark in passing: “Wish [as distinguished from choice] may be for things that are impossible—for example, immortality” (1111b22).
These brief textual observations certainly do not settle the question of Aristotle’s view of immortality. They do suffice, however, to make a fairly strong case for the Alexandrian position in our debate: the two kinds of Aristotelian writings do not present the same teaching. There is a “double doctrine.” On this most important issue of life, the exoteric writings clearly proclaim a quasi-religious doctrine of personal immortality that is more in tune with political needs as well as popular wishes and longings. By contrast, the acroamatic or philosophic works studiously avoid any clear declaration on the issue. At the same time, they also seem to point, quietly and obscurely, toward a much more skeptical view that, whatever its precise details, denies personal immortality. It seems clear that, in the exoteric writings, Aristotle is indeed willing to endorse fictions, to affirm and even argue for—with all his characteristic earnestness and precision—doctrines that he does not believe.
Still, this argument is not ironclad. How could it be when relying solely on fragments and ancient reports for its understanding of the exoteric writings? What would be very helpful is confirming evidence of some sort in the texts that we actually do possess. This is not an unreasonable hope since, as we have seen, the acroamatic works are multilevel writings employing obscurity to conceal the truth. It is entirely possible, then, that they also engaged in the further practice—at issue in the current debate—of endorsing, on the surface, doctrines that Aristotle ultimately rejected, either beneath the surface of that same work or in some other, “more acroamatic” work. In other words, we can confirm our suspicions about the lost exoteric works if we can show that the acroamatic works themselves contain a surface layer of teachings that are “merely exoteric.”
Exoteric Teachings in the Acroamatic Works
That turns out to be surprisingly easy to do. Let us turn, for example, to another absolutely fundamental question: is there a god or gods? As everyone knows, in the “theology” discussion of Metaphysics 11, Aristotle answers this question through his doctrine of the unmoved mover: a perfect, unitary, and unchanging being that lives a completely contemplative life—thought thinking itself. But everyone also knows that the Nicomachean Ethics and Politics are full of respectful references to the traditional gods of the city, which describe, for example, who it is that the gods love and reward most (Ethics 1179a23–34), that they are owed honor (Ethics 1165a23), and that one of the most crucial elements of a city, without which it cannot exist, is that part—the priesthood—that attends to the divine (Politics 1328b2–13). To be sure, Aristotle speaks much less frequently and reverently of the gods than does Plato, and he often does so in a somewhat conditional manner, and occasionally he gives hints of a higher conception of “the god,” but still it is very hard to deny that what he does affirm in these works is in stark contrast to the teaching of the Metaphysics. Thus, Sir David Ross, who begins his classic work Aristotle by dismissing in a sentence the legend that the exoteric/acroamatic distinction involves “the practice of an economy of truth toward the public,” must nevertheless acknowledge later on that in most of these religious passages Aristotle “is clearly accommodating himself to the views of his age.” And even Grant himself is compelled to admit that in these works “there are several popular and exoteric allusions to ‘the gods.’” To put it in a less grudging and more accurate way, if the Metaphysics presents Aristotle’s true view of theology, then almost the entire treatment of the gods in these two works is “merely exoteric.”
If we go on to take up the related question of providence, we see a similar pattern. It has seemed obvious to many of Aristotle’s interpreters, not unreasonably, that since his god is purely contemplative, indeed self-contemplative, there is no basis in Aristotle’s thought for particular provi- dence. But Aristotle himself refrains from ever drawing that conclusion—or indeed any other conclusion on the matter. Here is another major question of life regarding which the Philosopher maintains a studied and nearly total silence. Still, here and there, when he does take a stand, it is not to support the position that the Metaphysics would lead one to expect. Rather, he affirms the existence of divine providence, albeit with a statement so abstract or so hedged with conditionals that it makes a rather weak impression. Thus, in On the Heavens (271a33) he declares: “God and nature do nothing in vain.” In the Nicomachean Ethics (1099b13), he states that happiness comes from the gods—or at least it would be fitting for it to do so. And later (1179a23) he suggests that the gods love and reward the philosophers—if they love and reward anyone. Taking all of this into account, Ross—once again, an esoteric reader in spite of himself—reasonably concludes:
But it is remarkable how little trace there is of this [providential] way of thinking, if we discount passages where Aristotle is probably accommodating himself to common opinions.
It seems fair to say, in sum, that Aristotle probably rejects providence, but, if he does, he deliberately conceals that conclusion. He generally evades the subject as much as possible, but occasionally speaks exoterically (but tepidly) in favor of providence.
We have now seen the same pattern of behavior regarding three topics— God, providence, and the afterlife. Still, someone might try to object that, as important as these topics are, they do not seem to be central to Aristotle’s philosophical activity. Thus, it would be more impressive and dispositive if we could catch Aristotle speaking exoterically about matters closer to his heart. Let us turn, then, to what is arguably Aristotle’s central theoretical teaching: his doctrine of natural teleology. As is well recognized, a defining characteristic of Aristotelian teleology is that it is an “immanent” or “pluralistic” teleology. “The end of each species,” to quote Ross again, “is internal to the species; its end is simply to be that kind of thing.” It is not an “extrinsic” teleology, where one species exists for the sake of another or for the whole, and still less an “anthropocentric” teleology, where all things exist for the benefit of man. Horses do not exist for men to ride. That is the consistent claim of Aristotle’s teaching in all of the acroamatic works.
Except in the Nicomachean Ethics and the Politics. In the former (1106a20), Aristotle states that the natural excellence or perfection of a horse is to be good at carrying its rider. Similarly, in the Politics (1256b16), he asserts—and even supports his assertion with arguments—that the plants exist for the sake of the animals and the animals for the sake of man. So, even with respect to this theoretical doctrine so central to Aristotle’s whole thought, he clearly seems willing to speak exoterically here, to falsify his doctrine.
Related to this exoteric anthropocentrism in the Politics is an exoteric ethnocentrism. On the second page of the book (1252b4), Aristotle unabashedly endorses the reigning dogma that the Greeks are the natural rulers of the barbarians, that is, of all non-Greeks, because the latter are naturally slavish. (Among other things, this claim is crucial to the defense of his theory— also exoteric I would suggest—that nature has conveniently divided the human species into natural masters and natural slaves.) But later, in book 2, where Aristotle devotes himself to examining the three existing cities that are the best, he quietly includes among them Carthage—a barbarian city. In conclusion, this brief examination of certain topics in the acroamatic writings lends strong support to the position of Alexander of Aphrodisias in his debate with the three Neoplatonist commentators. Not only is Aristotle a multilevel writer who hides some of his doctrines through intentional ob- scurity—as all parties are agreed—but he also propagates certain salutary fictions or noble lies. He does so especially—characteristically—in the exoteric writings, but also to some extent in the acroamatic. In short, he deploys a full-blown “double doctrine.”
And this claim, moreover, can no longer be dismissed as Neoplatonist nonsense—as During, Grant, and the others have long tried to do—because, as we have come to see, precisely the opposite is the case. The view of Aristotle as propagating a double doctrine in his two sets of writings is precisely a rejection of the Neoplatonist view. To us today, Aristotle may seem like the “hardest case” regarding esotericism. But we have now seen how and why through most of history he was seen as the classic case.
SUPPLEMENTARY
Footnote contents of special interest:
… Stephen Holmes* writes: “We can confidently assume that Strauss’s obsession with esotericism and persecution had its roots not in scholarship, but in the unthinkable tragedy of his generation [i.e., the holocaust].” Gregory Vlastos sadly laments Strauss’s “delusion that the classics of political philosophy were meant to be read as palimpsests—strange aberration in a noble mind.” And George Sabine fears that esotericism simply amounts to “an invitation to perverse ingenuity.” These are honest assessments by thoughtful scholars who, in their dismissive characterizations of esotericism—“obsession,” “delusion,” “aberration,” “perverse”—give accurate expression to the predilections of our time concerning this issue. …
… Quentin Skinner** and the Cambridge school actually begin from the same essential idea as the reader response school, albeit via the thought of John L. Austin. “In saying something we are doing something,” as Austin liked to put it … Our words have an “illocutionary force” …
This insight naturally leads Skinner to the possibility of esoteric communication. Thus, he explicitly discusses “the various oblique strategies which a writer may always decide to adopt in order to set out and at the same time disguise what he means by what he says about some given doctrine”. He suggests, for example, that Hobbes’s Leviathan is “replete with rhetorical codes”…
But to Austin’s theory of illocutionary force, Skinner adds the further step that the text is able to communicate its unstated message primarily by drawing upon certain background conventions that are highly localized in place and time. This is what causes him to be critical of the strong textual emphasis of the Straussian and reader response schools, and leads him to the highly contextual and historical emphasis of the Cambridge school. …
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The Source:
Arthur M. Melzer, Philosophy Between the Lines: The Lost History of Esoteric Writing, University of Chicago Press 2014
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