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Chapter 3

The Prospects for Matter in Motion

The Setting

Socrates’ first statement (96c8–d7) has shown, to repeat, that when he was young he attempted to understand the way of being of each thing in terms of the process leading up to it. In pointing also to his reasons for making this attempt, it has indicated something of the connection between the basic premise of science and the need for a descent from the surface of things to their bottommost roots. But it has not yet made clear how exactly the young Socrates carried out that attempt or how he went about ascending, in thought, from the roots to the surface of things. We should not be surprised, then, to find him shedding light on this side or aspect of his former approach now, in his second statement (96d8–e4).

Nor should it come as a surprise if in the course of his second statement Socrates points to difficulties with natural science at the same time as he indicates that, as a young natural scientist, he had failed to appreciate them sufficiently. After all, his second statement, taken as a whole, is intended to convey “what [he] supposed [he] knew before this” (96c6–7), when he was young, but in fact did not. And it so happens that through the four examples he gives here we do at last catch a glimpse of the difficulties in view of which he became disappointed with natural science or unlearned “what [he] supposed [he] knew before.” For what looks at first glance like a collection of “strange”¹ examples of what Socrates supposed he knew in his youth reveals itself on closer inspection to be the bare bones or outline of a comprehensive reflection, remarkable for its unobtrusiveness as well as its precision, concerning what an element or material is. And after being fleshed out, that reflection serves to call into question the two central (corresponding) beliefs that are held, unavoidably, by all natural scientists—that “an Atlas” can in fact be discovered or known, and that the way of being of each thing can be understood adequately in terms of the motion of its materials or elements, or the whole process of becoming leading up to it. For this reason, by shedding light on how exactly he attempted to ascend (in the manner of natural science) from the roots to the surface of things, Socrates’ second statement also affords us, inasmuch as that attempt was not free from difficulties, a glimpse into what made him turn away from natural science.

Still, it is only a glimpse. Making matters worse, it is as much as we ever see first hand of Socrates’ disappointment with natural science. For the “sufficient proof” of Socrates’ incapacity for natural science that we were promised by him—the “proof” to which both his first and second statements are merely preliminary contributions—is not in fact forthcoming. After his second statement, he is interrupted by Cebes (96e5). And, strangely enough, when he has at last concluded the digression that Cebes’ interruption compelled him to undertake (96e6–97b7), he does not, as one would expect, return to the point in his “proof” at which he had left off. Instead, he goes on to report the next stage of his intellectual autobiography, as if he were not in so doing neglecting or refusing to share with his listeners the “sufficient proof” he had just promised them. There is, then, a lacuna at the decisive moment in Socrates’ intellectual autobiography, and Plato has arranged matters in such a way as to draw our attention to this. (Plato’s own motive for being reticent, to the extent that it is not simply the same as the one we have already attributed Socrates, becomes clearer when one observes that prior to being interrupted, Socrates had been about to lay bare the difficulty responsible for his disappointment with natural science. It is true that, had he done so, on perhaps the most memorable day of his life no less, Socrates would have left posterity with the false and misleading impression that he dishonored this kind of inquiry [Apology 19c6–d1, cf. Symposium 210c6–d6], a kind of inquiry that is inseparable from, even if not identical to, the kind characteristic of his maturity. Socrates was not unwilling to court this danger later on, however [98b7–99c6]. It is more plausible, then, that Plato’s reticence must be traced especially to the reasons he has given elsewhere for refusing to write down such things [Second Letter 314b7–c4, Seventh Letter 341c4–342a1].) But does this lacuna leave us at a complete loss?

After wrapping up the digression he was compelled to undertake in response to Cebes’ interruption, Socrates unexpectedly turns to the next stage of his intellectual autobiography: his encounter with Anaxagoras. His account of the “wonderful hope” (98b7) or “hopes” (98b3) aroused in him by Anaxagoras’ teaching thus replaces the account of his disappointment with natural science that we had expected would be renewed after his digression. And one is tempted to wonder, in view of this substitution, whether the two accounts are connected in some way. Assuming that the young Socrates’ disappointment with natural science was due to an increased awareness on his part that it was exposed to a deep-seated difficulty, the hope or hopes subsequently aroused in him by Anaxagoras’ teaching might have stemmed from his impression that that teaching in particular was especially well suited to overcome or resolve it.² In that case, the account of what he hoped to learn from Anaxagoras would cast light on the substance of the difficulty responsible for his disappointment with natural science. Combined with the glimpse into the matter afforded by Socrates’ second statement, that account might suffice to reconstruct in all essentials the “sufficient proof” we are not permitted to hear first hand in its entirety.

The Problem of “Matter”

In his second statement, Socrates cites four examples of things he no longer (96e6–7, 97b1–6) supposes he knows, but which he supposed he knew before, when he was young. He thereby adds to his account of human growth four more illustrations of “what,” in his opinion and in the opinion of the other natural scientists, “[he] clearly knew before” or “what [he] supposed [he] knew before,” but later on, as a result of being blinded, unlearned (96c3–7). First, the young Socrates supposed that whenever some big human being should appear standing beside a small one, the former is bigger by virtue of a head—or rather, “by the head itself.”³ Second, he supposed that whenever a big horse should appear standing beside a small one, the former, too, is bigger by virtue of “the head itself.” Third, it seemed to him that ten is more than eight “through” two being added to the latter. Fourth, it seemed to him that two cubits is more than one cubit “through” exceeding the latter by half of itself. These examples are not as strange as they seem—in fact, as we will see, they are not strange at all.⁴

According to the first of his examples, it seemed to the young Socrates that a big human being is bigger than a small one by virtue of “the head itself.” This is an account of the way of being of a human being—or of a human being’s bigness, one of a human being’s characteristics—in terms of its materials or elements. For the human being is here conceived of as a compound, made out of parts, whose way of being (or bigness) in relation to another human being can be traced to what, or how many, materials or elements it consists of.⁵ And Socrates’ second example takes “the head itself” as a part, like his first, but with the difference that the head in question is that of a horse, not a human being, and what is made out of it is, similarly, the way of being (or bigness) that belongs to each of a pair of horses, not human beings. Taken together, Socrates’ first two examples encourage us to notice that the head of a horse and that of a human being, however different from one another they may be in some respects, are the same in others, insofar as both of them are still heads. He therefore suggests, not least by his otherwise inexplicable use of the phrase “the head itself,” that there is a distinction between what is always the same about a head insofar as it is a head, and thus what is shared by each and every head as a head (whether a horse’s or a human being’s), on one hand, and what about the head admits of change or modification, on the other. To begin to make sense of this distinction, and of the role it plays here, it is necessary to bear in mind that, as the context shows, it is meant to be applied not so much to heads per se as to heads conceived of as materials or elements. For one is led by this to wonder, next, whether this distinction, between what is and is not subject to change or modification, is not somehow applicable to materials or elements as such.

As we saw, what the natural scientists primarily seek to account for is each thing’s way of being, or its characteristics and powers. And these things, whose causes they then sought to grasp, are in motion or subject to change. Socrates has already singled out human beings and horses for their changeability (78d10). But if the things natural science is concerned to account for are changeable or perishable, must not their cause or causes be perishable as well, at least in part? To leave it at saying, as we have so far, that the material sought by the natural scientists is simply imperishable or unchangeable will not suffice; it is necessary to add that this material, too, admits of change or modification in some respects, even as it remains always the same in others.⁶ For otherwise, if it did not change, it would not be able to bring about the things, and the changes in the things, as they are already known to us. But does not the presence of change in that material itself also threaten to destabilize what, of all things, the natural scientists had regarded as altogether stable?

The young Socrates’ lack of awareness of this difficulty—of, in short, the need to ascribe change to what alone, as it seemed to him and the others engaged in natural science, needed to be wholly free from it—is suggested by his appeal to “the head itself” as the material or element of both a human being and a horse. For by having recourse in this way to “the head itself” (in contrast to the head of a human being and to that of a horse, as the case may be) the young Socrates appealed exclusively to what, about the head, is unchangeable. That is, he neglected to appeal in addition or instead to what about the head is subject to change or modification. But a human being could not come to be unless its materials or elements—let us say, in place of “the head itself,” the atoms—undergo some change or modification. Nor could a horse come to be out of those same atoms, unless they undergo a different change or modification. As his appeal to “the head itself” goes to show, however, the young Socrates combined the thought that the fundamental material is what causes all things, such as human beings and horses, with the inconsistent thought that it is itself altogether unchangeable or imperishable. Evidently, he neglected to distinguish clearly between what does and what does not admit of change or modification in the material that, he believed, gives rise to each of the things. And, by blurring this distinction, the young Socrates was led to combine efficacy and stability such that the appeal to matter could seemingly at least satisfy both needs at once.

A clear-sighted recognition of this distinction would, on the other hand, call into question the intelligibility that was, as it seemed to the young Socrates, integral to the fundamental matter. In so doing, it would constitute a challenge to one of the two central assumptions on which natural science depends: that “an Atlas” can be discovered or known. For that recognition would have forced the young Socrates to ask, next, what further cause gives rise to—and, in giving rise to, places limits on—the changes or motions to which that material is subject. The changes in that material cannot be limited or fixed as the changes in what is made out of it may be: by virtue of its materials or elements, that is. By definition, that material has none. But what, then, is the source of (its) motion or change? “Through what does this come about, and what is the cause?” (Aristotle Metaphysics 984a21).

With this question, the natural scientists’ search for “an Atlas” comes full circle.⁷ Carried by its own inner momentum, it has found itself face to face with the very same difficulty that at the outset led the young Socrates, in his account of human growth, to reduce flesh and bone—and, indeed, all things—to some “truly elemental, altogether simple material.” That “truly elemental, altogether simple material” has itself succumbed to the difficulty it was called upon, as a last resort, to dispose of. But to escape from it now is impossible (Maimonides Guide of the Perplexed II.19). With the source of (its) motion or change shrouded in such darkness as this, it cannot be known that, much less what, the fundamental material always is. And so is not the world—whose “cause,” to put it loosely, it is—as unreceptive to the human desire to know as it is reassuring to those who, in keeping with the alternative Hesiod represents, do not so much wish to know as to wonder and hope?

The natural scientists’ assumption or belief that they will “at some time” reach their objective (99c4)—their confidence, that is, in their enterprise as a whole—is sustainable only to the extent that they conceive it confusedly. Their ignorance of their objective lies at the bottom of the vacillation or wavering to which, as we have already seen, they are liable in regard to the nature of the material they seek.

The Primacy of Form

So far Socrates’ second statement has shown that in order to bring about the things, and the changes in the things, as they are already known to us, the fundamental material or being must be changeable in addition, perhaps, to being unchangeable. And to draw this distinction means to acknowledge the possibility that what it is ascribed to is not altogether simple; in the last analysis, even the fundamental materials or elements might not be wholly free from complexity or truly elemental. What we may call the problem of “matter” is clear. Less clear perhaps is the fact that as a necessary consequence of drawing this distinction on the plane of the materials or elements a corresponding distinction emerges, in turn, on the plane of the things made out of them. For, on one hand, the materials or elements—the atoms, let us say—cause the way of being of each thing only by undergoing the different changes—the combinations and separations, let us say—to which they are subject. Neither a human being nor a horse, to say it again, could come to be unless the (same) atoms out of which they are both made undergo some (different) change. On the other hand, it is not only the changes to which they are subject but also the atoms themselves, so far as they are unchangeable, that all things collectively are made out of. All things are subject to a distinction that corresponds to the distinction to which their materials or elements, too, are subject. For although all things are caused in part by what always stays the same about the atoms, if there are atoms, each thing is also caused in part by a distinctive modification of them. And so it would make sense if Socrates’ last two examples were to pick up precisely where his first two left off: by calling attention to this distinction.

Socrates goes on to report that, as a young natural scientist, he supposed he knew, but later unlearned, that ten is more than eight “through” two being added to it and, in the next place, that two cubits is more than one cubit “through” exceeding it by half of itself. These examples prove to follow closely on the heels of the ones pertaining to “the head itself.” For to assume, as the young Socrates did, that ten is bigger than eight “through” two being added to it is to treat two as the material or element that accounts for the way of being of ten—or for ten’s bigness, one of ten’s characteristics. And it is in turn to treat ten and eight as compounds, made out of parts, whose ways of being (or bigness) in relation to one another stem from what, or how many, materials or elements they consist of. But whereas ten is, on this assumption, conceived of as nothing but five twos and eight as four twos, the material or element common to both compounds, the two, is itself conceived of, not as a compound, but rather as a one or a whole. (The materials or elements in terms of which the compounds are to be understood are not themselves understood, in other words, as the compounds are, in terms of their materials or elements, but as being just what, or the way, they are.) It is said in the sequel, however, that two cubits also seemed to the young Socrates to be more than one cubit “through” exceeding the latter by half of itself. And that means two was conceived of by him, just then at least, not as a one or a whole, but rather as a compound, consisting of materials or elements (two ones) of its own.

These examples of “what [Socrates] supposed [he] knew before this” have called attention to a distinction, as we foresaw they would. At the same time, they have called attention to the fact that, as a young natural scientist, he failed to grasp it clearly. He addressed “the two” conceived of both as a compound and as a one or a whole as one and the same thing.⁸ But there is a difference here, one he himself could not help acknowledging at times. For two’s factors or parts, its ones, apart are not yet two. Two is its parts together. As such, it is not (two) ones—it is just two (once), and nothing more (Aristotle Metaphysics 1020b6–8). Despite this, the young Socrates “supposed [he] knew” that, since two (once) is the same as its (two) ones, it acquires its twoness—or its bigness, one of its characteristics—“through” them. Was “what [he] supposed [he] knew” not dependent then on his failure to grasp clearly the very distinction that his presentation of that “knowledge” here has just encouraged us to draw?

While that may be, the young Socrates’ inexactness about number, though notable in its way, could be said to be neither here nor there. And rightly so perhaps, were it not for this. As the context shows, the distinction at issue here—between the number two and its parts—embodies the distinction between the way of being, or the form, of each thing and what, as its matter, underlies it. What is therefore indicated by the fact that the young Socrates blurred the distinction between two and its parts is that he blurred the distinction between the way of being or form and matter generally. Had he not done so, would one of the two central assumptions on which natural science depends—namely, that the way of being or form of each thing is supplied by its matter—not have lost the intelligibility it was believed by him to possess?

That assumption, we recall, had as its necessary consequence the view that form is reducible to matter or that somehow something’s form is, or is the same as, its matter. It implied, in other words, the very refusal to recognize fully the way in which form has a distinct existence of its own that we earlier found so striking. It lost sight of the fact that something’s form is not, or is different from, its matter. That the young Socrates insisted on viewing ten (once) as nothing but (five) twos and two (once) as nothing but (two) ones was, it turns out, merely an expression of this assumption. As he has just revealed, however, he could not consistently maintain this insistence. His view that ten (once) is its (five) twos was contradicted by his view that two (once) is its (two) ones. For each of the (five) twos that ten (once) is reduced to is itself not a compound, but is, as two (once), a one or a whole in its own right. As a young natural scientist, then, Socrates must have thought that something’s form is, all at once, both the same as and different from its matter. But what was the unavoidable ground of his confusion?

If that contradiction were merely an accident, it would mean nothing to us. Above all, it would leave the assumption now in the balance unscathed. Nor would it have any bearing on natural science. Yet the young Socrates had appealed to two’s materials or elements, all along, in order to understand (the cause of) its form. And he could hardly avoid recognizing what, from beginning to end, it was his primary intention to explain. The contradiction into which the young Socrates was led had its ground then in the very assumption under scrutiny here: that the form of each thing can, as the natural scientists believed, be understood in terms of its materials or elements. For that assumption calls, on one hand, for a reduction of form to matter. But it does so, on the other hand, primarily for the sake of reconstituting or understanding the form of each thing, as it is already known to us. It intransigently continues to recognize, then, both as its presupposition or starting-point and as its target or overarching goal, what “everyone” else recognizes, too: the form, as distinct from the matter, of each thing.⁹ And the young Socrates’ vacillation or wavering as to whether it is “the brain” or, rather, “blood” or “air” or “fire” that gives rise to thought or knowledge stems from this confusion.