Volume 45, Issue 1

Pherecydes’ pseudepigraphic letter to Thales (Diog. Laert. I 122) is of uncertain date. It revolves around the idea that the book of Pherecydes should be interpreted allegorically. The aim of this paper is twofold: on the one hand, to contextualise the composition of the epistle through the examination of ancient witnesses who focus on Pherecydes’ obscurity; on the other hand, it shows to what extent Numenius, Celsus and Porphyry’s allegoric interpretation has misled some authoritative modern reconstruction of Pherecydes’ doctrines, as it is today generally agreed that he taught the immortality of the human soul and cycle of reincarnation.

The doctrine of unity of opposites lays in the centre of the debate on Heraclitus’ philosophy. The present article proposes a critical analysis of the mainstream interpretation of geometrical oppositions (fragments DK 22 B 59, B 60 and B 103) as mere examples of different points of view. Instead, we suggest that these fragments are fundamental pieces in Heraclitus cosmology and that they are traces of a circular and archaic paradigm. Indeed, cyclical formulations are spread throughout the fragments and, read in connection with geometrical oppositions, perform a useful model to describe how permanence and change can be complementary events. In this context, circularity can be a key to the comprehension of unity of opposites as a result of interchangeable processes – as day and night, life and death, beginning and end – so that opposites are part of a concrete and vital unity.

In this paper I examine Socrates’ argument that presupposes an audience familiar with Forms and explains why the sight-lovers are not philosophers. It is divided into three parts: the first part (476a1–6) shows why each Form is one in number; the second part (476a6–9) distinguishes Forms from their sensible appearances; and the third part (476a10–d6) draws an analogy between philosophers – people being awake and sight-lovers – people being asleep. Remarkably, the argument works only for opposites, which are mistakenly identified by the sight-lovers with sensible things. Also in this paper I suggest an alternative interpretation of the so-called ‘Two Worlds Theory’ which is based on the distinction between the objects of knowledge and opinion.

It is commonly supposed that one can build Aristotle’s account of luck (τύχη) and good fortune (εὐτυχία) from Ph. II 4–6 and Eth. Eud. VIII 2. Indeed, in these texts, he is concerned with providing a general account of each. There has, however, been some dispute on the relationship between the texts. Some argue that the two accounts conflict, and the notion of τύχη or εὐτυχία we find in the Ph. is not the one that Aristotle has in mind in Eth. Eud. Others argue that there are two notions of “luck” in Eth. Eud. : one that fits with the account in the Ph. and another that is more stable. Almost no one argues that εὐτυχία in Eth. Eud. VIII 2 is a subspecies of τύχη. I will argue that Aristotle does indeed have two notions of εὐτυχία, a narrow and a broad one. But I show that the distinction is set aside in Eth. Eud. VIII 2 where Aristotle only discusses εὐτυχία as a subspecies of τύχη. We see this especially if we compare the account in Eth. Eud. with what Aristotle says about εὐτυχία in his other ethical treatises. The upshot is that there is a narrower focus in Eth. Eud. than in the other treatises when it comes to εὐτυχία.

Whereas several zoological Aristotelian works have been preserved, Aristotle is reported to have written only one short botanical treatise. Such reports seem to conflict with his self-described ambition to study plants as well as animals. Even though this treatise is now lost, the available evidence suggests that Aristotle had valid reasons to find the subject-matter of plants much less interesting, as their activities amount to a subset of what animals do. When studying attributes common to both plants and animals in the transmitted corpus, Aristotle systematically focuses on the case of the most complex animals and, once an explanatory model has been found, proceeds to apply it to the remaining cases with less details. I argue that this procedure, although it runs counters to the intuition that one ought to start with the most simple case, corresponds to a general scientific method. Consequently, most of Aristotle’s botany is found to be already encapsulated in the main results of his study of animals.

This article asks the question “Why did Plato not write the ‘unwritten doctrine’?” and answers it by citing a combination of two obstacles. The first derives from the limitations of the episteme available to an embodied soul about the essence of the good. Even if the dialectician has access to some kind of knowledge, the mismatch between the unchanging essence of the good and the precarious logoi which aim to identify it (and allow others some measure of access to it) can never fully be overcome. At best, Socrates (or Plato) can lead souls to an incomplete account of it: It is possible that even the most expert dialectician can only have a claim to knowledge, but no absolute certainty. Another obstacle lies in the audience or readership itself: No shortcut to understanding is possible, and yet a mere written presentation, which is all they have, is just such a shortcut, and so represents an empty promise. In memory of Charles H. Kahn (1928–2023), a letter of his from September 5, 1989, concerning the question “Why did Plato not write the ‘unwritten doctrine’?” is published, along with some comments.

This essay investigates the little-known dialogue by Zacharias Scholasticus entitled Ammonius , a philosophical dispute over the creation of the world. It examines in particular Zacharias’ skill in portraying the character of Ammonius, a pagan teacher of philosophy in Alexandria. Even before illustrating his own eternalist theses, which are later refuted by Zacharias, Ammonius is introduced through subtle yet unequivocal allusions as a malus Socrates , i.e. a bad teacher who corrupts young people and alienates them from philosophy, while being well received by the city in which he teaches. This reversal forms the broader plot that runs through the narrative framework of the dialogue, which is based on the borrowing – and inversion – of narrative schemes, mainly from Plato’s Phaedrus . The Ammonius will ultimately be presented as a paradigm of the appropriation of Plato not only on a superficial level (linguistic borrowings, the dialogue form itself), but also on a deeper and more structural level, i.e. as a remarkable case of borrowing Plato’s dramaturgy and irony.