The Parva naturalia in Greek, Arabic and Latin Aristotelianism

This book investigates Aristotelian psychology through his works and commentaries on them, including De Sensu, De Memoria and De Somno et Vigilia. Authors present original research papers inviting readers to consider the provenance of Aristotelian ideas and interpretations of them, on topics ranging from reality to dreams and spirituality. Aristotle’s doctrine of the ‘common sense’, his notion of transparency and the generation of colours are amongst the themes explored.Chapters are presented chronologically, enabling the reader to trace influences across the boundaries of linguistic traditions. Commentaries from historical figures featured in this work include those of Michael of Ephesus (c. 1120), Albert the Great and Gersonides’ (1288–1344). Discoveries in 9th-century Arabic adaptations, Byzantine commentaries and Renaissance paraphrases of Aristotle’s work are also presented.

The editors’ introduction outlines the main historical developments of the themes discussed, preparing the reader for the cross-cultural and interdisciplinary perspectives presented in this work. Scholars of philosophy and psychology and those with an interest in Aristotelianism will highly value the original research that is presented in this work.The Introduction and Chapter 4 of this book are available open access under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License via link.springer.com.


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Studies in the History of Philosophy of Mind 17

Börje Bydén Filip Radovic Editors

The Parva naturalia in Greek, Arabic and Latin Aristotelianism Supplementing the Science of the Soul

Studies in the History of Philosophy of Mind Volume 17

Series editors Henrik Lagerlund, The University of Western Ontario, Canada Mikko Yrjönsuuri, Academy of Finland and University of Jyväskylä, Finland Board of Consulting Editors Lilli Alanen, Uppsala University, Sweden Joël Biard, University of Tours, France Michael Della Rocca, Yale University, U.S.A. Eyjólfur Emilsson, University of Oslo, Norway André Gombay, University of Toronto, Canada Patricia Kitcher, Columbia University, U.S.A. Simo Knuuttila, University of Helsinki, Finland Béatrice M. Longuenesse, New York University, U.S.A. Calvin Normore, University of California, Los Angeles, U.S.A.

More information about this series at http://www.springer.com/series/6539

Börje Bydén  •  Filip Radovic Editors

The Parva naturalia in Greek, Arabic and Latin Aristotelianism Supplementing the Science of the Soul

Editors Börje Bydén Department of Philosophy, Linguistics and Theory of Science University of Gothenburg Gothenburg, Sweden

Filip Radovic Department of Philosophy, Linguistics and Theory of Science University of Gothenburg Gothenburg, Sweden

Studies in the History of Philosophy of Mind ISBN 978-3-319-26903-0    ISBN 978-3-319-26904-7 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-26904-7 Library of Congress Control Number: 2017943325 © Springer International Publishing AG, part of Springer Nature 2018 Chapters 1 and 4 are licensed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/). For further details see license information in the chapters. This work is subject to copyright. All rights are reserved by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, express or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Printed on acid-free paper This Springer imprint is published by the registered company Springer International Publishing AG part of Springer Nature. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Preface

The 13 essays that make up the bulk of this volume all began as papers or comments on papers presented at the first conference in Gothenburg arranged by the research programme Representation and Reality: Historical and Contemporary Perspectives on the Aristotelian Tradition on 6–8 June 2014. Representation and Reality is funded by Riksbankens Jubileumsfond for the period 2013–2019 and hosted by the Department of Philosophy, Linguistics and Theory of Science, University of Gothenburg. For more information, visit http://representationandreality.gu.se. Our thanks are due to Anna Ntinti for invaluable help with preparing the Index of Passages. Gothenburg, Sweden Börje Bydén Filip Radovic

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Contents

1 Introduction: The Study and Reception of Aristotle’s Parva naturalia������������������������������������������������������������������    1 Börje Bydén 2 The Unity of Sense-Power in the De anima and Parva naturalia ��������   51 Giuseppe Feola 3 The Notion of κοινὴ αἴσθησις and Its Implications in Michael of Ephesus������������������������������������������������������������������������������   65 Péter Lautner 4 Aristotle and Alexander of Aphrodisias on Colour������������������������������   77 Katerina Ierodiakonou 5 Aristotle’s Transparency: Comments on Ierodiakonou, “Aristotle and Alexander of Aphrodisias on Colour”��������������������������   91 Pavel Gregoric 6 Representation of Which Reality? “Spiritual Forms” and “maʿānī ” in the Arabic Adaptation of Aristotle’s Parva naturalia������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������   99 Rotraud Hansberger 7 Dreams, Providence and Reality: Comments on Hansberger, “Representation of Which Reality?”������������������������������������������������������  123 Emma Gannagé 8 Representation and Reality: On the Definition of Imaginative Prophecy in Avicenna������������������������������������������������������������������������������  133 Olga L. Lizzini 9 The Byzantine Reception of Aristotle’s Parva naturalia (and the Zoological Works) in Eleventh- and Twelfth-Century Byzantium: An Overview������������������������������������������������������������������������  155 Michele Trizio vii

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10 Albert the Great as a Commentator of Aristotle’s De somno et vigilia: The Influence of the Arabic Tradition�����������������  169 Silvia Donati 11 Good Night and Good Luck: Some Late Thirteenth-Century Philosophers on Activities in and through Dreams������������������������������  211 Martin Pickavé 12 George Scholarios’ Abridgment of the Parva naturalia: Its Place in His Œuvre and in the History of Byzantine Aristotelianism ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������  233 John A. Demetracopoulos 13 George Gennadius II Scholarios and the West: Comments on Demetracopoulos, “George Scholarios’ Abridgment of the Parva naturalia”����������������������������������������������������������������������������  317 John Monfasani 14 Localizing Memory and Recollection: The Sixteenth-Century Italian Commentaries on Aristotle’s De memoria et reminiscentia and the Question Concerning the Degrees of (dis)embodiment of the “Psychic” Processes����������������������������������������������������������������������  325 Roberto Lo Presti Index of Names������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������  343 Index of Passages����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������  353

Chapter 1

Introduction: The Study and Reception of Aristotle’s Parva naturalia Börje Bydén

1  This Volume The thirteen essays that make up the bulk of this volume all began as papers or comments on papers presented at the first Representation and Reality conference in Gothenburg on 6–8 June 2014 (“Cross-Cultural Dialogues: The Parva naturalia in Greek, Arabic and Latin Aristotelianism”).1 They are perhaps most straightforwardly read as accounts of so many episodes in the history of the ancient and medieval reception of a classical philosophical work, Aristotle’s Parva naturalia. By and large, they can also be read as inquiries into different passages in the development of a specific theme (psycho-physiology, for want of a better term) in the history of ancient and medieval philosophy. For in ancient and medieval times, the reception of classical philosophical works, not least Aristotle’s, was part of the daily business of philosophers, not historians. Each of these accounts (or inquiries) presents ­original research designed to widen and deepen our understanding of the episode in hand. The contributors to the volume, all recognized experts in their respective fields, were not assigned specific topics for treatment according to any systematic plan; instead, some of them were invited to submit original papers on topics selected at their own discretion and on the basis of their own expertise, whereas others were asked to comment on one or another of these papers. As a result, certain episodes in the history of the reception of the Parva naturalia—typically ones considered by  The research programme Representation and Reality: Historical and Contemporary Perspectives on the Aristotelian Tradition is funded by Riksbankens Jubileumsfond for the period 2013–2019 and hosted by the Department of Philosophy, Linguistics and Theory of Science, University of Gothenburg. For more information, visit http://representationandreality.gu.se 1

B. Bydén (*) Department of Philosophy, Linguistics and Theory of Science, University of Gothenburg, Gothenburg, Sweden e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2018 B. Bydén, F. Radovic (eds.), The Parva naturalia in Greek, Arabic and Latin Aristotelianism, Studies in the History of Philosophy of Mind 17, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-26904-7_1

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contemporary scholars to be of particular significance—will be found to have captured the attention of more than one contributor; others, alas, are only touched upon in passing or not at all. For the benefit of those readers who legitimately wonder how one or another of these episodes connects with the rest (and what the missing episodes were all about), the following introduction attempts to provide a skeletal outline of the study and reception of the Parva naturalia through the ages, with the bibliographical references necessary for putting flesh on the bones also regarding those parts of the story which are not directly addressed in any of the thirteen essays.

2  Aristotle’s Parva naturalia2 Aristotle’s De sensu et sensibilibus is prefaced with a statement of the relation between the preceding discussion “of the soul as such and of each of its faculties” (evidently the De anima) and the following inquiry, the purpose of which is to establish which functions (πράξεις)3 are peculiar to some and which are common to all animals and other living (and thus ensouled) creatures. In this inquiry, Aristotle says, the results of the preceding discussion must be assumed. This is how the new inquiry begins: It is clear that the main attributes of animals, both those that are common [to all] and those that are peculiar [to some], are common to the soul and the body, for instance, sense perception, memory, spiritedness, appetite and desire in general, and besides these pleasure and pain. Indeed, these belong to practically all animals. But besides them certain attributes are common to all things that partake of life, while others [belong only to] some among the animals. It so happens that the principal among these attributes constitute four pairs of opposites, namely: wakefulness and sleep, youth and old age, inhalation and exhalation, life and death. We must examine what each of these attributes is and which are the causes of their occurrence. But it is also the task of a natural philosopher to discern the first principles of health and disease, since neither health nor disease can exist in things that are bereft of life. This is why pretty much the vast majority of natural philosophers end up in the study of medicine, whereas those among the physicians who pursue their art in a more philosophical way take the study of nature as their starting-point (Sens. 436a6–b1).4

By and large, the programme of study set out in this passage is implemented over the next nine (or eight, if 7a and 7b in the list below are taken together as one) treatises in our standard editions of the corpus aristotelicum. The English and Latin titles of these treatises used in the present volume are as follows: 2  For general overviews of the Parva naturalia, see Ross (1955, 1–68); Düring (1966, 560–571); Morel (2000, 9–60). For discussions of their unity, scope and character, see Kahn (1966); Lloyd (1992); van der Eijk (1994, 68–87, 1997); Morel (2006, 2007, 71–89); Johansen (2006); Sassi (2014). See also King (2001, 34–73), which is particularly focused on the theory of nutrition occupying centre stage in Parva nat. 7a–8. 3  For the concept, see De part. an. 1.5, 645b14–646a4, which lends little support to Alexander’s contention (In De sensu 4.5–6, echoed by Ross 1906, 123–124) that the term is used “properly” for rational activity. See also Morel (2000, 19–23). 4  Unless otherwise stated, all translations are my own.

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1. On sense perception and sense objects (De sensu et sensibilibus, 436a1–449b3); 2. On memory and recollection (De memoria et reminiscentia, 449b3–453b11); 3. On sleep and waking (De somno et vigilia, 453b11–458a32); 4. On dreams (De insomniis, 458a33–462b11); 5. On prophecy in sleep (De divinatione per somnum, 462b12–464b18); 6. On longevity and shortness of life (De longitudine et brevitate vitae, 464b19–467b9); 7a. On youth and old age (De juventute et senectute) and (7b) On life and death (De vita et morte, 467b10–470b5); 8. On respiration (De respiratione, 470b6–480b30). Various degrees of interconnection between the several treatises are suggested by the existence of a number of transitional passages and cross-references, which also lend partial support to the relative order established in our standard editions.5 Especially, each of the series 3–5 and 7a–8 is introduced and concluded as a single inquiry with several parts (Somn. 453b11–24; Div. 464b16–18; Juv. 467b10–12; Resp. 480b21–22). This is also how these two series were mostly treated in the later tradition. In the ancient catalogue of Aristotle’s works composed, perhaps, in the fourth century CE, by an otherwise unknown Ptolemy (surnamed al-Gharīb, “the stranger,” in some Arabic sources), the treatises in the list above are entered as one book on sense perception and sense objects (presumably = 1), one book on memory and sleep (presumably = 2–5),6 one book on the longevity and shortness of life of animals (presumably = 6) and one book on life and death (presumably = 7a–8).7 Similarly, the Byzantine commentator Michael of Ephesus (early 12th cent.) seems to have conceived of treatises 2–5, 6 and 7a–8 as three separate but closely related works (In Parva nat. 149.8–12; cf. Wendland 1903b, v nn1–2). Indeed, each of the series 3–5 and 6–8 is practically always transmitted en bloc in the Greek manuscripts, and with only a couple of exceptions this is also true of the extended series 2–5.8 Treatises 3–5 were also invariably treated and referred to as a single work in the Latin Middle Ages. In this period, however, the other treatises were not so strongly bonded. For instance, the De memoria in the “old translation” (see below) 5  For discussions of the final paragraph of the De divinatione and the two prefaces to the De longitudine, see Rashed (2004, 193–194 and 197–201). That Aristotle at some point conceived of the whole series of treatises as a continuous work is suggested by his occasional (De part. an. 2.10, 656a27–29; De gen. an. 5.2, 781a20–23) references to his work “on sense perception” for a more detailed discussion of the role of the heart as the centre of sense perception, which might possibly be to Sens. 2, 439a1–4 or Somn. 2, 455b34–456a24, but more probably to Juv. 3–4, 469a10–b6, although admittedly both the De somno passage and the De juventute one also refer to previous discussions. Note also the reference to a work in which things “have been determined about sense perception and sleep” at De part. an. 2.7, 653a19–20. 6  Alexander of Aphrodisias, In Meteor. 3.36–37 and 4.4–5 also speaks of “On memory and sleep and divination in sleep” as one work. 7  For a discussion of Ptolemy’s catalogue plus an edition and German/Greek translation based on all extant witnesses (including MS Ayasofya 4833, largely neglected in earlier discussions), see Hein (1985, 388–439). 8  On the MS tradition of the Parva nat., see Siwek (1963).

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was partly circulated separately and sometimes even regarded as the final section of the De anima (Brumberg-Chaumont 2010, 128–129). Thomas Aquinas, who used the “new translation,” on the other hand, considered the De memoria to be the second part of the De sensu (Gauthier 1985, 1*–2*). Likewise, treatise 6 in the “old translation” (confusingly entitled De vita et morte) was frequently detached from treatises 7a–8, which had only very limited circulation (see further below, Sect. 5). As for the collection as a whole (1–8), all the treatises included were manifestly thought of as so many parts of a single general inquiry as early as the early third century CE, when Alexander of Aphrodisias correlated all of them except the De insomniis (albeit not in the standard order) with the programme of study outlined by Aristotle in the De sensu passage quoted above (Alexander, In De sensu 5.1–9; 5.28–29; 5.31–6.7; 6.16–19).9 In the manuscript tradition, they were mostly transmitted as a set, if not as a series. Of the fifty Greek manuscripts examined by Siwek (1963, esp. xvii–xviii), which range from the tenth to the fifteenth century, thirty contain all of the Parva naturalia, but only rarely in immediate sequence exactly as they are arranged in our standard editions. As a rule the De motu animalium (and occasionally other treatises) is inserted between treatise 5 and treatise 6. Marwan Rashed (2004, esp. 192–193) has pointed out that while two of the exceptions to this rule are apparently the private copies of learned men, and thus, he argues, susceptible to “restructuring,” the remainder are Renaissance manuscripts, supposedly executed under the influence of Western practices; he concludes that there is no support in the ancient Greek manuscript tradition for the standard order without the De motu animalium.10 One may object that it is not entirely clear what Western practices are supposed to have induced the fifteenth-century Greek copyists to omit the De motu animalium. In the so-called “corpus vetustius” of Latin translations of Aristotle’s works on natural philosophy (and sometimes including the Metaphysics) compiled, perhaps, in England between 1214 and c. 1230 (Burnett 1996, 36–38), Parva naturalia 1–6 are almost always included, but, apart from treatises 3–5, in no special order. Parva naturalia 7a–8, however, are not part of this corpus (cf. Burnett 1996, 47–50). The “corpus recentius,” which superseded it from the 1260s, frequently exhibits the whole collection in the standard order, after the De anima and before the “zoological” writings, but usually inserts, after the pattern of the Greek tradition, the De motu animalium between treatise 5 and 6.11 — The designation Parva naturalia seems to have been first used by Giles of Rome (c. 1245–1316).12

9  At In De sensu 4.8–17, Alexander announces that the activities common to all or most animals will be discussed before those peculiar to some, and seems to place the Hist. an. between the two discussions. 10  The two learned mss are Laur. Plut. 87,20 and Par. Suppl. gr. 314. A few descendants of Par. Suppl. gr. 314 also exhibit the same order, namely Vat. Urb. gr. 37, Par. gr. 2032 and Par. gr. 1860. For their stemmatics relative to Sens. and Mem., see Bloch (2008b, 10–16). 11  On the two medieval corpora, see Dod (1982, 50–52). 12  As noted by Freudenthal (1869, 81 n1). Much earlier, however, they were collectively (albeit loosely) referred to as the “parvi libri” connected with the De anima (see, e.g., the texts by Richard Rufus of Cornwall and Henry of Renham quoted in Köhler 1999, 262 n34).

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Assuming on this and similar evidence that there is some kind of internal unity and external demarcation to the Parva naturalia as a whole, what does it consist in? Do all the treatises study the same unique subject matter, or at least the same unique aspects of the same subject matter? It is clear, Aristotle says in the quoted passage, that the main attributes of animals are “common to the soul and the body.” It is sometimes put forward that such attributes are what the Parva naturalia set out to study and that their being common to the soul and the body is what distinguishes them from the subject matter of other treatises, notably the De anima. The passage from the De anima to the Parva naturalia, according to at least some proponents of this view, leads from psychology proper, with an emphasis on formal aspects (the soul is after all the form of a living organism), to “psycho-physiology,” with more attention devoted to material aspects (and an increasing ratio of physiology from treatises 1–5 to treatises 6–8). Thus the Parva naturalia would also serve as a preparation for the “zoological” treatises, that is, De partibus animalium, De generatione animalium, De incessu animalium, De motu animalium, and perhaps also the Historia animalium.13 Since it is unclear how an attribute can be “common” to two entities which are not substantially distinct, this view is also at the heart of the now possibly defunct hypothesis that the Parva naturalia represent an earlier, more dualist (or “instrumentalist”), stage in the development of Aristotle’s psychology.14 Should we, then, think of the Parva naturalia as Aristotle’s inquiry into such attributes as are common to the soul and the body? I have my doubts. In the sequel to the quoted passage from the De sensu, Aristotle proceeds to explain that the reason it is clear that all the listed attributes are common to the soul and the body is that they all occur “either together with or through sense perception” (436b3–4)—by which he apparently means that they are at least existentially dependent on sense perception—and “sense perception comes to be in the soul through the body” (436b6–7). This seems to be true of most but not all attributes in Aristotle’s first list, which belong exclusively to animals. Leaving aside sense perception itself, memory as well as spiritedness, appetite and desire in general are at least indirectly dependent on it by being essentially correlated with objects of the phantasia (phantasmata), since such objects are directly dependent on it. With pleasure (and presumably pain), however, this is not necessarily the case, since Aristotle allows that there are intellectual pleasures, which are correlated with intelligible objects, and these are not directly dependent on sense perception.15 So the invocation of sense perception  A pronounced exponent of this view is Freudenthal (1869), but see already Albert the Great, De sompno et vigilia 1.1.1 (Borgnet 1890, 122a). 14  Put forward in Ross (1955, 3–18), against Nuyens (1948, 161–170; 250–256), who argued that Parva nat. 7–8 belong to a transitional phase (“l’instrumentisme mécaniste”) between the Platonic dualism of Aristotle’s youth and the mature hylomorphism of Parva nat. 1–5 as well as the De an. Parva nat. 6 “est déjà très proche de cette dernière période” (1948, 170). For discussion, see Morel (2006, 2007, 71–89). See also below, p. 35. For a qualified defence of a developmental interpretation of the relationship between the De an. and the Parva nat., see Menn (2002). 15  Moreover, Aristotle denies that pleasure is itself perceptible (Eth. Nic. VII 12, 1153a12–15). It has been argued (Bostock 1988, esp. 269–272) that he could not have done so unless he held that pleasure is itself a kind of perception or intellection, depending on the type of pleasure. If this is 13

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is not sufficient to prove that the main attributes of animals, enumerated in Aristotle’s first list, are common to the soul and the body. When it comes to the four pairs of opposites in the second list, what we might request is not proof of their belonging to the body as well as to the soul, but rather of their belonging to the soul as well as to the body. Again, such proof would be at hand if they could all be shown to occur “either together with or through sense perception.” But this is clearly impossible. To be sure, it is in Aristotle’s view unqualifiedly true that the first pair of opposites, namely, wakefulness and sleep, is (at least) existentially dependent on sense perception—although his demonstration of this comes only in the De somno et vigilia. As for youth, old age, life and death, however, this can hold at best only for a proper subset of those creatures to which these attributes belong, namely, again, for animals. For, as Aristotle himself has just pointed out (436b11–12), some attributes belong to all living creatures without exception, and therefore also to plants. It would seem to be as the principal among these attributes that youth, old age, life and death are adduced. But plants do not have sense perception. It is true that the remaining two opposites, inhalation and exhalation, do not belong to plants, and not even to all animals (436b12), but again, it is dubious whether they are in any way dependent on sense perception (cf. Freudenthal 1869, 82 n4). In sum, Aristotle does not seem to do a very good job of convincing us that those attributes of animals (and plants) that are the subject matter of the Parva naturalia are common to the soul and the body. Admittedly, there are certain discrepancies between the lists of attributes in the first chapter of the De sensu and the actual contents of the rest of the Parva naturalia. None of the treatises in the collection deals, for instance, with the subjects of desire, pleasure and pain.16 We shall come back to desire in a moment.17 The absence, however, of a study of pleasure and pain in the Parva naturalia might be taken to reinforce the case for those who argue that their subject matter are attributes common to the soul and the body, since, as we have seen, not all pleasure (and presumably not all pain) is necessarily among those attributes. One may note in this connection the way that these two attributes are pretrue, intellectual pleasure must presumably be a kind of intellection and could only be dependent on sense perception to the extent that “no intellection takes place without an image,” that is, to the extent that all psychic activity is common to the soul and the body. Conversely, however, Aristotle does seem to accept that there can be no faculty of sense perception without the faculty of pleasure and pain (De an. 2.2, 413b21–24). 16  Nor does any of the treatises contain any sustained discussion of the principles of medicine (with Sens. 463a 17–b1 cf. Resp. 480b21–30), although it has been suggested that Aristotle may have been referring to the De longitudine (Johansen 2006, 141; Sassi 2014, 266) or the De juventute and the De respiratione (van der Eijk and Hulskamp 2010, 65 with n61). Alexander of Aphrodisias (In De sensu 6.19–20) is of the opinion that “if [these treatises] were ever written they have not survived.” 17  Nussbaum (1978, 9) thinks the mention of a study of desire “probably … refers to the MA treatment” (see below for the relation of the De motu an. to the Parva nat.). Van der Eijk (1994, 69 n67) also entertains this possibility. Morel (2007, 30) considers it an interesting hypothesis, “mais difficile à confirmer.” Alexander of Aphrodisias (In De sensu 5.24–25) simply assumes that most of the attributes mentioned here have already been sufficiently dealt with in the De anima.

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sented as a sort of addendum to the first list. Conversely, there are other attributes of animals which are undoubtedly common to the soul and the body, such as sexual activity and locomotion, which are treated, if not in the Parva naturalia, at least in the “zoological” works (especially De generatione animalium and De incessu animalium), without being mentioned in the first chapter of the De sensu.18 Aristotle says on one occasion in the De anima (3.10, 433b19–21) that the instrument by which desire moves the animal should be studied “in connection with the functions common to body and soul.” Since no such study is carried out in the Parva naturalia, it has been thought that he must have in mind one of the “zoological” works, most likely the De motu animalium.19 But if the functions common to body and soul are specifically studied in the Parva naturalia, this raises the question whether the De motu animalium (and perhaps other “zoological” works) may originally have belonged to this collection.20 In the Greek manuscripts, as we have seen, this work almost invariably follows Parva nat. 2–5. In some of them the De divinatione ends with the announcement of the De motu animalium (464b18a, marked as an interpolation by Ross but retained by Siwek). Michael of Ephesus was also of the opinion that the natural position of the De motu animalium is after treatise 5 (and before treatise 6), since, as he said, impulse and desire, which are causes of animal movement, follow phantasia, a prominent theme in treatises 2–5 (In De an. mot. 103.2–14; cf. 129.4–5).21 His opinion, if not his stated reason for it, was shared by  Cf. the similar list of attributes common to “many different kinds” of animal in Part. an. 1.1, 639a19–22, which includes “sleep, inhalation, growth, decay, death and besides these all those remaining affections and conditions that are of such a kind.” I am grateful to Pavel Gregoric for drawing my attention to this passage. 19  There is a detailed comparison between the following “summary” (De an. 3.10, 433b21–30) and the contents of the De motu an. in Nussbaum (1978, 9). 20  See Nussbaum (1978, 9–10 and n27); van der Eijk (1994, 69–70 n67); Rashed (2004); Johansen (2006, 141 n4); Morel (2007, 26–31). 21  Pace Barthélemy Saint-Hilaire (1847, 237). It is not so clear where Michael thought the remaining “zoological” works, on which he also commented, belonged. He insists—on good Aristotelian authority (cf. De part. an. 4.14, 697b27–30; De gen. an. 715a1–18)—that the De gen. an. “is naturally continuous with” the De part. an., so much so that it forms its second part ([Philoponus], In De gen. an., 1.3–3.11, esp. 3.5–10). He makes no other express statement on the position of the De part. an., De gen. an. and De inc. an. relative to each other or to the rest of the works, and the use of tenses in cross-references in his commentaries on these works is not consistent, except that Parva nat. 2–5 are always referred to in a historical (or the perfect) tense and Parva nat. 6–8 are always referred to in the future tense. This might seem to speak in favour of a position immediately after the De mot. an. for the De part. an., De gen. an. and De inc. an. Unfortunately, however, the commentary on the De somno refers back to both De gen. an. and De part. an. (and both back and forward to the De motu an.). The manuscripts of Michael’s commentaries are of little help, since they exhibit a variety of different selections and sequences. Perhaps, then, the order in which this whole series of commentaries is enumerated at the end of In Parva nat. (149.8–12) should be taken to reflect Michael’s opinion of the natural order of the relevant Aristotelian works (and not only the order in which the commentaries happened to be composed, as Wendland argued [1903b, v]), with the one adjustment that the De gen. an., which is mentioned immediately after (Wendland on the basis of Vat. gr. 2199) or before (all other MSS) the De motu an., should be adjoined to the De part. an. The resulting sequence would be: De part. an., De gen. an., De inc. an., [De an., De sens.,] Parva nat. 2–5, De motu an., Parva nat. 6–8. Aristotle’s authorization (De inc. an. 19, 714b22–23) 18

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several Latin medieval commentators from the mid-thirteenth century onwards (see De Leemans 2010). And, as we have already seen, it corresponds to the order usually followed in the “corpus recentius.”22 So the fact that Aristotle seems to locate his study of the functions common to body and soul to the De motu animalium rather than to the Parva naturalia as we know them is in itself no obstacle to thinking that this study belongs to the Parva naturalia. And it may of course well be the case that the Parva naturalia study attributes that are in fact common to the soul and the body, even if Aristotle’s argument falls conspicuously short of proving that they are. But it seems reasonable to take the perfunctoriness of Aristotle’s argument as an indication that, even if these attributes are in fact common to the soul and the body, it is not because they are common to the soul and the body that they are studied in the Parva naturalia. An even stronger indication to the same effect is provided by the following consideration. One problematic feature of the view that Aristotle in the Parva naturalia turns his attention to attributes that are common to the soul and the body is that it seems to presuppose that Aristotle in the De anima focuses on attributes that are not common to the soul and the body, but rather peculiar to the soul. But he does not. Firstly, because he does not deal (at least not in a programmatic fashion) with attributes of the soul in the De anima. He deals, as he says in the first lines of the De sensu (436a1–2), “with the soul as such and with each of its faculties.” Secondly, because he also does not deal (at least not in a programmatic fashion) with any psychic faculty not connected to a body there. The reason for this is that the De anima for placing De an. after the De inc. an. is duly noted by Michael (In De inc. an. 170.33–34). Morel’s statement (2007, 28–29) that “l’ordre de ce dernier [sc. Michael’s commentary on the Parva nat.] est originairement le suivant: De Mem., De Som., De Ins., De Div., MA., De Long., De Juv., De Vit., De Resp., IA” seems only to reproduce the order of the Aldine edition (1527) as cited by Preus (1981, 67). It should be noted that the order in which these treatises were paraphrased by George Pachymeres (see below), who certainly used Michael’s commentaries, is the following: De part. an., De inc. an., De an., Parva nat. 1–5, De motu an., Parva nat. 6–8, De gen. an. (Pappa 2008, 8*–10*). Of course, this is also very close to the order suggested by the brief recapitulation at the end of the De motu an. (11, 704a3–b3: De part. an., De an., Sens., Somn., Mem., De motu an., De gen. an.), which may be a later addition to the text (so Nussbaum 1978, 10). Compare the famous note prefixed to William of Moerbeke’s translation of the De part. an., in which the following order is proposed: De part. an., De inc. an., De an., Parva nat. 1–5, De motu an., De gen. an., De alimento et augmento animalium, De operationibus et passionibus et moribus animalium, Parva nat. 6–8, De sanitate et egritudine. Brams (1992, 549–551) argued forcefully in favour of the hypothesis that the note is a translation of a Greek scholion. 22  Rashed (2004) makes a pretty persuasive case (although he fails to engage with David Balme’s arguments in favour of a late relative date for the Hist. an., for which see Lennox 1996) for thinking that Aristotle’s corpus of biological treatises developed in four steps, at first comprising only Hist. an., De part. an. 2–4 and De gen. an., subsequently to be expanded by the insertion of De inc. an. and De an. between De part. an. 4 and De gen. an. as well as the prefixation of De part. an. 1 to the whole corpus. In a third step, Parva nat. 1–8 were added after De an. and the lost De plantis after De gen. an., and finally the De motu an. was inserted after Parva nat. 5 at the same time as Parva nat. 6–8 were relocated to the end of the corpus. On this view, Aristotle’s own final—hylomorphist—recension of the biological corpus would contain the following works in the following order: De part. an. 1, Hist. an., De part. an. 2–4, De inc. an., De an., Parva nat. 1–5, De motu an., De gen. an., De plantis, Parva nat. 6–8.

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is a work on natural philosophy, and for the purposes of natural philosophy the soul is defined as the form, or actuality, of a living organism. Consequently any psychic activity or passivity, in so far as it falls within the domain of natural philosophy, necessarily involves a living organism. It may reasonably be objected that there is an exception, namely intellectual thought (τὸ νοεῖν, νόησις), which Aristotle does believe is unconnected to any bodily organ (De an. 3.4, 429a22–27). But if it is true, as Aristotle seems to think it is, that all intellectual thought in humans involves phantasmata (which are dependent on sense perception), then even the faculty of thought (νοῦς) in humans is inextricably bound up with the body (see De an. 1.1, 403a3–b19; 3.7, 431a14–17; 3.8, 432a3–10; Mem. 1, 449b30–450a9). “The soul as such” is only conceptually separate from the body, in the sense that the psychic activities can be placed within brackets in a discussion of the faculties that enable them. But the activities themselves are always common to the soul and the body. That the De anima studies “the soul as such” only means that it studies in abstracto the faculties (or “parts”) which enable those activities (and affections) that constitute the subject matter of the Parva naturalia (as well as of most of the “zoological” treatises). It is true that these faculties “enable” the activities and affections of living organisms in more than one way: they are their efficient as well as formal and final causes (De an. 2.4, 415b8–27). On the other hand, the faculties cannot be actualized without bodily organs. What is more, even an abstract study of the faculties of the soul must to some extent involve preliminary investigations into the activities of the soul, for the faculties can only be distinguished by reference to the activities (activities are prior in definition), and thus “the attributes contribute a great deal to the knowledge of the essence” (De an. 1.1, 402b21–22). As far as natural philosophy is concerned, these activities are common to the soul and the body. If there are any activities that are peculiar to the soul, the study of these belongs to a different science altogether. Strictly speaking, it does not even fall within the scope of the De anima to discuss whatever faculties might enable such activities. Indeed, Aristotle is notoriously vague, in the De anima, about whether such a faculty even exists or not. The upshot is that the Parva naturalia do not study the attributes they study because these are common to the soul and the body (although they are), but because they are attributes of the soul. One must go to the first paragraph of the De anima to see the significance of the remark, in the De sensu, about common attributes (402a7–10): Our aim is to grasp and recognize its [sc. the soul’s] nature and essence, and after that all the attributes it has, some of which are considered to be affections peculiar to the soul and some, on the other hand, to belong also to the animals on account of the soul.

This syllabus in nuce mentions the subject matter both of the De anima—nature and essence of the soul—and the Parva naturalia—attributes of the soul.23 What comes  It is instructive to compare the questions proposed for discussion in the introduction to Alexander of Aphrodisias’ De anima, which, as Caston points out (2012, 71 n3), “are modelled on those with which Arist. begins his DA”: “The task I have set myself is to say, concerning the [kind of] soul that belongs to a body subjected to generation and destruction, what its essence is as well as which and how many its faculties are and what their difference is vis-à-vis one another” (1.1–3). Alexander’s

23

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next is the received opinion—the endoxon—about these attributes: some are peculiar to the soul, others belong to the animal as a whole. In the first chapter of the De sensu, following upon the study of the soul’s nature and essence in the De anima, Aristotle is in a position to correct this endoxon: it is now clear that the attributes of the soul are—at least so far as natural philosophy is concerned—common to the soul and the body. These attributes—the soul’s activities and affections—are the subject matter of the following inquiry, which will inevitably spend a great deal of time investigating the corporeal conditions for their occurrence (their material causes). This being said, it must be conceded that Aristotle’s treatment of the attributes of the soul is not particularly systematic. This has probably contributed to the popularity of another view, namely, that the Parva naturalia consist of a series of appendices to the De anima.24 Thus De sensu 2–5 has been thought to fill in the blanks of De anima 2.6–11 with discussions of the objects and organs of sight, taste and smell—although touch and hearing are virtually passed over in silence25—whereas the De memoria and the treatises on sleep and dreams could be taken to supplement the accounts of the common sense and phantasia in De anima 3.2–3—although many aspects of these psychic faculties remain obscure (for an attempt at a systematic account of Aristotle’s theory of the common sense, see Giuseppe Feola’s contribution to this volume, Chap. 2). Again, if Aristotle’s focus in the Parva naturalia is on psychic activities and affections, this explains why he does not proceed faculty by faculty, as in the De anima, but it cannot, of course, excuse the omission of important psychic activities. In sum, there is admittedly little to gain by reducing the De anima to a propaedeutics to the Parva naturalia and the treatises that we call “zoological.” Form, after all, has a much stronger claim, in Aristotle’s view, to be the primary substance than the compound of form and matter does. But there is certainly plenty to lose by embracing the opposite extreme and writing off the Parva naturalia as a mere appendix to the De anima.26 failure, also noted by Caston (ibid.), to mention the attributes of the soul can be easily accounted for by his different agenda: he is only interested in expounding Aristotle’s doctrines of soul as they are presented in the De anima (cf. 2.4–9). The inquiries pursued in the Parva naturalia are not part of this project. 24  This view dates back at least to Barthélemy Saint-Hilaire (1847, i). 25  Cf. Sens. 4, 440b27–28, marked as an interpolation in Ross’ edition: “About sound and voice we have spoken earlier, in the De anima ….” It has been suggested, not implausibly, by Burnyeat (2004), that parts of the discussions of sound and tangible objects in De an. 2.8 and 2.11 were originally contained in the De sensu. 26  I should perhaps emphasize that even if it is correct, as I have suggested, that the subject matter of the Parva naturalia is not just a proper subset of psychic activities, namely those that also involve a body, but any kind of psychic activity that falls within the domain of natural philosophy (which all necessarily involve a body), it does not follow that Aristotle denies the possibility of any psychic activity exercised in separation from a living organism, for there may be a kind of soul that does not belong to nature (as affirmed in De part. an. 1.1, 641a32–b10). Still, no inquiry by Aristotle into this kind of psychic activity has been handed down and none is mentioned in the ancient lists of his works.

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The debate over the subject matter of the De anima, the Parva naturalia and Aristotle’s “zoological” works was simmering throughout Antiquity and the Middle Ages, occasionally reaching boiling point, most notably, perhaps, in the late thirteenth century (see de Boer 2013, 71–91). The view I have outlined above is not, I think, at fundamental variance with that in Alexander of Aphrodisias’ commentary on the De sensu et sensibilibus (early third cent.), even though Alexander tends to say that the Parva naturalia are concerned with the activities of ensouled creatures rather than with those of the soul (In De sensu 3.4–6; 4.8–14; 5.1–3).27 At De sensu 1, 436a2–4, Aristotle says, in literal translation, that “the next thing is to investigate, concerning animals and all things that possess life, which of their actions are peculiar and which are common.”28 In the light of what has been argued above the natural way of interpreting this would be that Aristotle announces a passage, within the framework of biology (and more generally of natural philosophy), from the study of the soul’s essence to the study of its attributes. Alexander, however, is eager to stress that the new inquiry launched by Aristotle is one about animals (as well as other ensouled creatures), apparently in response to some unnamed opponents who denied that Parva naturalia 1–5 belonged to the study of animals (In De sensu 5.1–19). To this end, he repeatedly paraphrases Aristotle—by separating the governing clause of the sentence in which Aristotle declares his intention from the indirect question it governs—as saying “the study that follows that of the soul is that of animals and all ensouled creatures as well as of their activities, both those that are common and those that are peculiar to each species of them” (In De sensu 2.7–10; cf. 3.3–6; 3.17–20; 4.8–9; 5.3–4).29 This obviously indicates that Alexander thought there are close links between the Parva naturalia and the “zoological” works. But it does not mean that he takes the subject matter of the Parva naturalia to be something else than the activities of the soul. On the contrary: what Aristotle is doing, according to Alexander, when he says that the activities of animals and other ensouled creatures are practically all common to the soul and the body, is providing an explanation as to why it is reasonable for someone discussing the activities of the soul to discuss the activities of animals and other ensouled creatures (In De sensu 2.11–15). The implication seems to be that on Alexander’s view the Parva naturalia continue that part of the study of natural philosophy which deals with soul by turning from the essential properties of the souls of animals and plants, that is to say, their faculties, which have already been dealt with in the De anima, to their attributes, that is to say, their activities and affections.

 Alexander’s commentary was edited by Wendland (1901). English translation in Towey (2000).  … ἐχόμενόν ἐστι ποιήσασθαι τὴν ἐπίσκεψιν περὶ τῶν ζῴων καὶ τῶν ζωὴν ἐχόντων ἁπάντων, τίνες εἰσὶν ἴδιαι καὶ τίνες κοιναὶ πράξεις αὐτῶν. 29  In this, English translators of Aristotle have followed Alexander. Ross (1906): “the next thing to do is to consider animals and all things possessed of life and to discover which activities are specific and which they have in common.” Hett (1935): “our next task is to consider animals and all things possessed of life, and to discover what are their peculiar and what are their common activities.” Beare and Barnes (1984): “we must next make a survey of animals and all living things, in order to ascertain what functions are peculiar, and what functions are common, to them.” 27 28

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3  Reception in Late Antiquity and Byzantium30 Aristotelian philosophy in general, and natural philosophy in particular, suffered relative neglect in the Hellenistic era. Some minor works in the corpus aristotelicum that develop aspects of the study of the attributes of the soul (mainly physiological and physical ones) derive from the earlier part of this period, namely De spiritu, De coloribus, De audibilibus and some of the Problemata.31 Traces of Aristotle’s theories of sleep and dreams in these and other Hellenistic works are uncovered in van der Eijk and Hulskamp (2010, 54–61). More remarkably, the Parva naturalia do not seem to have been on the syllabus of any philosophy schools in Late Antiquity either, this time in stark contrast to other Aristotelian works on natural philosophy.32 Apart from Alexander of Aphrodisias’ extant commentary on the De sensu (see above), highlighted in Katerina Ierodiakonou’s and Pavel Gregoric’s contributions to this volume (chs 4 and 5), and Aspasius’ lost commentary on the same work (referred to by Alexander, In De sensu 10.1–2),33 there is no evidence that any ancient commentary was ever written on any of the treatises included in the collection.34 In fact, with one notable exception, of which I will soon say more, they are only very sporadically referenced in the rather substantial philosophical literature surviving from the period dominated by the Neoplatonic schools of Rome, Alexandria and Athens (ca 250–600).35 The situation is similar with the “zoologi30  For a general overview of the history of reception and influence of the Parva naturalia in antiquity, see Morel (2003). 31  On the De spiritu and the Problemata as well as a few other Hellenistic works, see Sharples (2006). On the De spiritu, see also the translation with introduction and commentary by Bos and Ferwerda (2008), who are inclined to accept it as a genuine work by Aristotle, and, most recently, Gregoric and Lewis (2015), who present a raft of terminological as well as doctrinal evidence against its Aristotelian authorship, and Lewis and Gregoric (2015), who suggest a date in the early third century BCE. On the De coloribus and the De audibilibus, which deal mainly with the physical substrata of the relevant sense objects, see Gottschalk (1964, 1968); Papari (2013). 32  A useful discussion is found in Hadot (1990, 85–90), although, as noted below, I disagree with her about the status of the De anima according to Olympiodorus. 33  Alexander also once refers to previous commentators on the De sensu in the plural (In De sensu 82.16–17), but this need not be taken to imply that there were more than the one by Aspasius (cf. Moraux 1984, 244–246). 34  The paraphrases edited by Wendland in CAG 5.6 and alternately ascribed to Themistius and Sophonias (fl. c. 1285) in the manuscript tradition are now universally held to be the work of the latter author (although Morel 2003, 369 and Di Martino 2003, 377 mistakenly attribute them to Themistius). When Alexander refers, at De anima 69.19–20, to “another work” in which the distinction between memory and recollection has already been made, he might have in mind a commentary by himself on the De memoria et reminiscentia; and if so, he might have written commentaries on all of the Parva naturalia (thus Todd 1976, 15 n71), but there is no other evidence to corroborate this tenuous inference. 35  For examples of the use of the Parva naturalia in the late antique exegesis of the De anima, see van der Eijk and Hulskamp (2010, esp. 61–65: some references in other late antique commentaries on Aristotle are briefly discussed ibid. 50; for the passage in Ps.-Simplicius, In De an. 291.22–41, cf. also Steel’s notes [Steel and Ritups 2013, 179 nn346–347]). For Porphyry’s (fr. 255F) and Plotinus’ (Enn. 4.3.25–32 and 4.6.3) responses to the De memoria, see King (2010).

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cal” works.36 The De anima, in contrast, was assiduously studied: witness the four commentaries that have been wholly or partly preserved from the period between the fourth and sixth centuries (Themistius, Philoponus, Ps.-Simplicius, Ps.-Philoponus). A clue to the reason for this situation is offered by a comparison of the three ancient commentators on the Meteorology whose works have survived: Alexander of Aphrodisias (early third cent.), John Philoponus (commentary on book 1 only, dated c. 530–35) and Olympiodorus (commentary dated a few years after 565). In the first chapter of the Meteorology, Aristotle suggests that his whole course of natural philosophy will be “practically” brought to completion once the Physics, the De caelo, the De generatione et corruptione and the study in hand have been followed by accounts, “in accordance with the method that guides us, of animals and plants, in general and separately” (1.1, 339a6–8). Alexander (In Meteor. 3.32–4.11) understands this as a reference to the whole series of works including the De anima, the Parva naturalia and the “zoological” treatises: some of these are “general” in the sense of dealing with all kinds of animals and some treat specifically with one kind of animal, namely human beings.37 Philoponus (In Meteor. 9.12–18) follows Alexander in all this,38 except that he mentions the “zoological” treatises before the De anima rather than after the Parva naturalia (and furthermore disagrees with Alexander’s interpretation of the phrase “the method that guides us,” τὸν ὑφηγημένον τρόπον).39 However, the fact that Alexander mentions the “zoological” treatises last is hardly of any significance, since he ends the commentary by proposing that the next work in order is the De partibus animalium (In Meteor. 227.18–22).40 Olympiodorus (In Meteor. 3.34–4.15; cf. 14.8–20) takes a different approach. He distinguishes between, on the one hand, works on the souls of plants and (non-­ 36  The commentary on the De gen. an. edited by Hayduck in CAG 14.3 and ascribed to John Philoponus in the first printed edition (Venice, 1526) is really the work of Michael of Ephesus (see Hayduck 1903, iii–iv). 37  A list of “all” Aristotelian “works on animals” in the 13th-century MS Hierosol. Patr. 106 (ed. Wendland 1901, xix) enumerates De part. an., De inc. an., De gen. an., Long., Juv., Vit., Mem., Somn., Div., De motu an. (so includes neither the De anima nor the De sensu, but all the other Parva nat., assuming that the Insomn. is counted as part of the Somn.). 38  In his Physics commentary (2.6–12), Philoponus explains, instead, that of those works that contribute to the study of animals, some focus on animals as wholes (Hist. an.) and some on certain parts (De part. an., De motu an., De somno, De vita and further the De anima). 39  According to Alexander it is the same method as in the preceding works, that is, one which combines an empirical inquiry into the facts with a demonstrative account of the causes of these facts. Philoponus (In Meteor. 9.3–12) prefers to think that Aristotle is referring to the “moderate and philosophical method” applied in the Meteorology for things “to some of which we have found no answer, whereas we have some kind of grasp of others” (Meteor. 1.1, 339a2–3). Olympiodorus, on the other hand (In Meteor. 14.8–15), takes Aristotle simply to say in a somewhat redundant fashion that his discussion will be both general and specific. 40  Philoponus (In De an. 10.11–12), on the other hand, thinks that the De part. an. (or perhaps only its first book) immediately precedes the De an. Alexander’s and Philoponus’ views are of course both perfectly compatible with the sequence suggested at De motu an. 11, 704a3–b3 (see n21 above).

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human) animals and, on the other, the De anima. The former include (at least some of) the “zoological” works and the Parva naturalia; these are what remains, after the Meteorology, of Aristotle’s course of natural philosophy. The De anima, on the other hand, is not primarily a work on natural philosophy but on “theology.” The classification of the De anima within the framework of Aristotle’s division of scientific knowledge was a problem that exercised the Neoplatonists (see Blumenthal 1996, 73–89), if not, perhaps, to the extent that it was later to exercise the medieval and Renaissance schoolmen. In De partibus animalium 1.1 (641a32–b10), Aristotle had explained that it cannot fall within the purview of natural philosophy to study all soul, lest it fall within its purview to study everything, since on the one hand sense perception and perceptible objects and on the other hand intellect and intelligible objects are correlatives, and the study of correlatives belongs to one and the same science (and everything is either perceptible or intelligible).41 Ps.-Simplicius (In De an. 2.2–4.11) quotes this passage in full and infers from the fact that intellect is discussed in the De anima that the latter study, in conformity with its subject matter, straddles the divide between natural philosophy and theology. In the same spirit, Olympiodorus compares the De anima to an amphibious animal (In Meteor. 4.5–6). But whereas Ps.-Simplicius thinks it is mainly to do with natural philosophy, Olympiodorus, as noted, ascribes to it a predominantly theological purpose. This purpose, however, he says (In Meteor. 3.34–4.15), does not preclude Aristotle from also discussing natural philosophy in it (any more than he was precluded from discussing theology in the eighth book of the Physics),42 which is why Aristotle says that the course of natural philosophy will be only “practically” finished after the accounts of animals and plants.43 So, too, Philoponus, in his De anima commentary, construes Aristotle’s express statement that “it is the natural philosopher’s task to study the soul, either all soul or the above described” (403a27–28) to mean that it is the natural philosopher’s task to discuss the kind of soul that is “not without matter,” but the first philosopher’s to discuss “immaterial and intellectual souls”: the words “all soul” have been added since “the consummate natural philosopher elevates himself also to the transcendent causes of natural things” (In De an. 55.8–20). Accordingly, when Aristotle says, in the first lines of the De anima, that “knowledge (ἡ γνῶσις) of the soul is held to contribute to all truth but especially to nature”  This passage was to have considerable impact on the Renaissance debate over the nature of Aristotelian psychology: see Bakker (2007). 42  The last point is also made by Philoponus, In De an. 20.31–21.6 (cf. 55.14–17; 261.32–35), “for having set out the natural causes the consummate natural philosopher must also rise to the transcendent ones.” 43  Olympiodorus expressly says that the whole course comprises six inquiries. The Meteorology itself is the fourth in order (In Meteor. 4.1–5). Hadot (1990, 86 n108a) is probably right in omitting, with the best MS, τουτέστι in line 4.4, but this does not mean that Olympiodorus says that the Meteorology precedes the study of the soul as well as those of plants and animals. Rather, τῶν περὶ ψυχῆς (ibid.) should be taken as the partitive genitive with τῆς Περὶ φυτῶν καὶ τῆς Περὶ ζῴων. As Olympiodorus’ editor Stüve noted (cf. his apparatus ad loc.), τὰ περὶ ψυχῆς must have a more general sense here, corresponding to ὅσαι περὶ ἐμψύχων αὐτῷ εἰσι γεγραμμέναι at 1.12–13. ἡ Περὶ ψυχῆς [sc. πραγματεία] (4.5; 4.7; 4.11; 4.12) is the De anima. 41

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(402a4–6), Philoponus explains that this is because the soul is already an object of theology and ethics and its study therefore cannot properly be said to contribute (συμβάλλεσθαι) to these sciences as it does to natural philosophy (In De an. 24.33–25.30). For the Neoplatonists, then, the De anima is a transitional work. It represents the beginning of the ascent from the study of the natural world to that of the divine realm. To say that it would have been awkward for them to continue their natural philosophy courses by expatiating on the attributes of animals and plants rather than proceed to mathematics and metaphysics is probably an understatement. In so far as they wished to lecture on zoology and botany they would have had to do so before the De anima. But the Parva naturalia, as we have seen, presuppose the De anima. Easier, then, perhaps, to dispense with them altogether.44 I mentioned that there is a notable exception to the general lack of attention paid to the Parva naturalia in this period. This is provided by Priscian of Lydia’s Solutiones ad Chosroem, a series of replies to questions on natural philosophy supposedly asked by the Sassanian Emperor (who would have had the opportunity during the Athenian Neoplatonists’ sojourn at Ctesiphon in 531–532).45 For his discussion of the nature of sleep and dreams in chapters 2–3 of this work, Priscian makes liberal use of Parva naturalia 3–5 (and probably also draws on a lost work on sleep by Theophrastus). The Solutiones ad Chosroem survive only in a Latin translation, done, according to some, in the sixth or seventh century, but according to others, and I think more plausibly, in the milieu around John Scotus Eriugena (c. 800–c. 877).46 Their influence on early medieval philosophy seems negligible, but a number of excerpts, including some from chapters 2–3, are found in the Speculum maius, a widely used encyclopedia compiled by Vincent of Beauvais (final version c. 1258).47 The first proper commentaries on most of the Parva naturalia and the “zoological” treatises were written only in the early twelfth century, when—apparently at the behest of the princess and historian Anna Komnene—various gaps in the Greek secondary literature on Aristotle were filled, in this case as in several others by  For a slightly different interpretation of the material discussed in the last three paragraphs, see Trizio’s contribution to this volume (ch. 9). 45  The Solutiones were edited by Bywater in Supplementum aristotelicum 1.2 (Berlin, 1886). They are briefly discussed and summarized in De Haas (2010). An annotated English translation is now available in Huby & al. (2016). On the exile of the Neoplatonists and its background, see Cameron (2016, 205–246). 46  The work is preserved in two Carolingian manuscripts, both in the Bibliothèque nationale de France: lat. 13386 and lat. 2684. On these and for arguments in favour of the later date of translation, see d’Alverny (1977). 47  Speculum naturale 26 (De somno et vigilia), chs 8, 10, 32 and 63, consist wholly or partly of passages from Priscian’s Solutiones; otherwise the book is almost exclusively based on Albert the Great’s De homine and John of La Rochelle’s Summa de anima. There are other excerpts from Solutiones 2–3 in Speculum naturale 23, ch. 68 and Speculum doctrinale 17, ch. 177. On Vincent’s treatment of sleep and dreams and its sources, see Kruger (1992, 99–115). On the fortuna of Priscian’s Solutiones in general, see Schmitt (1976); on that of chaps 2–3 in particular, see Ricklin (1998, 86–100). 44

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Michael of Ephesus. The only work in the collection not to be attended to by Michael was the De sensu, obviously because Alexander’s commentary was still available. Michele Trizio’s contribution to the present volume (ch. 9) examines the sources quarried by Michael and other Middle Byzantine authors in the absence of ancient precedents, while Péter Lautner takes a closer look at Michael’s understanding of the common sense (ch. 3). Michael’s commentaries may not have left a very significant mark on the Arabic and Latin philosophical traditions within the chronological scope of this volume: they were not translated into Latin until the mid-sixteenth century,48 although Anthony Preus has argued (1981, 14–21), on the basis of interpretative similarities, that material from Michael’s commentaries may have reached Albert the Great and others by way of William of Moerbeke’s translations of the Parva naturalia (see below, Sec. 5). What is clear is, as Preus also pointed out (1981, 22), that Niccolò Leonico Tomeo (1456–1531), despite professing to rely more on his own ingenuity than on previous commentators, drew heavily on Michael for his influential commentaries on the whole Parva naturalia (first printed in Venice 1523) as well as the De motu animalium and De incessu animalium, even before the Latin translations appeared.49 Tomeo’s commentary on the De memoria is briefly discussed by Roberto Lo Presti in the concluding chapter of this volume. Moreover, the influence of Michael’s commentaries on the later Byzantine tradition is pervasive. The four Greek paraphrases of the Parva naturalia that saw the light of day in the period from the late thirteenth to the mid-fifteenth century are all highly derivative, directly or indirectly, of Alexander’s and Michael’s works. These are by Sophonias (fl. c. 1296);50 George Pachymeres (1242–c. 1310);51 Theodore Metochites (1270–1332);52 and George Scholarios (1400–c. 1473).53  The commentaries on Parva nat. 7, 6 and 5 were translated by Conrad Gesner (ed. Basel: Bartholomaeus Westheimer, 1541: on this book, see ); those on Parva nat. 2–6, 7b, 7a and 8, as well as Michael’s commentaries on the De motu an. and De inc. an., were translated by Evangelista Lungus Asulanus (ed. Venice: Girolamo Scoto, 1552). 49  On Tomeo’s commentaries, especially the unfinished one on the De partibus animalium, see also Perfetti (2000, 65–83). 50  Sophonias’ paraphrase (= Ps.-Themistius) covers Parva nat. 2–5. Edition in Wendland (1903a). 51  Pachymeres’ “hybrid paraphrase,” which covers Parva nat. 1–5, De mot. an., Parva nat. 6–8 (see above n21) makes up book 8 of a compendium entitled Philosophia. This part of the Philosophia is still unedited except for the section on the De divinatione in John Demetracopoulos’ contribution to the present volume (ch. 12, 302–307). 52  Metochites’ paraphrase covers Parva nat. 1–8, but not in the standard order. Printed editions are available for the part on the De somno, by Drossaart Lulofs (1943), for the part on the De memoria, by Bloch (2005), and for the part on the De divinatione, by Demetracopoulos in this volume (ch. 12, 292–297). The editio princeps of Metochites’ paraphrase of the De anima is being prepared for publication in the series Commentaria in Aristotelem Graeca et Byzantina (BBAW, De Gruyter) by myself. 53  Scholarios’ work is mainly an epitome of Metochites’ paraphrases. Full (but unreliable) edition in Jugie & al. (1936). The part on the De divinatione has been reedited by Demetracopoulos for this volume (ch. 12, 298–302). 48

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As is shown by John Demetracopoulos in his contribution to the present volume (ch. 12), one issue concerning which neither Pachymeres nor Scholarios were satisfied with either Aristotle’s discussion or Michael’s comments was that of divination by means of divine inspiration. They both saw fit to correct Aristotle in a supplementary note to their respective paraphrases: it is noteworthy that neither tried to father his own view on the Philosopher (Scholarios being, however, prepared to excuse Aristotle’s mistakes, seeing that the truth had not yet been fully revealed in his times). Scholarios was aided in his mission to set things right by his knowledge of Thomas Aquinas and also, Demetracopoulos argues, of Albert the Great.

4  Arabic and Hebrew Reception54 As amply demonstrated by Rotraud Hansberger’s, Olga Lizzini’s and Emma Gannagé’s contributions to the present volume (chs 6–8), the late Byzantine interest in divination was shared with the Arabic reception of the Parva naturalia from its very earliest stages onwards. Aristotle’s argument against the possibility of God-­ sent dreams lacks traction in both the Byzantine and the Islamic worlds for the very same reason: far from considering it an absurdity that God should send veridical dreams to anybody but the wisest, Christians and Muslims alike were prone to agree with George Pachymeres that “it is no wonder if [the dreamers] are ordinary people, for the less they participate in human wisdom, the more they are shaped by the divine” (quoted from Demetracopoulos, ch. 12, 305). Conversely, as Lizzini writes (ch. 8, 150): “the reason why revelation and veridical dreams can come to ordinary people is, in the Arabic-Islamic tradition to which Avicenna belongs, precisely that they are sent by God.” This interest looms especially large in the Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs (“Book on sense perception and the perceived”), an early-to-mid-ninth-century adaptation of Parva naturalia 1–6, which purports to be a translation of Aristotle’s works, but “is, in fact, characterised far more by Neoplatonic and Galenic than by Aristotelian ideas” (Hansberger 2010, 143). Various features (inter alia, excerpts from the Arabic translation of Plotinus, Enn. 4.6) point to a provenance in the circle of scholars around Al-Kindī (800–870) (Hansberger 2010, 150). Before the discovery, in 1985, of a seventeenth-century witness to most of the original text in the Rampur Raza Library, the work was exclusively known through Averroes’ epitome (see below) and a few extracts in other authors.55 Despite its many obscurities, it does seem to tend strongly towards a separation of memory from sense perception à la Plotinus, and in its encephalocentrism as well as in many of the details concerning  For an overview of the Arabic reception of the Parva nat., see Di Martino (2003).  Before Pines (1974), it was not even fully understood that Averroes’ paraphrase was based on an adaptation (or, as Pines put it, a different recension) of Aristotle’s text. The Rampur codex was discovered by Hans Daiber. A full critical edition is being prepared by Rotraud Hansberger.

54 55

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the location of soul faculties in the brain it is clearly indebted to Greek medical literature. But it also introduces concepts and ideas with no equivalents in the Greek tradition, such as the protean maʿnā—glossed by Hansberger in the present context as “cognitive content”—later to be redeveloped by Avicenna and translated in the Latin Middle Ages as intentio. In the years after the discovery of the Rampur codex, it has become increasingly clear how significant the later influence of the Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs was, especially on theories of dreaming and prophecy. Much work remains to be done, but reflections of its ideas have been detected in the works of Al-Fārābi (c. 878–c. 950), Avicenna (Ibn Sīnā, c. 980–1037) and Avempace (Ibn Bājja, c. 1095–1138), to name but a few especially illustrious users (Hansberger 2010, 158–160). For some brief notes on its fortuna in Jewish thinkers from Isaac Israeli (c. 855–955) to Moses ibn Ezra (c. 1060–c. 1139) and beyond, see Kahana-Smilansky (2012). Apparently for lack of an accurate translation of Aristotle’s genuine treatises, the Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs was in its turn epitomized by Averroes (Ibn Rushd, 1126–1198; epitome completed January 1170; ed. Blumberg 1972). In 1254, Averroes’ epitome was translated into Hebrew by Moses ibn Tibbon, and this translation was in time (1324) supplied with a commentary by the prodigious Jewish polymath Levi ben Gershom (Gersonides, 1288–1344). For the reception of Averroes’ epitome in a couple of Renaissance authors (Julius Caesar Scaliger and Gianfrancesco Pico della Mirandola), see Gignoni (2013, 180–186).

5  Latin Medieval Reception56 Through Michael Scot’s translation (c. 1230) of Averroes’ epitome (ed. Shields 1949), the contents of the Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs were also introduced into the Latin-speaking world.57 Most of those concepts and ideas that had been added to Aristotle’s account, notably those of intentiones and the complex of internal senses, were already familiar in Western Europe through the writings of Avicenna, whose authority on matters of the soul rivalled that of Aristotle’s in the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries. All the same, the discrepancies between the Parva naturalia and Averroes’ epitome were bound to cause discomfiture to those who undertook to teach and comment on the former, as Aristotle’s works on natural philosophy rose to ascendancy in the course of the thirteenth century. The so-called “old translation” (translatio vetus) of Parva naturalia 2–8 was executed in the second to third quarters of the twelfth century by James of Venice (2, 6–8) and another, unknown, translator (3–5). 56  For a general overwiew of the history of reception and influence of the Parva nat. in the Latin Middle Ages, see De Leemans (2011) and, specifically for  the  De memoria, Bloch (2007, 137–228). 57  Another translation (or perhaps a revision of Michael’s translation), the so-called Versio Parisina, survives in a single manuscript copy (ed. Shields 1949).

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That of the De sensu is later, perhaps the work of Nicolaus Graecus, an assistant to Robert Grosseteste (c. 1175–1253) (thus Bloch 2008a). In the third quarter of the thirteenth century, William of Moerbeke made a “new translation” (translatio nova), which, at least in part, seems really to consist in a revision of the vetus. William also translated Alexander of Aphrodisias’ commentary on the De sensu (ed. Thurot 1875). References and quotations in authors such as Alfred of Sareshel (died after 1220) testify to the spread and use of the translatio vetus around the turn of the twelfth century (see Ricklin 1998, 365–378). On the other hand, it has been shown by Gudrun Vuillemin-Diem (2003, 35–66) that the excerpts and paraphrases from Parva naturalia 3–5  in the preserved fragments of David of Dinant’s Quaternuli (consigned to the flames in 1210) must be the author’s own translations made directly from the Greek. In fact, besides Aristotle’s well-known advocacy of the pernicious doctrine of the eternity of the world, what so outraged the authorities in Paris that they banned the teaching of Aristotelian natural philosophy and metaphysics in 1210 and again in 1215 may have been precisely the fact that Aristotle took such a dim view of the possibility of God-sent dreams: at least that is what we are led to believe by a notice written by Roger Bacon in his old age.58 Alfred of Sareshel may even have written commentaries on Parva naturalia 3–6 (see Burnett 1996, 32; Ricklin 1998, 362–366; 378). But the earliest extant Latin commentaries are either those by Adam of Buckfield, master of arts at Oxford (dated before c. 1244, according to Brumberg-Chaumont 2010, 122), or those preserved anonymously in the Erfurt codex Ampl. 4° 312 (copied in Oxford c. 1240, according to Wood 2003, 29–41), both of which cover treatises 1–6.59 The influence of Buckfield’s commentaries was enduring enough to be still felt in Thomas Aquinas’s commentaries on the De sensu and the De memoria. Buckfield is otherwise known to have been highly reliant on Averroes as a commentator, but his commentaries on the Parva naturalia seem to constitute an exception: the one on the De sensu relegates all references to Averroes to excursuses, while the one on the De memoria mentions the Andalusian commentator but once, and then only to misrepresent his words (Brumberg-Chaumont 2010, 133–136). It is a natural suspicion that this unexpected lack of consideration for Averroes’ epitome is due to difficulties encountered in trying to harmonize its contents with those of Aristotle’s treatises. The commentary on the De sensu by Buckfield’s fellow Oxonian Roger Bacon may date from the latter’s stint at Paris in the 1240s. In that case, it is a rare testimony to the continued teaching of Aristotelian natural philosophy in the French capital during

 “Tarde vero venit aliquid de philosophia Aristotelis in usum latinorum, quia naturalis philosophia eius et Metaphysica et commentaria Averrois et aliorum similiter his temporibus nostris translata sunt. Et Parisius excommunicabantur ante annum Domini 1237 propter aeternitatem mundi et temporis, et propter librum De divinatione somniorum, qui est tertius De somno et vigilia, et propter multa alia erronee translata” (Roger Bacon, Compendium studii theologiae 1.2 [14], in Maloney 1988, 46). 59  It has been plausibly suggested that the absence of early Latin commentaries on Parva naturalia 7–8 is due to the precedent set by Averroes’ epitome (Brumberg-Chaumont 2010, 128). 58

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the first four decades after the proscriptions (and to the benefits of the free movement of academics in Europe—including Britain).60 The leading role of English masters in the development of natural philosophy in the first half of the thirteenth century is underscored by the presence of the so-called Oxford gloss in a number of manuscript witnesses to the “corpus vetustius.” This is a collection of marginal and interlinear scholia drawing from various sources, but primarily from Buckfield’s commentaries, and first assembled, in all likelihood, in the schools of Oxford in the mid-thirteenth century.61 The “corpus vetustius” was the main vehicle of dissemination of the translatio vetus: as we have seen (Sect. 2), it only included Parva naturalia 1–6. Perhaps the most ambitious commentaries on the translatio vetus were those by Albert the Great (1254–1257), enhanced by first-order treatises from Albert’s own pen on the topics covered in the remaining Parva naturalia (including the movement of animals).62 In this volume, Albert’s commentary on the De somno et vigilia (i.e. Parva nat. 3–5) is subject to examination by Silvia Donati (ch. 10), who also compares it with Buckfield’s on the same works. Albert, too, discusses Averroes and other Arabic philosophers in excursuses. But, as Donati shows, he “also derives the conceptual framework within which he develops his exposition of the text from the Arabic philosophers” (ch. 10, 173). And he had already drawn extensively on both the translatio vetus and Averroes’ epitome for his De homine (early 1240s: on this work, see Hasse 2008). The translatio nova—and no doubt the requirement to study all of Aristotle’s natural philosophy, introduced at the Arts Faculty of Paris in 1255—ushered in a period of intensified interest in the Parva naturalia, which were now generally treated as a connected series including treatises 7–8 as well as the De motu animalium and the De incessu animalium. René Antoine Gauthier suggested (1985, p. 4 ad Prohemium ll. 38–54) that the switch, advocated by Robert Kilwardby, Albert the Great and Thomas Aquinas, from an arrangement in which all the “zoological” works precede to one in which they follow the De anima and the Parva naturalia was encouraged by Alexander of Aphrodisias’ adherence to the latter arrangement in his recently translated De sensu commentary. But apart from the fact that Alexander does not really seem to think that all the “zoological” works are posterior to the Parva naturalia in the order of study,63 there  Other natural philosophy commentaries originating in Paris in the 1230s–40s may include, aside from Bacon’s own question commentaries on the Physics, ?Richard Rufus of Cornwall on the Physics, De generatione et corruptione and De anima as well as ?Peter of Spain on the De anima, De sensu and “De vita et morte” (= De longitudine), but the authorship and date of all these works are debated (for Richard Rufus see Wood 2009, for Peter see Meirinhos 2001). 61  For the gloss on the De sensu, see Galle (2008); for that on the De memoria, see BrumbergChaumont (2010). See also Long (2013, 13–14). 62  On Albert’s commentaries, see Donati (2012). 63  As noted above (p. 13), Alexander says in his commentary on the Meteor. that the next work after this is the De part. an., so he must have thought that the De part. an. should precede the De anima. Gauthier’s interpretation (ibid.) of the words “et post hunc de propriis operationibus uniuscuiusque speciei animalium dicet” in Moerbeke’s translation of Alexander’s commentary (ed. Thurot 1875, 60

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were clearly more systematic considerations in favour of such a rearrangement. Thirteenth- and fourteenth-century commentators on the De anima were routinely faced with the challenge of determining whether the subject matter of the work under discussion was the soul—as might be expected from its title—or the ensouled body—as might seem to follow from its classification as a work on natural philosophy (see Köhler 2000, 352–368). At the same time, the specific inquiries pursued in the Parva naturalia were generally considered to be “subalternate” to the science embodied in the De anima, that is, to be so related to it that its first principles could be carried over to them, because their subject matter was, although distinct, “in some [relevant] respect the same,” as Aristotle had said (An. post. 1.7, 75b8–9). Consequently, depending on how the subject matter of the De anima was understood, the Parva naturalia would be conceived of as dealing either with the activities and affections of the soul or with the activities and affections of the ensouled body. The majority view was that they deal with the activities and affections of the soul. But since the soul has three main faculties, the different treatises included in the Parva naturalia could be further divided according as they dealt with the activities and affections of the sensitive soul (usually 1–5, De motu an. and De inc. an.) or those of the vegetative soul (usually 6–8: for details, see Köhler 2000, 368–383). A variant is Thomas Aquinas’ division into treatises relating to the vital (6–8), motive (De motu an. and De inc. an.) and sensitive (1–5) functions of the soul (Sentencia libri De sensu et sensato, Prohemium 83–113). Given that the activities and affections of the soul are common to the soul and the body, it would seem only natural, then, to postpone the investigation of those bodies that are distinguished by being informed, respectively, by both a sensitive and a vegetative soul and by a vegetative soul only, until after these souls have been thoroughly understood.64 During this period commentaries proliferated, both exhaustive “literal” ones and more selective question commentaries. The vast majority of these remain unedited, but one of the goals of Representation and Reality (see above, Sect. 1) is to mitigate this situation: thus the commentaries on the De somno et vigilia (including the De insomniis and the De divinatione) by Geoffrey of Aspall (question commentary dated 1260–65), James of Douai (combined literal and question commentary dated c. 1270), Simon of Faversham (question commentary dated c. 1280) and Walter Burley (literal commentary dated 1300–1306) have appeared in critical editions by Sten Ebbesen (2013, 2014, 2015) and Christina Thomsen Thörnqvist (2014) over the last few years. With the possible exception of Aspall, these are all based on the translatio nova: it is notable that Douai also quotes from Alexander of Aphrodisias’ In De sensu. Averroes’ epitome is still authoritative for all these commentators; so 11.3–4: cf. Alexander, In De sensu 4.12–13) as referring to the De part. an. and the De gen. an. is clearly mistaken, at least so far as the De part. an. is concerned. 64  One might suspect that the universal practice of dealing with the activities and affections of the sensitive soul before those of the vegetative soul (and with animals before plants) rested solely on the fact that the De sensu was evidently conceived of by Aristotle as the first treatise in the series, but commentators such as Albert the Great and Thomas Aquinas went out of their way to justify the standard order (see De Leemans 2010, 204–205; 210–212).

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is Albert the Great’s commentary, for all except Aspall again. Faversham’s and Burley’s commentaries are closely related: since the latter work was composed when both men were resident in Oxford it is a natural enough suspicion that it is dependent on the former, but this remains to be ascertained. By far the most well-known commentaries based on the translatio nova are those of Thomas Aquinas on Parva naturalia 1–2 (ed. Gauthier 1985). Peter of Auvergne’s literal commentaries on Parva naturalia 3–8 and the De motu animalium were apparently intended to supplement these (De Leemans 2000, 283; 298–299). While Peter seems to have relied on both the old and the new translations for his literal commentaries (see Dunne 2002, secs 16–32), his question commentaries on Parva naturalia 1–6 may be based solely on the old translation (thus Bloch 2007, 207– 211, concerning the Quaestiones in De memoria). Two other commentators from this fertile period deserve to be singled out for special mention. The first is John of Jandun (c. 1285–1328), “prince of the Averroists,” whose question commentaries on Parva naturalia 1–8 plus the De motu animalium (composed in 1309) maintained their popularity throughout the Late Middle Ages and the Renaissance, especially at the universities of northern Italy. Far from regurgitating bits and pieces of Averroes’ compendium of the Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs, Jandun drew on his vast knowledge of both Aristotle’s and the Andalusian commentator’s works and in addition made intelligent use of Alexander of Aphrodisias’ In De sensu, for example in his solutions to the puzzles about the capacity of primary bodies to act and be acted upon (see Brenet 2010) and the nature of potential sensibles (see Robert 2014), raised by Aristotle’s remarks at Sens. 4, 441b7–15, and Sens. 6, 445b20–446a20, respectively. For the transmission of Jandun’s commentaries, see De Leemans (2000, 316–322). The second fourteenth-century commentator I would like to mention is John Buridan (1295/1300–1358/1361), “the most influential philosopher of the later fourteenth century,” according to The Cambridge History of Medieval Philosophy (Pasnau 2010, 2: 902), who wrote both literal and question commentaries on the whole Parva naturalia (see Michael 1985, 736–780). A legendary figure since his own lifetime, Buridan has attracted much serious attention from historians of philosophy and science over the last hundred years, first for his physics (impetus theory), later for his logic and in more recent times also for his natural and moral psychology, especially his theory of free will. It might seem astonishing in view of this that there are virtually no scholarly discussions of his Parva naturalia commentaries (for a couple of exceptions, see Sobol 2001 and Grellard 2010), until it is realized that the question commentaries are only available in a Renaissance edition (by George Lokert, Paris 1516) and the literal ones have never been committed to the press. — More medieval commentaries are discussed in De Leemans (2011). See also the list in De Raedemaeker (1965). A comprehensive catalogue of Latin medieval question commentaries on Parva naturalia 1–5 has recently been published by Sten Ebbesen, Christina Thomsen Thörnqvist and Véronique Decaix (2016) on behalf of Representation and Reality. One can try to measure the impact of a philosophical work in a given period by counting manuscripts or printed editions, commentaries, and manuscripts or printed

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editions of commentaries. We are all familiar with the pitfalls of bibliometrics. A more laborious but ultimately perhaps more accurate method is to assess the degree to which the content of the philosophical work permeates discussions relating to its subject matter in works which are not commentaries on it. In chapter 11 of the present volume, Martin Pickavé examines some such discussions of the nature of sleep in authors of the late thirteenth century (Henry of Ghent, Richard of Middleton, Thomas Aquinas, Peter of Tarentaise and Peter John Olivi), with special reference to the question of whether sleep is, as Aristotle seems to have held (Insomn. 1, 458b15–25; 3, 461b30–462a8; 462a27–31), compatible with intellectual (although not with perceptual) activity.

6  Renaissance Reception After a new curriculum was introduced at Paris in 1366, Parva naturalia 7–8 were again displaced from the focus of attention. According to De Leemans (2011), late fourteenth- and fifteenth-century commentaries on the Parva naturalia largely divide into two groups. Those in the first group deal only with treatises 1–6: many of these seem to be connected to the teaching activities at Paris. Those in the second group are characterized, on the one hand, by similarities with respect to content and, on the other, by the fact that they are all based neither on the translatio vetus nor on the nova but on a compendium of Aristotle’s natural philosophy by the otherwise unknown late fourteenth- or early fifteenth-century German Dominican Johannes Kro(n)sbein (see De Leemans 2000, 341–360). The commentaries in the second group are for the most part anonymous, except one, which is attributed on the flyleaf of the only manuscript (Erfurt, Ampl. 2° 334) to Marsilius of Inghen (c. 1340– 1396). While this attribution is dubious, Marsilius is acknowledged as the author of another series of (question) commentaries on the whole Parva naturalia. Aristotle had said in the first chapter of the De sensu that “the majority of natural philosophers end up in the study of medicine, whereas those among the physicians who pursue their art in a more philosophical way take the study of nature as their starting-point” (436a19–b1). In the Renaissance universities of northern Italy, this observation, often invoked in support of the subalternation of medicine to natural philosophy, crystallized into a motto: “ubi desinit physicus, ibi medicus incipit.”65 The unusually close ties that were forged between natural philosophy and medicine

 The debate about the relationship between natural philosophy and medicine had of course begun centuries earlier: see French (2000), who quotes (ibid., 78) the following version of the abovequoted motto from the Oxford gloss: “ubi naturales terminant ibi incipiunt medici ut dicitur in libro de sensu et sensato.” The version quoted in the text above seems to have been first formulated by Simone Simoni (see below). For this and a general discussion of attitudes to medicine in natural philosophers and to natural philosophy in physicians of the sixteenth century, see Schmitt (1985).

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in this educational setting, where theology was of minor importance, tended to further the study of psychology in general and psycho-physiology in particular.66 As Padua became, in the late fifteenth century, a leading centre of Aristotelian studies with a heavy emphasis on natural philosophy, Averroes retained—and even reinforced—his position as the foremost commentator on Aristotle, in spite of all the clamour caused by his notorious view that the intellective soul is one and the same in all human beings (see Hasse 2007, 115–121). His position was perhaps bolstered by the enduring popularity, mentioned above, of the commentaries of John of Jandun. One may also note (as pointed out by Hasse 2007, 121–125) that Avicenna’s theory of prophecy enjoyed a relatively favourable reception at the hands of some north Italian philosophers in the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries, including the most celebrated and controversial of them all, Pietro Pomponazzi (1462–1525). At the same time, new impulses came from the rediscovery of hitherto unknown Greek commentaries. It was in this period that Philoponus’ and Ps.-Simplicius’ commentaries on the De anima—as well as Alexander of Aphrodisias’ work by the same name—were first disseminated in the West, in printed editions both of the Greek originals and of Latin translations.67 Especially Ps.-Simplicius left a definitive mark, not least on Marcantonio Genua, first ordinary professor of natural philosophy at Padua from 1531 until his death in 1563, who became known as the leader of the “Simpliciani.”68 As regards the Parva naturalia, I have already mentioned that Michael of Ephesus’ commentaries were translated in the mid-sixteenth century and partly integrated, even before that date, into the works of Niccolò Leonico Tomeo, who held the newly created position for teaching Aristotle’s natural philosophy from the Greek text in Padua between 1497 and 1509. Latin versions of George Pachymeres’ compendium of Aristotelian philosophy and Theodore Metochites’ paraphrases of Aristotle’s works on natural philosophy were also printed in the sixteenth century, but practically nothing is known about their reception.69 The Renaissance fortuna of  On the teaching of natural philosophy at Padua, see Grendler (2002, 267–313). On Paduan psychology, see Kärkkäinen and Lagerlund (2009, 36–45). 67  A translation of Alexander, De anima by Girolamo Donato was first printed at Brescia in 1495. Themistius’ paraphrase of the De anima also appeared in a new translation by Ermolao Barbaro (Treviso, 1481). A Greek edition of both these texts by Vittore Trincavelli was published at Venice in 1534. On Donato’s translation, see Bonelli (2011/2012). On the reception of Alexander’s psychology in the period, see Kessler (2011, 24–81). The first printed Greek texts of Alexander’s commentary on the De sensu and Ps.-Simplicius’ commentary on the De anima were edited by Francesco Torresano (Venice, 1527); a Latin translation of Ps.-Simplicius’ commentary by Giovanni Faseolo was published at Venice in 1543. Philoponus’ commentary on De anima 1–2 with Ps.-Philoponus on De anima 3 was printed in a Greek edition by Trincavelli at Venice in 1535 and in Latin translation at Venice in 1547. 68  On Genua and other “Simpliciani,” see Spruit (1995, 159–184). On the reception of Simplicius in the Renaissance, see Steel and Ritups (2013, 28–30). On the reception both of Simplicius and of Themistius, see also Mahoney (1982). 69  Gentien Hervet’s translation of Metochites’ paraphrases saw three editions in 1559, 1562 (both Basel: Nicolaus Brylinger) and 1614 (Ravenna: press unknown). Philipp Bech’s translation of Pachymeres’ compendium appeared in Basel (Hieronymus Froben and Nicolaus Episcopius) in 1560. 66

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the Byzantine literature is touched upon in John Monfasani’s contribution to this volume (ch. 13), where our attention is also drawn to the remarkable spurt of interest in translating the Parva naturalia into Latin in the years around 1520. Of the five known translations that saw the light in the Renaissance, four date from between 1518 and 1523, including one by Tomeo. The new conditions under which Aristotelian scholarship was carried out in the sixteenth century—the widespread knowledge of Greek, the access to most of the earlier Aristotelian literature written in Greek, Arabic and Latin, as well as the orientation along the requirements of medicine rather than theology—have all helped shape the commentaries on the De memoria studied in Roberto Lo Presti’s contribution to this volume (ch. 14). Besides the one by Tomeo, these are a late work by Pomponazzi’s erstwhile rival and adversary at Padua, the renegade “Averroist” Agostino Nifo (first edition Venice 1523); an equally late work by Pomponazzi’s reluctant ally, the Dominican theologian Crisostomo Javelli (first edition Venice 1531); a commentary by the somewhat obscure Bolognese professor Bernardino Crippa (first edition Bologna 1567); an early work by the then professor of philosophy and medicine at Geneva, Simone Simoni (first edition Geneva 1566); and an annotated paraphrase by Antonio Scaino (first edition Venice 1599), earlier in his career a clergyman at the court of Alfonso II d’Este in Ferrara and perhaps best known in our time for having authored the first book on tennis. Katharine Park has argued that sixteenth-century psychology, as practised by natural philosophers, is characterized by “an impulse to favour simpler and more physiological explanations,” which propelled “Renaissance thinkers further and further from the psychological thought of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries and moved them in the direction of seventeenth-century writers such as Descartes and Hobbes” (1988, 477).70 She ascribes this impulse partly to a humanist concern to purify Aristotelian doctrine of the “accretions and interpolations introduced by medieval commentators” (1988, 479). Its effects, she suggests, are shown in the increasing tendency to adopt (invoking the methodology of Ockham or Buridan) the view that the differences between the various activities of the soul are due neither to real nor to formal distinctions within the soul but to observable differences in the anatomy of the bodily organs through which these activities are carried out. As a result, “it became commonplace for commentators on De anima and other writers in the Aristotelian tradition—even the most conservative—to introduce arguments based on anatomical information into treatments of the organic soul” (Park 1988, 482). The so-called Cursus Conimbricensis, a five-volume set of Aristotelian textbooks (for the genre, see Schmitt 1988) first published by the Jesuit College of Arts at the University of Coimbra between 1592 and 1606 and subsequently in over a

 An overview of relatively recent literature on late scholasticism and its relationship to early modern philosophy is found in Edwards (2007). See also the brief but magisterial account of the “intellectual setting” for the emergence of early modern philosophy in Menn (2003). For a comparison of Aristotelian and Cartesian psychology, see Alanen (2009). On Descartes and the Conimbricenses, see Des Chene (2000).

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hundred editions world-wide,71 would seem to be a case in point. Volume 2, part 2 contains commentaries on Parva naturalia 2–8, chiefly the work of Emmanuel de Goes (1592). The contents of the De sensu are covered in a supplement (Tractatio aliquot problematum ad quinque sensus spectantium, by Cosmas de Magalhães) to the commentary on the De anima (vol. 4, 1598).72 In addition, however, the De anima commentary itself, also mainly by de Goes, includes discussions of the anatomy of the sense organs and other physiological details from Andreas Vesalius’ De humani corporis fabrica and a host of other sources, in apparent violation of a rule in the 1591 Jesuit college regulations that, during the course on the De anima, in the second book, when the sense organs are discussed, the philosopher should not digress into anatomy and such topics, which belong to the domain of the physicians. Instead he should add, if he has the time, the Parva naturalia.73

It is clear that the Conimbricenses shared their penchant for bringing physiology to bear on their discussions of the De anima with the authors of other textbooks of the era, such as the fellow Jesuit Girolamo Dandini’s De corpore animato (Paris 1610), the digressive nature of which has been admirably demonstrated by Michael Edwards (2008). The other side of the coin is that most sixteenth- and seventeenthcentury textbooks, even the Carmelite Cursus Complutensis (five volumes, Alcalá, Madrid and Paris 1624–1640), seem to have dispensed with any specific sections devoted to the Parva naturalia. It is unclear to what extent the physiological tendency in these Catholic works responds to the precedent set by Protestant authors, notably Philipp Melanchthon, whose commentary on the De anima (1540) swerves so far in this direction that it should perhaps be classified as a work on anthropology rather than psychology. It was later revised to take into account Vesalius’ work (Liber de anima recognitus, 1552).74

7  Post-Renaissance Reception In the perspective of Cartesian mind-body dualism, the principles of Aristotelian psychology are bound to seem arbitrary, not to say bizarre.75 Gary Hatfield has described (1995) how “the science of the soul” in the eighteenth century ceded the 71  On the early 17th-century Chinese adaptations of the Cursus Conimbricensis by Francesco Sambiasi, Giulio Alenio and others, see Shen (2005). 72  For a general account of the Coimbran commentary on the De anima, see de Carvalho (2006). 73  “In secundo libro, expositis sensoriis, non digrediatur philosophus in Anatomiam et caetera, quae medicorum sunt. Addat potius, si vacat, parva Naturalia” (Lukács 1986, 280). The last sentence was omitted in the 1599 regulations (Lukács 1986, 398). On the inclusion of anatomical themes in Jesuit commentaries on the De anima and other psychological texts, see Edwards (2012, esp. 55–66). For an attempt at resolving the apparent tension between the rule and the practice, see Sander (2014). 74  On Melanchthon’s works on the soul, see Kusukawa (1995, 75–123). 75  The following quotation from Beare (1894, 1–2), later Regius Professor of Greek at Trinity College Dublin, the author of a learned monograph on ancient theories of perception and the man

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stage to other types of “psychology,” Erfahrungsseelenlehre and Associationism, which focused on the empirical study of the contents of human consciousness and (in the case of Associationism) the formulation of laws that govern the relations between these contents.76 The term “psycho-physiology,” which belongs in this theoretical context, properly denotes the study of the means of interaction between body and mind. To be sure, Aristotle’s “zoological” writings continued to draw admiration from many systematic biologists from Georges-Louis Leclerc de Buffon to Georges Cuvier and Richard Owen, until the theory of evolution irrevocably shifted the perspective.77 But the study of the De anima and the Parva naturalia had fallen into virtual desuetude as early as the latter half of the seventeenth century. How limited the understanding of these texts was in the eighteenth century can be gauged from the treatment they received at the hands of the early historians of philosophy, all of whom shared a marked tendency to read Aristotle in the light of contemporary philosophical concerns. Not unexpectedly, the treatment in Jakob Brucker’s pioneering Historia critica philosophiae (first edition in 1742–1744) leaves the most to be desired, whereas the situation is somewhat ameliorated in the later works of Dietrich Tiedemann, Johann Gottlieb Buhle and Wilhelm Gottlieb Tennemann.78 By the 1830s, however, Aristotelian psychology would return with a vengeance.79 The impetus came from three different sources. behind the Oxford Translation of Parva nat. 1–5, may be taken as indicative of the power of the Cartesian spell over the interpretation of Aristotelian psychology in the modern era: “ψυχή was for him [sc. Aristotle] the principle of life as well as of mind. Accordingly, his work was intended to cover the whole ground now divided between Biology, Physiology, and Psychology. As was to be expected, this dual view of ψυχή, as principle of life (vegetable or animal), and as principle of mind in all its manifestations, proved fatal to his attempt at a systematic treatment of his subject. From the outset of the De Anima a tendency may be observed on his part to pursue now one, now the other, of two more and more divergent lines, the first leading him to Metaphysics, the second to Physiology. For a while he struggles against this tendency, but in the end yields, more or less completely, to the metaphysical bias. In De An. III. we find him largely engaged, and with all the fervour of a ‘First Philosopher,’ in speculating on the subject of a ‘νοῦς which thinks itself’—the crowning conception of his Metaphysics. Having, in the De Anima, dwelt with preponderating interest on the mental side of ψυχή he declares (De Sensu, ad. init.) that, while the conclusions there attained must be allowed to stand, he will now occupy himself solely, or chiefly, with its physical side.” 76  On the large and complex issue of the “birth of psychology,” see also the monographs by Mengal (2005) and Vidal (2006). 77  On the 18th–19th-century debate over the extent to which Aristotle was really a systematic taxonomist, see Meyer (1855, 36–86). See also Gotthelf (2012, 261–292). For an “episodic history” of the development of the philosophy of biology from Aristotle to Darwin and beyond, see Grene and Depew (2004). On the reception of Aristotle in 19th–20th-century biology, see also Hünemörder (1987). 78  See Brucker (1766–1767, 1: 820–826); Tiedemann (1791–1797, 2: 299–328); Buhle (1796– 1804, 2: 375–407); Tennemann (1798–1819, 3: 176–211). Cf. also the (sometimes excessively) critical surveys in Petersen (1913, 124–130, 1921, 420–424). See also Ferrarin (2001, 396–405). 79  Cf. the first sentence of Eugen Rolfes’ preface to his study of Aristotle’s concept of soul, written with the benefit of sixty-odd years’ hindsight: “Seitdem in den dreißiger Jahren durch die Bemühungen Trendelenburgs und anderer das Studium der aristotelischen Philosophie in Deutschland einen neuen Aufschwung erhielt, war es besonders die aristotelische Psychologie, die dauernd die Forschung in Anspruch nahm und in einer Reihe von Schriften, teils vollständig, teils einzelnen Seiten nach, zur Darstellung gelangte” (1896, 1).

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First, from the lecterns of academic philosophy. Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel famously stated, in his Vorlesungen über die Geschichte der Philosophie (1805– 1830), that “in recent times no other philosophy has been so much offended against as this [sc. the Aristotelian], and to no other ancient philosopher so many apologies are owed as to Aristotle.”80 This was his excuse for dwelling on Aristotle, “among the men of old, the one that most deserves to be studied,” for well over a hundred pages (or more than five hours at normal reading speed), including twenty pages on Aristotle’s psychology (De anima)—in spite of the time constraints.81 In the ­introduction to the third part of the Enzyklopädie der philosophischen Wissenschaften (3rd ed. 1830), the Philosophy of Spirit, Hegel declares that Aristotle’s books on the soul as well as his treatises on its specific aspects and conditions are for this reason still the most outstanding work—or the only one of speculative interest—on this subject matter. The essential purpose of a philosophy of the spirit can only be to reintroduce the concept into the cognition of the spirit and thereby also to reopen the meaning of these Aristotelian books.82

The extent to which Hegel’s anthropology and psychology in the Encyclopedia are in fact inspired not only by the De anima but also by Parva naturalia 3–4 (which the Berlin professor understood as partly empirical, partly speculative, “physiology”: Werke 19: 169), has been shown by Alfredo Ferrarin (2001, 262–283).83 Second, there seems to have been a wary admiration for Aristotelian physiology on the part of some of the practitioners of the nascent modern discipline. For instance, Johannes Müller, who refers sporadically to Aristotle in his groundbreaking Handbuch der Physiologie des Menschen (1833–1840)—he quotes, for instance,  “In dieser Darlegung des Hauptinhalts der Aristotelischen Philosophie bin ich weitläufiger gewesen, teils der Wichtigkeit der Sache selbst (es ist eigener Inhalt) [wegen], teils weil in der Tat an keiner Philosophie sich die neuere Zeit so vergangen hat als an ihr und keinem der alten Philosophen so viel abzubitten ist als Aristoteles. Aristoteles ist, wenn einer, für einen der Lehrer des Menschengeschlechts anzusehen; sein Begriff ist in alle Sphären des Bewußtseins eingedrungen, und diese Vereinzelung in der Bestimmung durch den Begriff, da sie gleichfalls notwendig ist, enthält in jeder Sphäre die tiefsten richtigen Gedanken. Aristoteles – um die äußere Geschichte seiner Philosophie im allgemeinen hier zu antizipieren – ist daher viele Jahrhunderte lang ununterbrochen der Träger der Bildung des Denkens gewesen” (Hegel, Werke 19: 241–242). 81  Cf. Werke 19: 131: “[D]ie Ausführlichkeit, die Aristoteles verdient kann ich ihm leider nicht gewähren.” On Hegel’s lectures on the De anima, see Weiss (1969); Ferrarin (2001, 246–247); on his general portrayal of Aristotle in the Vorlesungen, see also Ferrarin (2009, 295–301). On Hegel’s importance for the reassessment of Aristotle’s role in the history of philosophy, see also Forster (2012, 885–886), who writes: “It was in large part thanks to Hegel’s perception of great value in Aristotle’s philosophy that subsequent nineteenth-century historians of philosophy likewise saw it as valuable and devoted much attention to it.” 82  “Die Bücher des Aristoteles über die Seele mit seinen Abhandlungen über besondere Seiten und Zustände derselben sind deswegen noch immer das vorzüglichste oder einzige Werk von spekulativem Interesse über diesen Gegenstand. Der wesentliche Zweck einer Philosophie des Geistes kann nur der sein, den Begriff in die Erkenntnis des Geistes wieder einzuführen, damit auch den Sinn jener Aristotelischen Bücher wieder aufzuschließen” (Werke 10: 9). 83  For a recent favourable assessment of Hegel’s interpretation of Aristotle’s theory of perception as compared to those of contemporary scholars, see Hahmann (2015). On the question of how much Hegel’s notion of spirit (Geist) owes to Aristotle (not so much), see Forster (2011). 80

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De anima 2.2, 413b22–24, in support of his view that the soul, albeit present throughout the living body, is not itself a compound (1840, 506)—also contributed to the historiography of the field by appending a German version of the De insomniis, a work he declared to be “in the true sense physiological” and to “contain essentially the correct explanation” of dreaming, to his early study of visual imagination (1826, 107–117).84 Another important work on Aristotelian physiology— including the physiology of sense perception—from the period is the much-cited Ὕλη ἀνθρωπίνη by a precociously young Ludwig Philippson (1831).85 I cannot linger over the Aristotelian affinities of nineteenth-century physiologists here: let me simply note that the existence in 1837 of at least one author on psychology (Karl Alexander von Reichlin-Meldegg) who, without being either a Hegelian or a classical scholar and without so much as referring to Aristotle in the relevant context, “will,” in Max Dessoir’s words (1912, 208), “tolerate no opposition between the soul and the forces of animal life, but sees in the soul ‘the ground of life in a definite human individuality, [of a life] which bears the two-fold, interpenetrating character of animality and rationality’,” and whose “psychology aims therefore, like that of the Greeks, to trace the bodily and mental development of man,”86 suggests that there were more complex factors at work behind the return of Aristotelian psychology than the combination of Hegel’s influence and the prevalence of “historicism.”87 This is not to deny that—third, but not least—the breakthrough of a stringent methodology for the study of history, and especially the advances made in classical philology, was a factor of crucial importance.88 In 1817, acting on a proposal by  Quotations from Müller (1826, vii): “Die beigefügte Aristotelische Urkunde über den Traum, in näherer Beziehung zu unserem Gegenstande, schien in manchem Betracht wichtig, um allgemeiner bekannt zu werden. Wenn sie neben manchen dem Zeitalter zufallenden Irrthümern nur Andeutungen enthält, so ist die Untersuchung doch im eigentlichen Sinn physiologisch und enthält allerdings die im wesentlichen richtige Erklärung.” Cf. Müller (1840, 257): “Die Erklärung [sc. des Aristoteles] der Phantasmen als innerer Sinneswirkungen ist ganz dem heutigen Standpuncte der Wissenschaft angemessen.” 85  Note also Karl Zell’s edition of the De longitudine et brevitate vitae with Latin translation and notes plus an appendix by August Schultze with contemporary estimates of the lifespans of different animals (1826). 86  Dessoir is quoting from von Reichlin-Meldegg’s definitions of psychology as “die Wissenschaft von der Seele des Menschen, d.h. von dem letzten Grunde der körperlichen und geistigen Entwickelungen des Menschen, in wiefern dieser Grund aus diesen Entwickelungen erkennbar ist, und den allgemeinen Gesetzen dieser Entwickelungen” (1837, 32) and of the human soul as “der Grund des den sich wechselseitig durchdringenden Charakter der Animalität und Vernunftanlage an sich tragenden Lebens in einer bestimmten menschlichen Individualität” (1837, 30). 87  It was not only in Germany that Aristotelian psychology was being linked to contemporary scientific and philosophical concerns. A relevant British example is William Hamilton’s exposition of De memoria 2, 451b10–452b6 and 453a4–14, with translation of the Aristotelian text as well as Sophonias’ paraphrase, in the “Supplementary Dissertations” of his edition of the works of Thomas Reid (1846, 889–910), which was intended to “render justice to” Aristotle as the true author of the theory of the association of ideas. Hamilton also credited the Stagirite, not with inventing, but at least with consistently upholding the distinction between primary and secondary qualities (ibid. 826–830). 88  For the philological background to the “Aristotelian revival,” see Thouard (2009). 84

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Friedrich Schleiermacher, the Royal Prussian Academy of Sciences resolved to commission a state-of-the-art critical edition of Aristotle’s collected works.89 The result, produced by Immanuel Bekker with the assistance of Christian August Brandis (who was personally responsible for the supplement volume containing excerpts from the ancient commentaries), was a milestone in Aristotelian scholarship, which, even if most of the editions of individual works have long been superseded, still provides a frame of reference for citations of the corpus aristotelicum. It was completed, so far as the Aristotelian texts are concerned, in 1831: Brandis’ supplement appeared in 1836.90 Empowered by the new methodology, the history of philosophy came to occupy an increasingly central position in the philosophy curriculum, especially at German universities (see Schneider 1999, 91–119). The output of printed works is staggering: one survey lists more than three hundred diachronic accounts published in German, French and English from 1810 to 1900, several of them in multivolume sets and some in multiple revised editions (Schneider 1999, 317–355). The first of these to offer a detailed and reliable account of Aristotle’s psychology, based on close readings both of the De anima and the Parva naturalia, is Brandis’ Handbuch der Geschichte der griechisch-römischen Philosophie (1835–1866).91 Brandis could benefit not only from Bekker’s edition and his own extensive studies of the Greek commentary tradition but also from the recent edition-cum-commentary of the De anima by his younger friend and colleague Adolf Trendelenburg (Jena, 1833).92 Trendelenburg’s is indeed the name most closely associated with the mid-­ nineteenth-­century “Aristotelian revival.”93 Much of the motivation for this revival stemmed from the perception of a failure on the part of academic speculative philosophy, especially as embodied by Hegelian dialectic, to provide a unitary theoretical framework for both the exact and the empirical sciences. Trendelenburg, widely influential as a teacher and administrator at the Berlin university, sought to rectify the situation, in his Logische Untersuchungen (1840), by elaborating a “theory of science” which would steer clear of the Scylla of materialism as well as the Charybdis of subjectivism.94 It would follow the  Schleiermacher was no expert on Aristotle, and not very sympathetically disposed, as is amply demonstrated by his 1812 lectures on the history of philosophy, posthumously edited by Heinrich Ritter (Schleiermacher 1839, 113–121), on which see Menn (2010, 97 n7). 90  On Bekker and his edition, see Schröder (2009). 91  Vols 2.1, 2.2 and 3.1 on Aristotle appeared in 1853, 1857 and 1860. Parva nat. 1–5 (and to a lesser extent 6–8) are systematically treated (and extensively paraphrased) as a complement to the De anima (2.2: 1103–1124 [sense perception]; 2.2: 1143–1148 [physiology of sense perception etc.]; 2.2: 1148–1153 [memory and recollection]; 2.2: 1153–1163 [sleep and dreams]; 2.2: 1189– 1203 [unity and structure of the Parva nat.]). 92  Brandis’ later Geschichte der Entwickelungen der griechischen Philosophie (vol. 1, 1862) is dedicated to Trendelenburg. In turn, Trendelenburg gave the memorial address for Brandis on Leibniz Day (the yearly ceremonial meeting of the Royal Prussian Academy of Sciences) 1868. 93  For general discussions of the “Aristotelian revival,” see the papers collected in Thouard (2004). See also Fugali (2011). 94  “Auf diesem Wege wird ein Realismus gegründet, der nicht in Materialismus ausschlagen kann; 89

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organic worldview, which was founded in [the works of] Plato and Aristotle … and which must develop and gradually perfect itself through increasingly deeper investigation both of its fundamental concepts and its particular aspects—and in interaction with the objective sciences.95

Trendelenburg’s theory of science attempts to solve the problem of the possibility of knowledge by recourse to a metaphysics of movement, where movement is the first principle of both the external world of being and the internal world of cognition, which is forced into development by the presence, in both worlds, of purpose. The soul is defined, with explicit reference to Aristotle, as “an idea of purpose actualizing itself.”96 It is the end product of nature and the starting point of the life of moral action.97 Trendelenburg’s inquiries into the soul, “not … as an isolated object but … in its organic context,” in his unpublished lectures on psychology (1840–1870), are briefly discussed in Fugali (2009, 181–190). That he took an interest in the physiology of sense perception is shown in an additional chapter to the second edition of Logische Untersuchungen (1862, 2: 478–485), where he concedes that recent experimental work in the field (he cites titles by Charles Bell, Johannes Müller and Hermann von Helmholtz) may appear to lend support to subjectivism, but insists that the construction of external objects—which are accessible to science—is only forced by natural sensory stimulation.98 In the third edition he even responded to the challenge of Darwinism (1870, 2: 79–93n). But he never dealt specifically with the Parva naturalia. Trendelenburg’s most famous student, Franz Brentano, never dealt specifically with the Parva naturalia either, although it should be noted that the account of Aristotelian psychology in his second Habilitationsschrift (1867) draws as freely on them as on the De anima. As is well known, Brentano later claimed Aristotelian heritage for his conception of the “intentional inexistence” of mental objects (1874, 1: 115–116 with n3), which admittedly comes across today as being perhaps more inspired by medieval Aristotelianism than by Aristotle’s own doctrines.99 His enthudenn seine Bestimmungen gehen durch den inneren Zweck vom Gedanken im Grunde der Dinge aus; und ein Idealismus, der nicht Subjektivismus werden kann, denn er begründet sich durch eine dem Denken und Sein gemeinsame Thätigkeit, welche in der Erscheinung den zwingenden Anweisungen des Gegebenen folgt” (Trendelenburg 1862, 2: 488). 95  “… in der organischen Weltanschauung, welche sich in Plato und Aristoteles gründete, sich von ihnen her fortsetzte und sich in tieferer Untersuchung der Grundbegriffe sowie der einzelnen Seiten und in Wechselwirkung mit den realen Wissenschaften ausbilden und nach und nach vollenden muss” (Trendelenburg 1862, 1: ix). 96  “Der Zweck wird als innerer Zweck zum individuirenden Princip der Wesen und die Seele ist ein sich verwirklichender Zweckgedanke” (Trendelenburg 1870, 2: 534 and passim; invocation of Aristotle’s definition ibid. 2: 97). 97  On Trendelenburg’s psychology, see Hoffmann (1892?); Petersen (1913, 79–86); Fugali (2000, 71–77); Fugali (2009). On his Aristotelianism and its historical context, see Petersen (1913, 119– 162); Beiser (2013, 16–59). 98  On the epistemological debates in the field of tension between empirical psychology and philosophical rationalism in the early 19th century, see Sachs-Hombach (1993, 145–193). 99  On the Aristotelianism of Brentano’s psychology and its relationship to Trendelenburg and the “Aristotelian revival,” see Albertazzi (2006, 43–82); Fugali (2009, 190–202); Tassone (2012, 38–74).

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siasm for the medieval schoolmen had been stoked by his studies with Franz Jakob Clemens in Münster (“the first German philosopher to take up again the strands of medieval philosophy,” according to Brentano’s friend Georg von Hertling, quoted in Albertazzi 2006, 12). The Catholic Church was an important patron of Aristotelian and scholastic studies in the period, especially after Thomism was proclaimed, in the encyclical Aeterni Patris (1879), to be the philosophy most conformable to its teachings. Many of those who wrote on Aristotle’s psychology in the latter half of the nineteenth century did so from a Thomist perspective, like Vincenz Knauer, Aloïs van Weddingen, Herman Schell, Eugen Rolfes, Clemens Baeumker and Armand Thiéry. Clemens Baeumker in particular went on to play a seminal role in opening the field of medieval philosophy to historical research, at a time when Protestant philosophers still often viewed the subject matter with suspicion.100 — A first survey of the material related to the Arabic and Hebrew reception of the Parva naturalia was carried out by Moritz Steinschneider in 1883. Brentano’s frequent consultation of the Parva naturalia illustrates a general phenomenon. Studies of Aristotle’s psychology in this period had a systematic— rather than a developmental—approach and tended, as a matter of course, to use the Parva naturalia (at least treatises 1–4) as a supplement to the De anima, especially in their discussions of sense perception, the common sense and phantasia. This is true of such disparate works as Waddington-Kastus (1848), Beck (1860), Kampe (1870), Schell (1873), Baeumker (1877), Neuhaeuser (1878), Barco (1881), Schieboldt (1882), Chaignet (1883), Siebeck (1884), Knauer (1885) and Poppelreuter (1892), as well as of the treatments in various histories of philosophy, of which Eduard Zeller’s (1846: 473–503, 1862: 370–468, 1879: 479–607) deserves to be singled out (besides Brandis) as particularly important.101 There was no shortage of such studies, all aspiring to a better historical understanding of its subject; as a creative force in the development of modern theories, however, Aristotelian psychology was probably exhausted after Trendelenburg, Brentano and Neoscholasticism—or so one might have thought before the controversy over whether or not “an Aristotelian philosophy of mind is still credible” erupted in the 1980s (see below).102 Works that concentrate specifically on the contents of the Parva naturalia are fewer and further between. The only three separate publications from the latter half of the nineteenth century with such an exclusive focus that I am aware of are a brief study from 1879 of Aristotle’s theory of memory and the association of ideas by  Let me quote, as an example of the kind of condescension to which philosophers of the period could stoop, Conrad Hermann (1874, 245): “Der unbedingtesten Verehrung erfreute sich Aristoteles im Mittelalter zur Zeit der Scholastik; allerdings war es hier mehr nur sein Name als der Gehalt seiner Lehre, welcher das Object einer blinden Vergötterung bildete.” 101  On Schell’s, Baeumker’s and Neuhaeuser’s works, see Block (1964); on Neuhaeuser’s, see also Webb (1982). 102  It is not clear to me what Buchheim, Flashar and King have in mind (it could be Neoscholastic psychology) when they claim that “[g]eschichtlich gesehen wird Aristoteles’ Psychologie spätestens seit Ende des 19. Jhs. und besonders dank Brentanos Auseinandersetzung mit ihr wieder rezipiert” (2003, xvi). 100

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Julius Ziaja (who also published, in 1887, an annotated translation of De sensu 1–3, 439b18 and, in 1896, an equally brief study of Aristotle’s theory of light);103 a forty-­ page précis of the whole collection in the Programm des königlich-kaiserlichen Obergymnasiums in Prague for 1881 by an otherwise unknown Johann Schmidt; and a brief and breezy essay on the psycho-physiology of dreams by the Belgian priest and experimental psychologist Armand Thiéry (1896). Jakob Freudenthal’s important 1869 paper, to which I have already referred, is more philologically than philosophically orientated. The same is true of his 1889 paper, which proposes an emendation of De memoria 2, 452a19–24. His doctoral dissertation (1863) is a study of Aristotle’s use of the term φαντασία in both the De anima and the Parva naturalia. An outlier must be mentioned here: George Henry Lewes. In a fascinating book on Aristotle’s scientific writings (which “are almost unknown in England,” according to the author: 1864, viii), Lewes devotes a chapter each to the De anima, the De sensu and the rest of the Parva naturalia. Since there were no English translations of the latter works, or at least no accessible and reliable ones (see below), it is only to be expected that most of these chapters are taken up by paraphrase. Vernacular translations did begin to appear, however, in the second quarter of the nineteenth century, and first in German. Johannes Müller (see above) was probably unaware of the recent publication of annotated translations not only of the De insomniis but also of the De memoria, De somno and De divinatione per somnum by a certain Ernst Hepner (1825).104 He did, however, base his own translation on the almost equally recent edition of the Greek text of Parva naturalia 3–5—which improved upon those already existing by adopting a random scattering of variant readings from the Byzantine commentaries and other sources—by Wilhelm Adolf Becker (1823). Later German translations include those by F. A. Kreutz (1847) and Hermann Bender (1873?). The first French rendering of the Parva naturalia was published in the second volume of Jules Barthélemy Saint-Hilaire’s Psychologie d’Aristote (1846–1847). There was no full English translation before the one by William Alexander Hammond (1902), although the indefatigable Thomas Taylor’s paraphrases of all of Aristotle’s works obviously contain ones of both the De anima and the Parva naturalia (vol. 6, 1808).105 Barthélemy Saint-Hilaire’s and Hammond’s works are both comprehensive presentations of Aristotle’s psychology, which enclose the translations of the De anima as well as the Parva naturalia in lengthy introductions and (especially in the case of Barthélemy Saint-Hilaire) scholarly annotations. Hammond’s stated purpose was “to make easily accessible to English scholars the scientific content of these  I have not seen the 1879 work; according to Busche (2001, 64 n119) it is “theoretically idiosyncratic but rich in material.” 104  The De anima was translated into German as early as 1794, by Michael Wenzel Voigt, a Kantian, and again in 1829 by the Hegelian Christian Hermann Weisse. 105  The first English translation of the De anima after Thomas Taylor’s was by Charles Collier (1855), followed by that of Edwin Wallace (1882). For a general presentation (with some omissions) of 19th-century editions and translations of Aristotle, see Hecquet-Devienne (2004a, b). 103

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Aristotelian treatises, and thereby to facilitate inquiry into the history of philosophical and psychological ideas” (1902, ix). Stimulus to such inquiry was also provided by a number of other works on the Parva naturalia published in English around the turn of the nineteenth century: these include William Ogle’s translation of Parva naturalia 6–8 with introduction and notes (1897) and George Robert Thomson Ross’ text and translation of Parva naturalia 1–2 with introduction and commentary (1906). The latter year also saw the publication of John Beare’s Greek Theories of Elementary Cognition from Alcmaeon to Aristotle and Robert Drew Hicks’ monumental De anima edition with translation, introduction and over 400 fine-printed pages of notes. In his preface, Hicks acknowledges his debt to “the researches of the last quarter of a century,” especially the editions of Adolf Torstrik (1862) and Wilhelm Biehl (1884), but does not mention his most immediate and obvious predecessor, Georges Rodier, whose edition with French translation and notes in two hefty volumes appeared in 1900. Both Hicks and Rodier drew liberally on the Greek commentators, whose works had now been made available in the Royal Prussian Academy’s 23-volume series Commentaria in Aristotelem Graeca (1882–1909). In addition, Hicks made frequent use of Giacomo Zabarella’s commentary (through which, he said, he had “made some slight acquaintance with the Latin schoolmen”: 1906, vii–viii). In 1908 the Oxford Translation was launched, under the editorship of John Alexander Smith and William David Ross: the first instalment consisted of Beare’s and (G. R. T.) Ross’ translations of the Parva naturalia.106 In spite of this stimulus, the inquiry seems to have soon lost momentum, at least as far as the Parva naturalia are concerned. Between c. 1910 and c. 1970, scarcely more than a handful of dissertations and papers were published on particular aspects of their content (e.g. Enders 1924; Kucharski 1954; Cantin 1955; Block 1960). The few general studies of Aristotelian psychology that take the Parva naturalia into consideration all adhere to the old-fashioned systematic approach, regardless of significantly different aims and results. Thus Siwek (1930) is a Neoscholastic pleading for a solution to the problem of mental causation that escapes the difficulties besetting “interactionism” and “parallelism”; Cassirer (1932) is an offshoot of the German nineteenth-century tradition focused on the De anima but resorting to the Parva naturalia for its chapter on imagination (108–121); whereas Shute (1941) is a truly original attempt to make contemporary sense of Aristotelian psychology as the study of the principles in organisms that govern their physical and behavioural interaction with their environment. Here it is mainly for the sections on memory and reminiscence (112–115) and sleeping and waking (115–118) that the Parva naturalia are drawn upon. But if the content of the Parva naturalia attracted only moderate interest during this period, the same cannot be said of their text and transmission. The Didot edition that was published a couple of decades after Bekker’s (vol. 3, 1854) is little more than a wipe-over of its predecessor (with a new Latin translation). But the one by Wilhelm Biehl (1898), although it makes use of the same manuscripts as Bekker’s,  Published as a separate fascicle of vol. 3. Publication of the whole volume was delayed until 1931.

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nevertheless marks a step forward by ordering these into two families and consulting the Greek commentaries (of which, however, only Alexander’s on the De sensu could have any significant value, and this was not yet available in a critical edition: see Wendland 1902).107 The state of the text was further improved by occasional textual criticism by scholars such as Franz Susemihl (1885), Ingram Bywater (1888, 67–68, 1903, 242–244), John Beare (1894, 1899, 1900), Karl Eduard Bitterauf (1900) and Paul Wendland (1902). But above all it was Aurel Förster’s (1938), Hendrik Joan Drossaart Lulofs’, René Mugnier’s (1952) and Paweł Siwek’s (1961) work on the textual tradition—direct as well as indirect—that resulted in a number of new editions of individual treatises (Parva nat. 1–2 in Förster 1942; Parva nat. 3 in Drossaart Lulofs 1943; Parva nat. 4–5 in Drossaart Lulofs 1947) as well as of the whole collection (Mugnier 1953, with French translation; Ross 1955, with valuable notes and introduction; Siwek 1963, with Latin translation). Translations from the period include, in German, Rolfes (1924) and Gohlke (1947); in English, Hett (1935); in French, Tricot (1951). Later work (including translations) on the Parva naturalia is usually based on Ross’ text, sometimes on Siwek’s (see van der Eijk 1994, 94–95). Part of the explanation for the waning interest in the content of the Parva naturalia may lie in a changed approach to Aristotelian studies in general. We have seen that in the nineteenth century these treatises were mostly valued as supplementary source texts for systematic accounts of Aristotle’s theory of the soul. But in the early twentieth century the assumption that Aristotle’s thought could be accurately captured in systematic accounts was challenged by the “developmental thesis” put forward to widespread acclaim by Werner Jaeger (1912, 1923) and first applied to Aristotle’s works on natural philosophy by Paul Gohlke (1924). If, for instance, the Parva naturalia represent, in part (as argued by Nuyens 1939 and 1948) or as a whole (as argued by Ross 1955, 15–18), an earlier phase in Aristotle’s thinking about the soul (or indeed, as argued by Block 1961, a later one), their relevance for understanding the doctrines of the De anima is unclear.108 On a more general level, the “developmental thesis” added impetus to an already ongoing philologization of Aristotelian studies. But the pendulum has swung. Over the last half century, several new translations of individual treatises have appeared, often supplied with lengthy introductions and commentaries, dealing to varying degrees with philosophical as well as philological problems, notably Richard Sorabji’s (1972, 2nd ed. 2004) English translation of treatise 2; David Gallop’s (1990, 2nd ed. 1996) English translation of treatises 3–5; Jackie Pigeaud’s (1995) French translation of treatise 5; Philip van der Eijk’s (1994) German translation of treatises 4–5; and Richard King’s (2004) German and David Bloch’s (2007) English translation of treatise 2. Bloch’s translation is based on an entirely new text, the groundwork for which is laid out in Bloch (2004) and  The importance of treating even Alexander’s testimony with caution has been stressed by Bloch (2003). 108  See e.g. Slakey (1961, 481–482): “[De sensu 436b6–7, De mem. 450a27–29 and De somno 454a7–11] do not agree with the De Anima as I have interpreted it, and they probably belong to an earlier stage in Aristotle’s thinking about soul and body.” 107

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(2008b).109 Over the last five years, Italian translations with introductions and notes have appeared of treatise 1 (Cosenza 2013, with a full discussion of the whole collection in vol. 1) and treatises 6–8 (Repici 2017). Relatively recent annotated translations of the whole collection include a German one by Eugen Dönt (1997) and a French one by Pierre-Marie Morel (2000). In addition, a small number of booklength studies of individual treatises have been produced, such as Wijsenbeek-Wijler (1978) on treatises 3–4 and King (2001) on treatises 6–7. More importantly, however, systematic treatments of themes in Aristotelian psychology (mostly sense perception) factoring in the Parva naturalia are again comme il faut: among the most noteworthy specimens of the genre are Modrak (1987); Everson (1997); Johansen (1997, 2012); Gregoric (2007); Herzberg (2011); Marmodoro (2014). There would be little point in listing even a selection of all the individual articles on subjects related to the Parva naturalia published in this period, but two collections of papers stand out as being of utmost importance, namely Lloyd and Owen (1978) and Oksenberg Rorty and Nussbaum (1992). The pendulum swung, in part, no doubt, as a mechanical function of the growth of academic writing and publishing, but also, I think, for more subject-specific reasons. I would like to mention three. First, the fact that it has proved, in practice and perhaps in principle, impossible to establish a clear-cut chronology of Aristotle’s works has reduced the urgency of the developmental issue and opened the door to systematic studies of Aristotelian psychology again. It is not coincidental that in some of the first post-Jaegerian works to rely again on the Parva naturalia for rounding out the doctrines of the De anima, namely Kahn (1966) and Lefèvre (1972), this interpretative manoeuvre is carried out in open defiance of developmentalism. Second, the reappraisal of Aristotle’s “zoological” works in the 1980s and 1990s, spearheaded by David M.  Balme and carried on by such scholars as Wolfgang Kullmann, G. E. R. Lloyd, Allan Gotthelf and James G. Lennox, is likely to have prevailed upon the scholarly community to look at Aristotle’s psychology with a fresh pair of eyes, sensitive to the implications of the fact that it is embedded in biology.110 Third, and most importantly, Aristotelian hylomorphism has once again emerged, in the eyes of some philosophers, as “a happy alternative to materialist reductionism on the one hand, Cartesian dualism on the other” (Nussbaum and Putnam 1992, 27). To be sure, there has been considerable debate about the exact description of Aristotle’s psychological hylomorphism: those philosophers who think of it as a happy alternative have all maintained that it amounts to some sort of non-reductive materialism which offers a way of accounting for mental phenomena as comfortably situated in the natural world, but have not been able to agree between them A study of the textual transmission of the De insomniis is found in Escobar (1990).  For a discussion of some contributions to the study of Aristotelian biology in the 1990s, see Grene (2000). Many of the most important contributions are collected in Gotthelf (1985); Gotthelf and Lennox (1987); Kullmann and Föllinger (1997); Mouracade (2008); Gotthelf (2012). For an overview see Lennox (2006, 2014).

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selves whether it is most accurately labelled as functionalism, supervenience theory or emergentism; others, however, have insisted that it entails some form of dualism or vitalism, in which case it would seem to be of little use to contemporary philosophy of mind, and we would be well advised to follow Myles Burnyeat’s recommendation and “junk it” (1992, 26). This controversy has mainly played out in discussions of Aristotle’s theory of sense perception as “that which is capable of receiving the perceptible forms without their matter” (De an. 2.12, 424a17–19), where various positions on a spectrum ranging from “literalism” to “spiritualism” have been ascribed to Aristotle,111 where “literalism” is the view that the reception of perceptible qualities crucially involves the physical alteration of the sense organs, and “spiritualism” is the view that the “reception” of perceptible qualities is only mental (or “cognitive,” as the ancient commentators would say), and thus involves no physical alteration of the sense organs (although a certain physical make-up of the respective sense organ is a necessary condition for sense perception to occur). An intermediate view, according to which the sense organs do not receive the perceptible qualities as such but are modified in the same proportions, has been defended by a number of scholars, most fully by Caston (2005, with references to earlier accounts at 247 n7; see also the overview in Caston 2006, 317–330).112 Somewhat crudely put, then, on a literalist reading, Aristotle’s theory of sense perception involves an account of different types of physical change as well as of different psychic activities: it does not reduce the one to the other, but pays close attention to their interrelations (although exactly how these interrelations are defined may be debatable). On a spiritualist reading, Aristotle’s theory simply assumes that there are physical entities endowed with consciousness: sense perception is accounted for exclusively as a psychic activity. Which seems to disqualify the theory for serious consideration by contemporary philosophers of mind.113 However that may be, I think it is fair to say that the controversy has been chiefly to do with the correct interpretation of Aristotle. Obviously, with so much disagreement over the features of Aristotle’s theory, it is not so easy to adjudicate what sort of contemporary theory of mind should qualify as “Aristotelian.” It remains to be seen whether any such theory with an impact comparable to that of Trendelenburg’s or Brentano’s will be forthcoming.

 Strictly speaking, “literalism” and “spiritualism” are presumably the names of two opposed interpretations of Aristotle’s view, but by metonymy the terms have come to signify also the views ascribed to Aristotle by these two opposed interpretations. 112  To the literature referenced in these works, add Charles (2009) and Caston (2009). 113  In the present context it is interesting to note that whereas one party to the controversy has invoked the preface to the De sensu in support of their claim that sense perception (being common to the soul and the body) must be accounted for in terms of both physical change and psychic activity (Nussbaum and Putnam 1992, 41–42), their opponents have tried to recruit John Philoponus, Thomas Aquinas and Franz Brentano for the cause of spiritualism (Burnyeat 1992, 18). Thomas’ solidarity with the cause was called into question by Nussbaum and Putnam (1992, 53–55). 111

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Acknowledgements This introduction was written with the support of Riksbankens Jubileumsfond. I am grateful to Sten Ebbesen, Pavel Gregoric, Katerina Ierodiakonou and Filip Radovic for their comments on various drafts.

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Meyer, Jürgen Bona. 1855. Aristoteles Thierkunde: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der Zoologie, Physiologie und alten Philosophie. Berlin: Georg Reimer. Michael, Bernd. 1985. Johannes Buridan: Studien zu seinem Leben, seinen Werken und zur Rezeption seiner Theorien im Europa des späteren Mittelalters. Unpublished PhD thesis: Freie Universität Berlin. Modrak, Deborah K.W. 1987. Aristotle: The power of perception. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Moraux, Paul. 1984. Der Aristotelismus bei den Griechen von Andronikos bis Alexander von Aphrodisias. Vol. 2. Der Aristotelismus im I. und II. Jh. n. Chr. Berlin/New York: Walter de Gruyter. Morel. 2000. = Aristote, Petits traités d’histoire naturelle. Traduction et présentation par Pierre-­ Marie Morel. Paris: GF Flammarion. Morel, Pierre-Marie. 2003. Parva naturalia: tradition grecque. In Dictionnaire des philosophes antiques, ed. Richard Goulet, Supplément: 366–374. Paris: CNRS Éditions. ———. 2006. Common to soul and body in the Parva Naturalia (Aristotle, Sens. 1, 436b1–12). In Common to body and soul: philosophical approaches to explaining living behaviour in Greco-­ Roman antiquity, ed. Richard A.H. King, 121–139. Berlin/New York: De Gruyter. ———. 2007. De la matière à l’action: Aristote et le problème du vivant. Paris: Vrin. Mouracade, John, ed. 2008. Aristotle on life. Papers presented at the Aristotle on life conference, Aug. 7, 2007, Anchorage, Alaska. Apeiron 41.3. Mugnier, René. 1952. La filiation des manuscrits des «Parva naturalia» d’Aristote. Revue de philologie, de littérature et d’histoire anciennes 26: 36–46. Mugnier. 1953. = Aristote, Petits traités d’histoire naturelle. Texte établi et traduit par René Mugnier. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Müller, Johannes. 1826. Ueber die phantastischen Gesichtserscheinungen: Eine physiologische Untersuchung mit einer physiologischen Urkunde des Aristoteles über den Traum. Koblenz: Jacob Hölscher. ———. 1840. Handbuch der Physiologie des Menschen für Vorlesungen. Vol. 2. Koblenz: J. Hölscher. Neuhaeuser, Joseph. 1878. Aristoteles’ Lehre von dem sinnlichen Erkenntnissvermögen und seinen Organen. Leipzig: Verlag von Erik Koschny (L. Heimann’s Verlag). Nussbaum. 1978. = Aristotle’s De motu animalium. Text with translation, commentary, and interpretive essays by Martha Craven Nussbaum. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Nussbaum, Martha C., and Hilary Putnam. 1992. Changing Aristotle’s mind. In Essays on Aristotle’s De anima, ed. Amélie Oksenberg Rorty and Martha C. Nussbaum, 27–56. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Nuyens, François. 1939. Ontwikkelingsmomenten in de zielkunde van Aristoteles: een historisch-­ philosophische studie. Nijmegen/Utrecht: Dekker & van de Vegt. ———. 1948. L’évolution de la Psychologie d’Aristote. Louvain: Éditions de l’institut supérieur de philosophie. Ogle. 1897. = Aristotle on youth & old age, life & death and respiration. Translated, with introduction and notes, by William Ogle. London: Longmans, Green, and Co. Oksenberg Rorty, Amélie, and Martha C. Nussbaum, eds. 1992. Essays on Aristotle’s De anima. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Papari, Vasiliki. 2013. Der Kommentar des Michael von Ephesos zur ps.-aristotelischen Schrift De coloribus: editio princeps. Unpublished PhD thesis: Universität Hamburg. Pappa. 2008. = Georgios Pachymeres, Philosophia. Buch 6: Kommentar zu De partibus animalium des Aristoteles. Einleitung, Text, Indices von Eleni Pappa. Athens: Academy of Athens. Park, Katharine. 1988. The organic soul. In The Cambridge history of Renaissance philosophy, ed. Charles B. Schmitt, Quentin Skinner, Eckhard Kessler, and Jill Kraye, 464–484. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pasnau. 2010. = The Cambridge history of medieval philosophy. Edited by Robert Pasnau. Associate editor Christina Van Dyke, 2 vols. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Chapter 2

The Unity of Sense-Power in the De anima and Parva naturalia Giuseppe Feola

Abstract  The paper addresses the puzzle of the identity of the so called sensus communis in Aristotle’s writings, trying to provide a systematic account of Aristotle’s doctrine and to show why and how Aristotle’s theory about the common sensory power is a landmark in the history of philosophical psychology. In my interpretation, some ideas about the cooperation between different sense-powers, which were already outlined in the De anima, but which could not be developed there, are construed in a systematic way in the Parva naturalia. The line of reasoning followed by Aristotle brings him to postulate the existence of a single sense-power, whose activity unifies all the cognitive activities of the animal. The paper addresses also the problem of the solution provided by Aristotle to the problem of consciousness, trying to answer to the puzzle of the very different solutions that the De anima and the Parva naturalia give of this problem.

1  The Three Functions of the Central Sensory Power One of the main differences between the Parva naturalia and the De anima is the fact that in the Parva naturalia Aristotle seems to have discovered a new function of the soul: the so-called “sensus communis” or “common sense”; to this common sense three kinds of act pertain: (1) Perceiving the common and the per accidens sensory objects; (2) Consciousness: the perception that we perceive; (3) The comparison of different sense-data (both in the domain of each sense and among different senses) and the assessment about the reliability of these data (see Beare 1906, 277). Why, and how, did Aristotle propose the hypothesis that such a “common sense” does exist?

G. Feola (*) Centro de Filosofia da Universidade de Lisboa, Lisboa, Portugal © Springer International Publishing AG, part of Springer Nature 2018 B. Bydén, F. Radovic (eds.), The Parva naturalia in Greek, Arabic and Latin Aristotelianism, Studies in the History of Philosophy of Mind 17, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-26904-7_2

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2  B  y Which Sense Do We Perceive That We Perceive? De anima 3.21 2.1 In De anima 3.2, Aristotle states that “we perceive that we see and hear”:2 he assumes that such a kind of cognition is perception, presumably because what I am doing in noticing that I am perceiving is noticing my current act of perception: I am noticing a particular act performed by a particular individual; and Aristotle holds that cognition of particular items is perception. So, given that the perception must occur through some sense-power, a problem arises: by which sense do we perceive that we hear, see etc.? Either (1) by the same sense by which that same act which we are perceiving was performed, or (2) by another sense.3 1. In the first case, it would be by sight that we perceive that we see: we would see that we see. In this case, sight will be a sense-object of itself. 2. In the second case, we would perceive that we see by a sense which would be different from sight. If seeing is receiving in my sense-organ the αἴσθημα (sensory state) that corresponds to the external sense-object, then perceiving that I see will be the action of perceiving this same particular correspondence. But it is impossible to perceive that particular correspondence without perceiving the same particular items between which the correspondence holds: my eye and one instance of some external colour. This new sense, different from sight, should therefore, in order to be able to perceive sight, perceive colour too. So, colour will be the object of two senses, and it will not any more be the proper object of sight. But, according to Aristotle, both of these are fundamental principles: that to each kind of proper sense-objects should correspond just one sense, and that no sense-­ power can be an object of itself. 2.2 Both horns of this dilemma are contrary to some principle of Aristotle’s psychology; but the dilemma is a real problem, and Aristotle has to solve it. Here Aristotle is forced to use a meta-theoretical principle: the principle of economy. Solution 2 suffers from another problem too: given that we can notice that we see, we can also notice that we notice that we see, et sic in infinitum; so, if we accept that it is by a sense different from sight that we perceive that we see, by the same line of reasoning we should accept that it is by a third sense that we perceive that we perceive that we see, and so on; the result is that there will be a series of sensory powers, each of which would be the sense by which we perceive the act of the 1  In this paper, for names of Greek and Latin authors and works, I will use the standard abbreviations provided by Liddell et al. (1940). 2  Aristotle, De anima 3.2, 425b12: αἰσθανόμεθα ὅτι ὁρῶμεν καὶ ἀκούομεν. I refer to the edition by Ross (1961). Translations from the De anima are taken from Hicks (1907). All quotes and references to Parva naturalia refer to Ross (1955). Translations from Parva naturalia are taken from Hett (1936). 3  Cf. 425b12–13: ἀνάγκη ἢ τῇ ὄψει αἰσθάνεσθαι ὅτι ὅρᾷ ἢ ἑτέρᾳ (“it must either be by sight or by some other sense that the percipient perceives that he sees”).

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p­ revious one; but, given that this series cannot be infinite, sooner or later there will be a sense that will perceive its own act. If this is the result, the simplest solution was, after all, to admit that the first sense of the series (the sight) could well perceive itself.4 By sight, then, we perceive not only colours, but the fact, too, that we perceive colours; by hearing we will be aware of the acts of hearing; the analogous will hold for the other three senses. Solution 1 is here accepted because it entails less problems than the solution 2. But the problem inherent to solution 1 is not here resolved. 2.3 In De somno 2, 455a12–26, Aristotle’s solution is different from that given in the De anima. Why? Before trying to answer this question, let us consider the consequences of the principle according to which the act of noticing our own perceptions is an act of perception: how can sight be perceived? How can sight be a sense-object?

3  The Colour of Sight Here, however, there is a difficulty. Assuming that to perceive by sight is to see, and that it is colour or that which possesses colour which is seen, it may be argued that, if you are to see that which sees, that which in the first instance sees will actually have colour (De anima 3.2, 425b17–20; my italics).5

3.1 If I am able to see that which sees, then that which sees will be seen by me; in order to be seen, it must be coloured; so, that which sees will have a colour. What Aristotle asks is: how can I be aware of the fact that I see? Do I see the colour which is instantiated in my own eye when the act of seeing occurs? But neither light nor medium pertains to this act of “seeing”. It is therefore clear that at least one of the items that are here at play is quite different from its occurrence in the standard act of seeing. In principle, I may choose to qualify either what is seen or the act of seeing6. Clearly, then, to perceive by sight does not always mean one and the same thing.7 For, even when we do not see, it is nevertheless by sight that we discern darkness from light,8 though not in the same manner [sc. in which we see colours] (De anima 3.2, 425b20–22).9

In the dark, I cannot see colours; and I am aware of this restriction: I can actually distinguish this state, in which light is absent, from the state in which I can see 4  ὥστ᾿ ἐπὶ τῆς πρώτης τοῦτο ποιητέον: “Therefore it will be better to admit this of the first in the series” (425b17). 5  ἀπορίαν· εἰ γὰρ τὸ τῇ ὄψει αἰσθάνεσθαί ἐστιν ὁρᾶν, ὁρᾶται δὲ χρῶμα ἢ τὸ ἔχον, εἰ ὄψεταί τις τὸ ὁρῶν, καὶ χρῶμα ἕξει τὸ ὁρῶν πρῶτον. 6  This problem had already been raised, as is well known, by Plato in the Charmides (168d9–e1). 7  The hypothesis, here, is that what should be qualified is the act of seeing. 8  Here Hicks translates “both darkness and light.” 9  φανερὸν τοίνυν ὅτι οὐχ ἓν τὸ τῇ ὄψει αἰσθάνεσθαι· καὶ γὰρ ὅταν μὴ ὁρῶμεν, τῇ ὄψει κρίνομεν καὶ τὸ σκότος καὶ τὸ φῶς, ἀλλʼ οὐχ ὡσαύτως.

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colours. If darkness is absence of light, it will be a thing of the same kind as light is; this kind of reality is grasped by sight: is it therefore by sight that I perceive darkness? But darkness does not actually act on my eye: so, sight is not about darkness “in the same way” in which sight is exercised about colours. Perception by sight can be exercised in many ways, among which only grasping light and colours is, properly speaking, an instance of seeing. Distinguishing light from darkness is an instance of visual cognition that is not an act of seeing in the basic sense, but which nevertheless occurs through visual αἰσθήματα and happens “by sight”. It happens “by sight” in so far as it occurs through visual αἰσθήματα, which are or were provided by sight. But it remains doubtful whether Aristotle is here prepared to subscribe to the thesis that sight is, properly speaking, the main faculty at work when we distinguish darkness from light. Here, he just seems to point out that, among the many roles that visual αἰσθήματα can play in our perception, there could well be a role which can help to account for our ability to distinguish darkness from light. And he puts forth the hypothesis that “seeing” that we see could turn out to be something similar. 3.2 The second possibility, the hypothesis about the existence of a colour and of a being coloured that are different from the normal ones (and that I will call “colour2” and “coloured2”),10 is proposed in 3.2, 425b22–25: Further, that which sees is in a manner coloured. For the sense-organ is in every case receptive of the sensible object without its matter. And this is why sensations and phantasiai11 remain in the sense-organs even when the sensible objects are withdrawn.12

Phantasia is the persistence of after-effects of the sensible objects in the external sense-organs after perception has finished, and its secondary effect in the central sense-organ.13 Such an after-effect (which can be called either “αἴσθημα” or “φάντασμα”) produces, in the central sense-organ, a state which is indiscernible from (or at least very similar to) the original state that was caused by the external sense-object. Eye-jelly and heart are therefore coloured2, during the act of seeing, and they continue to be coloured2 for some time after the act of vision ends.  The non-standard exercise of sight will correspondingly be called “seeing2,” while I will call the standard act of sight “seeing1,” and its proper object will be colour1. 11  Hicks, who reads “αἱ αἰσθήσεις καὶ φαντασίαι,” translates “φαντασίαι” as “images.” I do not think that the concept of “image” can correspond to Aristotle’s concept of “φαντασία.” It seems to me that there isn’t any Greek word which exactly corresponds to the English word “image”; but, as far as representational images are concerned, the Greek word for “image” is “εἰκών.” 12  ἔτι δὲ καὶ τὸ ὁρῶν ἔστιν ὡς κεχρωμάτισται· τὸ γὰρ αἰσθητήριον δεκτικὸν τοῦ αἰσθητοῦ ἄνευ τῆς ὕλης ἕκαστον· διὸ καὶ ἀπελθόντων τῶν αἰσθητῶν ἔνεισιν αἰσθήσεις καὶ φαντασίαι ἐν τοῖς αἰσθητηρίοις. 13  This characterization is meant to capture the essential feature which is shared by the many phantasiai (notice the plural in 422b22–25): i.e. of the many after-effects that remain in the animal body after perception. It seems to me that the definition of phantasia in De anima 3.3, 429a1–2, is meant primarily to define the persistence of these after-effects, i.e. phantasia in its first and second actuality. The power of phantasia is something more difficult to define, and I would prefer not to discuss the details of this (very difficult) topic, which I addressed in Feola (2012). 10

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The hypothesis, here, is that the sensory state (αἴσθημα, colour2) is the cause of the fact that the sense-organ is coloured2: if this is so, the sense-organ could be “seen,” and it would be possible to see that we see. 3.3 Perhaps the two solutions do imply each other. If every act of cognition requires the presence of a corresponding object, and if seeing that we see1 is an act of seeing2 (according to the distinction between the two ways of using sight outlined in n. 10), what sees1 should be coloured2: if not, how could it be seen2? To resume: the act of seeing2 is a non-standard way of using sight that relies on visual αἰσθήματα and φαντάσματα (which are the remnants of previous acts of sight), but it is not directly caused by objects in the external world. De anima 3.2 suggests that the act of seeing that we see can be an instance of seeing2, a way of using sight which is different from the usual one.

4  The Parva naturalia on the Problem of Perceiving That We See 4.1 In order to solve the problem, Aristotle must (1) explain in which way perceiving that we see can be an instance of seeing2; (2) specify the sensory power by which we perform this act. Anyway, there are two strongholds already gained. Given his theory about sensory power1 Aristotle can describe the perception that we see as “perceiving the switch of the central sensory organ from the state of not being coloured2 to the state of being coloured2”.14 Given his doctrine of sense-perception as a movement in the sense-organ due to the action of the external sense-object1, he can assume that such movement continues to exist after the sense-perception.15

 Péter Lautner—if I understand his point—has pointed out to me that the switch of the sensepower from inactivity to activity is an alteratio perfectiva, while the changes in the external environment are not; but I do not think that this distinction, which is very important for other aspects of Aristotle’s theory, matters here; in fact, both the change that we perceive in the environment and the alteratio perfectiva which occurs in our sense-power share a very important common feature: in both changes, there occurs a switch, in the thing which is subject to change, from an initial state where change has not occurred to a state where change has occurred. And what matters for the change to be perceived—in my hypothesis—is that the sense can react to the difference between the initial state and the final one. 15  “This distinction between the perceiving and perceiving that we perceive … is impossible without some degree of psychical continuity …. It implies elementary memory, which again implies that φαντασία, as sensory presentation, is not any longer a mere momentary appearance, but a faculty of storing up αἰσθήματα, to become φαντάσματα” (Beare 1906, 289–290). 14

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4.2 In Which Way the  Perception That We  Perceive Can Be  an  Instance of Perception2 By which process did Aristotle hold that perception that we perceive occurs? It is obvious that perceiving that we perceive is a particular kind of perceiving: it is a kind of perceiving whose object is another instance of perception. The theory about the perception that we perceive should therefore take for granted a certain theory about perceiving. I outline here my idea about Aristotle’s theory on sense-­ perception.16 Aristotle thinks that animals, thus differing from plants, are bodies that have some organic parts of a certain kind:17 these are parts that are built up by nature in order to receive the physical (material) action of some particular properties of the external physical world (light, colours, sounds, smells, flavours, the four elementary qualities) in a particular way: their physiological nature is such that the series of the states which they assume, when acted upon by those properties, is in a 1:1 correspondence with the “differences” (διαφοραί: De an., 2.11, 423b27) of those same properties;18 these properties are the specific sensible objects; reaching the state that corresponds to one of those external properties is to exercise sense-power about the external property itself; the power to reach such a state is the sense-power; the state thus reached is the αἴσθημα. What I have already said about the five specific senses can be extended to the perception of per accidens and common sensible objects. In my model, the act of perceiving a common sensible, e.g. a change or movement in the environment, will be the emerging of a complex αἴσθημα which will rise as a “chain” or series or connection of more simple αἰσθήματα and φαντάσματα: these more simple sensory states are the sensory states about (1) the colours that the environment had before that same movement and (2) the colour that the environment is now taking on during the perceived change. Perceiving a per accidens sensible, for instance that wall out there, will be the rising of a complex αἴσθημα whose “bricks” are more simple αἰσθήματα and φαντάσματα, the sensory states that correspond to the various sensible features of the wall. Perceiving, according to Aristotle, is the act of receiving the action of a physical feature of the external world in a particular way: first of all, it is an alteratio perfectiva, during which and after which the identity of the subject (which in this case is the perceiver) is not lost; moreover, the alteratio perfectiva produced in the animal by the sensible feature of the external world will differ, according to which sensible feature it is that is producing that same alteratio.

 Due to lack of space, I cannot discuss here the details of Aristotle’s theory: my interpretation of this much-debated matter can be found in Feola (2014). 17  The overall system built up by external sense-organs and the heart. 18  Ward (1988, 230 n10): “the relation of the stimulated sense-organ and the sensible object is similar to the relation of, say, a polar projection map and the terrain it maps, as opposed to, say, a physical relief map and what it maps, in that the sense-organ resembles the sensible object analogically but not qualitatively.” 16

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If perceiving is a way of selectively reacting to physical features of the environment, or to aggregates of such features, then perceiving that we perceive will be a selective reaction of a similar kind: but, in this case, the features of the world to which we should selectively react should be those same changes in the sense-organs that have been caused by the external sensible features.19 The perception that we perceive will thus be a particular instance of perception of change: a change in our own sensory organs. If my hypothesis is sound, the problem, for Aristotle, can be stated as follows: how can we grasp the colour2 in our sensory organs, and the switch of our sense-organs from one colour2 to another? So, in which way can we perceive the blue2? We could do this, by perceiving a feature of the blue2 that no other sensible item shares: i.e. its relation to the external blue1 in the environment. Now, which is a feature of the relation among the blue1 in the environment and the blue2 in my sense-organ, such that we can distinguish this relation from every other relation that blue1 and blue2 can have to all other items and objects in the world? The answer is: the phenomenological indiscernibility between blue1 and blue2. My hypothesis is that, according to Aristotle, we perceive the blue2 by noticing the fact that the blue2 and the blue1 are indiscernible for the sense-­ power,20 but they are different “in number”. And this is exactly what we do when we distinguish Coriscus from his φάντασμα: distinguishing a φάντασμα from the external entity of which the φάντασμα is a rapresentation is to spot the difference “in number” among entities that appear to be the same to our sense; and we do it by spotting their different relations to the environment in which our act of perceiving occurs.21. But here another problem arises: how can we distinguish the αἴσθημα from the original sense-object1, in cases in which perception is actually at work and is true? In such cases, the αἴσθημα will always correspond to (and will be contemporary to) the external sense-object1 (see Insomn. 3, 461b24–26)? A feature that distinguishes the αἴσθημα from the external sensible1 item is the fact that the αἴσθημα ­ontologically  Aristotle admits that we can perceive not only environmental features but also sensory motions produced in our sense-organs by those sensible features: cf. e.g. Somn. 1, 454a2–4. I would prefer to leave open the very important question about the status of these alterations in the sense-organs: are they alterationes perfectivae as the switch of the sense-power from inactivity to activity is? Do they occur in time or are they instantaneous? What I would like to say is: (1) I am inclined to think that the correct answer to the first question is “yes”: in my account of Aristotle’s theory of elementary perception, there is numerical identity between the change in the sense-organ and the switch of the sense-power from inactivity to activity (see Feola, 2014); and (2) the answer to the second question is that (i) what matters for the perceptual process to be effective is that the perceptual switch is accomplished in a single moment of time, but (ii) as far as such an accomplishment is an instantaneous fulfilment of a process previously developed during time, then the complexity of the problem seems to exceed the possibility of treating it here: anyway, I articulated my point of view on this last topic in Feola (2015). Once again, I would like to thank Péter Lautner for having made me notice how complex the task of clarifying this part of Aristotle’s doctrine about sense-powers is. 20  As far as blue2 is, by definition, the sensory state by which we perceive the blue1. 21  Cf. Insomn. 3, 462a2–8: if I am sleeping, and I am not able to notice the absurdity of seeing Coriscus while I am asleep, I will not notice the difference between Coriscus and his φάντασμα. 19

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depends on the sentient subject. In order to distinguish the αἴσθημα from the original, we need to perceive the fact that the αἴσθημα’s existence depends on our senseorgans. If we were able to do this, we would perceive the αἴσθημα as different-­but-­indiscernible from the external sensible item, and therefore we would spot the relation between the αἴσθημα and the original sensible1 item, and so we could grasp the act of perception itself. There is a feature of sensory experience that depends entirely on the role of the sentient subject: given that from the environment a continuously changing flux of sensory stimuli comes to my senses, it is upon the unity of my sensory system and upon the continuity of my sensory activity that the unity and continuity of my environment depends. If I perceive the continuity of my environment, I am actually perceiving the unity of my perceiving body, and vice-versa, because the unity of my perceiving body and the continuity of my environment are the same thing described from two different points of view. In perceiving the continuity of my sensory environment and the unity of my own body, while at the same time perceiving the new sensible features that produce some change in this continuity, I do perceive the changes of the relation between my sentient body and the physical environment. These changes are the new sensations and perceptions. In this way I perceive that I perceive.22 Thus understood, the perception that we perceive will be the perception of the difference between the single new item and what remains unchanged in the sensory flux: that is, it will be a particular kind of perception of number, of the “one,” and of movement. As all other instances of these kinds of perception, it will use φαντάσματα that are the remains of the just-now passed-away sensations. In so far it uses φαντάσματα, it will be an instance of perception2, as required by our hypothesis. In my opinion, this is the most economic way of construing Aristotle’s theory. But, besides the clues I have collected, are there proofs that Aristotle held such a theory? 4.3 The Faculty or Power by Which We Perceive That We Perceive It is true that there isn’t any locus in the corpus that expounds in a systematic way the theory I credited to Aristotle. But there is a passage which expounds the most important consequence of this theory: the identification of a unitary sensory power which is responsible for all acts of perception. This passage is De somno 2, 455a12–26:23 Now every sense has both a special function of its own and something shared with the rest. The special function, for example, of the visual sense is seeing, that of the auditory, hearing, and similarly with the rest; but there is also a common faculty associated with them all,

 Sorabji (1979, 49): “it is through awareness of the organ that we are aware that we are seeing.” I would prefer to say: “through awareness of a change in the organ.” 23  Kahn (1979, 7): “a problem raised and tentatively discussed in the De Anima is renewed and finally resolved in successive treatises of the Parva Naturalia.” 22

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whereby one perceives24 that one sees and hears (for it is not by sight that one sees that he sees, and he distinguishes25 [the different sensible items],26 and is capable of discerning27 that sweet is different from white not by taste, nor by sight, nor by a combination of the two, but by some part which is common to all the sense organs; for there is one sense-faculty, and one paramount sense organ, but the mode of its sensitivity varies with each class of sensible objects, for example, sound and colour).28

In this passage, the unity of the five senses is identified with their location in a single central sense-organ (the heart) which is the seat of one sensory power, of which the five particular senses are just five different aspects. This power performs, in each moment, just one act, which is the synergy of the five acts of the five senses. The acts of the five particular senses are seeing1, hearing1, etc. The single unified act to which the five senses give their contribution is the perception of the environment, whose inseparable by-product is the perception of ourselves as sentient beings. In the Parva naturalia, the perception that we see is not an act of seeing any more: it is the perception of the occurrence of a new αἴσθημα, which is the sensory state in which the act of sight is now being instantiated.29 Now, if the action of distinguishing Coriscus’ αἴσθημα from Coriscus himself is the action of spotting the relation that holds between Coriscus and Coriscus’ αἴσθημα, and if this relation is, as a matter of fact, the perception I had of Coriscus (the perception by which that same sensory state was generated), it’s clear that the action of distinguishing Coriscus from his αἴσθημα, while I am still perceiving him, is to spot my own perception of Coriscus: perceiving that I am perceiving Coriscus. And this is an act of the cognitive power that Aristotle calls “κύριον”.

 Hett translates “is conscious” here, which seems more an interpretation (a correct one, indeed) than a translation. 25  I prefer to translate “distinguishes” instead of Hett’s “judges,” because I do not believe that Aristotle endowed perception with propositional judgement. 26  The passage is translated by Hett in this way: “for it is not by sight that one is aware that one sees; and one judges and is capable of judging” etc., because he follows the punctuation that Ross too would follow in his edition. 27  See note 25. 28  ἐπεὶ δʼ ὑπάρχει καθʼ ἑκάστην αἴσθησιν τὸ μέν τι ἴδιον, τὸ δέ τι κοινόν, ἴδιον μὲν οἷον τῇ ὄψει τὸ ὁρᾶν, τῇ δʼ ἀκοῇ τὸ ἀκούειν, καὶ ταῖς ἄλλαις ἑκάστῃ κατὰ τόν αὐτὸν τρόπον, ἔστι δέ τις καὶ κοινὴ δύναμις ἀκολουθοῦσα πάσαις, ᾗ καὶ ὅτι ὁρᾷ καὶ ἀκούει αἰσθάνεται (οὐ γὰρ δὴ τῇ γε ὄψει ὁρᾷ ὅτι ὁρᾷ, καὶ κρίνει δὴ καὶ δύναται κρίνειν ὅτι ἕτερα τὰ γλυκέα τῶν λευκῶν οὔτε γεύσει οὔτε ὄψει οὔτε ἀμφοῖν, ἀλλά τινι κοινῷ μορίῳ τῶν αἰσθητηρίων ἁπάντων· ἔστι μὲν γὰρ μία αἴσθησις, καὶ τὸ κύριον αἰσθητήριον ἕν, τὸ δʼ εἶναι αἰσθήσει τοῦ γένους ἑκάστου ἕτερον, οἷον ψόφου καὶ χρώματος) …. 29  Beare (1906, 289): “the direct objects of this sensus communis are not the αἰσθητά, strictly speaking, but the αἰσθήματα or impressions of the special senses.” I would prefer to say: the coming-to-be of the αἰσθήματα in the sense-organs. 24

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5  The κύριον 5.1 I hold that the sense-power by which we perceive that we perceive is, according to Aristotle, that same power that he calls “the κύριον” (Insomn. 3, 461b25). The κύριον uses the simple αἰσθήματα and φαντάσματα provided by the five senses as proper matter: it must perceive a change in the relation, which otherwise would be continuous, between sensory organs and the environment; and, as we have seen, in order that we can perceive change, we need φαντασία. It is therefore in virtue of the “discovery” of φαντασία (which occurs in De an. 3.3) that Aristotle, in the Parva naturalia, ascribes to the common sense many functions that he had previously credited to the single senses. The acts carried out in virtue of these functions are now analyzed into simpler “bricks,” and these bricks are analyzable into other bricks, till we come to elementary φαντάσματα and αἰσθήματα. The κύριον is the power that rules the coordination of such “bricks”. We can now give an account of this unitary sensory power.30. 5.2 The δοκεῖν Is the Act of the Overall Sensory Power According to Aristotle, the δοκοῦντα are a subset of the φαινόμενα: everything that is assumed (by me) to be real is also something that appears (to me); but not everything that appears to be real is assessed and assumed to be so.31 The “sovereign and judging instance” (as I would render the Greek phrase “τὸ κύριον καὶ τὸ ἐπικρῖνον” found in De insomniis 3, 461b25) assesses the weight of the data that come from the various senses (φαινόμενα): the φαινόμενον produced by each sense, if it isn’t contradicted by more authoritative φαινόμενα, will be assessed to be real (δοκεῖ); if, on the other side, it is contradicted, it doesn’t cease to appear: So again when the fingers are crossed one object between them appears to be two, but yet we deny that there are two; for sight has more authority than touch (Insomn. 2, 460b20–22).32

The δοκεῖν is the act of unifying the various sense-data that come from the five senses in a single perceptual world. The fact that each animal has at least two senses

 This sensory power will not pertain to any single organ: it pertains to the whole animal: “They [sc. the five senses] are capacities enjoyed by the perceptual system as a whole, which is constituted by the controlling organ and whatever primary sense-organs any particular type of animal possesses” (Everson 1995, 291). 31  Cf. e.g. Insomn. 3, 461b3–7. I here translate “δοκεῖν” as “to be assessed”; but I do not think that Aristotle thought that the δοκεῖν is a power of the faculty of reason. Acts of the faculty of reason are, certainly, the ὑπολαμβάνειν (“assuming (that something is real)”) and the δοξάζειν (“believing”). 32  καὶ τῇ ἐπαλλάξει τῶν δακτύλων τὸ ἓν δύο φαίνεται, ἄλλʼ ὅμως οὔ φαμεν δύο· κυριωτέρα γὰρ τῆς ἁφῆς ἡ ὄψις. The meaning here seems to be that the various sense-powers do differ in contributing to the overall activity of the κύριον, according to the different weight of the data they provide. 30

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(Somn. 2, 455a7) implies that each animal as such must be endowed with such a power: therefore, there are no animals without such a power. 5.3 The κύριον Is the Power That Rules the Perceptual Coordination Let us now see which are the functions of the “ruling power” (κύριον). According to De divinatione per somnum 1, 463a7–11, little sensory motions are assessed (δοκοῦσιν, 11) to be big, if (as it happens in sleep) we cannot compare them with bigger ones; comparison among different sensory data, according to the language used by Aristotle in this passage, is apparently a δοκεῖν, and will therefore be an act performed by the κύριον; if the κύριον is not active, we will make mistakes in this kind of operation. Notice that such an act, which the κύριον cannot perform in sleep, but clearly performs when we are awake, is a perception of magnitude: of the greater or smaller strength (cf. μικραί, μεγάλαι, Div. 1, 463a10–11) of two sensory motions. Magnitude is a common sensible: we can draw the conclusion that, according to De divinatione, some perceptions of common sensible items are performed by the κύριον. Let us now consider the per accidens sensible items. See, for example, De insomniis 2, 460b11–13 and 15–16. In case of strong fever, it can happen that the diseased person, whose κύριον is not properly functioning, not only has the illusion of seeing “animals” (or “painted pictures”: the Greek term can mean both things) on the wall, just because on the wall there are some lines whose shape is similar to the shape of an animal, but also is not able to understand that this is an illusion: So men in fever sometimes hold33 that they see animals on the walls from the slight resemblance of marks in a pattern. … if the malady is more severe, they move themselves in accordance with what they hold34 they see.35

In b17 we are explicitly told that the κύριον is the power whose failure makes us perceive mistakenly an animal on the wall. This implies that, if we were not in a state of fever, and if the act of the κύριον wouldn’t fail due to this incidental cause, it would be in virtue of the κύριον that we could recognize that what we see is not an animal: it would be in virtue of the κύριον that we would recognize that what we see is just a line on the wall. Therefore, the per accidens perception of such a “something else” (whatever it could be: e.g., a line on the wall) would be an act of the κύριον. And if the κύριον is the cognitive power which is supposed to be able to rightly perceive the lines on the wall, we should draw the conclusion that some per

 I alter Hett’s translation here, by substituting Hett’s “think” with “hold,” because, according to me, the cognitive act here at stake is not an instance of thinking. 34  Cf. supra n33. 35  διὸ καὶ τοῖς πυρέττουσιν ἐνίοτε φαίνεται ζῷα ἐν τοῖς τοίχοις ἀπὸ μικρᾶς ὁμοιότητος τῶν γραμμῶν συντιθεμένων. … ἐὰν δὲ μεῖζον ᾖ τὸ πάθος, καὶ κινεῖσθαι πρὸς αὐτά. 33

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accidens sensibilia are objects of the cognitive activities of the κύριον, because the lines on the wall are a clear instance of per accidens sensible items, and their perception is what a sound κύριον is supposed to perform. But not every sensation of common or per accidens sensibles is an act of the κύριον. In the experiment of the finger-crossing (described in 460b20–22), the perception that the fingers are two is both a perception of an incidental sensible (fingers) and of a common sensible (that instance of the number two); the same can be said about the false perception that the finger is just one; but Aristotle describes the situation as if only the perception that the fingers are two were an act of the κύριον: the false perception that there is just one finger is not an act of the κύριον. So, not every perception of common or per accidens sensible items is an act of the κύριον; to the κύριον is ascribed only the perception that, in any given situation, is assessed to be the most trustworthy one. We saw that the κύριον is responsible, too, for perception that we perceive. To sum up: the κύριον is the most authoritative power among the cognitive powers which each given sentient being per se (incidental πάθη as disease, sleep, etc. are not taken into account), can exercise about a given sensible object.36 What happens in sleep is not the pause of the activity of the sensory power, but just the pause of the activity of the power to coordinate sensations and perceptions in obedience to the rules of the highest power: the “ruling” power, the κύριον.37. 5.4 The δοκεῖν Is the Act of the κύριον If the κύριον is the power that is responsible for the coordination of the senses, and if the δοκεῖν is the act of the synergy of the senses, it is clear that the δοκεῖν is the act of the κύριον. It seems that the De insomniis and the De divinatione ascribe to the κύριον those same functions that were credited to the common sense in De somno 2, 455a12–26.

 Modrak (1989, 138) assumes that the κύριον is the cognitive power—whether sense or reason or intellect—which is most able to judge in the given circumstance at stake. But I couldn’t find any passage in Aristotle where the κύριον is identified with the intellectual or rational power. Quite the contrary: in De insomniis 1, 458b29, the verb δοκεῖν, which is the verb that describes the act of the κύριον, describes the fact that the Sun appears to be as large as a human foot, even when there is a more authoritative power (in this case, δόξα) which denies this fact. So, the κύριον will be only the most authoritative cognitive power of that given sentient being qua sentient being (i.e. without taking into account the rational power). 37  Beare (1906, 307 n. 1) finds it disturbing that Aristotle credits perceptions to people that walk in sleep (cf. Somn. 2, 456a26). But if we understand sleep as the interruption of the activity of the power that coordinates sensations and perceptions, and not as the interruption of the activity of receiving them, the problem is solved: people that walk in sleep are able to perceive, and to react to the environment, but only in a peculiar way; they are able to perform more or less long chains of actions, but they are unable to understand the meaning of what they are doing in the frame of an overall perception of the situation, precisely because they temporarily lack the power to coordinate the many perceptions under a unifying faculty.

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It is clear, then, that “κύριον καὶ ἐπικρῖνον” and “δοκοῦν” are just other names for the “common power” (κοινὴ δυναμις) of which the five senses are particular aspects, and which rules their coordination. Having described the κύριον καὶ ἐπικρῖνον and the δοκοῦν, I have therefore described the common sensory power. Acknowledgements  I would like to thank my commentator at the conference, Péter Lautner, for his very careful critical remarks about the first draft of this paper, and the editors for their remarks about the second draft.

Bibliography Beare, John I. 1906. Greek theories of elementary cognition from alcmaeon to aristotle. Oxford: Clarendon Press (Reprint Bristol: Thoemmes Press, 1992). Everson, Stephen. 1995. Proper sensibles and καθʼ αὑτά causes. Phronesis 40: 265–292. Feola, Giuseppe. 2012. Phàntasma e Phantasìa: Illusione e apparenza sensibile nel De anima di Aristotele. Naples: Loffredo editore. ———. 2014. Aristotele sull’intenzionalità elementare: la sensazione dei ‘proprî’ e la teoria della ‘medietà’. Documenti e studi sulla tradizione filosofica medievale 25: 1–28. ———. 2015. Il moto fantastico-percettivo secondo Aristotele. Lexicon Philosophicum: An International Journal for the History of Texts and Ideas 3: http://lexicon.cnr.it/index.php/LP/ article/view/452/361. Hett, Walter S. 1936. Aristotle, On the soul, Parva naturalia, On breath. With an English translation. Cambridge, MA and London: HUP (Reprint 1964). Hicks, Robert D. 1907. Aristotle, De anima. With translation, introduction and notes. Cambridge: University Press (Reprint Salem, NH: Ayer, 1988). Kahn, Charles. 1979. Sensation and consciousness in Aristotle’s psychology. In Articles on Aristotle, vol. 4, Psychology and aesthetics, ed. Jonathan Barnes, Malcolm Schofield, and Richard Sorabji, 1–31. London: Duckworth. Liddell, Henry G., Robert Scott, and Henry Stuart Jones. 1940. A Greek-English lexicon. Ninth edition, revised and augmented throughout. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Modrak, Deborah K.W. 1989. Aristotle: The power of perception. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Ross, David. 1955. Aristotle, Parva naturalia. A revised text with introduction and commentary. Oxford: Clarendon Press. ———. 1961. Aristotle, De anima. Edited, with introduction and commentary. Oxford: OUP. Sorabji, Richard. 1979. Body and soul in Aristotle. In Articles on Aristotle, vol. 4, Psychology and aesthetics, ed. Jonathan Barnes, Malcolm Schofield, and Richard Sorabji, 42–64. London: Duckworth. Ward, Julie K. 1988. Perception and λόγος in De anima ii 12. Ancient Philosophy 8: 217–233.

Chapter 3

The Notion of κοινὴ αἴσθησις and Its Implications in Michael of Ephesus Péter Lautner

Abstract  The paper examines three innovative issues in the Byzantine commentator which seem to reflect his own views on the common sense power. First, he perceives a gap in Aristotle’s explanation of the double nature of representational images. He points to the common sense power as the factor responsible for our ability to connect representational images to things represented by them. This kind of activity is called additional perception. Second, the identification of the common sense power with touch can be explained with reference to the thesis that animal life is a life of perception and touch is the principle of this life. It may lead to the conclusion that the basic pattern of all sense perception is to be equated with the general way that touch works. Third, Michael endorses the view that the regulative force of the common sense power extends to the ability to stop the individual senses working altogether, as it is clear from the explanation of sleep. In this process, the role of sense organs—both those of the individual senses and the first sense organ—is especially important, which—along with other observations—allows us to conclude that the Byzantine commentator is committed to hylomorphic explanations. My aim in this paper is to show that Michael of Ephesus’ views on the sensory power deserve more attention than they have received hitherto. His approaches are sometimes well argued and innovative, since we cannot trace them back to earlier commentators.1 More specifically, although he seems to owe much to John Philoponus, his views on sense-perception cannot be taken as a simple rehearsal of the sixth-century commentator’s theory.2 The notion of κοινὴ αἴσθησις is 1  See Steel (2002), Arabatzis (2012), 72–75), Trizio (2009), and Donini (1968). On the debt to Alexander, see also Wendland (1903a, xii). 2  Philoponus’ commentary was also used extensively by Michael Psellos (as has been shown by D. O’Meara in his notes to Psellos’ Συλλογαὶ διάφοροι καὶ ποικίλαι (Opuscula 13 in Ο’Meara 1989) and later on by Sophonias who also relies on Michael heavily (for the latter point, see, e.g., Bloch (2005, 4).

P. Lautner (*) Pázmány Péter Catholic University, Budapest, Hungary e-mail: [email protected] © Springer International Publishing AG, part of Springer Nature 2018 B. Bydén, F. Radovic (eds.), The Parva naturalia in Greek, Arabic and Latin Aristotelianism, Studies in the History of Philosophy of Mind 17, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-26904-7_3

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particularly important from this point of view since we can make a guess about the reasons that prompted him to propose new approaches. It also gives us an insight into his views on the structure of sense-perception and our cognitive powers on the whole. In what follows I shall concentrate on three issues which are expounded in his commentaries in detail. The discussion will refer to texts that may not be by Michael of Ephesus, but reflect his thought in considerable detail. The commentary on Parva naturalia published in CAG as by Themistius (Sophonias) may owe much to Michael,3 and the same holds for Sophonias’ paraphrase on the De anima. I shall follow the order of exposition in the commentary on Parva naturalia not only because it may go without saying, but also because the first issue will help us elucidate the others.

1  First, then, as one expects from a commentator on Aristotle’s De memoria, Michael dwells on the double nature of representational image (φάντασμα) at length. In 450b20–451a1 Aristotle discusses the role of φαντάσματα by comparing them to pictures and claims that just as pictures can be considered both in themselves and as representations of something else, so images can be conceived both to be something in themselves and to be representations of something else. As an introductory remark the commentator states that on Aristotle’s view (to be gathered from 449b25 and 450a10–1) memory is a πάθος or ἕξις of the first or common sense (1.15–16; 13.3–4) and that memory of intelligible things belongs primarily to the first sensory power (πρῶτον αἰσθητικόν),4 since there is no memory without representational image. He also notes that the latter power is to be equated with the “first, that is, the common sense” (πρώτη καὶ κοινὴ αἴσθησις) (13.4–5).5 This primary sensory power is also responsible for grasping magnitude, change and time (12.14–5).6 Michael’s explanation contains important new elements (15.17–24).7 Of course, he insists on the double aspect of the representational image. It can be seen as an  See the introduction by the editor (Wendland 1903b, v–x).  Sophonias also claims that the common sense relies on memory in grasping the things, see his In De anima 107.30–1. References are to page and line of Hayduck (1883). 5  He also follows Aristotle in saying that the first sensory faculty (πρώτη αἰσθητικὴ ψυχή) is settled around the heart (32.25–6). 6  Following Aristotle (450a9–14). 7  ὡς οὖν ἐπὶ τούτων, οὕτω καὶ τὸ ἐν τῇ καρδίᾳ ἐγκατάλειμμα καὶ ζωγράφημα, ὅπερ αὐτὸς φάντασμα εἶπε, δεῖ ὑπολαβεῖν, ὡς ἔστι καὶ αὐτό τι καθ’ αὑτὸ καὶ φύσις τις καὶ πρᾶγμα καὶ ἄλλου φάντασμα, ὥσπερ καὶ τὸ ἐν τῷ τοίχῳ γεγραμμένον· ἔστι γὰρ καὶ τοῦτο αὐτό τι καθ’ αὑτὸ καὶ φύσις τις καὶ προσέτι ἄλλου εἰκών. ὅταν οὖν ἐνεργῇ περὶ αὐτὸ ᾗ αὐτό, θεώρημα τοῦτο ἢ φάντασμα· ὅταν δὲ ἐνεργοῦσα περὶ αὐτὸ ἡ κοινὴ αἴσθησις προσαισθάνηται καὶ ὅτι καὶ ἄλλου ἐστὶν εἰκών, ἤδη τοῦτο καὶ μνημόνευμα, καὶ ἡ τοιαύτη ἐνέργεια τῆς ψυχῆς μνήμη (underlined by me, P. L.). References are to page and line in Wendland (1903a). 3 4

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image in itself, but as soon as the common sense power furnishes us with the additional perception that the image is a perceptual image representing something else, we realize that the image refers to some external object. For this reason, it is due to the activity of the common sense power that we are able to regard the images in our soul as images referring to something else. This is how we can regard them as memory images (μνημονεύματα). What kind of innovation of the Aristotelian thesis do we find here? First of all, Michael’s account fills a gap in Aristotle’s explanation since it supplies us with a causal explanation of how this double nature works. Aristotle only notes that we can regard φαντάσματα in both ways—both as phenomena in themselves and as representations of something else—but he does not state how we can do it, what kind of psychological mechanism is at work here. Michael points to the common sense power as the factor responsible for our ability to connect representational images to things represented by them. To set forth the thesis he uses the term προσαισθάνεσθαι, which refers to an act of perception (15.23).8 We must not think, however, that the term refers to a certain kind of sense-perception, which would imply that the common sense has a direct access to the external object of which the φάντασμα is an image. Rather, it seems that we are dealing with two phases of awareness; there is an awareness of an image and then there is a further awareness of the representational character of the image. The προσ-prefix is meant to emphasize the second phase. The evidence supporting the suggestion is to be found in 36.5–7, where, in commenting on De memoria 2, 452b20–23, the commentator discusses the role of reasoning (διάνοια) in apprehending time. Here Aristotle discusses the relation of memory images to the past events which they represent. When we remember something at least two things are in play. We must be aware of the fact recalled and, simultaneously, we also have to be aware of the temporal distance by the aid of some present state that is causally linked to the fact recalled. He illustrates it with the example of thinking of spatial magnitudes. Because we cannot think of anything without the aid of images, the grasping of magnitudes requires them too. The representational images in us are smaller than the objects represented, but in proportion. Since they are a kind of motion we can also use them to recall events. Events are themselves motions that may be copied by images as motions. Moreover, the representational images play a crucial role in memory. For this reason, then, in remembering magnitudes—spatial and temporal alike—we undergo changes in proportion to the thing remembered.9 Temporal distances can also be assessed in this way. If we want to think of one stretch of time we have to make a mental movement and from 8  Aristotle may also use it in 450a21 without specifying its meaning. A further complication is that some mss of the De memoria have προαισθάνεται in 450a21. To judge from Wendland’s critical apparatus, Michael wrote προσαισθάνηται in 15.23. He also probably read προσαισθάνεται in 450a21, although the variant προαισθάνεται occurs. 9  The line of thought is illustrated by a fine diagram in the MSS of Sophonias’ paraphrase of the Parva naturalia (Wendland 1903b, 13) and with some variations in Michael, too, more accessible in the critical apparatus to Wendland’s edition of Michael’s work (1903a, 36), and in Ross (1955, 250). On the various possibilities of interpreting the diagram, see King (2004, 136–138).

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its duration we are capable of thinking of the other period. There is a ratio in which the dimensions of the memory-images have to be multiplied in order that we know the past event. It is important to have in mind that Aristotle uses the term νοεῖν and its aorist infinitive, νοῆσαι, throughout the argument. The Byzantine commentator attributes the process of knowing the past event through these mental diagrams to διάνοια. On his interpretation, διάνοια can grasp the duration of the periods which are in proportion. Furthermore, due to the ratio between the periods it can also perceive additionally the time separating the periods themselves (36.5).10 The thesis raises the question of how an intellectual capacity can draw on a perceptual activity to grasp a specific object of its own. The key element of the answer is to be found in the definition of διάνοια according to which it is an activity of the intellect which is accompanied with φαντασία (33.1–2).11 It is clear that the link to sense-perception is provided by φαντάσματα.12 Furthermore, it is also clear that διάνοια is not a separate capacity but a specific activity of the intellect. It shows that in Michael’s account we have a unified intellectual capacity which can be put to different uses, drawing on different means. When the intellect turns towards the sensible realm it must use images that originate in sense-­perception. On the other hand, perception of time in memory is not a direct encounter of the sensory power with time as its object, if by direct encounter we mean the apprehension of the special or common sensory qualities. It is rather an act attached to the perception of motion or rest.13 Michael calls this additional cognition προσαισθάνεσθαι, suggesting that it is a perceptual activity. In the wake of Aristotle (Mem. 450a10–11), he also claims that the φαντασία is a πάθος of the common sense (12.15; 12.24). From this it follows that διάνοια is an activity of using a φάντασμα which has been stored in the common sense. Perceiving time is an activity of the intellect, which means that it is perception in a very loose sense only. It may be better to call this kind of αἴσθησις awareness.14 If this is so, then on the interpretation of the Byzantine scholar time is not a perceptible on its own. It is clearly not a particular perceptible, and it cannot be a common perceptible either. It cannot be perceived on its own and its perception is closely linked to representational images. Most importantly, it is apprehended by the intellect. As the term itself suggests, perception of time is an act of the intellect but, in addition to that, it is tied to an act of sense-perception as well, in the sense that it requires perceptual awareness, like being aware of a mental image. It involves the use of a representational image originated in sense-perception. It seems, therefore, that in the present context additional perception is an important aspect of a specific activity of the intellect. The νοῦς uses φαντάσματα, images derived from sense-perception, in order to grasp time. This involves a thesis that perception of  … ἡ διάνοια καὶ τὸν ΚΘ ΚM προσῃσθάνετο χρόνον.  … ἡ γὰρ διάνοια οὐδὲν ἄλλο ἐστὶν ἢ νοῦ μετὰ φαντασίας ἐνέργεια. 12  Or φαντασίαι, since the commentator sometimes uses the term φαντασία to refer to images (12.15, 24; 52.3; In De animalium motione 103.7). 13  In Aristotle, see De memoria 1, 450a8–15, 451a17. In 8.5–6 Michael also stresses that time cannot be perceived directly, only through the object which is in time. 14  I owe this point to Pavel Gregoric. 10 11

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time is the privilege of rational animals. However, if non-rational animals do not grasp time, then the character of their memory-image must be different. They do not grasp the past. Of course, that does not mean that they do not have images from the past, but only that they are not aware that such images refer to the past. Now, to return to the specific act of the common sense, we have to examine the possible difference between the two ways of additional perception. The object is different in the two cases: the common sense perceives also that the image is an image of something, whereas the intellect somehow perceives time. It is clear, then, that in this case the common sense perceives a fact; it perceives that the image is an image of something. It does not only perceive the object of which the image is in the perceptual faculty. It is also aware that the object is presented through an image. But why does Michael use the term for sense-perception with a πρός-prefix? The reason may be that he wants to make a distinction between two sorts of activity. The first is directed towards a φάντασμα, which may imply that the representational image is an object, not a means whereby we grasp the object.15 A piece of evidence for this is provided by the statement according to which we can make judgments about the image; the soul can approve that this φάντασμα is an image (εἰκών) of Socrates, although it is of Theaetetus (37.8–10). The representational image forms the basis of perceiving additionally that it is an image of an object. Perceiving an image is prior to perceiving also that the image represents something else. Because the sensory power does not seem to be capable of grasping the represented thing directly, the only possibility may be to assume that at a certain level sense-perception is endowed with an inferential capacity. By becoming aware of the image we also realize that it is an image of something else. The second activity, called διάνοια, is the perception of time by the intellect. As we have already seen, additional perception of time is not a perception of a fact. It is a cognitive process which must involve images. We use images concerning events in order to infer the duration of the events themselves. As the example of diagram mentioned above (n9) shows, it draws on a certain kind of calculation. If the analysis is convincing, then we can see the common feature in the twofold process of προσαισθάνεσθαι. In both cases it involves inference. The common sense infers that the image it encounters is an image of something else, whereas the intellect grasps time by calculating the ratios between images and external events. In the latter case the term προσαισθάνεσθαι may be adequate because the intellect has to draw on representational images in order to apprehend time. Moreover, it seems that the common sense power is capable of performing this task because of its involvement in perceptual awareness. Thus Michael lends strong support to the interpretation that the common sense power is responsible for perceiving that we perceive.16 At this point, one might object, however, that perceptual awareness itself is not enough for having memory images (μνημονεύματα) which  As an exposition of the problem, one may think of the distinction we find in Thomas Aquinas (ST 1a q.85 a.2) between id quo intelligit and id quod intelligitur. It seems that Michael occupies a kind of representationalist position. 16  See, e.g., Feola’s contribution to this volume (Chap. 2). 15

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result from the double nature of representational images. Perceptual awareness and first-order perception (perception of an instance of redness or of smoothness) are simultaneous processes and because first-order perception is always about the present state of things, perceptual awareness must be about the present as well. In order to establish a link between memory images and perceptual awareness we have to find a connection between memory and the common sense power. Michael does just this in emphasizing many times (e.g., 1.16–17; 12.24) that along with φαντασία, memory is an affection (πάθος) or a state (ἕξις) of the common sense power.17

2  The second issue is about the status of the common sense. At first glance, Michael’s position is puzzling because he seems to be committed to two different theses. We have to say more about the relation between the two seemingly incompatible positions. In his commentary to De partibus animalium Michael explains Aristotle’s account as allowing for two possibilities (84.18–20); the common sense is to be equated either with the sense of touch or with the sum of the five particular senses.18 He agrees with the latter view. Unfortunately, he does not disclose the reasons supporting the two interpretations; neither does he name the predecessors who held such views.19 For a more detailed exposition we have to turn to the commentary on Parva naturalia. He focuses on the thesis according to which touch and the common sensory power are identical (48.4–10).20 Although the reference is clearly to Aristotle’s treatise, one may note that in De somno (455a23) Aristotle’s claim seems to be different.21 He seems to argue that touch is the most basic sense. Every sensation contains 17  On the other hand, memory is a ἕξις φαντάσματος in so far as it refers to the object in which it originates, see In De animalium motione 103.12–13. That ἕξις means “possession’ here is corroborated by the other definition of memory, to be found in the commentary on De memoria 4.14–15, where we find κατοχή instead of ἕξις. The thesis can be discerned in Aristotle, too, since he also claims (449b24–25) that memory is πάθος or ἕξις of sense-perception or conception (ὑπόληψις). For an interesting parallel, see Theodore Metochites’ Paraphrase of the De memoria. As Bloch shows (2005, 4), Metochites also relies heavily on Michael’s work. He also claims that a φάντασμα is an affection of the common sense (ibid., 15–16). Consequently, he also denies that memory is a capacity of the intellectual faculty. His thesis is that intellectual activities do not involve time, whereas memory does. His main argument seems to be that if memory were a capacity of the intellect, there would be memories of intelligible objects per se and (since intelligible objects are not in time) without a time lapse. 18  References are to page and line in Hayduck (1904). 19  Among them, Michael Psellos also claims that the sense of touch is common to all animals (see his Ἀποριῶν λύσις τελεία καὶ ἀναγκαία (Opuscula 12) in O’Meara (1989, 27.10–11), but he may not want to claim that touch is to be identified with the common sense. 20  As he says in 48.7–8: εἰ δὲ χρὴ τἀληθὲς εἰπεῖν, ἁφὴ καὶ κοινὴ αἴσθησις ταὐτό ἐστιν. On this interpretation see Wiesner (1978, 244–247). 21  See also Giuseppe Feola in Chap. 2 of this volume.

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something which is peculiar to it and something which is common (455a13).22 There is a common capacity that accompanies all the other perceptual capacities, the particular senses, by which we perceive that we are seeing and hearing. Furthermore, it is by something common to taste and sight that we judge that sweet objects differ from white ones. This leads him to the claim that there is only one sense and one ruling sense-organ, although differing in essence in relation to each genus, for example, colour and sound (455a21–22). Among the particular senses, it is touch that is most associated with the common power.23 He explains this by saying that touch can exist without the other senses, whereas they cannot exist without it.24 He does not claim that touch is identical with the common sense power. The only thing he argues for is the close association of touch with that power.25 In Michael’s interpretation, the text says that it is the common sense power that is present mostly together with the sense of touch (τὸ ἁπτικόν).26 So far so good, since it is Aristotle’s claim too. However, the argument for the identity of the common sense-power with the sense of touch is compressed. It relies on two tacit premises, both of them being plausible, though not necessarily held by the commentator himself. It starts with Aristotle’s thesis that touch is separable from the other senses since there are animals which are endowed with touch only. The tacit premise adds, reasonably, that there is no reason to deny that they are endowed with a central sense power. Consequently, in their case, the central sense power is present together with the sense of touch only. Every animal has a share in touch, although some of them may be in want of sight or hearing. Here comes the other tacit premise suggesting that the common sense power is not a sixth sense over and above the particular senses. If this is the case then an animal having only one particular sense has the common sense power intimately connected to this sense, the touch. In Michael’s  See also 455a7 and 27. In the former passage he says that all animals have touch and taste. But he considers taste as a form of touch. 23  He uses the term ὑπάρχει to indicate that touch and common sense obtain together. It does not refer to identity (see Gregoric 2007, 97). Touch and common sense cannot be identical in the strict sense because their sense-organs differ and they have different functions. The central sense-organ is around the heart (Somn. 2, 456a4–5; Juv. 3, 469a4) whereas the organ of touch is either the flesh (Part. an. 2.8, 453b19–27) or, following T. K. Johansen’s suggestion (1998, 202), the role of the primary sense-organ of touch is reserved for the heart, whereas flesh is a secondary organ only. Moreover, at this point one may argue that Aristotle talks about, not the sense, but the organ of touch, see Ross’ paraphrase in his edition (1955, 257). I think it is clear that Michael takes it differently since he does not mention any activity characteristic of the sense-organ in this context. Furthermore, the parallel use of ἁφή in the passage may also corroborate the suggestion that Michael takes Aristotle to speak about the sense. 24  See also De anima 2.2, 413b5–6; 2.3, 415a4–5; 3.13, 435a13–14, where the separability of touch from the other senses is also stressed. 25  See Gregoric (2007, 65–68). He argues that the fact that touch is the most common sense does not imply that the other senses are not common, only that they are less common. It seems that on Michael’s interpretation touch is the only common sense properly speaking since it is the only sense which is common to all species of animals. 26  For Michael’s interpretation of τὸ ἁπτικόν, see the final remark in n20 above and the use of ἁπτικὴ δύναμις in 70.7. 22

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eyes, then, co-presence involves a certain kind of identity and he may feel encouraged to make this claim because in Historia animalium 1.3, 489a17 Aristotle does say that the sense of touch is somehow identical with the common sense power, although it is likely that he is only referring to his thesis that unlike other particular senses touch is shared by all animals. Let us see whether the tacit premises are to be found in the text elsewhere. If not, then we have to ask what kind of conclusion we are allowed to draw about their relation. At first glance, the sense of touch and the common sense power cannot be the same in respect of functioning. As we have seen earlier, the common sense is capable of performing activities which cannot be ascribed to any of the particular senses. While grasping a representational image it is also capable of perceiving additionally that the image is an image of a certain object. On the other hand, Michael also agrees that touch is the most definitive of all the senses. As he said in the commentary on the De partibus animalium, repeating Aristotle’s thesis, the animal form of life is determined by the senses and touch is the primary sense.27 He aims to supplement Aristotle’s explanation without saying anything substantially new. As he says, because flesh is the body par excellence and the principle of animals, the sense which makes use of flesh is the primary sense. For this reason touch is the sense which is tied to the very existence of the animal. It is the main factor responsible for its constitution as a sentient being (In Part. an. 40.9–12).28 Animal life is a life of perception and touch is the principle of this life. This being settled, then, we have to explain the apparent contradiction between the claim in Michael’s commentary to De partibus animalium, according to which the common sense is the sum of the five particular senses, and the thesis in his De memoria commentary, according to which the common sense is to be equated with touch. My suggestion is that the two theses express different aspects of the same relationship. The first step towards their reconciliation is to note that the claim in the commentary on De partibus animalium does not say exactly that the common sense is the sum of the five particular senses. It says that the common sense is all the particular senses.29 He qualifies the claim in the commentary on Parva naturalia by making the familiar distinction between two different aspects. The common sense is one in substrate but many in account (47.25–28).30 The particular senses are to be  Michael is commenting on 2.8, 653b19, where Aristotle starts examining the flesh and claims touch is the primary sense. 28  εἰδοποιεῖται γὰρ καὶ ὑπὸ τῶν ἄλλων αἰσθήσεων τὸ ζῷον, ἀλλὰ πρώτως ὑπὸ τῆς πρώτης· αὕτη δ’ ἐστὶν ἡ ἁφή, ἁφῆς δὲ αἰσθητήριον ἡ σάρξ. 29  In Part. an. 84.19–20: ὁμοῦ πάσας τὰς πέντε. The specific term for aggregate, ἄθροισμα, must have been known to Michael since he applies the verb ἀθροίζειν in such a context in In Parva nat. 21.18. 30  ἥτις κοινὴ αἴσθησις μία μέν ἐστι τῷ ὑποκειμένῳ, τῷ δὲ λόγῳ πλείους. In the light of the nature of the distinction, I think that the geometrical metaphor illustrating the relation between the common sense and particular senses—the centre of a circle in which the radii meet (47.30–48.2)—has to be interpreted as a metaphor illustrating the functional differences only, not the structure of the perceptual power as a whole. The metaphor seems to originate in Alexander of Aphrodisias (De anima 63.6–28; De anima liber mantissa 96.14–34; Quaestiones 165.12–20) but survives in Byzantine times as well, see also Sophonias’ In De anima paraphrasis 114.24–8. See also Gregoric (2007, 150–151 with n12) for references to the geometrical metaphor. 27

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considered as different manifestations of a unified system. For this reason, the common sense is not an aggregate of the particular senses but a structure underlying their activity. This is why φαντασία is also called πάθος of the common sense (12.15). If it belongs to the perceptual faculty then it must belong to the common sense which manifests the unity of this system. Furthermore, we may also admit that the identity of touch and common sense should be qualified. On the one hand, we are entitled to claim that touch and the common sense are intimately linked insofar as touch is the primary sense, which means that it just is the base of the perceptual system as the common sense is. On the other hand, however, this is not to say that touch in humans may be able to perform all the activities that are ascribed to the common sense. However, the unity can also be manifested in shared activities; touch is able to perform some of the activities which are usually performed by the common sense. In order to investigate it in detail, we have to turn to another text in the commentary on Parva naturalia.

3   The third issue concerns a role that was not emphasized by Aristotle. As for the general role of the common sense power, Michael emphasizes in the commentary on De somno that the common sense power has a regulating force; its role is not confined to arranging the various data coming from the particular senses (49.10– 15).31 Rather, it regulates the working of the particular senses in a specific way. It is a central power insofar as it is capable of exercising an influence over the particular senses. Internal forces can block its activity temporarily, which results in the inactivity of the particular senses, and this is how sleep comes about. In explaining the phenomenon of sleep, then, Michael does not say that the process leading to falling asleep starts at the particular senses and extends towards the inner regions. Quite the opposite, he claims that it starts in the heart, the seat of the common sense power and the perceptual system in general, and extends towards the particular senses. Surprisingly, perhaps, he also says that sleep is the affection of touch and of no other sense.32 The two claims seem to be at odds, but they are not. First of all, the second claim is embedded into the context of a specified identification of touch and the common sense. For this reason we are not justified to consider the two claims as mutually exclusive.

 As he says: ἀλλ’ ὅταν ἡ ἀδυναμία τοῦ αἰσθάνεσθαι μήτε ἔν τινι τῶν αἰσθητηρίων γένηται (ἐνδέχεται γὰρ πηρωθῆναι τὰ αἰσθητήρια, ἀλλ’ ὅμως οὐδὲ ἡ ἀκινησία τῶν αἰσθήσεων ἡ διὰ πήρωσιν τῶν αἰσθητηρίων γινομένη ὕπνος ἐστίν), ὅταν οὖν μήτε ἔν τινι τῶν αἰσθητηρίων μήτε δι’ ἣν ἔτυχεν αἰτίαν γένηται, οἷον δι’ ἐπίληψιν ἢ κατάληψιν τῶν ἐν τῷ αὐχένι φλεβῶν, ἀλλ’ ἐν τῷ πρώτῳ αἰσθητηρίῳ καὶ τῇ πρώτῃ αἰσθήσει, τότ’ ἐστὶν ὁ ὕπνος (underlined by me, P. L.). 32  48.9–10. On this, see the short remark with an exposition of the problem in Heller-Roazen (2009, 67). 31

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To see the innovative character of Michael’s explanation, first we have to take a look at Aristotle’s argument. In De somno 2 (455a31–b13) he describes the relation between the common sense and the particular senses. When the common sense is inactive, all the particular senses are inactive too. If it undergoes some affection, they must do so too. If, however, one of the particular senses is off, it does not follow that the common sense must be off too. Moreover, the inactivity of the common sense is responsible for sleep. When the common sense-organ suffers something it is necessary that the other sense-organs suffer, too.33 It seems that the process is initiated by the common senseorgan. The same mechanism may apply to the senses, too. For this reason, then, sleep occurs when the common sense power gets inactive  towards external objects, since in that case all the particular senses will lack the power to perceive.34 Again, Michael offers some supplementary material to support the Aristotelian view; he concentrates on the physiological side of problem. The hylomorphic scheme adopted by the commentator requires that the inactivity of the sense must be accompanied by the inactivity of the sense-organ. In the wake of Aristotle, he says that the common sense is located around the heart (47.25). This region is also the seat of the perceptual power in general (50.19–23). Perceptual power must be inactive in sleep, but that does not mean that the inactivity of the perceptual power leads to sleep necessarily. Michael gives three examples to show that. Those people who faint do not perceive anything but no one says that they are sleeping (49.1–3). Similarly, those who are in an excessively mad state of mind—they are so mad as to eat up their own flesh—do not feel pain when biting into themselves. We cannot say, however, that they are asleep in such a state of mind. Finally, when we press the two arteries in the neck, the animal stops perceiving, but it does not sleep (49.7). The examples are meant to illustrate the claim the sleep is a specific state of perceptual inactivity. The inactivity is due to the inert state of both the common sense and the first sense-organ, the heart (1.18; 3.1–2; 4.23; 74.14–5).35 To sum up, it seems that the Byzantine commentator preserves not only Aristotle’s main theses on memory, but also the hylomorphic framework within which these theses were formulated. Furthermore, the discussion of common sense shows that he laid great weight on the unity of the perceptual system. The different particular senses can only be conceptually different, whereas in substrate they are the same. This fundamental unity is called the common sense. It seems that the particular senses are nothing but the specific functions of this common power. The specific nature of the particular sense is partly determined by the sense-organ. From this  See 455a34–b1: πεπονθότος τι συμπάσχειν ἀναγκαῖον καὶ τὰ λοιπὰ πάντα.  For important implications of this thesis in Aristotle, see Gregoric (2007, 170–171). 35  See also Sophonias, In De anima paraphrasis 7.10–10.12 (with the possible exception of the intellect) and Theodore Metochites, De memoria (in Bloch 2005, 17). It proves that the hylomorphic treatment of certain psychological phenomena was in use in Byzantine philosophy, although it was clearly neglected in most of the commentators in late antiquity, as has been shown by van der Eijk and Hulskamp (2010). They also show (ibid., 74) that Michael was aware that some of Aristotle’s physiological explanations had become obsolete and supplemented them with Galenic material. But that did not override his commitment to hylomorphic explanations. 33 34

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point of view one can also understand why Michael insisted on a specified identification of touch and common sense. If there is no other possibility for the common sense to work, it works as touch which is the basic form of perceptual activity and shared by all animals. In humans, who are endowed with five particular senses, touch remains the basic sense and its organ, the flesh, is the first sense-organ (πρῶτον αἰσθητήριον: In Part. an. 40.20–21). The organ of the common sense is also called first sense-organ; it makes use of a specific kind of flesh, the heart, which is the source of the senses (In Part. an. 44.20–21).36 Acknowledgements  I owe much to Pavel Gregoric and Katerina Ierodiakonou, who were most generous in reading the paper and commenting on it. Their suggestions led me to revise my thesis in considerable detail. Thanks are also due to the editors for further clarifications. If any shortcoming has remained, which is no doubt the case, it is mine.  My research was facilitated by the Hungarian Research Fund (NKFI 104574).

Bibliography Arabatzis, George. 2012. Michael of Ephesus and the philosophy of living things (In De partibus animalium, 22.25–23.9). In The many faces of Byzantine philosophy, ed. Börje Bydén and Katerina Ierodiakonou, 51–78. Athens: The Norwegian Institute at Athens. Bloch, David. 2005. Theodoros Metochites on Aristotle’s De memoria: An edition. Cahiers de l’Institut de Moyen-Âge Grec et Latin 76: 3–30. Donini, Pierluigi. 1968. Il De anima di Alessandro di Afrodisia e Michele Efesio. Rivista di filologia e d’istruzione classica 96: 316–323. Gregoric, Pavel. 2007. Aristotle on the common sense. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hayduck (1883) = Sophoniae in libros Aristotelis De Anima paraphrasis edidit Michael Hayduck. CAG 23.1 Berlin: Reimer. ——— (1904) = Michaelis Ephesii in libros De partibus animalium, De animalium motione, De animalium incessu commentaria edidit Michael Hayduck. CAG 22.2. Berlin: Reimer. Heller-Roazen, Daniel. 2009. The inner touch: Archaeology of a sensation. New  York/Boston: Zone Books/MIT Press. Johansen, Thomas K. 1998. Aristotle on the sense-organs. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. King (2004) = Aristoteles, De memoria et reminiscentia. Übersetzt und erläutert von Richard A. H. King. Berlin: Akademie Verlag. O’Meara (1989) = Michael Psellus, Philosophica minora. Vol. 2. Opuscula psychologica, theologica, daemonologica, ed. Dominic O’Meara. Leipzig: B. G. Teubner. Ross (1955) = Aristotle, Parva Naturalia. A revised text with introduction and commentary by Sir David Ross. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Steel, Carlos. 2002. Neoplatonic sources in the commentaries on the Nicomachean ethics by Eustratius and Michael of Ephesus. Bulletin de Philosophie Médiévale 44: 51–57. Trizio, Michele. 2009. Qui fere in hoc sensu exponunt Aristotelem: Notes on the Byzantine sources of the Albertinian notion of ‘Intellectus Possessus’. In Via Alberti: Texte  – Quellen  – Interpretationen, ed. L. Honnefelder et al., 79–109. Münster: Aschendorff.  To reconcile Aristotle’s thesis with Galenic theories Michael admits that the sense-organ of sight and hearing may be in the brain, but it does not mean that the principle of these senses is also in the brain (In Part. an. 44.34–45.1).

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Van der Eijk, Philip, and Maithe Hulskamp. 2010. Stages in the reception of Aristotle’s works on sleep and dream in Hellenistic and Imperial philosophical and medical thought. In Les Parva Naturalia d’Aristote: Fortune antique et médiévale, ed. Christophe Grellard and Pierre-Marie Morel, 47–75. Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne. Wendland (1903a) = Michaelis Ephesii in Parva naturalia commentarium edidit Paulus Wendland. CAG 22.1. Berlin: Reimer. ——— (1903b) = Themistii (Sophoniae) in Parva Naturalia commentaria edidit Paulus Wendland. CAG 5.6. Berlin: Reimer. Wiesner, Jürgen. 1978. The unity of the treatise De somno and the physiological explanation of sleep in Aristotle. In Aristotle on mind and the senses: Proceedings of the seventh symposium Aristotelicum, ed. G.E.R. Lloyd and G.E.L. Owen, 243–280. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Chapter 4

Aristotle and Alexander of Aphrodisias on Colour Katerina Ierodiakonou

Abstract  The aim of this paper is to unravel Aristotle’s reasoning with regard to the ontological status of colours; also, to get a better understanding of his views on the production of the whole spectrum of colours; and finally, to evaluate the explanatory power of his theory of colours. The texts I mainly draw my evidence from is Aristotle’s De sensu 3 and the relevant passages from the De anima as well as from other Aristotelian treatises; in addition, I use for my interpretation remarks made by Alexander of Aphrodisias in his commentary on the De sensu, in his Quaestiones and in the dubious treatise Mantissa. Contemporary scholars interested in Aristotle’s theory of colours have been preoccupied, for the most part, with the question of how, according to Aristotle, we perceive colours. Many studies have been written on this subject, and different interpretations have been put forward of the central texts in which Aristotle dealt with it, namely De anima 2.7 and 3.2.1 For Aristotle, though, it is crucial to distinguish the question of how we perceive colours from the prior question concerning the nature of colour in itself. Right at the beginning of the third chapter of the De sensu (439a6–12), Aristotle explicitly says that it is one thing to talk about the way the sense objects affect each of our sense organs, an issue which he is concerned with in the De anima, and another thing to examine the nature of the sense objects in themselves, an issue which he discusses in the De sensu. As to the priority of the question about the nature of the sense objects in themselves, Aristotle claims in the De anima (415a14–22) that in order to give an account of the faculties of the soul,

1  E.g. Silverman (1989), Sorabji (1992, 2001), Burnyeat (1992, 1995), Broadie (1993), Everson (1997), Sisko (1998), Broackes (1999), Woolf (1999), Magee (2000), Ganson (2002), Caston (2005), and Lorenz (2007).

K. Ierodiakonou (*) University of Geneva, Geneva, Switzerland National and Kapodistrian University of Athens, Athens, Greece University of Gothenburg, Gothenburg, Sweden e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s) 2018 B. Bydén, F. Radovic (eds.), The Parva naturalia in Greek, Arabic and Latin Aristotelianism, Studies in the History of Philosophy of Mind 17, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-26904-7_4

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one needs to explain what their proper activities are, and in order to explain the activities, one first needs to explain their proper objects; for instance, in order to explain sense perception one first needs to examine the nature of the sense objects in themselves (cf. Johansen 2012, ch. 3: “The priority of the objects over the capacities of the soul”). In the case of vision, in particular, Aristotle states (De anima 418a29–b2) that colour is its cause, but it is not essential to the nature of colour that it be visible; for he seems to believe that there is no vision without colours, although there can be colours that are not perceived. I, for my part, am primarily interested in the question to which less attention has been given, that is, the prior question concerning the nature of the sense objects in themselves, and especially the question concerning the nature of colour. That is to say, I am primarily interested in what exactly, according to Aristotle, makes our world coloured. The text I mainly draw my evidence from is Aristotle’s De sensu 3, but I also make use of relevant passages from the De anima as well as from other Aristotelian treatises. In addition, it proves extremely useful to refer to remarks made by Aristotle’s commentator Alexander of Aphrodisias, remarks which are found especially in Alexander’s commentary on the De sensu (43.17–47.20) as well as in some relevant passages from his Quaestiones (1.2 5.1–7.17) and from the dubious treatise Mantissa (147.26–150.18). The three specific issues that I want to address are the following: 1 . What, according to Aristotle, makes things coloured? 2. What does it mean for something to have a particular colour? 3. Why does Aristotle think that his theory of colours constitutes an advance on those of his predecessors? I want in this way to unravel Aristotle’s reasoning with regard to the ontological status of colours; also, to get a better understanding of his views on the production of the whole spectrum of colours; and finally, to evaluate the explanatory power of his doctrine. After all, clarifying these issues may also help us to deal with the other, more notorious, question concerning Aristotle’s theory of colour perception.

1  What, According to Aristotle, Makes Things Coloured? We find two accounts of the nature of colour in the Aristotelian treatises: In the De sensu Aristotle characterizes colour as “the limit of the transparent in a determinately bounded body” (439b11–12),2 while in the De anima he describes colour as what “is capable of setting in motion that which is actually transparent” (418a31–b1; cf. 419a9–11).3 There clearly are differences between these two accounts of colour; what they have in common, however, is that in both cases Aristotle refers to “the transparent” (τὸ διαφανές). Thus, in order to understand Aristotle’s views on the nature of colour, the obvious question to start with is what precisely he means by this term.  ὥστε χρῶμα ἂν εἴη τὸ τοῦ διαφανοῦς ἐν σώματι ὡρισμένῳ πέρας.  πᾶν δὲ χρῶμα κινητικόν ἐστι τοῦ κατ’ ἐνέργειαν διαφανοῦς.

2 3

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The discussion of the transparent in the De sensu seems to differ considerably from the relevant discussion in the De anima, so that Aristotle’s views on the nature of colour become at first glance somewhat obscure. In the De anima (418b4–7) Aristotle talks about the transparent in the following way4: And I call transparent what is visible, not strictly speaking visible in itself, but because of the colour of something else. Of this sort are air, water, and many solid bodies. (trans. D. W. Hamlyn)

However, if only air, water, and many solid bodies, like for instance glass or crystal, are said to be transparent, the account of colour in the De sensu does not make sense, since it clearly implies that all bodies need to be in some sense transparent in order to have colour. Indeed, Aristotle claims in the De sensu (439a21–25) that all bodies are transparent to a greater or lesser degree, and not only air, water, and those bodies that are usually called transparent: But what we call transparent is not something peculiar to air, or water, or any other of the bodies usually called transparent, but is a common nature and power, capable of no separate existence of its own, but residing in these, and subsisting likewise in all other bodies to a greater or lesser degree.5 (trans. J. I. Beare, rev. J. Barnes)

How can we explain the seeming discrepancy between Aristotle’s two accounts of the transparent in the De sensu and in the De anima? To start with, it is important to take into consideration the general context of these two treatises in which Aristotle presents his views on colour. In the De anima the focus is on how we perceive colours, and thus what is transparent refers here to the medium of vision, that is, what makes something else visible. This is why Aristotle claims that the transparent is not visible in itself, but because of the colour of something else which is seen through it; and this is why he primarily refers to air and water, that is, to what the medium of vision usually consists of. Therefore, what is transparent should be understood in this text as what lets something else be seen through it. In the De sensu, on the other hand, the focus is on the nature of colour in itself, and thus it is not only the medium of vision that is characterized as transparent, but all bodies to a greater or lesser degree. Aristotle unambiguously says in the De sensu (439b8–10) that it is precisely because of the fact that all bodies are transparent to a greater or lesser degree that they partake of colour, and are hence visible6: It is therefore the transparent, according to the degree to which it subsists in bodies (and it does so in all more or less), that causes them to partake of colour. (trans. J. I. Beare, rev. J. Barnes)

 διαφανὲς δὲ λέγω ὃ ἔστι μὲν ὁρατόν, οὐ καθ’ αὑτὸ δὲ ὁρατὸν ὡς ἁπλῶς εἰπεῖν, ἀλλὰ δι’ ἀλλότριον χρῶμα. τοιοῦτον δέ ἐστιν ἀὴρ καὶ ὕδωρ καὶ πολλὰ τῶν στερεῶν. 5  ὃ δὲ λέγομεν διαφανὲς οὐκ ἔστιν ἴδιον ἀέρος ἢ ὕδατος οὐδ’ ἄλλου τῶν οὕτω λεγομένων σωμάτων, ἀλλά τίς ἐστι κοινὴ φύσις καὶ δύναμις, ἣ χωριστὴ μὲν οὐκ ἔστιν, ἐν τούτοις δ’ ἔστι, καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις σώμασιν ἐνυπάρχει, τοῖς μὲν μᾶλλον τοῖς δ’ ἧττον. 6  τὸ ἄρα διαφανὲς καθ’ ὅσον ὑπάρχει ἐν τοῖς σώμασιν (ὑπάρχει δὲ μᾶλλον καὶ ἧττον ἐν πᾶσι) χρώματος ποιεῖ μετέχειν. 4

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This second use of the term “διαφανές” greatly surprises us. For when we nowadays say, for example, that a curtain is transparent, we simply mean that we can see something else through it; we would never say that a stone, a tree, or a human being is transparent. But, obviously, this is not what Aristotle has in mind when he claims that all bodies are transparent to a greater or lesser degree. What exactly, then, does he have in mind? To make some progress on this question, let us turn to Alexander of Aphrodisias’ relevant comments concerning the transparent, or concerning what he himself sometimes calls “the transparency” (ἡ διαφάνεια) of bodies (e.g. Quaestiones 1.2 5.29; Mantissa 147.27; 30; 148.32; 149.9). There is a passage in his commentary on the De sensu (45.11–16; cf. Mantissa 148.7–9), in which Alexander suggests that there are two senses of the term “διαφανές”7: Only bodies through which things are seen are peculiarly transparent, as they are customarily described, from the fact that they bring to light. That which is apprehensible to sight when it is in the light (and φάος is light) is described in the proper sense as coming-­ to-­light. whose colour is are peculiarly transparent. For which admit light (φάος or φῶς), through which all visible bodies are seen, are generally described as transparent for both reasons, because they admit light, i.e. φάος, and because they are responsible for the fact that all the other come to light and are seen. (trans. A. Towey)

Though the text is badly corrupt at the beginning, it seems that the term “διαφανές,” according to Alexander, has a wide sense when it signifies what admits or receives (δέχεται) light, and a narrow sense (ἰδίως διαφανές) when it signifies what both admits light and lets something else be seen through it.8 In other words, what lets something else be seen through it necessarily admits light, whereas what admits light does not necessarily let something else be seen through it. To avoid possible confusion, Alexander also uses the term “δίοπτον” in the case of what is transparent in the narrow sense of both admitting light and letting something else be seen through it. So, although I choose to use the standard translation of “διαφανές” as “transparent,” the implication is that it is only in its narrow sense of both admitting light and letting something else be seen through it that “διαφανές” should be understood as transparent in our modern sense; in its wide sense of admitting light “διαφανές” could perhaps be translated as “translucent” and be understood as referring to what comes to light (φαινόμενον).

 ἰδίως δὲ διαφανῆ, ὡς εἴθισται λέγεσθαι, τῶν σωμάτων μόνα τὰ δίοπτα, ἀπὸ τοῦ *** φαινόμενον μὲν κυρίως λέγεσθαι τὸ τῇ ὄψει ἀντιληπτὸν παρὰ τὸ φάος (φάος δὲ τὸ φῶς)· ὧν δὴ τοῦτο χρῶμα, ταῦτα ἰδίως διαφανῆ. τὰ γὰρ δεχόμενα τὸ φάος ἤτοι φῶς, δι’ οὗ πάντα τὰ ὁρώμενα ὁρᾶται, ταῦτα λέγεται συνήθως διαφανῆ κατὰ ἄμφω, ὅτι τε τὸ φῶς δέχεται, ὅ ἐστι φάος, καὶ διότι τοῖς ἄλλοις πᾶσιν αἴτια ταῦτα τοῦ φαίνεσθαί τε καὶ ὁρᾶσθαι. The translator here follows Diels’ emendation: ἀπὸ τοῦ < φαίνειν>· φαινόμενον μὲν κυρίως λέγεσθαι. 8  Aristotle uses the expression “to admit light” only in one passage, in De sensu 438b10–11, in which he talks about the part within the eye that needs to be transparent and capable of admitting light (δεκτικὸν φωτός), just as the medium of vision does. I am indebted to Pavel Gregorić for bringing this passage to my attention. 7

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According to Alexander, therefore, Aristotle uses the term “διαφανές” in the De anima in a narrow sense that applies to the medium of vision, namely air or water, signifying what both admits light and lets something else be seen through it, that is, signifying that such bodies become visible by making the colour of other bodies visible through them. In the De sensu, on the other hand, he uses it in a wide sense that applies to all bodies, signifying that all bodies admit light, that is, signifying that they all become visible by partaking of colour. To put it briefly, transparency is understood in terms of the notion of visibility; the degree to which something becomes visible depends on the degree to which it is transparent, and vice versa. It is after all on account of the notion of visibility that the narrow and the wide sense of the term “διαφανές,” which Alexander distinguishes, turn out to be perfectly compatible with each other; something transparent in the wide sense becomes visible because it admits light and partakes of colour, something transparent in the narrow sense becomes visible because it admits light to such a degree that it lets the colour of something else be seen through it. So, although it may sound to us counter-­ intuitive to claim that the more transparent something is the more visible it is, because we think that the more transparent a curtain is, for example, the less visible it is in itself, it makes perfect sense in the Aristotelian context; for the more transparent a curtain is it makes the colour of other bodies more visible through it, and in this sense it becomes more visible. In fact, this double usage of the term “διαφανές” seems to reflect a common practice in Aristotle’s time. In Plato’s dialogues, for instance, “διαφανές” usually means “transparent,” as in the case of transparent waters (Phaedrus 229b8), but it also means “apparent,” “manifest,” “distinct,” “conspicuous,” as in the case of the power of a city which is said to be transparent because of the city’s virtue and strength (Timaeus 25b6; cf. Republic 544c8; 600b4). Similarly, the verb “διαφαίνειν” usually means “to let something else be seen through,” but it also means “to be apparent,” “to stand out,” “to excel,” “to be conspicuous.” That is to say, the proposition “δια-” can also function as an intensifier, and in this case the term “διαφανές” refers to something being thoroughly apparent, manifest, conspicuous, visible. But is it actually the case that Aristotle has this double usage of the term “διαφανές” in mind, when he says in the De anima that the medium of vision is transparent and when he says in the De sensu that all bodies are transparent? Aristotle never states in an explicit way that “διαφανές” has more than one sense. Still, he clearly argues that it is due to its transparency that the medium of vision becomes visible, and he thereby seems to recognize a connection between transparency and visibility, which he ventures to extend so that he can explain how all bodies become visible. For, according to Aristotle, both the medium of vision as well as what it lets be seen through it become visible due to their being transparent to a greater or lesser degree; in the case of the medium of vision, its transparency makes it visible because other bodies are seen through it, in the case of all other bodies, their transparency make them visible because it causes them to partake of colour. Nevertheless, it is most probably Alexander who first introduces, and further elaborates upon, the two senses of “διαφανές” in order to interpret Aristotle’s relevant passages.

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Assuming now that all bodies are transparent, it is reasonable to raise the issue of how transparent bodies differ from each other, that is, how some transparent bodies let other bodies be seen through them while others partake of colour. Aristotle claims in the De sensu (439b14–18) that the actualization of transparent bodies such as air or water produces light, whereas the actualization of the transparent in all other bodies produces their colour9: Now, that which when present in air produces light may be present also in the transparent; or again, it may not be present, but there may be a privation of it. Accordingly, as in the case of air the one condition is light, the other darkness, in the same way the colours white and black are generated in bodies. (trans. J. I. Beare, rev. J. Barnes)

Colour and light, therefore, share a common nature in Aristotle’s view; light is the actualized state of the transparent medium, namely air or water, when fire or an element similar to that of a celestial body acts upon it, while colour is the actualized state of the transparent in all bodies, when there is light. And it is in this sense that light is said by Aristotle to be a sort of colour (De anima 418b7–20; cf. 439a18– 21).10 As to the difference between light and colour, Aristotle seems to claim (De sensu 439a26–29) that it is due to the fact that air and water are indeterminate bodies (ἀόριστα), having no boundaries of their own, whereas all other bodies are determinately bounded (ὡρισμένα)11: Here, then, we must say that light is a nature inhering in the transparent when the latter is without determinate boundary. But it is manifest that, when the transparent is in bodies, its bounding extreme must be something real; and that colour is just this something we are plainly taught by facts. (trans. J. I. Beare, rev. J. Barnes)

Thus, Aristotle sometimes refers to the colour of determinate bodies as their own proper colour (ἴδιον: e.g. De sensu 439b13; οἰκεῖον: De anima 419a2; 6), whereas the colour of indeterminate bodies is said to be borrowed (ἀλλότριον: De anima 418b6), since they take on the colour of something else that is seen through them.12 Alexander, too, presents, in his commentary on the De sensu (42.24–43.4; 46.2 l–47.14), a similar distinction between proper (οἰκεῖον) and incidental (κατὰ συμβεβηκός) colour, which he further clarifies by indicating that determinate bodies are coloured (κεχρωσμένα) while indeterminate bodies are illuminated 9  ἔστι μὲν οὖν ἐνεῖναι ἐν τῷ διαφανεῖ τοῦθ’ ὅπερ καὶ ἐν τῷ ἀέρι ποιεῖ φῶς, ἔστι δὲ μή, ἀλλ’ ἐστερῆσθαι. ὥσπερ οὖν ἐκεῖ τὸ μὲν φῶς τὸ δὲ σκότος, οὕτως ἐν τοῖς σώμασιν ἐγγίγνεται τὸ λευκὸν καὶ τὸ μέλαν. 10  Interestingly enough, Aristotle also says in the De sensu (439b2) that the transparent medium of vision has its own colour, namely the colour “bright” (αὐγή), which can be no other than light itself. 11  ἡ μὲν οὖν τοῦ φωτὸς φύσις ἐν ἀορίστῳ τῷ διαφανεῖ ἐστίν· τοῦ δ’ ἐν τοῖς σώμασι διαφανοῦς τὸ ἔσχατον ὅτι μὲν εἴη ἄν τι, δῆλον, ὅτι δὲ τοῦτ’ ἐστὶ τὸ χρῶμα, ἐκ τῶν συμβαινόντων φανερόν. 12  On Aristotle’s distinction between the determinate bodies’ own colour and the indeterminate bodies’ borrowed colour, cf. Sorabji (2004, esp. 129–131). Sorabji is right to point out that there is a problem with Aristotle’s account, since it is not always the case that bodies with fixed boundaries have their own colour whereas those with no fixed boundaries borrow the colour from other bodies; for instance, milk has its own colour while glass has borrowed colour.

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(πεφωτισμένα). Moreover, Alexander provides us in the same commentary (48.20– 49.4) with the reason why this is so, by spelling out what Aristotle only hints at13: This is how he shows the differentiation between light and colour, and between the transparent in which these . For light is in the transparent which is indeterminate and does not possess an end proper . For just as bodies of this sort, in so far as they are bodies, do not possess a boundary proper but are always being defined and bounded by another , so too they do not possess a colour proper to themselves. This is because the colour of the body is its boundary, in so far as is transparent and able to admit colour and visible, whereas do not possess a boundary proper . (trans. A. Towey)

In other words, since indeterminate bodies do not have qua bodies some proper limit, but are always determined and bounded by something else, they do not have a proper colour in virtue of the fact that colour is defined by Aristotle as a limit; determinate bodies, on the other hand, have a limit and this is where they exhibit their proper colour. Indeed, Aristotle in the De sensu defines the colour of a determinate body as the limit of the transparent; not the limit of the body, that is, its surface, but the limit of the transparent at the limit of the body. Does this mean, however, that the colour of a determinate body is only at its surface? On the contrary, in Aristotle’s view (De sensu 439a31–b1), determinate bodies seem to be coloured inside as much as outside, due to being transparent throughout14: For it is at the limit of the body, but it is not the limit of the body; but the same nature which is coloured outside must be thought to be so inside too. (trans. J. I. Beare, rev. J. Barnes)

But is the inside of determinate bodies said to be coloured in the same way as the outside? This brings us to a distinction which Aristotle draws both in the De sensu (439a12–17) and in the De anima (426a20–26), namely the distinction between actual (ἐνεργείᾳ) and potential (δυνάμει) colour. Aristotle says in the De anima that there are actually and potentially perceived colours; colours are per se potentially perceived but when there is light they are actualized. In the De sensu, however, the distinction between actual and potential colour concerns the nature of colour in itself, that is, the actuality or the potentiality of the transparent in the body. The issue here is not under which conditions colours are actually or potentially perceived, but under which conditions colours are actually or potentially generated in determinate bodies; we have actual colour when the transparent at the surface of a determinate body is actualized by being exposed to light, whereas we have potential colour at the surface of a determinate body which is in the dark or in the inside of determinate bodies (cf. Alexander, in De sensu 42.7–13). Aristotle, 13  τὴν διαφορὰν δὲ φωτός τε καὶ χρώματος καὶ τῶν ἐν οἷς ταῦτα διαφανῶν δείκνυσι διὰ τούτων. τὸ μὲν γὰρ φῶς ἐν τῷ ἀορίστῳ διαφανεῖ καὶ οἰκεῖον οὐκ ἔχοντι τέλος. ὡς γὰρ οὐκ ἔχει τὰ τοιαῦτα σώματα, καθὸ σώματα, οἰκεῖόν τι πέρας, ἀλλ’ ἀεὶ ὑπὸ ἄλλου ὁρίζεται καὶ περατοῦται, οὕτως οὐδὲ χρῶμα οἰκεῖον ἔχει τῷ τὸ μὲν χρῶμα πέρας καὶ τοῦτο εἶναι τοῦ σώματος, καθὸ διαφανές τε καὶ χρώματος δεκτικὸν καὶ ὁρατόν, ταῦτα δὲ μὴ ἔχειν οἰκεῖον πέρας. 14  ἔστι μὲν γὰρ ἐν τῷ τοῦ σώματος πέρατι, ἀλλ’ οὐ τὸ τοῦ σώματος πέρας, ἀλλὰ τὴν αὐτὴν φύσιν δεῖ νομίζειν ἥπερ καὶ ἔξω χρωματίζεται, ταύτην καὶ ἐντός.

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therefore, seems to recognize a fourfold distinction: actual colour, potential colour, actually perceived colour, and potentially perceived colour; and this fourfold distinction implies that a determinate body is said to have actual colour when it is exposed to light, even if it is not actually perceived, that is, even if there is no sentient being to perceive it (cf. Taylor 1990; Gottlieb 1993; Ganson 1997).

2  W  hat Does It Mean for Something to Have a Particular Colour? Having thus established that bodies are coloured due to the fact that they are transparent, what still needs clarification is the nature of the transparent and exactly how it determines the particular colour a body has. Aristotle states that determinate bodies are coloured, because they are transparent to a greater or lesser degree. In fact, there are several passages in Aristotle’s works which suggest, for instance, that a body is white because it is transparent to a great degree, and black because it is not at all transparent; that is to say, the colour black is regarded as the privation (στέρησις) of the colour white (cf. De sensu 439b14–18; 442a25–26; Met. Λ 1070b18–21; GA 780a34–36). What about all other colours? How is the degree to which bodies are transparent responsible for their having the different colours they exhibit in our everyday experience? Aristotle does not give us a clear reply to this question, but in a passage from the De generatione animalium (779b28–33) he explains the black or blue colour of some animals’ eyes on the basis of how much water they consist of; more water makes the eyes less transparent, and therefore black, less water makes them more transparent, and therefore blue. In the same passage, he also discusses the example of the different colours of the sea, which at its bottom is dark blue or black, but gradually changes closer to the surface to light blue, or even to white if there are waves; this is due to the fact, Aristotle claims, that the bottom of the sea has more water than the surface does, and therefore is less transparent. Moreover, in another passage from the same treatise, he explains that animals which drink hot waters, and thereby obtain more air, are white, whereas those which drink cold waters, and thereby obtain more water, are black (GA 786a2–7).15 And there are more passages which indicate that, according to Aristotle, heat and air make bodies white, whereas water and earthy matter make bodies black (e.g. GA 735b33–37; 784b13–15; 786a12–21; Meteor. 374a7–8; 18–19; 377b22–23). It thus seems reasonable to infer that, for Aristole, the presence of each of the four elements, fire, air, water, and earth, influences the degree to which a body is transparent; hence, the colour of a body seems to depend on the proportion of the different elements it consists of.

 To these examples we should also add that of the different colours of the rainbow, though this is a more complicated phenomenon, since it involves, in Aristotle’s view, the reflection of our vision (Meteor. 373a32–375b15); cf. Berryman (2012).

15

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It is, again, Alexander who assumes the role of explaining in more detail the Aristotelian view on the production of the different colours on the basis of the degree of their transparency (in De sensu 45.26–46.6; Quaestiones 1.2 5.26–30; 6.33–7.7; Mantissa 147.27–29; 148.9–22; 149.36–150.13). Light, Alexander claims, is in some sense the colour of bodies that are transparent to the highest degree. Then comes white which characterizes bodies that are transparent to a great degree. At the other end of the spectrum black is the colour of those bodies that are transparent to a very small degree. Each of the other bodies, Alexander explicitly states, is transparent to a degree that depends on the proportion of the different elements it consists of; and thus, its colour depends entirely on this proportion. That is to say, something is white, or has a colour adjacent to white, for instance yellow, when it has more fire and air than water and earth; something is black, or has a colour adjacent to black, for instance blue, when it has more water and earth than fire and air. Counter-intuitive though it may be for us to say that it is because of the presence of fire and air that something is transparent to a great degree, and therefore has a colour adjacent to white, or that it is because of the presence of water and earth that something is transparent to a small degree, and therefore has a colour adjacent to black, it makes sense in the context of the Aristotelian theory of colours. For the four elements should not be identified with the fire, the air, the water, and the earth of our everyday experience, and most importantly the notion of something being transparent that Aristotle and Alexander use should not be thought of as the same as our modern notion. Furthermore, it is also important to point out that Aristotle understands the production of the various colours as resulting from the mixture of just two colours, namely white and black. In the De sensu (439b18–440b25) Aristotle presents three theories that explain in different ways how it is actually possible to produce all colours from the combination of just white and black. According to the first theory, all colours are produced by the juxtaposition (παρ᾽ ἄλληλα θέσις) of very small white and black particles which are the constituents of all things; although the white and black particles are not themselves apparent, because of their minute size, things acquire certain colours as a result of the specific proportion in which the white and black particles are found in each one of them. As I have argued elsewhere, this theory can be safely attributed to Empedocles (Ierodiakonou 2005). According to the second theory, which corresponds to what ancient painters often did when they painted, all colours are produced by the superposition (ἐπιπόλασις) of white and black pigments, just as the painters used to put a darker colour on top of a brighter colour so that one colour shows through another, and thus a new hue is produced. To illustrate how this works, Aristotle gives the example of the white sun looking red when seen through mist or smoke. The third theory is Aristotle’s own explanation of how the various colours are generated. He claims that we get different colours because different bodies are mixed together in different proportions in a complete mixture (μίξις). The complete mixture of different bodies to which he most probably refers here is the mixture of the four elements described in the De generatione et corruptione 1.10; that is to say, the four elements are mixed together in such a

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way that their characteristics survive only in a modified way. Therefore, when Aristotle says that the colour of a body is produced by the mixture of black and white, what he seems to have in mind is that its colour depends on the proportion of the different elements this body consists of. Finally, in the De sensu Aristotle further elaborates his theory of the production of mixed colours, by associating each particular colour with a certain mathematical ratio. It is not my aim here to work out the details of the Aristotelian account (cf. Sorabji 1972; Fine 1996). Still, I want to underline that Aristotle’s theory of mixed colours shares with Empedocles’ theory the thesis that all colours are produced from some kind of combination of just two colours, namely white and black. This clearly suggests that Aristotle understands the colours white and black in a certain way that obviously differs from ours; for white and black, and consequently all other colours, depend on how transparent determinate bodies are. It is in this sense, therefore, that white and black are said to be the two extremes of a continuum, which is considered as similar in nature to that of the opposites light and darkness; all other colours are treated by Aristotle as shades of white and black. Hence, it may be argued that Aristotle’s conception of the colours white and black as basic should encourage us to at least reconsider, if not justify, the provocative position defended by some contemporary scholars that the Greek colour terms have luminosities rather than hues as their primary connotation (cf. Platnauer 1921; Osborne 1968).16

3  W  hy Does Aristotle Think That His Theory of Colours Constitutes an Advance on Those of His Predecessors? Aristotle often criticizes his predecessors’ views on colour and colour vision, by pointing out that the consequences drawn from them contradict the observed phenomena. He criticizes Empedocles’ and Plato’s view that the eyes consist of fire and that vision is due to the emanation of fire, by pointing out that, if this were the case, vision would have been as possible in the dark as it is in the light, and it would be impossible in rain or frosty weather (De sensu 437b10–23). He also criticizes Democritus for claiming that vision is nothing but the mere mirroring on the smooth surface of the eye, by pointing out that, if this were the case, all other smooth surfaces on which things are mirrored would be able to see (De sensu 438a5–12). So, Aristotle seems to introduce his own theory on the nature and perception of colour because he thinks that it manages to explain the observed phenomena better; or in other words, he thinks that his theory manages to save the phenomena. For instance, Aristotle’s account of colour is meant to adequately explain why it is that, although we see the air and the sea as having different colours from a distance and close by,

16

 For the opposite view, cf. Bruno (1977, 47–51), Pollitt (2002).

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other bodies always retain under normal conditions the same colour (De sensu 439b3–6)17: But the colour which air or sea presents, since the body in which it resides is not determinately bounded, is not the same when one approaches and views it close by as it is when one regards it from a distance; whereas in determinate bodies the colour presented is definitely fixed, unless, indeed, when the atmospheric environment causes it to change. (trans. J. I. Beare, rev. J. Barnes)

That is to say, Aristotle’s distinction between indeterminate and determinate bodies and his account of the different way in which colour is generated in them helps him to adequately explain the phenomenon of the changing colours of the air and the sea; for the colour of the air and the sea changes, according to him, because these bodies have no proper colour but take on the colour of the body which is seen through them, whereas the proper colour of determinate bodies is fixed and changes only under special conditions. But does the explanatory power of Aristotle’s views on colour fully account for his decision to define colour in terms of the transparent? It is important to note here that the Aristotelian doctrine concerning the production of colours does not imply that the elements themselves are coloured. On the contrary, Aristotle distances himself in this respect from Empedocles who claims, if my interpretation of his fragments is correct, that the element of fire is white and the element of water is black. He also moves away from Plato’s theory of colours in the Timaeus (67c4–68d7), according to which colour is defined as streams of fire particles. In Aristotle’s theory, by contrast, none of the four elements is itself coloured. The only opposites that characterize the elements are hot and cold, dry and wet; as he says in the De generatione et corruptione (329b10–12; 330a30–b7), fire is hot and dry, air is hot and wet, water is cold and wet, and finally earth is cold and dry. However, postulating that the four elements are not themselves coloured leaves Aristotle with the task to give an explanation of the ontological basis of the colours that bodies exhibit. This is, I think, what he aims at when he introduces, as we have seen at the beginning (De sensu 439a21–25), the common nature (κοινὴ φύσις) and power (δύναμις) that is inherent in all bodies to a greater or lesser degree and is responsible for their colour, namely their transparency. And most importantly, Aristotle regards this power or disposition of bodies to affect perceivers in a certain way as perfectly real and objective; for he makes clear that the colours of bodies depend not on the way we perceive them, but on the degree of their transparency that in its turn depends on the proportion of the different elements they consist of. Hence, although Aristotle’s colour theory differs considerably from Empedocles’ and Plato’s, they all share the thesis that colours are properties which bodies do actually have independently of the sentient beings which perceive them.

 ἀλλ’ ἐκεῖ μὲν διὰ τὸ ἐν ἀορίστῳ οὐ τὴν αὐτὴν ἐγγύθεν καὶ προσιοῦσι καὶ πόρρωθεν ἔχει χρόαν οὔθ’ ὁ ἀὴρ οὔθ’ ἡ θάλαττα· ἐν δὲ τοῖς σώμασιν, ἐὰν μὴ τὸ περιέχον ποιῇ μεταβάλλειν, ὥρισται καὶ ἡ φαντασία τῆς χρόας.

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Interestingly enough, however, Alexander adds that the transparency of bodies should also be understood as some kind of matter (ὕλη πως) underlying colours.18 Moreover, he justifies this additional characterization by putting forward the following analogy, which brings to mind Aristotle’s account of quality in the eighth chapter of his Categories: as there is a certain matter, Alexander says, of large and small, hot and cold, moist and dry, light and heavy, capable of receiving all such oppositions in turn, so the matter of opposition in colour is the transparent (Mantissa 147.29–148.1)19: Diaphaneia is in a way the matter of colour. For as there is a certain matter of great and small, and of light and heavy, and of the other oppositions similarly, capable of receiving them in turn, so the diaphanes is the matter of opposition in colour. (trans. R. W. Sharples)

Or again, since in the case of all qualities which are generated and exist in something else there is some matter underlying them, capable of receiving all such oppositions in turn, colour, too, being a quality of this kind, has some matter underlying it; and this is not the elements, which are not themselves coloured, but the common nature and power that characterizes them, namely the transparent (Quaestiones 1.2 5.30–6.3)20: For since colour is among the things that are and is also among those whose nature is to be in other things, there had also to be some body in which colour [might be], and this is diaphanes body. For this is the proximate matter of colour, what is diaphanes in actuality possessing [colour] in actuality, what is [diaphanes] potentially being like matter receptive of colours that are opposite to one another and of those that are intermediate between these. And in every body that possesses colour or is receptive of colour there is mixed in also the nature of the diaphanes. (trans. R. W. Sharples; cf. also Alexander, In De sensu 44.22–45.4; Mantissa 148.29–30)

This is Alexander’s interpretation of the nature of the transparency of bodies. In this issue, just like in all others previously discussed, for instance the issue concerning the sense in which all bodies are transparent and that concerning the differences between transparent bodies, Alexander tries to explain Aristotle’s concise and somewhat obscure remarks. However, in commenting on the nature of the transparency of bodies, Alexander goes, I think, further than simply providing us with a clarification and explanation of Aristotle’s doctrines. For he seems to make an attempt to combine Aristotle’s principles of the structure of bodies with those employed by his theory of vision; and he does it in such a way, so that the Aristotelian system can be 18  It is worth noting that this characterization of the transparent of bodies as some kind of matter for colours may go back to Theophrastus; cf. Priscian of Lydia, Metaphrasis in Theophrastum 13.31–14.2. 19  ἔστι γὰρ ἡ διαφάνεια ὕλη πως χρώματος. ὡς γάρ ἐστι μεγάλου καὶ μικροῦ ὕλη τις, καὶ κούφου καὶ βαρέος καὶ τῶν ἄλλων ἐναντιοτήτων ὁμοίως, ὃ δεκτικὸν αὐτῶν ἐστι παρὰ μέρος, οὕτως καὶ τῆς ἐν χρώμασιν ἐναντιότητος ὕλη τὸ διαφανές. 20  ἐπεὶ γὰρ τῶν τε ὄντων τὸ χρῶμα καὶ τῶν ἐν ἄλλοις εἶναι πεφυκότων, εἶναί τι ἔδει καὶ σῶμα, ἐν ᾧ τὸ χρῶμα, καὶ ἔστι τοῦτο τὸ διαφανὲς σῶμα. ὕλη γὰρ τοῦτο προσεχὴς χρώματος, τὸ μὲν ἐνεργείᾳ διαφανὲς ἔχον αὐτὸ ἐνεργείᾳ, τὸ δὲ δυνάμει ὡς ὕλη ὂν δεκτικὸν τῶν τε ἐναντίων χρωμάτων ἀλλήλοις καὶ τῶν τούτοις μεταξύ. καὶ ἐν παντὶ σώματι χρῶμα ἔχοντι ἢ ὄντι χρώματος δεκτικῷ ἐστι μεμιγμένη καὶ ἡ τοῦ διαφανοῦς φύσις.

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presented as consistent. That is to say, Alexander in his comments makes sure that the Aristotelian theory of the four elements is perfectly in tune with the role of the transparent according to Aristotle’s views on the nature and perception of colour. To conlude, it is really intriguing that no ancient philosopher before or after Aristotle explained the colour of bodies by referring to the notion of “the transparent” (τὸ διαφανές). There is even evidence that some of the Peripatetics after Aristotle abandoned this notion altogether, and decided to attribute colour directly to the four elements themselves (Ganson 2004). Nevertheless, Aristotle seems to have stressed the role of the transparent, first because he believed that perception, and in particular vision, requires the transparent medium, and second because he realized that light and colour are of a similar nature, a nature that is responsible for making bodies visible. It is his commentator Alexander, however, who became aware of the need and took upon him to bring the transparency of bodies into line with Aristotle’s general principles of their structure. And this, I think, further confirms the view, shared both by ancient thinkers and by contemporary scholars, that Alexander’s interpretation of Aristotle’s doctrines should be regarded as the most philosophically insightful, though tricky at times. Acknowledgements  I would like to thank for their helpful comments on an earlier draft of this paper Simona Aimar, Börje Bydén, Isidoros Katsos, André Laks, François Nollé, and especially Pavel Gregorić.

Bibliography Berryman, Sylvia. 2012. ‘It makes no difference’: Optics and natural philosophy in Late Antiquity. Apeiron 45: 201–220. Broackes, Justin. 1999. Aristotle, objectivity, and perception. Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 17: 57–113. Broadie, Sarah. 1993. Aristotle’s perceptual realism. Southern Journal of Philosophy 31 (Supplement): 137–159. Bruno, Vincent J. 1977. Form and color in Greek painting. New York: W. W. Norton & Co.. Burnyeat, Myles. 1992. Is an Aristotelian philosophy of mind still credible? A draft. In Essays on Aristotle’s De anima, ed. Martha Nussbaum and Amélie Oksenberg Rorty, 15–26. Oxford: Clarendon Press. ———. 1995. How much happens when Aristotle sees red and hears middle C? Remarks on De anima 2.7–8. In Essays on Aristotle’s De anima, ed. Martha Nussbaum and Amélie Oksenberg Rorty, 2nd ed., 421–434. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Caston, Victor. 2005. The spirit and the letter: Aristotle on perception. In Metaphysics, soul, and ethics in ancient thought, ed. Ricardo Salles, 245–320. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Everson, Stephen. 1997. Aristotle on perception. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Fine, Kit. 1996. The problem of mixture. In Form, matter and mixture in Aristotle, ed. Frank A. Lewis and Robert Bolton, 82–182. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers. Ganson, Todd S. 1997. What’s wrong with the Aristotelian theory of sensible qualities? Phronesis 42: 263–282. ———. 2002. A puzzle concerning the Aristotelian notion of a medium of sense-perception. In On the Opuscula of Theophrastus, ed. William W.  Fortenbaugh and Georg Wöhrle, 65–74. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag.

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———. 2004. Third-century Peripatetics on vision. In Lyco of Troas and Hieronymus of Rhodes, Rutgers University Studies in Classical Humanities, ed. William W. Fortenbaugh and Stephen A. White, vol. 12, 355–362. New Brunswick: Transaction Publishers. Gottlieb, Paula. 1993. Aristotle versus Protagoras on relatives and the objects of perception. Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 11: 101–119. Ierodiakonou, Katerina. 2005. Empedocles on colour and colour vision. Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 29: 1–37. Johansen, Thomas K. 2012. The powers of Aristotle’s soul. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lorenz, Hendrik. 2007. The assimilation of sense to sense-object in Aristotle. Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 33: 179–220. Magee, Joseph M. 2000. Sense organs and the activity of sensation in Aristotle. Phronesis 45: 306–330. Osborne, Harold. 1968. Colour concepts of the ancient Greeks. The British Journal of Aesthetics 8: 269–283. Platnauer, Maurice. 1921. Greek colour-perception. Classical Quarterly 15: 153–162. Pollitt, Jerome J.  2002. Περὶ χρωμάτων: What ancient Greek painters thought about colors. In Color in ancient Greece: The role of color in ancient Greek art and architecture (700–31 B.C.), ed. Michalis A. Tiverios and Despoina S. Tsiafakis, 1–8. Thessaloniki: Aristotle University of Thessaloniki. Silverman, Allan. 1989. Color and color perception in Aristotle’s De anima. Ancient Philosophy 9: 271–292. Sisko, John. 1998. Alteration and quasi-alteration: A critical notice of Stephen Everson, Aristotle on Perception. Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 16: 331–352. Sorabji, Richard. 1972. Aristotle, mathematics, and colour: intermediate colours as mixtures of black and white. Classical Quarterly 22: 293–308. ———. 1992. Intentionality and physiological processes: Aristotle’s theory of sense-perception. In Essays on Aristotle’s De anima, ed. Martha Nussbaum and Amélie Oksenberg Rorty, 195– 225. Oxford: Clarendon Press. ———. 2001. Aristotle on sensory processes and intentionality. In Ancient and medieval theories of intentionality, ed. Dominik Perler, 49–61. Leiden: Brill. ———. 2004. Aristotle on colour, light and imperceptibles. Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies 47: 129–140. Taylor, C.C.W. 1990. Aristotle’s epistemology. In Companions to ancient thought: Epistemology, ed. Stephen Everson, 116–142. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Woolf, Raphael. 1999. The coloration of Aristotelian eye-jelly: A note on On dreams, 459b–460a. Journal of the History of Philosophy 37: 385–391.

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Chapter 5

Aristotle’s Transparency: Comments on Ierodiakonou, “Aristotle and Alexander of Aphrodisias on Colour” Pavel Gregoric

Abstract  In my comment on Katerina Ierodiakonou’s paper, I outline my understanding of the programme of De anima and how it bears on Aristotle’s discussion of the transparent in De anima 2.7, in contrast with his discussion of the transparent in De sensu 3. I then explore Aristotle’s notion of transparency and sketch an alternative to Ierodiakonou’s interpretation of Aristotle’s views as to how colours are generated in physical objects. At the end, I raise two objections to Alexander’s interpretation of the transparent as discussed by Ierodiakonou.

1. Thankfully, Katerina Ierodiakonou’s paper puts aside the question of how, according to Aristotle, we perceive colours, and addresses the prior question concerning the nature of colour in itself. This prior question is as interesting as it has been neglected, Aristotle’s answer is intriguing, and Ierodiakonou’s interpretation of Aristotle’s answer is convincing. Absolutely central to Aristotle’s theory of colour is his concept of the transparent (τὸ διαφανές). However, as Ierodiakonou observes, Aristotle’s two accounts of the transparent, one in De anima 2.7 and the other in De sensu 3, appear rather discrepant. In De anima 2.7, the transparent is a property of certain bodies, notably air and water, which allows them to function as the media of vision. In De sensu 3, however, the transparent is a property which belongs to all bodies in a greater or lesser degree and which allows them to have colour. Ierodiakonou begins to address this apparent discrepancy by calling attention to the different contexts in which the two accounts of the transparent are set. While the focus of De sensu 3 is “on the nature of colour in itself,” she writes, “[i]n the De anima the focus is on how we perceive colours, and thus what is transparent refers here to the medium of vision, that is, what makes something else visible” (p. 79). I agree that the discrepancy is only apparent and best explained with reference to different P. Gregoric (*) Institute of Philosophy, Zagreb, Croatia e-mail: [email protected] © Springer International Publishing AG, part of Springer Nature 2018 B. Bydén, F. Radovic (eds.), The Parva naturalia in Greek, Arabic and Latin Aristotelianism, Studies in the History of Philosophy of Mind 17, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-26904-7_5

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focuses of the works in which the two accounts are set, but I would describe the focus of De anima differently. There are two reasons I should like to propose a different description of the focus of De anima. One reason is more general, and has to do with my conviction that false expectations from De anima have generated an unduly large amount of scholarly disputes over the past thirty years or so. The more specific reason is that a different description of the focus of De anima will put me in position to say some things about Aristotle’s concept of the transparent that perhaps fall outside of the scope of Ierodiakonou’s paper, but also to propose a different view of the relationship between the transparent and colour. 2. The project of De anima, I take it, is to give an account of the principle of a science, namely the science of living beings or biology. Aristotle is aware of the challenges before such an account, as we learn from De anima 1.1. One challenge is to find a proper way of dividing the subject matter. Although souls are not divisible entities, as Aristotle insists, an appropriate way of splitting up the subject matter has to be found if the project is to be brought to completion. The appropriate way of splitting up the subject matter would be into parts that are (i) conceptually independent from one another (“separable in account,” as Aristotle would put it); (ii) explanatory of other capacities and phenomena of the soul; and (iii) exhaustive. Once the subject matter is divided into such parts, Aristotle can provide a detailed treatment of each part, allowing that some parts require further divisions and additional elaborations. With the last part receiving a proper treatment, the bulk of the project of De anima is complete: a systematic account of the principle of living beings is set out and ready to be applied in other parts of Aristotelian biology. Aristotle divides the soul into the nutritive, the perceptual and the thinking part.1 Each part is a capacity, and a capacity can only be explained with reference to the corresponding activity. The activities, in turn, can only be explained with reference to their corresponding objects. So the first and foremost thing to be explained, if one wants to give a proper treatment of a part of the soul, is the object with which that part of the soul is concerned. What Aristotle needs to do here is to identify the object correctly and to explain which conditions have to be satisfied for the object to bring the corresponding capacity into actuality. If the identified object is present and the specified conditions are satisfied, the corresponding capacity will be actualized by the object. There are no further requirements for the activity to take place. Of course, most capacities require bodily organs, but in De anima Aristotle satisfies himself with saying only very basic things about the organs and their properties. As far as De anima is concerned, with an adequate identification of the object with which a part of the soul is concerned, and with an explanation of the conditions that have to be met for the object to actualize this part of the soul, Aristotle’s work on that part of the soul is mostly done. To put this in more specific terms: if you understand what each type of object of perception is and which conditions have to be satisfied for it to actualize the corresponding perceptual capacity, you understand 1  The capacity to move the animal from one place to another turns out to belong essentially to the perceptual part of the soul, and thus does not merit the status of a part of the soul.

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what the different types of perceptual activities are, you thus understand what the special senses are, and in the end you come to understand what the perceptual part of the soul is (or perhaps not just yet, since you also need to understand that the five senses, each exercised by a different type of sensible object, are in fact unified, as Aristotle argues in De anima 3.1–2). Much though you understand about perception by this point, you do not yet understand how an episode of perception comes about. To understand that, you also need to know what is the nature of colour or sound in itself, how they change the medium, how the medium changes the peripheral sense organs, how the peripheral sense organs convey these changes to the central sense organ, and why perception takes place there and there only. However, explaining these things is not the aim of De anima, at any rate not as I read it. The aim of De anima is, rather, to give an account of the soul, which includes an account of the perceptual part. Consequently, I do not think that the focus in De anima is on “how we perceive colours.”2 I stress this because some scholars, assuming that Aristotle’s aim in De anima is to explain how we perceive colours, have read certain passages of De anima as suggesting that tomatoes make our eye-jelly go red. Other scholars have argued that this could not be what the passages say. Proving that De anima contains no evidence for the view that perception involves physical changes, yet sharing the assumption that De anima contains Aristotle’s explanation of how we perceive colours, the latter scholars concluded that perception involved no physical change whatsoever, thus making Aristotle’s theory even less credible than it actually is. Both parties, I think, are partly right and partly wrong. The literalists are right to claim that in Aristotle’s theory episodes of perception involve physical changes, but wrong to seek evidence for that claim in De anima. The spiritualists are right to claim that De anima provides no evidence for the view that in Aristotle’s theory episodes of perception involve physical changes, but wrong to think that, therefore, episodes of perception do not involve physical changes in Aristotle’s theory. What is common to both parties, however, is the same false assumption that, to quote Ierodiakonou, “[i]n the De anima the focus is on how we perceive colours.” If that is a false assumption, what is the true focus of De anima, then, due to which the definition of the transparent in De anima 2.7 differs from the definition stated in De sensu 3? As I have indicated, the focus is the identification of the object with which a given part of the soul is concerned and of the conditions under which the object comes to actualize this part or capacity of the soul. In particular, the focus of the chapters on perception is the identification of the five types of special sense objects and the conditions that have to be satisfied for them to produce seeing, hearing, etc. Here we are interested in the identification of the object of vision (τὸ ὁρατόν). In the opening lines of De anima 2.7, Aristotle says that there are two types of proper objects of vision (ὁρατὰ καθ' αὑτά): colour and a class that has no proper name (418a26–28). We learn that items in the nameless class “are not seen in the light, but produce perception in the dark, e.g. fiery and shining appearances … such 2  See what Aristotle says about the division of labour between De anima and De sensu on the subject of perception, in De sensu 3, 439a12–17.

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as f­ungus, horn, the heads, scales and eyes of fish” (419a2–5).3 The fundamental difference between these two types of proper objects of vision is that colours require light to be visible, whereas phosphorescences—as I propose to call the nameless class of items—require darkness to be visible. Both types of things visible in themselves require an explanation. To explain why colours require light to be visible and why phosphorescences require darkness to be visible, Aristotle clearly needs to explain what light and darkness are. And since both light and darkness are states of the transparent (τὸ διαφανές), it is hardly surprising that Aristotle makes an effort to explain the transparent in some detail—and not just any sort of the transparent, but specifically the sort that explains light and darkness as conditions of the visibility of colours and of phosphorescences, respectively. True, Aristotle says disappointingly little about phosphorescence,4 and he focuses mostly on colour. However, he says enough to disprove Ierodiakonou’s claim on p. 78, that Aristotle “seems to believe that there is no vision without colours.” Surely Aristotle believes that there is vision without colours—namely, vision of phosphorescences. But while vision of phosphorescences requires darkness, when no vision of colour is possible, vision of colours requires light, when no vision of phosphorescences is possible. 3. The transparent that explains light and darkness is a property of bodies that serve as a medium of vision, typically air and water. In De anima 2.7, 418b6–7, Aristotle attributes this property to “many solid bodies” too, presumably all those bodies that let things show through them, for example, glass, crystal, fibre and the like. In De sensu 3, however, Aristotle claims that this property inheres in all bodies to a greater or lesser degree (ὑπάρχει δὲ μᾶλλον καὶ ἧττον ἐν πᾶσι, 439b8–9; cf. 439a24–25). In bodies which do not have determinate boundaries, such as water and air, transparency is what accounts for light and darkness. Light is defined as the actualization of transparency in such bodies in the presence of fire or the sun. By implication, darkness is the potentiality of transparency in such bodies in the absence of fire or the sun. In bodies which do have determinate boundaries, that is, in solid objects such as rocks and cups, transparency is what accounts for their colour. Colour is defined as the limit of the transparent in determinate bodies (439b11–12), observing the endoxon that colours are or belong to the surface of objects. Aristotle adds that even indeterminate bodies exhibit colour at their limit, but their colour very much varies with factors such as distance of observation or the quantity of the body, e.g. the colour of the sea gets darker as the depth of the sea increases.5 3  Hamlyn’s translation slightly modified. I take it that the examples listed by Aristotle are not themselves members of the nameless class, but things which exhibit items of the nameless class. For instance, it is not the “head of fish” that belongs to the nameless class, but the characteristic greenish phosphorescence exhibited in the dark by heads of a certain kind of fish. 4  He leaves us with a promissory note at 419a6–7: δι’ ἣν μὴν οὖν αἰτίαν ταῦτα ὁρᾶται, ἄλλος λόγος. 5  See the passage from De generatione animalium 5.1, 779b28–33, quoted by Ierodiakonou on p. 84.

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To use modern jargon, we can say that transparency is a necessary macroscopic property of bodies which emerges from their elemental composition. It is a necessary property, because every body, regardless of its elemental composition, will inevitably be transparent to some degree. It is a macroscopic property, because it is a property above the threshold of visibility, be it direct visibility of a colour or ­indirect visibility of a medium which allows things to show through it. And it is an emergent property, because no element is itself transparent, but any sufficiently large agglomeration of elements will always be transparent to some degree. Now the property of transparency accounts for several different phenomena. First of all, it accounts for the phenomenon of mediating proper objects of vision. This phenomenon occurs only in bodies with the highest degree of transparency. Presumably, the requisite degree of transparency is achieved by bodies composed predominantly of the airy or the watery element. Incidentally, bodies of such ­elemental composition will not have determinate boundaries of their own. Moreover, the phenomenon of mediating proper objects of vision occurs only when the transparency of the indeterminate bodies is in a certain state. To mediate colours, transparency has to be actualized, that is, air or water has to be lit, which happens in the presence of fire or the sun. To mediate phosphorescences, transparency has to be in potentiality, that is, air or water has to be dark, which happens in the absence of fire or the sun. This brings us to the second phenomenon for which transparency accounts: light and darkness. These are two opposite states of transparency in indeterminate bodies, caused respectively by the presence and the absence of fire or the sun. Of course, there are many intermediate states between the two opposites, depending on the size of fire or the position of the sun in the sky. These intermediate states make things more or less visible, for example, in the dusk colours get less visible while phosphorescences start to become visible. Third, transparency accounts for the phenomenon of colour, both for varying colours of indeterminate bodies (such as shades of blue relative to the quantity of water) and for fixed colours of determinate solid bodies. Here the key question is how precisely transparency accounts for the phenomenon of colour. On p. 84 Ierodiakonou says that “a body is white because it is transparent to a great degree, and black because it is not at all transparent,” implying that it is simply the degree of transparency of determinate bodies that explains their colour. On this account, then, different colours just are different degrees of transparency of determinate bodies. I find this account problematic on at least two grounds. Firstly, this account forces us to assume that a marble plate is white because it has a high degree of transparency, which is counterintuitive, given that even a very thin marble plate does not let other things be seen through it. If one insists that the white marble plate is transparent nonetheless, then I wonder what is the difference between the white marble plate and a white piece of fibre which may have a high degree of transparency, as it lets other things be seen through it. Secondly, and more fundamentally, this account is problematic because it blurs the distinction between colour and transparency as a neutral state with regard to colours. On Aristotle’s theory, the sense is a mean in relation to a range of sensible

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qualities that it discriminates, and for that purpose the sense organ has to be neutral in relation to these sensible qualities. This seems to speak against conceptualizing the sensible qualities in terms of different degrees of neutrality. Perhaps it is more promising to dissociate the degree of transparency from colour, and explain colour differently, for example, as an effect of one part of a determinate body’s elemental composition upon its transparency, regardless of the degree of transparency that this particular elemental composition happens to produce. For example, a piece of rock has a certain elemental composition which gives it a certain (low) degree of transparency. Because the rock is composed of the fiery element in some significant proportion, the small degree of transparency that is present in the rock is actualized in such a way that the rock is white. A coal, by contrast, has composition with the fiery element in such low proportion that its transparency, in whatever degree it happens to be present in the coal, remains potential, which makes coal black. A confirmation of this explanation of colour, I think, can be found in a passage from De sensu 3, quoted and interpreted differently by Ierodiakonou: Now, that which when present in air produces light may be present also in the transparent; or again, it may not be present, but there may be a privation of it. Accordingly, as in the case of air the one condition is light, the other darkness, in the same way the colours white and black are generated in bodies. (De sensu 3, 439b14–18; trans. J. I. Beare, rev. J. Barnes)

If “that which when present in air produces light” is fire (cf. De anima 2.7, 418b12), this passage can be read as saying that the fiery element can be present or absent in the transparency of a determinate body; if the fiery element is present, or abundantly present, the body will be white, and if the fiery element is absent, or nearly absent, the body will be black.6 A similar story can be told about phosphorescence. It is reasonable to suppose that phosphorescence is an outcome of specific elemental composition, probably one in which the fiery element predominates or enters a special mixture with the other elements. Phosphorescent bodies are transparent to some degree, of course, but their transparency enters an explanation of their colour, not of their phosphorescence. Aristotle insists that it is not the colour of phosphorescent bodies that is visible in the dark (ἀλλ’ οὐδενὸς ὁρᾶται τούτων τὸ οἰκεῖον χρῶμα, 419a6). So, phosphorescence is not the fourth phenomenon that the property of transparency accounts for. The suggestion that the fiery element accounts for phosphorescence is additionally attractive, I believe, because it assigns a role to the fiery element analogous (i) to the role fire plays in actualizing the transparency of determinate bodies, that is in producing their colour, but also (ii) to the role fire plays in actualizing the transparency of indeterminate bodies that serve as the media of vision. Just as a mass of fire (or ether) is necessary to actualize the transparency of an indeterminate body so as to let other things become visible through them, that is, to light up the 6  One obvious objection to this suggestion is that snow would need to have a lot of fiery element in it, but I suppose there are ways to defuse this objection, for instance, by adding air as another colour-generating element; cf. De generatione animalium 2.2, 735b19–21.

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medium, a certain amount of fiery element, mixed in the right proportion with the other elements, is likewise necessary for a determinate body to become visible when the transparency of an indeterminate body is not actualized, that is, to make things glow in the dark. If this is roughly correct, fire (or ether) seems to be at least as responsible for making bodies visible as the transparent, which seems to be fully in line with common experience. 4. Finally a word on Alexander to whom Ierodiakonou turns for help in distinguishing two senses of τὸ διαφανές. She summarizes Alexander’s distinction on p. 81: According to Alexander, therefore, Aristotle uses the term “διαφανές” in the De anima in a narrow sense that applies to the medium of vision, namely air or water, signifying what both admits light and lets something else be seen through it, that is, signifying that such bodies become visible by making the colour of other bodies visible through them. In the De sensu, on the other hand, he uses it in a wide sense that applies to all bodies, signifying that all bodies admit light, that is, signifying that they all become visible by partaking of colour. To put it briefly, transparency is understood in terms of the notion of visibility; the degree to which something becomes visible depends on the degree to which it is transparent, and vice versa.

Ierodiakonou’s presentation of Alexander’s interpretation, spelled out in his commentary on De sensu (45.11–16), seems to me correct. Alexander thinks that something is transparent in the narrow sense if it fulfils two conditions: if it (i) admits light and if it (ii) lets something else be seen through it. Something is transparent in a wider sense if it fulfils only the first condition, that of admitting light. So, common to the transparent in both senses is that of “admitting light.” I see two problems with Alexander’s distinction. First, I am not sure that an indeterminate body, such as air or water serving as the medium of vision, admits light (φῶς δέχεται) in the same way in which a determinate body, such as the yellow cup on my table, admits light. Presumably, indeterminate bodies admit light in the sense that the property of transparency is actualized in them, and it is actualized in the presence of fire or an ethereal body such as the sun (cf. De anima 2.7, 418b12–13). The more this property of transparency is actualized in an indeterminate body, depending on the size of fire or height of the sun in the sky, the more visible colours of objects contained in that body  become. Determinate bodies, on the other hand, admit light in the sense of “what comes to light (φαινόμενον)”, i.e. of what becomes visible (p. 80). This sense of “admitting light” clearly has little or nothing to do with the property of transparency in indeterminate bodies. The transparency of determinate bodies enters an explanation of their colour, and they have their colour even in the dark, before they come to light and become visible. To say that the transparent admits light in both indeterminate and determinate bodies, therefore, is to indulge in homonymy. Second, we can accept that indeterminate bodies, such as air or water, admit light in the sense that the property of transparency in a medium is actualized. And the better this property is actualized, the more visible colours of objects located in the medium become. But, remember, at the same time the less visible phospho-

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rescences become. With phosphorescences it is the other way round: the weaker the actualization of the property of transparency in the medium, the more visible phosphorescences become. They are most visible when the medium is not actualized at all, when it is only potential, that is in pitch darkness. Why is this important? Because when we see a phosphorescence—and we can see it only in the dark—we indirectly see also the medium, insofar as it lets the phosphorescence be visible through it. This means that it is wrong to connect transparency and visibility with light too tightly, as Alexander seems to be doing.

Chapter 6

Representation of Which Reality? “Spiritual Forms” and “maʿānī ” in the Arabic Adaptation of Aristotle’s Parva naturalia Rotraud Hansberger Abstract  This paper investigates the internal tensions within the account of “spiritual forms” in the ninth century Arabic adaptation of Aristotle’s Parva naturalia. In the context of memory, these forms are introduced as mental representations of perceived reality; in the context of veridical dreaming, however, they as well as the perceptible objects are characterized as representations of a higher reality associated with the external “universal intellect,” and moreover seem to require their own ontologically independent realm of “spirituality.”

1  “ Representation and Reality” in the Arabic Parva naturalia1 In the context of Aristotle’s Parva naturalia, the topic of “representation and reality” will usually evoke the question of how Aristotle characterizes our access to reality via sense perception, perhaps with particular emphasis on the role he assigns to imagination within that process. One might assume, prima facie, that this should apply in equal measure to the Arabic version of the text, and that an article on this topic as treated in the Arabic Parva naturalia would discuss some sort of interpretation of Aristotle’s theory of perception and imagination. This, however, is not quite the case. Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs, “Book on Sense Perception and the 1  This article draws on research carried out in my unpublished doctoral thesis (Hansberger 2007, esp. 69–91); the topic is also discussed in a different context in Hansberger (forthcoming). I would like to  thank the  organizers of  the  2014 Representation and  Reality conference for  giving me the opportunity to present this paper, and the participants for a stimulating discussion. I am particularly grateful to Emma Gannagé for her lucid, engaging and helpful comments, from which I have profited very much. Finally, I would like to thank Peter Adamson and the editors of this volume for their remarks on the penultimate version of this paper.

R. Hansberger (*) Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität München, München, Germany e-mail: [email protected] © Springer International Publishing AG, part of Springer Nature 2018 B. Bydén, F. Radovic (eds.), The Parva naturalia in Greek, Arabic and Latin Aristotelianism, Studies in the History of Philosophy of Mind 17, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-26904-7_6

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Perceived,” (as the Arabic version is called) is really more of an adaptation than a translation, and differs quite substantially from its Greek original. As it happens, these differences concern not least its approach to representation (and, indeed, reality). In fact, what the Arabic version has to offer with respect to this particular topic is so far removed from Aristotle it is hard to see it as an interpretation of Aristotle’s text at all. In part, this is due to the adaptor’s concern for the question how our mental faculties represent, not what we perceive in the external world, but what we do not (or at any rate not yet) perceive: one of his main interests appears to be the question of divinatory dreams.2 In that alone we find a clear deviation from Aristotle’s work, where the question of veridical dreams is confined to the (comparatively brief) treatise De divinatione per somnum. In the Arabic version, not only is there no demarcation of different treatises on sleep, dreams and divination (as in the Greek Parva naturalia): all three topics are united in a “Chapter on Sleep and Waking” (Bāb al-­Nawm wa-l-yaqaẓa). More importantly, rather than being confined to its last section, the topic of divinatory dreams pervades the entire chapter, starting with the early pages of what would be the equivalent of De somno et vigilia. However, the psychological theory that underlies the adaptor’s account of (divinatory) dreaming is, to a lesser extent, also present in the part corresponding to Aristotle’s De memoria et reminiscentia. Here we encounter it in the context of perception, memory and recollection. The two cases differ from each other in that the latter involves mental representations of past reality, whereas the former involves representations of future reality. In this paper I want to examine how this difference affects the adaptor’s concept of representation and its relation to reality, and in particular whether he can offer a coherent account that is consistent across both cases. In order to do this, however, it will first be necessary to provide some more general information on the adaptation and its characteristic features.

2  K  itāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs: The Adaptation and Its Characteristics There is no name or date attached to the Arabic adaptation of the Parva naturalia, but some of its features—both in terms of language and of content—indicate that it may have been produced in the early ninth century AD, possibly by someone linked to the so-called “circle of al-Kindī” (Hansberger (2007, 212–220).3 It consists of three maqālas (treatises, chapters), which, between them, cover six of the works belonging to the Parva naturalia, from De sensu et sensibilibus (Maqāla 1) up to De longitudine et brevitate vitae (Maqāla 3), with the equivalents of De memoria et reminiscentia and the three treatises on sleep and dream constituting Maqāla 2. 2  For the treatment of divinatory dreams in Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs, see more specifically Hansberger (2008); for general information on the adaptation, Hansberger (2010). 3  This group of translators working for the philosopher al-Kindī is, for instance, responsible for the Arabic Plotinus and the Arabic Proclus. For information on their works and style, see Endress (1997).

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However, the Arabic adaptation contains only a small amount of Aristotelian text in translation, the greater part of the text being made up of added material, which seems to draw on Greek or Graeco-Arabic sources influenced by Neoplatonic philosophy on the one hand and the medical tradition on the other (cf. Hansberger 2010). Even if we take into account its nature as an adaptation, the text shows an unusual lack in structure, clarity, consistency and stringency. Partly, this may well be the result of transmission. We so far only know a single, acephalous and rather late manuscript of the text (MS Rampur, Raza Library, Arab. 1752); there is, hence, no telling what may have gone wrong during the process of textual transmission. However, at least in part the textual incongruities may also be due to the adaptation process, which probably took place in several stages, though it is difficult to distinguish them exactly. As there is only precious little left of the Greek-Arabic translation, it is hard to judge it accurately. At any rate, it would certainly not have been what we would call a “faithful” translation. The translator may, of course, already have been in the business of adapting the text, be it on purpose or simply in order to resolve some difficulties he had with the text. However, the stage at which most of the other sources were incorporated, and which is responsible for the characteristic theories of the adaptation, seems to have been separate from that of translation; we could call it the main stage of adaptation (cf. Hansberger 2007, 130–135; 258–259; Hansberger 2010). Demarcating it exactly remains difficult in detail, especially as the text also contains later comments and additions. Fortunately, some secondary witnesses (in particular Ibn Rushd’s explanatory paraphrase of the text, Talkhīṣ kitāb al-ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs) confirm the main features of the adaptation, including those I will be examining in this paper. This means that notwithstanding problematic details, we are entitled to assume that the Rampur manuscript provides us, roughly at least, with the text that medieval writers knew as Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs. The main calamity in terms of textual transmission concerns the first maqāla of the adaptation: only the last few pages of it have survived in the Rampur manuscript. The content of these remaining pages (mainly fragments of an Arabic version of Plotinus’ Ennead IV.6, On Sense Perception and Memory) has no relevance for the present discussion; and as the main secondary witness, Ibn Rushd’s paraphrase, suggests, nor would the rest of the first maqāla, were it extant: it appears to have been influenced to a much lesser extent by the adaptor’s psychological theory than the second maqāla, to which I will therefore restrict my discussion in this paper. Within Maqāla 2, this psychological theory, the “theory of the three faculties” as one may call it, is a prominent feature; it appears to have been a major concern of the adaptor. The “three faculties” are imagination or, rather, the formative faculty (al-muṣawwir); the faculty of thought (al-fikr)—not to be confused with the intellect: the adaptor’s theory remains firmly within the realm of the animal soul—; and the faculty of memory (al-dhikr). Together with the common sense faculty (al-ḥiss

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al-mushtarak)4 they are responsible for memory, recollection and dreaming—that is, generally for the further “processing” of perceptions after the act of sense perception itself. Obviously, the theory is no fresh invention of our adaptor’s; it is based on late ancient Greek sources.5 In keeping with the medical tradition, the adaptor locates the faculties in the ventricles of the brain (MS Rampur 1752, fol. 34a-b). The fact that he also calls them “spiritual faculties” (quwā rūḥāniyya) may further seem to reflect the thought that they are fuelled by the “animal spirit.” However, this notion is kept at a distance, as it were. The adaptor apparently does not understand “spirit” and “spirituality” in the medical sense, where spirit is the finest possible matter.6 On the contrary: one of the determining features of the adaptation is a strict dichotomy between the corporeal and the spiritual—which, therefore, appears to denote the incorporeal.7 The ambivalence of the concept of the “spiritual” in this respect creates some measure of tension or inconsistency within the text, possibly reflecting discrepancies between the sources the adaptor uses and his own views and preferences. These latter include a predilection for strict hierarchical order, expressed again in terms of corporeality and spirituality: the more “spiritual” something is, the higher it ranks, the nobler it is; and vice versa for corporeality. This rule applies to the mental faculties, but first and foremost to the things they deal with: the forms—sometimes called “spiritual forms”—and maʿānī (see below) that constitute the mental representations of things we have perceived, and that are involved in mental functions like imagination, memory, or dreaming. In what follows we will look more closely at what Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs has to say about how they come to be in our minds. We shall find that this differs between the two cases the adaptation is concerned with, perception and memory on the one hand and veridical dreams on the other. The first could be described as an “ascending” process, deriving mental representations (forms and maʿānī) from the corporeal perceptible; the second as a “descending” one, where they arrive at the mind “from above.”

4  The concept of the “common sense” is not explained in detail in the text. From what we can gather, it is related to, but not identical with Aristotle’s; thus neither the aspect of being responsible for the perception of “common sensibles” nor that of perceptual awareness is present. It appears simply as the overall faculty of sense perception, where all particular sense perceptions come together. 5  Apart from the medical tradition, we find similar ideas notably in Nemesius of Emesa (cf. Sharples and van der Eijk 2008, 100–103; 117–123, with the informative notes by the translators; Harvey 1975, 4–8; 31–37). 6  As e.g. in the roughly contemporary treatise On the Difference between Spirit and Soul by Qusṭā b. Lūqā, where spirit is defined as “fine body” (jism laṭīf), see Cheikho (1974, 122). 7  This use of the term “spiritual” is also found in other texts linked to the Kindī circle, cf. Endress (1973, 127–131), and in particular Endress (2012). In al-Kindī’s own works the term also vacillates between denoting the incorporeal, divine on the one hand (e.g. Abū Rīda 1950, 273), and “pneuma” (e.g. Yūsuf 1962, 117) on the other.

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3  Ascent: Perception, Memory and Recollection 3.1 The “Aristotelian” Context: Thought and Image, maʿnā and Form (ṣūra) Across the first part of the second maqāla (i.e. the Arabic De memoria), the adaptor’s views on perception and memory are blended with passages of translated Aristotelian text, and depending on the context come to the fore in a more or less obvious or dominant manner. However, there is one particular passage (fols 15a– 16b) that seems to present his views in an especially pointed way. It is one of the passages that in itself contains no direct link to the Aristotelian text, that is, that consists entirely of material the adaptor added from other sources, or composed himself. Nevertheless it is anchored in the Aristotelian text: it follows the translation of De memoria 450b18–451a5, where Aristotle discusses how a present affection (i.e. remembering) can make us aware of something that is past (rather than merely of the present affection we are having at the moment). He illustrates this with our ability to consider a painted figure both as a figure in its own right and as an image, a copy of the thing it represents: in the same way a memory can be contemplated as a (present) thought, or as a “copy,” a representation referring to something in the past. This idea is not communicated exactly in the Arabic translation (cf. Hansberger 2007, 76–78), mainly due to a too literal translation of ζῷον (here “figure, image,” rather than “animal”; cf. Sorabji 2004, 84) as ḥayawān, “animal.” This results in the rather different thought that we can contemplate the painted figure (i.e. the painted “animal”) both as a copy and as the animal itself (i.e. without giving consideration to its being painted). In addition, where Aristotle says that when considered in itself, the mental image “occurs in the soul simply as a thought (νόημα)” (trans. Sorabji 2004, 51, modified), the Arabic translates νόημα as maʿnā—a significant move, as we shall see. For maʿnā (pl. maʿānī) is a somewhat fluid term that can mean “concept, thought” or “meaning” as well as “thing signified” or just “thing”—albeit mainly in the sense of “thing in so far as it is thought about.”8 We will have occasion to come back to this term below. For the moment it shall suffice to note that it, too, contributes to a certain ambiguity in the translation of De memoria 450b18–451a5. Let us look at the crucial sentence (fol. 14b, cf. De memoria 451a1–2):

8  This is reflected in the Greek-Arabic translation literature, where maʿnā renders a whole range of words, including διάνοια, θεώρημα, λόγος and νοῦς as well as τὸ σημαινόμενον, πρᾶγμα and πραγματεία (cf. Glossarium Graeco-Arabicum s.v. maʿnā). I leave the term maʿnā untranslated. Using the translation established in the context of Ibn Sīnā and Latin scholasticism, “intention,” would be anachronistic and misleading when applied to the earlier text of Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-lmaḥsūs. Similar concerns apply to the term “connotational attribute” coined by D. N. Hasse (2000, 132), again in the context of Ibn Sīnā, whose concept of maʿnā is clearly related to that of Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs, but by no means identical. As we shall see, in our context the term denotes something like “cognitive content,” “thing as expressed in thought.” For a discussion of the term see further Wirmer (2004).

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T1 For that form (ṣūra) we have seen, and that inscription (kitāb)9 we have depicted on a body of some kind, and other things [like that] may at one time be in the soul as a maʿnā only, not indicating anything else apart from that maʿnā, but at another time will be [in the soul] as an image (ṣanam)10 and a likeness (mithāl) of that form.11 (MS Rampur 1752, fol. 14b)

The explicit reference to the “form we have seen” at the beginning of the phrase, which has no equivalent in the Aristotelian text and hence may well be an addition formulated by our adaptor, indicates an interest in image (and maʿnā) as derived from the perceptible object, something that will be central to the adaptor’s account. Of more immediate importance for our understanding of the sentence is, however, the term maʿnā. Taking into account that we are dealing with an actual translation, it could (and perhaps should) be read as denoting “thought” (like its counterpart in the Greek); the sentence would then be describing the difference between our considering a mental representation in itself, that is, as a thought, and as an image of something else. However, without the benefit of consulting the Greek text and under the influence of the mistranslated “animal” example the sentence is open to another interpretation: that there are two different kinds or aspects of mental representation of one and the same perceptible, one that is “a likeness of that form,” that is, that depicts it as an image, and one that does not have an “image-of”-relation to the perceptible, but stands on its own, as it were. Within the context of the translated passage, it is not obvious exactly what the text is aiming at; but the subsequent pages, written much more clearly and intelligibly, supply the reader with an account of the adaptor’s theory of the mental faculties and functions that lends itself retroactively to its interpretation. In a move that opens an “additional” passage stretching across two folios of manuscript text, the adaptor draws the conclusion that these two things,12 maʿnā and image, are distinct from each other, and hence will require two distinct locations and two distinct faculties to retain them (the formative faculty and the faculty of memory). With the theme of “retention,” the text thus returns to the topic of memory; but the original question Aristotle sets out to answer—how it is possible for a present affection to bring something past to mind—by now has received a new interpretation. The problem concerning present and past is ignored: as the text never makes explicit how the comparison with the distinction between painted animal and animal tout court was 9  The text here repeats a somewhat unfortunate rendering of γεγραμμένον (De memoria 450b21, MS Rampur 1752, fol. 14a): the Greek speaks of the drawn figure; in contrast to Greek γράφειν, however, the Arabic kataba does not yield this meaning. 10  The term, which translates εἰκών, usually denotes “idol, effigy,” a material representation. 11  Translations of Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs are my own. Words enclosed in square brackets are additions to the translation (to make it run more smoothly); words enclosed in pointed brackets are additions to the Arabic text. 12  The text actually uses the dual form of maʿnā, here covering both image and maʿnā. This adds to the confusion and again illustrates the fluidity of the term. The problem is here exacerbated by the fact that maʿnā can mean both “thought” and “thing signified,” and that the text uses it in both senses within the same paragraph: denoting thoughts/mental events (in which case the mental image could be referred to as a maʿnā, as in the present case), and denoting the maʿnā of something (i.e. the thing signified by, e.g., a form), indicating an explicit difference to form.

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supposed to apply to memory and its reference to the past, the most plausible interpretation that suggests itself to the reader is that the original question (in the Arabic version: “How is it possible that [the faculty of?] memory13 remembers what is not present?”, fol. 14a) must in fact have been a general inquiry into how memory (which is always of the past) works. The preliminary answer is: there are two distinct things that constitute a memory, and hence two faculties are required for it. In that light, the “Aristotelian” passage about our two different ways of relating to mental representations that constitute memories turns into nothing more than a somewhat roundabout way of introducing these two objects of memory. 3.2 From Perception to Recollection: The Hierarchy of Faculties Having thus introduced the notion that memory requires these two different things, form (image) and maʿnā, the adaptor proceeds to give a full account of the set of faculties which in his theory are involved in perception and memory, and of the process that generates forms and maʿānī in our mind. One important point in this context is that the ma‘nā, even though different in kind from the form and related to a different faculty, cannot be derived from the relevant perceptible independently of the form. It is derived from the form, that is, from the “mental image” not just as perceived by the common sense, but as retained in the formative faculty. T2 Do you not know that it is impossible for the ma‘nā of a thing to come to be before the thing [itself]? For the form (ṣūra) is prior to the ma‘nā of the form, because the ma‘nā is derived from the characteristic property which is in the form. But if the ma‘nā is derived from the characteristic property that is in the form, then the form will have to be posited prior to the ma‘nā of the form. If this is so, then it will follow necessarily that the formative [faculty] (al-muṣawwir) must be closer to the form than whatever is responsible for the ma‘nā. (MS Rampur 1752, fol. 15a–b)

Thus there is a strict order of sequence in which the three faculties and the common sense operate in order to establish those representations of a perceptible that mean it can be remembered. Their functions are described in rather abstract words: they “receive” (qabila) forms or maʿānī from each other, “retain” them (ḥafiẓa), and eventually “make them present” (aḥḍara) again (see below). T3 If this is so, we shall say that the sense [faculty] (al-ḥāss), which is within the range of the composite substances, is most suited to receiving those composite forms; next, the formative [faculty] is more suited to receiving from the sense [faculty] than is [the faculty of] memory (al-dhikr), because it is within its range. Then follows the thinking faculty ­(al-­quwwa al-fikriyya), which is the discriminating (mumayyiza) faculty that the shell (qishr) from the core (lubb), because nothing comes after the form but

 In Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs, the Arabic term dhikr refers both to memory and to the faculty of memory. Here, the reader could understand it in either way. Within the original translation context, it may have been intended as “memory”; the subsequent context of the adaptation, on the other hand, would suggest to the reader that the faculty of memory was intended.

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discrimination. When the thinking faculty distinguishes the core from the shell, the memorative faculty (al-quwwa al-dhikriyya) will then ,14 which resembles its substance. That core is the ma‘nā sought after. (MS Rampur 1752, fol. 15b)

Moreover, this “extraction” of form and maʿnā of a given perceptible is seen as a process of purification, in which the perceptual form is stripped further and further of its corporeal aspects, its “shells” (qushūr), up to the point where its pure, incorporeal core, its ma‘nā, can be separated from its form (ṣūra).15 Corresponding to the degrees of “spirituality” of their respective objects, the faculties themselves are arranged in a hierarchical manner, according to their proximity to or distance from the corporeal object of perception: T4 There are five ranks. The first of them is corporeal (jusmānī) and sensual (ḥāssī), having many shells: this is the perceptible body (jirm maḥsūs). The second rank belongs to the sense [faculty], which purifies that perceptible, so as to cleanse the greater part of pollution and shells from [that rank]. The third rank [is] the purifying one which, picking up from the sense faculty, will cleanse the [remaining] small amount of pollution and the subtle shell; this is the formative [faculty]. The fourth rank belongs to the one that discriminates that shell and that core that has been purified by the formative [faculty], so that the pure thing shall be freed from any turbidity, and so that it shall become clear what that purity is and what that turbidity is: this is [the faculty of] thought (al-fikr). The fifth rank belongs to the retaining [faculty] (al-ḥāfiẓ) which obtains what the [other] faculties have purified and what the fourth faculty has discriminated. (MS Rampur 1752, fol. 16a)

The order of the faculties, with memory at the top, obviously follows the way in which the mental faculties were assigned to the brain ventricles in late ancient medical sources.16 The explanation suggested by the text, however, again refers to the hierarchy of spirituality: the faculty of memory, whose sole function it is to store ma‘ānī, will not get in contact with anything else, while, for example, the faculty of thought will have to deal with both form and ma‘nā. This also implies a difference in the faculties themselves, already hinted at in T2 and T3, which speak of their “suitability” for dealing with their respective objects: they themselves exhibit, apparently, differences in spirituality (cf. T3, which notes that the faculty of memory “resembles” the ma‘nā “in its substance”).17 For recollection18 to happen, the faculties which have “received” and “retained” maʿnā and form (image) must return them to the subject’s consciousness. The coordination of this process is the task of the faculty of thought, which puts the two

 Text illegible in the manuscript.  This core/shell metaphor is one of the characteristic features that our text shares with the Arabic Plotinus paraphrase produced in the circle of al-Kindī (cf. Hansberger 2007, 218–219). 16  This is evident also from another passage in Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs (MS Rampur 1752, fol. 34a–b). 17  This idea is not covered by the medical concept of “spirit” which, beyond distinguishing between “vital” and “animal spirit,” does not include any further differentiations of the latter. 18  In contrast to other passages of the text, the difference between remembering and recollecting is not marked explicitly here. However, the context suggests that recollection is at stake here—the scenario in T5 is that of remembering something after having forgotten it. 14 15

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together again.19 Again, the hierarchy and order of sequence are observed, even if now reversed: T5 It has also become clear that when a man remembers something he has forgotten, [the faculty of] memory will only remember the ma‘nā, and together with the ma‘nā the formative [faculty] will make present to him the image (ṣanam)20 of that ma‘nā, so that he will remember the ma‘nā through the form of the thing, mediated by discrimination. For [the faculty of] memory can only remember something it has forgotten by means of that discrimination which the thinking faculty has carried out [on it earlier]. (MS Rampur 1752, fol. 16a)

In a further application of the hierarchical scheme, any failure to complete the recollection process is laid at the door of the lowly, corporeal elements in the chain, the perceptible object and the sense faculty: T6 If one of these three [faculties] were incapable of making present what the remaining two have made present, then that would indicate that the origin (aṣl) of that one thing that is being made present has been affected, and that it is not pure; and that the affection has befallen it through the sense [faculty] and the perceptible only, not through [the faculty of] memory or the soul, because the three faculties will not be polluted through the intellect (‘aql) and the soul, but rather the sense [faculty] may be polluted through the perceptible, the formative [faculty] through the sense [faculty], the thinking faculty through the formative [faculty], and [the faculty of] memory through [the faculty of] thought. But [the faculty of] memory can never be polluted through the soul, nor can [the faculty of] thought [ever] be polluted through [the faculty of] memory, nor is the formative [faculty] polluted through [the faculty of] thought, nor the sense [faculty] through the formative [faculty]. (MS Rampur 1752, fol. 16a–b)

The ubiquitous theme of spirituality and corporeality, purity and pollution, shell and core makes it somewhat difficult to discern which phenomena or processes the adaptor actually wants to describe. Still, up to the level of the formative faculty, things are fairly clear: what is behind this stage of the “purification process” is, first, perception and then, the storing of perceptions in memory, in the absence of the external perceptible object. This latter stage is less “corporeal” since there is now no direct contact with the corporeal perceptible object, and no involvement of the bodily sense organs. But what does it mean that the faculty of thought discriminates between the form and its ma‘nā, which is then stored in the faculty of memory? At this point it is crucial to get a clearer idea of the concept of ma‘nā. What the text tells us explicitly about it is that it is free from corporeality, the incorporeal “core” of a perceptible. However, even if ma‘nā represents something that can only be thought, not imagined, it is not a general concept arrived at by abstraction. The mention of intellect (ʿaql) in T6 reminds us that we are in any case not dealing with universals or intellectual thought: ma‘nā may be at the top of the spirituality scale, and intellectual thought may well be what the functions of the three faculties are leading up to eventually, but it is yet beyond their realm. With the three faculties 19  This transpires even more clearly from other passages (fols 18b; 19b; 20a), where the action is also described as “composing” (allafa). 20  The adaptor normally uses the term ṣūra, but may here be influenced by the preceding, translated paragraph (see T1 and n. 10 above).

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belonging to the animal soul, and in the context of memory, we are still in the sphere of perception and hence of the particular rather than the universal: Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs emphasizes that memory is only of past perceptions.21 Thus maʿnā remains a particular, tied to the particular sense perception from which it has been “extracted” in the first place, and in the recollection of which it plays a crucial role. As T5 shows, ma‘nā is the primary and proper object of recollection. Restoring the corresponding form happens for the sake of remembering the ma‘nā: we remember the ma‘nā “through the form.” So perhaps what the adaptor wants to capture here is that a memory contains an imaginative as well as a cognitive aspect, and that the latter cannot “be thought” without the related image. This would reflect the Aristotelian notion that “it is not possible to think without an image” (De memoria 449b30, trans. Sorabji), a thought that is, incidentally, only vaguely present in the corresponding Arabic passage at the beginning of Maqāla 2 (fol. 11a). The image is just an image that could float in and out of one’s mind; knowing what the thing represented by that image is, is something else and, in the adaptor’s view, something more crucial. Thus even if the “roll-back process” resulting in memory (described in T5) starts with the maʿnā and ends up at the form, the real object of memory is the maʿnā which is remembered “through” the form. If one cannot remember the maʿnā without the form, could one remember the form on its own? The text remains silent on that point, perhaps because it does not consider the question relevant. The form on its own would not constitute a memory, it would be just a mental image that we would not be able to relate to anything, and that hence would not “mean” anything to us. Only by virtue of the maʿnā, the thing as it is thought, does the mental image refer to the particular past perception as a memory. In this context it needs to be pointed out, however, that maʿnā is not supposed to cover the subjective aspect of memory, the consciousness that “I have experienced this” (cf. Aristotle, De memoria 449b23)22—even though that would be a plausible candidate for a thought involved in memory. There is no reference at all to the subjective aspect of memory. The adaptor focuses on memories as representations of perceptible objects, not of a subject’s past perceptual experiences. Thus the maʿnā is never related to the subject of perception and memory; it is spoken of as the maʿnā of a (perceptible) thing (cf. T2), and, first and foremost, as the maʿnā of a form.  “… memory acts only with respect to the past, because man can remember only what he has sensually perceived before, like all animals, because all animals remember only what they have once perceived” (fol. 11a), a (intentionally?) skewed translation of De memoria 449b28–30: διὸ μετὰ χρόνου πᾶσα μνήμη. ὥσθ᾽ ὅσα χρόνου αἰσθάνεται, ταῦτα μόνα τῶν ζῴων μνημονεύει, καὶ τούτῳ ᾧ αἰσθάνεται (“And this is why memory involves time. So only animals which perceive time remember, and they do so by means of that with which they perceive,” trans. Sorabji 2004, 48). In substance, the Arabic text here still follows Aristotle, who, in the immediately preceding and following context, clearly states both that memory relates to the past and that it belongs per se to sense perception. By reiterating the point, and by blending out other aspects, the Arabic version creates a particularly strong emphasis on this characteristic of memory. I am grateful to Emma Gannagé for pointing out the need to emphasize this point. 22  Incidentally, the corresponding passage in the Arabic version is subject to a curious mistranslation and subsequent adaptation which entirely loses this point (see Hansberger 2010, 151–153). 21

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Maʿnā is the “content” of the form, the thing as signified by the form; moreover: knowing the maʿnā means being able to identify the particular, concrete reality which the form represents as an image: maʿnā is the thing signified by the form. Here it is helpful to note not only that in Arabic grammar and logic, maʿnā (“meaning,” “reference”) acts as the counterpart of lafẓ, “expression” (see Endress 1986, 171–172), but in particular that it “can mean reference as well as the object of reference.”23 With the subjective aspect of memory suppressed in the text, the maʿnā of a form, its “cognitive content,” as it were, acquires an aura of objectivity (i.e. it is not about my experience of something, but about the thing itself). This is reinforced by the adaptor’s insistence on the incorporeality, purity and flawlessness of the maʿnā, which can never be wrong. At this point things become somewhat puzzling. Notwithstanding the adaptor’s explications, in T4, concerning the “cleansing” activity of the formative faculty and the discerning function of the faculty of thought, it is not entirely transparent through what sort of operation such a maʿnā could be extracted from the mere form retained in the formative faculty.24 Most importantly perhaps, the adaptor fails to explain how he wants us to envisage a particular that is bereft of all corporeal aspects. This special status suggests that despite being derived from a mere perception or form (there is nothing else for the faculty of thought to draw on when discriminating the maʿnā, and no help from any other quarters, for instance the intellect), maʿnā can reliably be said to represent the “real” object, rather than amounting to a mere private understanding or surmise on the individual’s part. That maʿnā has this claim to truth is indicated by the idea that, being free from corporeality, it is as such not subject to corruption or error. This aspect of maʿnā is further underscored by the role it is assigned in the adaptor’s account of veridical dreaming.

4  Descent: Divinatory Dreams25 During sleep, when there is no sense perception, the “three faculties” do not have to deal with new, incoming perceptual forms. However, they do not rest, but instead are now free to perform their own activities unshackled by sense perception. This  Zimmermann (1981, 11 n2), who adds: “It is frequently reduced to near-synonymity with shay’ [thing], since a thing becomes a maʿnā the moment it is referred to.” 24  This question Ibn Sīnā would later address by introducing the “estimative faculty” into the system of mental faculties, see e.g. Rahman (1959, 182–185). 25  Cf. Hansberger (2008), where the theory of dreams in Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs is discussed more extensively in relation to Aristotle’s Greek text, together with a survey of its influence on later authors. Ibn Sīnā’s theory of  divinatory dreams, and  prophetic visions more generally, which in  important points was  inspired by Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs, is discussed in  Olga Lizzini’s contribution to this volume; cf. esp. the section on the “first mode of the second property of prophecy” (pp. 137–138). 23

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activity results in dreaming: the forms of earlier perceptions, stored in the formative faculty, are being “made present” again: T7 This only occurs because of these spiritual faculties (al-quwā al-rūḥāniyya)—I mean the formative [faculty], [the faculty of] thought and [the faculty of] memory—as neither movement nor activity of these faculties rests during sleep. For when the nature rests and retreats into the soul, then the body will rest; and when the body rests the senses will rest, and when the senses rest, the common sense (al-ḥiss al-mushtarak) will resort to the formative [faculty], and will look with a spiritual gaze at the forms of things which it has seen in the realm of the corporeal. (MS Rampur 1752, fol. 40b)

There are two kinds of dreams: ordinary dreams, which have no significance or truth to them, and veridical dreams that predict the future. When it comes to the former class of dreams, the adaptor mainly seems to be concerned with a particular subclass:26 ordinary dreams that the dreamer wrongly takes to be veridical. What happens here is the following: forms stored in the formative faculty are combined with maʿānī that do not belong to them.27 These maʿānī suggest that the dream signifies something in reality, even though this is not the case.28 T8 For when he is asleep (lit. “in the confines of sleep’), [this faculty]29 will make present that ma‘nā together with the form (ṣūra). Thus the sleeper will see forms of things, and they will be interpreted for him by that ma‘nā which was in [the faculty of] memory (al-dhikr);30 then the person who is having the dream-vision (ru’yā) will think that this dream-vision is veridical (ṣādiqa), and that the thing he is seeing is a reality; whereas it is entirely vain (bāṭil) and does not have any ma‘nā.31 (MS Rampur 1752, fol. 40b)

When it comes to veridical dreams that foretell future events, it goes without saying that they cannot be based on previous perceptions, on forms or maʿānī that are stored in the dreamer’s formative and memorative faculties. So where do they come from? Here Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs relies on the monotheistic notion of a creator God who, out of his solicitude for mankind, sends people dreams that predict their future.32 However, the adaptor embeds this within a metaphysical framework which, though not set out in any detail as such, shows some Neoplatonic colouring, in that it features an intellect that is mediating between God and the world. Thus, the veridical dreams come to the dreamer from the “universal intellect”—not the dreamer’s own intellectual faculty, but an external, cosmic intellect.  Unless a more general section on ordinary dreams is lost in the Rampur manuscript, which is possible. 27  Though the text is not explicit on this point, I assume that the forms, based on former perceptions, could also be combined freely with each other to form new images. 28  In the context of veridical dreaming, it may be tempting to translate the term maʿnā simply as “meaning.” However, it is important to remember that maʿnā denotes the individual reality signified by the form—i.e. the particular future thing or event depicted by the dream. 29  The subject is unclear due to a preceding lacuna. 30  Emended from al-fikr, “[faculty of] thought.” 31  This passage strikingly illustrates that maʿnā can denote both “meaning, reference” and the thing or reality referred to (see above)—the “vain” dream does not correspond to any real event or thing. 32  This is particularly emphasized in a passage not quoted here (fol. 41a–b, cf. Hansberger 2008, 54–55). 26

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T9 As for the sound (ṣaḥīḥa), spiritual dream-vision, it is the one which occurs from intelligibles (ma‘qūlāt) of the universal intellect (al-‘aql al-kullī), not from intelligibles of the acquired intellect (al-‘aql al-muktasab), [i.e. it comes from intelligibles] which are unknown to the common sense and unimagined by the formative [faculty]; the ma‘nā of which [the faculty of] thought does not know, and which are not deposited in [the faculty of] memory. (MS Rampur 1752, fol. 41a)

The ultimate cause of these dreams, however, is God. In His providential act of creation He created the events that the dreams will foretell in a twofold manner, once as “intellectual forms” in the intellect, and once as perceptible forms in the world. Moreover, at the same time, He prompted the intellect to reveal those forms to the people concerned, before the events come to pass in the world. T10 This true dream-vision, the cause and reason of which is the true Deity, great be His praise, occurs through the mediation of the intellect. For whatever the Deity, great be His praise, wanted to become manifest (an yaẓhura) in this world He gave form to (ṣawwara) in the intellect in one stroke, and gave form to its forms in this world in one stroke, together with what they imply rationally.33 The intellect then made [them] manifest (aẓhara) to the soul and to each one of its faculties, according to the measure in which the soul decided that [each] faculty should receive [them]; although the Supreme Cause, I mean the Deity, great be His praise, created [them] in this way, when He created the intellect at that time, in order to make manifest what is in it; because the Deity moved [the intellect] at that time in order to make manifest what is in it.34 (MS Rampur 1752, fol. 42a)

However, the universal intellect does not produce the forms as seen by the dreamer directly. They are still the work of the formative faculty—quite reasonably, as the intellect should presumably not be associated with forms that are only once removed from corporeality. (There is, of course, the general question of how the “universal intellect” is supposed to contain forms of particulars.35 The adaptor does not seem to be aware of that problem; he does not address it explicitly, nor does his theory suggest a solution implicitly. Perhaps his preoccupation with hierarchies of spirituality and corporeality made him somewhat oblivious to the related, but nevertheless conceptually different distinction between the universal and the particular.) What the intellect does do, the author obviously finds hard to describe: it “dresses up” the intellectual form with “spiritual words,” which cause the formative faculty to produce the “spiritual form” of the dream. T11 If you see a form within the confines of dream-vision in the way I have described, then you will only see your internal form,36 because the intellect has dressed up its own [i.e. the intellectual] form, and has embellished it with spiritual words (kalimāt rūḥāniyya), whereupon the common sense conveys those words to the formative [faculty] so that it represents that form. Hence when the common sense sees those words and recognizes them, as it here recognizes corporeal words (kalimāt jusmāniyya) and their written representation (rasm), it presents them to [the faculty of] memory. When [the dreamer] awakes from his sleep he  Emma Gannagé suggests the translation “whatever logically pertains to them.” See her contribution to this volume (chap. 7), p. 127 ff. 34  See below for a further discussion of this passage. 35  This problem would later bother Ibn Rushd in this context (cf. Blumberg 1972, 74). For a more general discussion of the problem of knowledge of particulars, see Adamson (2005). 36  That is, a form produced by one’s own mental faculties. 33

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demands them from [the faculty of] memory, whereupon [the faculty of] memory passes them on, so that he remembers them. Then he demands [their] ma‘nā from [the faculty of] thought. If [the faculty of] thought cannot [determine their] ma‘nā, at that point the man will present them to the interpreter. (MS Rampur 1752, fols 42b–43a)

These “spiritual words,” which in the end are signed over to the faculty of memory, appear somehow to be on a par with, or closely related to the maʿnā: they express the “intellectual form,” the thing as it is known, so as to be understood by the human mind; and they have a correlated “form” at the level of the formative faculty: a “spiritual form” as the text occasionally calls it (cf. MS Rampur 1752, e.g. fols 35b, 41b, 46a).37 However, just by virtue of having a divinatory dream the dreamer will not be in possession of its maʿnā; usually he does not know what his dream signifies. Apparently, the dreamer can convert the revealed “spiritual words” into a (spiritual) form only, not into a maʿnā. This form stands in the same relation to the “spiritual words” in which writing stands to spoken words. One may therefore assume that the “spiritual words” at some level share the cryptic nature of the divinatory dream. On the other hand, the dreams are said to be stored in the faculty of memory rather than the formative faculty, which again suggests proximity to maʿnā. Again, it is somewhat puzzling in this context that the dreams are, apparently, retained as “spiritual words” (as the wording of T11 suggests) rather than as spiritual forms, that is, as the dream “seen” by the dreamer. Whether this indicates a mismatch in the adaptor’s sources or a lack of coherence caused simply by oversight, or whether the adaptor intended to indicate that veridical dreams are not like ordinary forms, is hard to determine. In any case the dreamer lacks the crucial ability to identify the particular reality (maʿnā) that the dream points to. This would have been the task of the faculty of thought, but now is left to the dream interpreter. How or why would he be able to understand the dream? It is because the very same universal intellect lets the right interpretation “flow” upon him—again in the form of spiritual words. T12 Sometimes the intellect flows (yasīḥu) upon the interpreter with [those] spiritual words, then his tongue will pronounce them, while he will see that he is the one who [correctly] interprets that dream-vision. At other times the intellect does not flow upon the interpreter; then he will commit mistakes and will not know what to say or what he should interpret. The intellect only flows upon the interpreter for one of two reasons: either the interpreter is spiritual, so that the intellect flows upon him because of his spirituality. Or it flows upon him because of signs that [shall] become manifest in the world. (MS Rampur 1752, fol. 43a)

Thus, the interpretation will match the dreamer’s dream because they are both caused by, and represent the same “intellectual form.” Nevertheless the text does not really explain why the interpreter would be able to do this, when the dreamer was not—even though they both have, presumably, received the same “spiritual words.” The reason given by the text is that the interpreter is “spiritual” (possibly more so

 It has this attribute first and foremost because of its association with the “spiritual” formative faculty, though the ambiguity of the term “spirituality” in our text suggests that it could also be expressive of the divinatory nature of the dream. In the adaptor’s view, these two things are of course related.

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than the dreamer); alternatively he may simply be fulfilling God’s providential plan, whatever his qualifications, or (if the last phrase is understood in a different way) taking his cues from yet other signs he observes “in the world”. The adaptor’s theory, then, captures all the elements that his readers would have associated with divinatory dreams, on the basis of scriptural religion (be it Muslim, Jewish or Christian) as well as their social reality, which included veridical dreams and professional dream interpretation as common experiences. Its aim and achievement is to provide a philosophical explanation for the necessary relations of representation that hold between these elements (dream, event, interpretation). The crucial point here is that the universal intellect (and lastly, God) acts as guarantor of the correct correspondence between the “spiritual form,” that is, the dream as ­experienced by the dreamer, the interpretation that comes to the interpreter (or, occasionally, to the dreamer himself), and the corporeal form of the actual event taking place in the world, that is, the perceptible counterpart of the intellectual form. This correspondence does not mean that the dream must depict the future event perfectly: the spiritual form of the dream is different from the corporeal form in the world and hence may “look” different. T13 Now if someone says: “[Assuming] a man sees the land of the Franks, Rome or Africa in a dream, without ever having seen them with [his] sense[s]. Then perhaps, when he later does see them with [his] sense[s], they will not be as he has seen them in his dream. In this case, one of two alternative explanations must apply: either the form which he has seen in his dream is not like the one which he has seen during (lit. “in the confines of’) waking; or it is the same, but the formative faculty has committed a mistake”—we will answer: The formative [faculty] has not been mistaken about the form of this city which he has seen within the confines of dream-vision, it is indeed the one which he has [later] seen during waking, because every corporeal object of perception has two forms, one spiritual and one corporeal, the spiritual form (ṣūra rūḥāniyya) being inside the corporeal form (ṣūra jusmāniyya). Just as the corporeal form of the city is an image (mithāl) of the spiritual form of the city, which is inside it, likewise the spiritual form is an image of the intellectual form (ṣūra ‘aqliyya). (MS Rampur 1752, fol. 42a–b)

The same does not apply to the dream’s interpretation, to ma‘nā. In contrast to the spiritual form, and as a result of its incorporeality, it is communicable and intersubjectively valid. It would apply as an interpretation no matter what shape the spiritual form takes in the mind of the dreamer (we could also imagine multiple dreamers or multiple, but slightly varying occurrences of the same dream—a case like that is actually described in Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs, fols 41b–42a). But then, it is not derived from the spiritual form of the dream, but relates directly to the intellectual form. In this respect, it differs from the ma‘nā derived from a perception in the case of everyday perception and memory. For us, this therefore leads to the question whether the concept of maʿnā stays the same across the two scenarios, or whether it changes some of its features. A similar question can also be asked of the spiritual form and its relation to the “corporeal form” of the “real” event on the one hand, and the intellectual form on the other. The relations between the various forms are described in a manner reminiscent of the core-shell metaphor of T3 and T4. In T13, the corporeal form is said to enclose the spiritual form, and there may be an implicit suggestion that the “intellectual form” (the form created in the universal intellect) is in turn “inside” the

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s­ piritual form. While this is not stated explicitly, it would go well together with the idea, found in T11, that the intellectual form is “dressed up” and “embellished” before it can result in a veridical dream. Furthermore, under a different and perhaps more important description given in T13, the relation that obtains between corporeal and spiritual form is indeed the same that obtains between spiritual and intellectual form: the corporeal form is said to be an image of the spiritual form, which in turn is an image of the intellectual form. This means, however, that it is not the case that the spiritual form of the dream, the form that falls in the domain of the formative faculty, represents the corresponding future reality in the world in the way in which we understand the form, that is, the mental image, to represent the perceptible object in the case of perception: it represents the intellectual form of that thing or event.38 And perhaps more worryingly, the event (or thing) in the world represents the spiritual form.

5  Which Reality? Does the adaptor of Kitab al-Ḥiss wa-l-mahsūs therefore suggest a reversal of the representative relation, rendering the intellectual form a “reality,” and turning the perceptible event in the world into a representation? Such a move would certainly fit well with the adaptor’s general, Platonic view of the world, which firmly assigns reality and truth to the higher, incorporeal, spiritual and intellectual realm, while taking a rather dim view of the corporeal world as characterized by impurity and pollution. However, the question is whether he can give an account of this reverse representation that would be consistent not only in itself but also with his account of perception and memory. In the case of veridical dreaming as presented in T10–T12, the universal intellect and the intellectual form guarantee the correspondence between the event in the world, the spiritual form of the dream, and the dream’s interpretation. There is no direct connection between these three. So far so good—there is no problem with the idea that dream, interpretation and event are all representations of the intellectual form. But according to T13, there is, supposedly, a direct relation of representation between the various forms: the spiritual form is an image of the intellectual form, while the corporeal form is an image of the spiritual form. This is rather puzzling: things and events in the world come into being whether or not anybody dreams about them beforehand, one should think. If the intellectual form is the original reality and the “blueprint” for the corporeal form in the world,39 the corporeal form  In the context of its theoretical explanation of veridical dreams, the adaptation speaks of future realities depicted by such dreams as if they were particular substances. However, examples given in the text would suggest that veridical dreams refer to events (e.g. gaining victory over one’s enemy). 39  See below for a discussion of this point. 38

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must depend directly on the intellectual form, and hence might be described as a representation of it—but why then would it represent the spiritual form? Perhaps the corporeal form could be said to be an image of the spiritual form simply by virtue of being an image of the intellectual form, that is, by sharing the same point of reference, and hence corresponding to the spiritual form. With that reading, though, we still would return to the idea that both spiritual and corporeal form simply represent the intellectual form. I do not think that this is quite what the adaptor’s remark intends. The notion that the corporeal form actually contains the spiritual form, as expressed in the statement that “every corporeal object of perception has two forms, one corporeal and one spiritual, the spiritual form being inside the corporeal form” suggests a stronger reading. That there exists a spiritual form for (or rather: in) everything (independently of any actual veridical dreams) is, in a certain sense, trivially true in the adaptor’s theory: every perceptible object, when perceived, will yield a spiritual form to be stored in the perceiver’s formative faculty. In this case, the case of perception, the situation seems clear: the spiritual form is derived from the corporeal form. But then, this is exactly why one would find it counterintuitive to describe the perceptible object as the image or representation of the spiritual form, rather than vice versa. The problem is that while in the account of perception and memory, which remains within the limits of epistemology, forms and maʿānī appear to be things confined to the human mind, the account of divinatory dreams crosses over into the realms of metaphysics and ontology. By making the corporeal perceptible a representation of the spiritual form, the adaptor seems to convey some sort of independent existence to the spiritual forms, as if there were a realm of spiritual forms that we could access with our “spiritual faculties,” in the same way in which we access the world with our senses, or intelligible universals with our intellect. This is already problematic in the case of divinatory dreams, given their dependence on the individual’s mental faculties (which also means there can be several different spiritual forms, i.e. dreams, relating to one intellectual form and to one corporeal form). If the model is applied to “regular” perception, the idea seems to become untenable. Here, form and maʿnā are derived from perception, without any involvement of “spiritual words” that would communicate the intellectual form and hence guarantee the right correlation between perceptible, form and maʿnā. How the perceptible could ever be an image of the spiritual form remains even more obscure. Thus it is unclear how the concepts of form and maʿnā could be the same across the two cases described by the adaptor. In her comments on the conference version of this paper,40 Emma Gannagé has suggested to me a way of containing the problem, by restricting this reverse relation of representation to divinatory dreams alone. This is connected to her reading of T10 (with which I now largely agree). In my previous interpretation of the passage (cf. Hansberger 2008, 54–55) I assumed that the text implied a twofold creation, in the intellect and in the perceptible world, of everything there is, and that the intellect

40

 See ch. 7 (pp. 123–132) of this volume.

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was mediating the creation of the forms in the world, as well as divinatory dreams.41 This reading is based on an understanding of “For whatever the Deity … wanted to become manifest in this world” to mean: “whatever the Deity wanted to appear in this world.” Gannagé understands “to become manifest” as “to be revealed” across the whole passage. In consequence, the passage would only say that God created intellectual forms for those particular things that he wanted to be revealed in a dream before they were going to happen. In such cases, then, the events in the world really would represent (and hence presuppose) their corresponding spiritual forms and, through them, their corresponding intellectual forms. In all other cases, this would not apply. Things foretold by dreams would therefore constitute a metaphysical irregularity, justified by and proving God’s providential care and omnipotence. There are good reasons to find Gannagé’s reading of T10 as such ultimately plausible. Not only does the meaning of the verb ẓahara, “to become manifest” (and cognates) remain the same across the passage. In the context it makes perfect sense that the author would focus on the things God wants to reveal, rather than on creation in general. Nevertheless I want to resist her conclusion that we therefore need to assume that in the adaptor’s mind, the twofold creation, and hence the existence of intellectual forms, is confined to select cases, that is, prophetic dreams. In what follows I want to set out briefly first, why I do not think we are forced to accept this conclusion, and secondly, why I think that we have good reason not to accept it. It is certainly true that T10 suggests that God does something special in the case of those things that he wants to reveal through veridical dreams. In Gannagé’s reading, this includes their twofold creation, that is, their additional creation as intellectual forms, as well as moving the intellect to reveal these intellectual forms at the appropriate time to the appropriate people, and ensuring these revelations will be understandable. My question is whether the text (in Gannagé’s reading) necessarily implies that the twofold creation is restricted to these particular things. In my view, the passage does not absolutely exclude the possibility that the twofold creation applies in fact to everything, even though the phrasing may suggest that. What the author wants to emphasize in the passage is obviously God’s agency in veridical dreaming: yes, the intellect has a share in it as it mediates these dreams; but what causes it to do this in the first place is God. Yes, the soul has a role to play (presumably by being more or less receptive to such revelations), but really, what is being revealed in a dream and to whom has already been determined and caused by God. Another aspect that is brought into sharp relief is that God does not instigate divinatory dreams ad hoc: everything goes back to His original act of creation. Given this focus, it is, I think, possible that the author mentions the twofold creation of these forms in order to establish and explain God’s agency in the matter of divinatory dreams, without reference to its possible general application. 41  This is, incidentally, the reading we find in one version of R. Zeraḥya b. Isaac b. Sheʾaltiʾel Ḥen’s (Gracian) quotation of the passage, in his commentary on the Guide of the Perplexed; see Ravitzky (1981–1982, 194).

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However, even if one wanted to interpret the passage as restricting the twofold creation to those things that will become the subject matter of divinatory dreams it would, I think, be possible to exempt the adaptor from holding this as his overall, considered view. This has to do with the general character of Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-­ maḥsūs and the fact that it combines textual material stemming from various sources. In the case of passage T10 I think it is likely that the adaptor is relying on a source text. Thus, for instance, the passage brings up serious topics the text nevertheless does not expand on (the universal intellect, creation, the role of the “soul”), which makes the passage look somewhat isolated. If this is true, however, the adaptor may not need to subscribe to every detail and every implication of the wording. Unfortunately the text does not provide us with more and independent information on the adaptor’s views on creation or the universal intellect. However, the predilection for systematization and hierarchical order measured in degrees of spirituality and formulated in terms of “shells” and “core,” which we have been able to observe in several of the quoted passages, is a feature we can ascribe to him directly, as I have argued elsewhere (Hansberger 2010). Against this background, I would tend towards taking seriously his remarks about the three forms being images of each other and the plurality of forms applying to everything in the world (T13). Therefore I find it overall more plausible to ascribe to him the underlying assumption that everything is created in the universal intellect as intellectual form—even if that entails certain problems for his theory. The first problem, already mentioned, concerns the supposition that the universal intellect contains forms of particulars; this persists even in Gannagé’s interpretation. The problem of “reverse representation,” on the other hand, would indeed be alleviated in her interpretation, especially as the intellectual form would play no role in the creation of the corporeal form. It would be something additional that only existed in cases of things that needed to be foretold, its role confined to producing dream and dream interpretation. It is unclear what kind of direct relation (if any) supposedly obtains between the thing in the world and the intellectual form; but in any case the former would not depend on the latter for its reality. The price to pay would be, firstly, a metaphysical and ontological irregularity, with intellectual forms existing only for a limited number of things in the world; and secondly, having to disregard the adaptor’s remarks in T13. As I have said already, I think we have reason to take T13 seriously, together with the assumption that the adaptor regards the intellectual form as the true reality “represented” by spiritual forms and the things in the world. The inconsistencies this notion brings to the surface in the adaptor’s account result, I would like to argue, from problematic points that are inherent in his views on a more fundamental level. Consider T3 and T4, and especially the core-shell metaphor: the adaptor sees the whole process that leads from the perceptible object to maʿnā as a gradual increase of incorporeality and spirituality, from that which is prone to mistakes to that which is free from error, from obstructing “shells” to the essential “core.” This is easily translatable into a process from the more derivative to the more real; and that is how he conceives of representation in T13, where to add one degree of corporeality

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means to create an “image-of” relation. In that sense the adaptor may well regard the corporeal form as an image of the spiritual form, even in the case of perception. This does not really solve the main difficulty, that is, how the thing in the external world could be dependent on a spiritual form confined to the human mind. However, maybe it can help us to understand why the adaptor is careless on this issue. It seems to me that by seeing everything in terms of his hierarchical order of spirituality, other distinctions become blurred and lose their relevance (cf. e.g. his being oblivious to the inconsistencies attached to the notion of a particular intellectual form). Our mental faculties and their objects are structured in terms of a gradient scale of corporeality and spirituality—the world is structured the same way. In the adaptor’s mind, this parallelism could, after all, be exactly what gives us access to the world and ensures that we get things right. In this context, the concept of maʿnā makes for an interesting case. We have seen in Sect. 3.2 that it is set up by the adaptor as something that will reliably identify the perceptible in question, though he remains vague about why and how. In regular perception, where the spiritual form and, eventually, the maʿnā, are based on the perception of the corporeal form, a maʿnā and its relation to the corresponding perceptible are not guaranteed by the universal intellect in the same way as it is in the case of divination. It is possible, T6 tells us, that we fail in procuring a maʿnā. However, in the same passage we learn that any mistakes and failures of our mental faculties are lastly attributable to the corporeal object of perception, or the perceptive faculty. On their own, the spiritual faculties do not make mistakes. Also, there do not seem to be any faulty maʿānī around (quite consistently, as maʿānī are by definition free from any corporeality and “impurity”): thus vain dream-visions, that is, dreams that do not foretell the future, do not have wrong or corrupt maʿānī, but none at all (T8). So it seems that when it comes to perception, the universal intellect cannot guarantee that no mistakes happen. What is guaranteed, however, is that if and when a maʿnā is set upon by our faculties, it will be a correct one. Hence we could say: if there is a maʿnā, even if technically derived from a perception, it will stand in the same relation to the intellectual form as a maʿnā that originates in “spiritual words” conveyed by the intellect itself: it will be a representation of the intellectual form (as is, in its own way, the perceptible object from which the maʿnā was derived). The situation is not exactly the same for the forms. It is probably correct to say that in a case where no mistakes are being made on the part of the corporeal elements involved in perception, the resulting form (i.e. the form in the formative faculty) will be a true representation of the intellectual form. But since there is some corporeal aspect left at the level of the spiritual form, it cannot be true to say that any time we have such a form, it will be a correct one. At which point the adaptor’s (presumed) neat parallelism breaks down: if there is a realm of spiritual forms which mediate between the intellectual and the corporeal form, this would not stand in a 1:1 relation to, let alone coincide with the forms of the formative faculty. Such “erroneous” forms of the formative faculty would not be representations at all: they would be “vain,” empty, like the dreams that have no divinatory value. Could they

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still be said to represent the perceptible object, or rather the perceptual form, from which they were derived? If so, we would, at this point, have to suspend the adaptor’s idea that being a representation (or an image) means an increase rather than a decrease in corporeality. In any case they would not represent reality: according to T6, their faultiness would have to be due to faults in the perceptual form (or in the perceptible itself, whatever that would mean). This means that there is no way in which they could be a proper representation of reality, neither directly, nor by virtue of representing (correctly) a perceptual form which itself is a representation of an object that manifests an intellectual form in the world. By the same token, however, the adaptor has ensured that once a spiritual form can be said to represent reality because it correctly “represents” a perceptible object (and at least in T1 it is indeed considered an image of the perceptible, albeit within a passage of translated Aristotelian text), it will automatically constitute a representation of what counts as true reality for him (i.e. the intellectual form). It does so not just thanks to the perceptible object’s relation to the intellectual form, but even more immediately: it will stand in the same relation to the intellectual form as if it had been derived from it directly. The relation between representation and reality is therefore lastly the same, both in divination and in everyday perception. I do not mean to suggest that the adaptor presents this as a well-considered, fully worked out theory—if only because of the “patchwork” character of Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs described above. However, the fact that it is even possible to transfer the reverse relation of representation obtaining between the three forms (T13) to the context of his account of perception and memory says something indicative about his general way of thinking. For it is only possible because the adaptor is prepared not to insist that the spiritual form, the form belonging to the formative faculty, is a mental representation that is private to the subject. Despite his interest in the three post-sensatory mental faculties, the adaptor happily neglects the subjective aspect of perception and memory. Thus getting a memory right, in his description, appears to be not about recalling as exactly as possible our subjective experience with something (whether or not we grasped it at all adequately then), but about correctly recalling that thing itself. Even if this focus on objects rather than on subjective experience may have been supported by a distortion in the translation of De memoria (see n21 above) it is nevertheless remarkable that the adaptor did not do anything to restore the subjective aspect of memory in any way. But then, what fascinates him is not so much how our faculties access the physical world through sense perception, but how they may reach beyond it. This is all the more intriguing as he does not concern himself with our ability for intellectual knowledge or our access to metaphysical truths (nor to esoteric spiritual wisdom or anything of that kind). Perception, memory and divination in dreams all deal with events that occur in the perceptible world. However, as the adaptor states in Bāb al-Nawm wa-l-yaqaẓa: perception of the future is “nobler” than that of the present.42 This cannot just refer to the fact that divination is a rare occurrence and  “Evidence for the spiritual being nobler than the corporeal is that the spiritual indicates what will come to be in the future, whereas the corporeal indicates what has come to exist at the present time only” (MS Rampur 1752, fol. 22a).

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singles the dreamer out as the recipient of God’s providential care. The underlying reason may well be that, in the adaptor’s view, a divinatory dream gives us a more direct representation of reality than we could get through our perception of corporeal things in the world which, in the final analysis, themselves have representative character rather than being the ultimate reality.

Bibliography Abū Rīda (1950) = Yaʿqūb ibn Isḥāq al-Kindī, Rasāʾil al-Kindī al-falsafiyya, vol. 1. Ed. Muḥammad ‘Abd al-Hādī Abū Rīda. Cairo: Dār al-Fikr al-ʿArabī. Adamson, Peter. 2005. On knowledge of particulars. Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, NS 105: 273–294. Blumberg (1972) = Abū l-Walīd Ibn Rushd, Talkhīṣ kitāb al-ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs. Averrois Cordubensis Compendia Librorum Aristotelis qui Parva naturalia vocantur. Textum Arabicum recensuit et adnotationibus illustravit Henricus Blumberg. Cambridge, MA: The Mediaeval Academy of America. Cheikho (1974) = Qusṭā ibn Lūqā, Risāla fī Farq bayn al-rūḥ wa-l-nafs. In Traités inédits d’anciens philosophes arabes, musulmanes et chrétiens: avec des traductions des traités grecs d’Aristote, de Platon et de Pythagore par Ishâq ibn Honein, ed. Louis Malouf, Carole Eddé and Louis Cheikho, 121–131. Frankfurt: Minerva. Endress, Gerhard. 1973. Proclus Arabus. Beirut and Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner. ———. 1986. Grammatik und Logik: Arabische Philologie und griechische Philosophie im Widerstreit. In Sprachphilosophie in Antike und Mittelalter, ed. B.  Moisisch, 165–299. Amsterdam: B. R. Grüner. ———. 1997. The circle of al-Kindī. In The Ancient tradition in Christian and Islamic Hellenism: Studies on the transmission of Greek philosophy and science, dedicated to H.  J. Drossaart Lulofs on his ninetieth birthday, ed. Gerhard Endress and Remke Kruk, 43–76. Leiden: Research School CNWS, School of Asian, African, and Amerindian Studies. ———. 2012. Platonizing Aristotle: The concept of ‘spiritual’ (rūḥānī) as a keyword of the Neoplatonic strand in early Arabic Aristotelianism. Studia graeco-arabica 2: 265–279. Glossarium Graeco-Arabicum. Database. http://telota.bbaw.de/glossga/ Hansberger, Rotraud. 2007. The Transmission of Aristotle’s Parva Naturalia in Arabic. Unpublished DPhil diss., University of Oxford. ———. 2008. How Aristotle came to believe in God-given dreams: The Arabic version of De divinatione per somnum. In Dreaming across boundaries: The interpretation of dreams in Islamic Lands, ed. Louise Marlow, 50–77. Boston, MA/Washington, DC: Ilex Foundation/Center for Hellenic Studies. ———. 2010. Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs: Aristotle’s Parva naturalia in Arabic guise. In Les Parva naturalia d’Aristote: Fortune antique et médiévale, ed. Christophe Grellard and Pierre-­ Marie Morel, 143–162. Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne. ———. forthcoming. The Arabic Parva Naturalia. In Noétique et théorie de la connaissance dans la philosophie arabo-musulmane des IXe-XVIIe siècles, ed. Meryem Sebti and Daniel De Smet. Paris: Vrin. Harvey, E. Ruth. 1975. The inward wits: Psychological theory in the middle ages and the renaissance. London: The Warburg Institute. Hasse, Dag Nikolaus. 2000. Avicenna’s De anima in the Latin West. In The formation of a peripatetic philosophy of the soul, 1160–1300. London: The Warburg Institute/Turin: Nino Aragno Editore. Rahman (1959) = Avicenna’s De Anima (Arabic Text). Being the Psychological Part of Kitāb al-Shifāʾ. Ed. Fazlur Rahman. London/New York/Toronto: Oxford University Press.

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Ravitzky, Aviezer. 1981–1982. Hebrew quotations from the lost Arabic recension of Parva naturalia. Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 3: 191–202. Ross (1955) = Aristotle, Parva Naturalia. A Revised Text with Introduction and Commentary by Sir David Ross. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Sharples and van der Eijk (2008) = Nemesius, On the Nature of Man. Translated with an introduction and notes by Robert W. Sharples and Philip J. van der Eijk. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Sorabji, Richard. 2004. Aristotle on memory. 2nd ed. London: Duckworth. Wirmer, David. 2004. Der Begriff der Intention und seine erkenntnistheoretische Funktion in den De-anima-Kommentaren des Averroes. In Erkenntnis und Wissenschaft. Probleme der Epistemologie in der Philosophie des Mittelalters, ed. Matthias Lutz-Bachmann, Alexander Fidora and Pia Antolic, 35–67. Berlin: Akademie Verlag. Yūsuf (1962) = Yaʿqūb ibn Isḥāq al-Kindī, Muʾallafāt al-Kindī al-mūsīqiyya, ed. Zakariyyā Yūsuf. Baghdad: Maṭbaʿa Shafīq. Zimmermann, F.W. 1981. Al-Fārābī’s Commentary and Short Treatise on Aristotle’s ‘De Interpretatione’. London: The British Academy/Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Chapter 7

Dreams, Providence and Reality: Comments on Hansberger, “Representation of Which Reality?” Emma Gannagé

Abstract  This paper comments on Rotraud Hansberger’s article, “Representation of which reality? ‘Spiritual forms’ and ‘ma‘ānī’ in the Arabic adaptation of Aristotle’s Parva naturalia.” The article addresses the issue of whether the representation involved in perception and memory, on the one hand, and in dream-­visions, on the other, follows, in both cases, the same mechanisms and refers ultimately to the same reality, given that in the first case, we are in the presence of an “ascending” process in which mental representations are derived from a corporeal object of perception, whereas in the second case we have to do with a “descending” process in which they “flow” from the universal intellect. This paper addresses first the issue of the perceptive aspect of memory and its potential impact on the nature of the ma‘nā, that is, the mental representation stored in the memory. It then deals with the status of veridical dream-visions vis-à-vis the outside reality and whether the corporeal form in the outside world can be said to be a representation, that is, an image, of the spiritual form in the mind at all. In her excellent paper, “Representation of which reality? ‘Spiritual forms’ and ‘ma‘ānī’ in the Arabic adaptation of Aristotle’s Parva naturalia,”1 Rotraud Hansberger addresses the issue of how our mental faculties represent, on the one hand, present and past reality through perception and memory and, on the other, 1  In her article, Hansberger has kindly taken into consideration some of my comments on the conference version of her paper. I have thus recast my initial comments according to her final version. Quotations from her article are always followed by either the page number or the Text number between brackets. I would like to thank her very much for having given me access to her dissertation, which includes a very elegant and accurate edition, partial translation and commentary of the Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs. The additional quotations from the Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs included in this paper are thus based on Rotraud Hansberger, “The Transmission of Aristotle’s Parva Naturalia in Arabic (DPhil diss., University of Oxford, 2007), the publication of which is forthcoming. I would also like to thank the editors of this volume for their helpful remarks.

E. Gannagé (*) Georgetown University, Washington, DC, USA e-mail: [email protected] © Springer International Publishing AG, part of Springer Nature 2018 B. Bydén, F. Radovic (eds.), The Parva naturalia in Greek, Arabic and Latin Aristotelianism, Studies in the History of Philosophy of Mind 17, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-26904-7_7

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future reality through veridical dream-visions, as dealt with in the Arabic adaptation of Aristotle’s Parva naturalia, namely the Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs. The crucial question is whether the representation involved in both cases follows the same mechanisms and refers ultimately to the same reality, knowing that in the first case, we are in the presence of an “ascending” process in which mental representations are derived from a corporeal object of perception, whereas in the second case we have to do with a “descending” process in which they “flow” from the universal intellect (p. 102). In what follows, I will first expand slightly on my previous comments concerning the perceptive aspect of memory and its potential impact on the nature of the ma‘nā, that is, the mental representation stored in the memory.2 I will then address the issue of the status of veridical dream-visions vis-à-vis the outside reality and whether the corporeal form in the outside world can be said to be a representation, that is, an image, of the spiritual form in the mind at all.

1  Ma‘nā and Perceptive Memory The psychological theory expounded in the Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs is based on a strict hierarchy of faculties and their functions according to the “degrees of ‘spirituality’ of their respective objects” (p.  106). The sensory faculty, at the bottom, deals with the sensible object of perception characterized by a “greater part of pollution and shells” (T4) whereas the memory, at the top, stores the ma‘nā—that is the core (lubb) that has been “derived from the characteristic property which is in the form” (T2)—after the “thinking faculty distinguishes the core from the shell” (T3). As highlighted in Hansberger’s article, the whole process that leads progressively to the extraction of the ma‘nā from the form produced by the formative faculty (al-muṣawwir) is “a process of purification.” The perceptual form is stripped progressively from its different “shells,” that is, its corporeal aspects, up to the point where its pure noetic content or incorporeal core, in other words, its ma‘nā, can be separated from its form (I quote loosely from p. 106). The text does not provide us with any straightforward definition of what exactly is the ma‘nā which is said to be stored in the memory but rather with a description that emphasizes its incorporeality through the metaphor of the core and the shell. Having said that, it is important to note that the ma‘nā of a thing is only accessible “through the form of the thing” and hence requires, in order to be recalled, the action of the formative faculty, which is said to “make present … the image (ṣanam) of that ma‘nā,” through which one will remember it (T5). What is underlined here is the particular nature of the ma‘nā, which is not a general concept but the mental representation of this particular thing, from the image of which it has been “derived” and to which it thus refers. Hence it is in itself a particular.3 This is further illustrated  I follow Hansberger in not translating maʿnā, cf. her article in this volume (Chap. 6), p. 103 n8.  Here it is worth quoting a luminous note in Hansberger’s dissertation: “In order for there to be memory of particular things and events, the ma‛na has to have an unambiguous, exclusive relation to a particular thing or event, whereas the concept of a horse would have the same relation to any and every horse one has ever seen at any possible time” (Hansberger 2007, 86). 2 3

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in a passage of Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs that expands on De memoria 1, 449b30– 450a12, and the idea that we cannot think of anything without thinking of it as being at a specific point of time—just as we must always imagine things as having a specific quantity. Q1 … when we say “how much,” [the faculty of?] memory will only be able to remember [it] if sense-perception has already obtained that quantity beforehand, so that the formative [faculty] will already have produced the form of that quantity which the senses have obtained. However a quantity that is not determinate cannot be known by [the faculty of?] memory nor can the formative [faculty] know it, but knowledge may know it. It is the same with our saying “how much,” for it is determinate, and everything that is determinate can be perceived by sense perception, as well as by the formative [faculty]. What is not determinate, however, is not perceived but by knowledge. If it is so, then knowledge will inevitably be loftier and more exalted than sense perception and than the formative [faculty]. (MS Rampur 1752, fol. 11v 4–12; trans. Hansberger 2007, 41–42)

In the Arabic version the emphasis is thus shifted towards memory that remembers only what has been perceived before. We cannot remember without images,4 and hence what needs to be underscored here is the perceptive aspect: memory is not only about past time, it is above all about past perception. In his Talkhīṣ al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs (Epitome of De sensu et sensibilibus),5 Averroes drives the point home even more clearly by highlighting the nature of the object of memory, which can only be a particular: Q2 It is apparent from its nature [(i.e. the faculty of memory)] that it belongs to those faculties that apprehend particular individual things (al-umūr al-juz’iyya al-shakhṣiyya), for memory of a thing will occur only after one has perceived it and has formed an image of it (ba‘da iḥsāsihi wa-takhayyulihi), insofar as it is an object of sense-perception, and an object of imagination. But the nature of quantity (al-kamm), for example, as a universal which can be apprehended by the intellect, cannot be apprehended by the memorative faculty. The latter can only apprehend a determinate quantity (kammiyya maḥdūda) which it has already perceived and of which it has formed an image (aḥassathā wa-takhayyalathā). (Averroes, Talkhīṣ [in Blumberg 1972, 38]; trans. Blumberg 1961, 23, modified)

The necessary perceptive and specific aspect of the act of memory is concomitant with the fact that each act of memory will occur only in conjunction with an image, and hence ultimately the ma‘nā is the ma‘nā of the form of a perceptible thing.  See Aristotle, De memoria 1, 450a12–13.  As a side note, the qualification of Averroes’ Talkhīṣ al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs as an Epitome rather than a Middle Commentary, as translated so far by the different editors and translators of the text, would be worth further investigation. According to Maroun Aouad, who recently tackled this issue in the introduction to his monumental edition and translation of Averroes’ Middle Commentary on Aristotle’s Rhetoric (see Aouad 2002, 1: 21), lakhkhaṣa and talkhīṣ indicate a Middle Commentary only when they are accompanied by the word ma‛nā. As a matter of fact Averroes closes the second book of his commentary on the Parva naturalia, by the following sentence: “Here end the ma‛ānī that were selected (multaqaṭa) from this book” (Talkhīṣ al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs, in Blumberg 1972, 92). The sentence is ambiguous and if the word ma‛nā occurs, the word talkhīṣ is absent and the indication of a selection hints at an abridgment. At any rate, the matter is worth further investigation, because that will impact the way Averroes’ exegesis of the Parva naturalia should be considered vis-à-vis the original text. On the different meanings and usages of the term talkhīṣ, and its use by Averroes, see Gutas (1993, 37–43). 4 5

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While the text does tell us that the faculty of thought, which was first responsible for discriminating the ma‘nā from the perceptual form in which it was embedded, is again in charge of recomposing them during the process of recollection, it does not tell what guarantees the soundness of the process and that “this ma‘nā belongs to this image.”6 Even though, as Hansberger highlights (p. 108–109), in and of itself the ma‘nā is endowed with a certain objectivity, being as such only related to the object of perception and not to the “subject’s past perceptual experiences,”7 and hence is “said to represent the ‘real’ object” (p. 109), still, its “claim to truth” rests, on the one hand, upon establishing the correct relationship between the ma‘nā of a past perception through its image and form as being precisely the ma‘nā of that form and ultimately of that object of perception.8 That will be made even clearer in the realm of dreams where the “forms stored in the formative faculty are combined with ma‘ānī that do not belong to them” (p. 110 and T8). On the other hand the “objectivity” of the ma‘nā seems also to be dependent on the nature of the source from which it has been derived, since the nature of the ma‘nā seems to be affected by whether it is derived from sense perception or bestowed by the intellect directly on the soul. Only in the latter case, which characterizes the veridical dream-vision, it is described as “the exact (mutqan) and correct (al-ṣawāb) ma‘nā, in which there is no error,”9 as opposed to the ma‘nā derived from the senses “which is not the noble ma‘nā even if it is noble for the common people (al-‘āmma),”10 because having originated in the senses it is not totally pure from shells and filth.

2  Dream-Visions, Providence and Representation The veridical or sound spiritual dream-vision (al-ru’yā al-ṣaḥīḥa al-rūḥāniyya) that foretells future events thus comes from the intelligibles of the universal intellect, which are unknown to the faculties of the soul (T9). The ultimate cause of the manifestation of the true spiritual forms in the realm of dream-vision (fī ḥadd al-ru’yā) 6  Averroes raises the same question and appoints, in the realm of perception, the human intellect as the judge (ḥākim) to whom falls the “decision that this maʿnā belongs to this image” (Talkhīṣ, in Blumberg 1972, 39). 7  Although here one may wonder what kind of objective reality a maʿnā has, in light of Q1 (above) and the emphasis on memory as being first and foremost about past perceptions, which entails that ultimately the maʿnā is the end result of that particular sensory experience and hence remains in one way or another dependent on it and on the conditions in which it took place. Hence the particular aspect of the maʿnā ranks its noetic content de facto below the “intelligible” which alone can be the object of science (see Q1 above). 8  The point is very clearly made by Averroes, who breaks down the act of recollection into four elements: (1) image (khayāl); (2) the maʿnā of that image; (3) making present (iḥḍār) that maʿnā; (4) passing the judgement (al-ḥukm ʿalā) that it is the maʿnā of that image which belonged to the previous object of sensation (see Talkhīṣ, in Blumberg 1972, 39) 9  See MS Rampur 1752, fol. 30v2–3, ed. Hansberger. 10  See MS Rampur 1752, fol. 30r10, ed. Hansberger.

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is God through the intermediary of the universal intellect, which is the proximate cause. To the question “Why does the Deity make [these forms] manifest?”11 the text answers: Q3 Because their manifestations (ẓuhūrahā) are signs (āyāt), indications (‘alāmāt) and forewarning (tanbīh) for the particular soul (li-l-nafs al-juz’iyya); sometimes such a dream-­ vision is a forewarning for the particular soul only; sometimes it is a sign and an indication of something that will happen in the world or of something that will sometimes happen to someone specifically, either a punishment or a good that will befall him or some evil that will reach him. The dream-vision may also concern him and the world together …. And here [is] the greatest secret (al-sirr al-akbar) and the most important science/knowledge (al-‘ilm al-a‘ẓam), since these forms that are made manifest are forms which were not known (lam yaṭṭali‘)12 to the sense nor to any of the faculties, and when someone sees them in a dream-vision (ra’āhā) he understands (baṣurahā) them as intellectual forms (ṣuwar ‘aqliyya) and hears spiritual intellectual words. Then the interpreter (al-mu‘abbir) will need to translate/convert (naql) these spiritual intellectual words and these spiritual intellectual forms into corporeal words and corporeal forms.13 (MS Rampur 1752, fol. 41v1–14, ed. Hansberger)

What is being emphasized here is first the providential aspect of dream-visions described as “signs,” “indications,” or “forewarnings” concerning either an individual (the particular soul) or the world at large, and second the absolute novelty of the intellectual forms bestowed, being originally unknown to either the sense or any of the faculties—although being called spiritual must hint at the fact that they are made manifest in one of the faculties of the soul. Hence the need for an interpreter (be he the dreamer or someone else) in order to “convert” the intellectual spiritual forms into actual corporeal forms or, in other words, to relate the spiritual forms seen in the dream-vision to the forms that are going to occur and, by the same token, to grasp the “spiritual words that are the interpretation of the dream-vision”14 and be able to express them in corporeal words. The process at stake seems to take place within a sort of noetico-metaphysical framework, since what will be described few lines after, in T10, is first the twofold action of God, who is said (1) “to have given form ... (ṣawwara) in the intellect in one stroke” to “whatever [He] wanted to make manifest (an yuẓhira) in this world” and (2) “to have given form to its forms in this world in one stroke together with whatever logically pertains to them” (ma‘ mā yalzimuhā min al-manṭiq).15 In other words, God created in the intellect, all at once, whatever forms He wanted to make manifest in the world and simultaneously created in the world, all at once, the corresponding forms with the logical connections that can be established between both, so that a “spiritual” (rūḥānī) human mind (T12) will be able to bring such connections to the surface, in order to unveil the signification of the dream. The emphasis  See MS Rampur 1752, fol. 41r26–27, ed. Hansberger.  My emendation of lam yaṣlaḥ. 13  See also Hansberger (2008, 55). 14  See the story of the dream of the king Hiraql (Hiraql al-malik) (MS Rampur 1752, fol. 41v20– 42r2) and Hansberger (2008, 62–64). 15  I have slightly modified Hansberger’s edition and translation in T10. Emphases are mine. 11 12

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on whatever God “wanted to make manifest” is amplified in this passage,16 which culminates with the conclusion that Q4 The Supreme Cause, I mean the Deity, great be His praise, created in this way (hākadhā), when He created the intellect at that time, in order to make manifest what is in it; because the Deity moved [the intellect] at that time in order to make manifest what is in it. (Trans. Hansberger [T10], very slightly modified, my emphases)

This being said, the main instrument of the exercise of God’s providence is nevertheless the (universal?) intellect, and T10 concludes a long passage meant to answer the following question: “what is the cause of the manifestation of this form (i.e. the true spiritual form) in the realm of dream-vision?”17 In other words: what is the cause of the veridical dream-vision? What is being underscored in the answer is precisely the mediating role of the intellect, as the opening of T10 makes clear: “Such [is] the true dream-vision, the cause and reason of which is the true Deity, great be His praise, through the mediation of the intellect.”18 Veridical dream-visions can happen because God created the (universal?) intellect for the sake (if we were to take seriously the wording of T10) of making manifest “what is in it,” and thus created simultaneously the intellectual forms of “whatever [He] wanted to make manifest in the world” and the corresponding corporeal forms in the world together with the logical connection between the two. What the interpreter needed to account for is the noetico-psychological process through which the phenomenon of veridical dream-visions can be understood while at the same time preserving the providential framework within which dream-visions are signs and indications of God’s omniscience and also of his agency. As explicitly stated in Hansberger’s article, it is ultimately God, through the universal intellect, who is responsible for “the correct correspondence between the ‘spiritual form,’ that is, the dream as experienced by the dreamer, the interpretation that comes to the interpreter (or, occasionally, to the dreamer himself), and the corporeal form of the actual event taking place in the world, that is, the perceptible counterpart of the intellectual form” (p. 113). Accordingly, in a veridical dream-vision, the “spiritual form” seen in the realm of dreams cannot but be the form “the dreamer has seen in the realm of waking,” Q5 because every corporeal object of perception (kull maḥsūs jusmānī) has two forms, one spiritual and one corporeal, the spiritual form (ṣūra rūḥāniyya) being inside the corporeal form (ṣūra jusmāniyya). Just as (kamā anna) the corporeal form of the city is an image (mithāl) of the spiritual form of the city, which is inside it, likewise (kadhālika) the spiritual form is an image of the intellectual form (ṣūra ‘aqliyya). (Trans. Hansberger [T13])

16  The pericope “what [the Deity] wanted to make manifest” is reiterated no less than four times within five manuscript lines. 17  MS Rampur 1752, fol. 41r16, ed. Hansberger. 18  I quote the translation provided by Hansberger in the penultimate version of her article. The very same statement is reiterated a few lines before, where God is said to be “the cause and the reason why (sababuhā wa-ʿillatuhā)” of the manifestation of such a form in the realm of dream-vision, although this manifestation comes to be “only through the mediation of the intellect” (wa-innamā yakūn dhālika bi-tawassuṭ al-ʿaql) (see MS Rampur 1752, fol. 41r17 and 27, ed. Hansberger).

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This passage (T13 in Hansberger’s article), when understood as positing “a direct relation of representation between the various forms [, in which] the spiritual form is an image of the intellectual form, while the corporeal form is an image of the spiritual form” (p. 114), entails a reversal of the representative relation, where the intellectual form becomes the ultimate “reality” and the perceptible event in the world a representation (p. 114–115). This raises a number of serious issues to which Hansberger has very clearly pointed: 1. How are we to understand that the event in the world represents the spiritual form since, as aptly noted by Hansberger, “things and events in the world come into being whether or not anybody dreams about them beforehand” (p. 114)? 2. In which sense is the corporeal form said to be an image of the spiritual form? 3. Does this imply that the spiritual forms may have an independent existence and hence that there would be “a realm of spiritual forms” as there is a realm of intelligibles? From a methodological point of view that would imply that the account of divinatory dreams “crosses over into the realms of metaphysics and ontology” as opposed to “the account of perception and memory, which remains within the limits of epistemology” and in which “forms and maʿānī appear to be things confined to the human mind” (p. 115). In my comments on the conference version of Hansberger’s article, I have suggested a “restrictive interpretation” that would limit the reverse relation of representation to divinatory dreams alone, based on a strict reading of T10 (“For whatever the Deity, great be His praise, wanted to make manifest (an yuẓhira) in this world He gave form to (ṣawwara) in the intellect in one stroke, and gave form to its forms in this world in one stroke, together with whatever logically pertains to them”) that entails: (1) that God has created intellectual forms only for those things He wanted to make manifest in the world; and (2) that the event in the world is the representation of the intellectual form only in so far as “whatever the Deity ... wanted to make manifest” is concerned. In what follows, I will confirm the first point and challenge the second, in order to go even farther and question the possibility of any relation of ontological representation between the spiritual form in the veridical dream and the corporeal form in the outside world. Whether, on the other hand, it is legitimate to extend the twofold creation to everything and thus hold that God has already created everything that will ever exist in the world in the intellect, as Hansberger contends (pp. 116), will depend on how one reads the text. First, it seems to me worth emphasizing that the account of divinatory dreams still takes place within the noetico-psychological context proper to Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-lmaḥsus, from which it never departs, even when bringing into the picture God’s omniscience and agency and hence superimposing on the original framework a metaphysical one. God’s action is still expressed within a noetico-psychological apparatus, since it is necessarily mediated through the intellect, as highlighted above, and unfolds through the faculties of the soul, as described in T11. The excerpts at stake should thus be understood strictly within that framework, that is, as an answer to the question concerning the mechanisms at work in dream-visions as well as their

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origin.19 This is why T10 restricts the simultaneous twofold creation of the forms, in the intellect as well as in the outside world, to those particular things God made manifest in a dream because He wanted to make them manifest in the world and there is no apparent reason not to take passage T10 as seriously as the rest of the text and particularly the excerpts reproduced in T13.20 Having said that, it is possible that drawing out the metaphysical consequences of such a theory leads to inconsistencies such as the “metaphysical and ontological irregularity” aptly pointed at by Hansberger (p. 117), but that wouldn’t be the only loose end of the text.21 Now, does T10 exclude the generalization of the twofold creation to everything? Not necessarily. That the adaptor would hold the general view that everything is created in the universal intellect as intellectual forms as well as in the outside world as corporeal forms seems to me probable and even highly probable, and I would agree with Hansberger on this point. Whether this can be derived from T13 depends, again, on how one reads the passage at stake. Based on the usage of the Arabic conjunction “kamā anna (just as) … kadhālika (likewise),” it seems to me that what is being described in T13, is an analogy between, on the one hand, the relationship of the corporeal form to the spiritual form in the realm of sense perception, and, on the other, the relationship of the spiritual form to the intellectual form in the realm of dream vision, rather than “a direct relation of representation between the various forms: the spiritual form [being] an image of the intellectual form, while the corporeal form is an image of the spiritual form” (p. 114). The analogical argument is based on the premise that “every corporeal sensible thing has two forms, one spiritual and one corporeal, the spiritual form being inside (mustabṭana lit. embedded) the corporeal form” (Q5), which reflects the core-shell metaphor of T3 and T4, where the process of abstraction of the ma‘nā from the perceptible object can be understood as “a gradual increase of incorporeality and spirituality,” as Hansberger underscores (p. 117), “… easily translatable into a process from the more derivative to the more real ….” Consequently, what is more corporeal will be an image of the less corporeal and that “‘image-of’ relation,” to use Hansberger’s own terms, holds across both sides of the aisle.22 Therefore, the spiritual form the dreamer has seen in his veridical dream, because it comes from  T8, T7, T9 and T10 are, in that order, a direct answer to the following question: “what is dreamvision, how does it come to be, from where does it originate, and how can it be true/ sound?” See MS Rampur 1752, fol. 40r24, ed. Hansberger. 20  When the proposition “whatever the Deity ... wanted to make manifest in the world” is reiterated four times over five manuscript lines, it seems to me difficult to consider that “the adaptor may not need to subscribe to every detail and every implication of the wording” (p. 117). 21  Hansberger underscores at the beginning of her paper the “unusual lack in structure, clarity, consistency and stringency” (p. 101) of the text we are dealing with. An example she often points at is the problem of “how the ‘universal intellect’ is supposed to contain forms of particulars,” of which the adaptor seems to be oblivious (p. 111). 22  That the forms in the realm of perception range from the more corporeal to the more “spiritual” has been made clear in T4, where the form produced by the formative faculty (al-muṣawwir) is considered as the “purified” core (al-lubb alladhī ṣaffāhu al-muṣawwir) that will be further discriminated by the faculty of thought. 19

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the intellect and hence is pure, corresponds to the spiritual form embedded in the corporeal one (according to T13, the spiritual form of the city is in (fīhā) its corporeal form), in other words, to its core, which is not directly perceived by the senses— and this is why sometimes veridical dreams do not match exactly with the sensible form of the thing as seen in the outside world, obstructed by “shells” and “filth.” Likewise, as stated in T11, which follows immediately after T13  in the text, when having a veridical dream-vision, the dreamer will not see the intellectual form but “his own internal form,” in which the intellect has embedded the intellectual form (lit. dressed up [albasa]) and “has embellished it with [the] spiritual words” that the common sense will convey to the formative faculty, “so that it represents that form,” and this is the form the dreamer sees in his dream. It stands as an image to the intellectual form because, in being handed down to the formative faculty through the common sense, it necessarily lost in spirituality and gained some “shells,” that is, some corporeal aspects. Going beyond the sheer parallelism in order to posit a direct relation of representation between the three forms, where the spiritual form of the veridical dream will stand at the same time as the core of the corporeal form and the image of the intellectual one leads to puzzles such as the one pointed out by Hansberger, namely “how the thing in the external world could be dependent on a spiritual form confined to the human mind” (p. 118). Furthermore, such a relation of ontological dependence between the corporeal form in the world and the spiritual form in the dream will contradict not only T10, which does not postulate any dependence between both forms but rather a parallel creation of the intellectual and the corporeal forms by God, but also Q3 (above), which describes the spiritual forms of the veridical dream-visions as “signs, indications and a forewarning” “of something that will happen in the world” and hence does not allude to any dependence between them. Again what is being  brought to the fore is rather a relation of correspondence between both forms, where one, the spiritual form of the veridical dream, is a sign or an indication (dalīl) of the other, namely the event that will take place in the world: hence the need for an interpreter in order to establish the right correlation between both. This is why also the adaptor needed to specify that “whatever the Deity … wanted to make manifest (an yuẓhira) in this world, He gave form to (ṣawwara) in the intellect in one stroke, and gave form to its forms in this world in one stroke, together with whatever logically pertains to them” (T10 slightly modified), meaning with the logical connections they bear. To sum up, if the intellectual forms can be said to be the ultimate reality represented by the spiritual forms in the veridical dream,23 this does not necessarily hold for the outside world where the forms have been created (abda‘a) by God alongside the creation of the intellect (ibdā‘al-‘aql) (T10) and hence do not depend on the intellectual forms for their existence. This restricts the role of the intellectual forms  See MS Rampur 1752, fol. 42r18–19, ed. Hansberger: “every dream-vision coming from the intellect, like Hiraql’s one, is sound and veridical (ṣaḥīḥa ṣādiqa), while every dream-vision that comes from the sense and what precedes it in terms of sensible things is nothing (laysat bi-shay’), rather it is like imagination compared to that [other] dream vision.”

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as well as the spiritual forms in the dream to the noetico-psychological realm, where the latter are only “signs” of the event that will unfold in the outside reality, which explains the emphasis on a sound “interpretation” that is ultimately based on a relation of mere correspondence between the hierarchy of noetic forms and the hierarchy of forms “in this world” (T10).

Bibliography Aouad (2002) = Averroes (Ibn Rushd), Commentaire moyen à la Rhétorique d’Aristote. Ed. and trans. Maroun Aouad. 3 vols. Paris: Vrin. Blumberg (1961) = Averroes, Epitome of Parva Naturalia. Translated from the original and the Hebrew and Latin versions, with notes and introduction by Harry Blumberg. Cambridge, MA: The Mediaeval Academy of America. ——— (1972) = Averrois Cordubensis Compendia librorum Aristotelis qui Parva naturalia vocantur (Talkhīṣ al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs), ed. Harry Blumberg. Cambridge, MA: The Mediaeval Academy of America. Gutas, Dimitri. 1993. Aspects of Literary Form and Genre in Arabic Logical Works. In Glosses and commentaries on Aristotelian logical texts: The Syriac, Arabic and Medieval Latin traditions, ed. Charles Burnett, 29–76. London: The Warburg Institute. Hansberger, Rotraud. 2007. The Transmission of Aristotle’s Parva Naturalia in Arabic. Unpublished DPhil diss., University of Oxford. ———. 2008. How Aristotle Came to Believe in God-Given Dreams: The Arabic Version of De divinatione per somnum. In Dreaming Across Boundaries: The Interpretation of Dreams in Islamic Lands, ed. Louise Marlow, 50–77. Washington, DC/Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Morel (2000) = Aristote, Petits traités d’histoire naturelle. Traduction inédite, introduction, notes, bibliographie et index par Pierre-Marie Morel. Paris: Flammarion. Ross (1955) = Aristotle, Parva Naturalia. A revised text with introduction and commentary by William David Ross. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Sorabji, Richard. 2004. Aristotle On Memory. 2nd ed. London: Bristol Classical Press.

Chapter 8

Representation and Reality: On the Definition of Imaginative Prophecy in Avicenna Olga L. Lizzini

“When the soul is weak, it is dominated by imagination” Ibn Sīnā, Dāneš-nāma (Meškāt 1383: 132; cf. Achena and Massé 1986, 2: 82)

Abstract  The general issue of the relationship between Representation (and symbolic representation) and Reality—how, and to what extent, representations stand for and correspond to reality—has a privileged position in Arabic-Islamic philosophy: that of prophecy and of the veridical dream, which is both a sign and a mode of prophecy. It is in this respect that some remarks are offered here about visions and the doctrine of prophecy. After presenting the main elements of intellectual prophecy I discuss imaginative prophecy: this is related to something that is not universal and corresponds either to the knowledge (and expression) or just to the expression of a particular reality. Indeed, Avicenna uses imaginative prophecy to explain the prophet’s knowledge and representation of particular events—a knowledge which is possible because of a sort of conjunction between the prophet’s soul and the celestial spheres—but also the translation or conversion—into concrete and imaginative terms—of the intellectual truth the prophet’s intellect is capable of attaining. Thus visions in which imaginative prophecy is realized involve not only the first mode of imaginative prophecy (how the prophet foresees particular events), but also its ­second mode (how truth is expressed). In discussing this issue, I propose to interpret visions or prophetic representations as the result of the prophet’s capacity to receive and at the same time transform what is received. Finally, I briefly discuss the issue of visions and symbols: dream and prophecy imply a process of translation and interpretation, and then a transposition of sense. In fact, the ultimate meaning of prophetic representation resides in intelligible reality. The prophet, in his vision, is not dominated by his imagination (whereas the fool or the drunk is); his communication with the celestial, divine world is essentially intellectual (his soul is the rational human soul), but his language, the “symbols and indications” he uses (and must use) in representing his knowledge of the truth are those that are familiar O. L. Lizzini (*) Vrije Universiteit, Amsterdam, The Netherlands e-mail: [email protected] © Springer International Publishing AG, part of Springer Nature 2018 B. Bydén, F. Radovic (eds.), The Parva naturalia in Greek, Arabic and Latin Aristotelianism, Studies in the History of Philosophy of Mind 17, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-26904-7_8

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(and comprehensible) to human beings, on whom the imaginative world exercises its suggestive power.

1  T  he General Question and the Three Properties or Modalities of Prophecy The general question of the relationship between representation (which includes symbolic representation) and reality, that is, how—and to what extent—representations stand for and correspond to reality, holds a privileged place of discussion in the Arabic-Islamic tradition: that of prophecy and of the veridical dream (i.e. the dream that conveys the truth).1 In this contribution I offer some remarks on this topic, ­especially as regards the theory of so-­called “imaginative” prophecy in Avicenna (Ibn Sīnā, d. 1037). My purpose is to highlight the fact that in Avicenna’s theory of prophecy, the definition of imaginative prophecy—which is particularly problematic— involves the imaginative-­combinative (or combining) power of the human soul in a specific sense: although the imaginative faculty is not properly receptive, the kind of reception imaginative prophecy involves cannot be conceived beyond the imaginative power itself and its role in elaborating symbols. In my analysis I shall be referring mainly (but not exclusively) to the Book of the Healing (Kitāb al-Šifāʾ). While it is legitimized by the idea of intellectual perfection—and the importance of ḥads (to be compared to the Greek terms eustochia and anchinoia) has been highlighted by Dimitri Gutas in several studies2—prophecy is conceived by Avicenna as a complex phenomenon whose articulation is not only intellectual, but also imaginative and motive. Besides intellectual prophecy, represented by the human holy intellect as the state of “material intellect” which is capable of being in conjunction with the Agent Intellect and therefore with the world of divine intelligences, Avicenna distinguishes, in fact, two other properties (or, as one might also say, “kinds”) of prophecy:3 the one that involves and is involved by imagination, and the one that explains the prophet’s motive (motor) skills or practices.4 Every ­property or modality of prophecy involves one (or more than one) particular faculty of the

1  For a classic discussion of prophecy in Islamic philosophy and its Greek sources, see Rahman (1958), who makes much of the role of imaginative prophecy; for prophecy in the Islamic context, see Tottoli (2009). On dreams, see Gätje (1959); Fahd (1966, 51–60); Green (2003); Lamoreaux (2002, esp. 69–76); Zilio-Grandi (2009). 2  See Gutas (1998, 2001, 2006a, 2006b, 2014, 179–201). 3  They are properties, see Ibn Sīnā, Ilāhiyyāt, X, 1; X, 5 (Anawati et al. 1960, 435.14–15; 455.15; cf. Marmura 2005, 359; 378); see also Afifi al-Akiti 2004. In a similar sense A. Elamrani-Jamal (1984) refers to conditions or modalities of prophecy. At the same time, these “modalities” indicate three different ways of being in contact with the celestial world. In this sense, Hasse (2000, 154– 155) speaks of three kinds of prophecies. 4  See Ilāhiyyāt, X 1 (Anawati et al. 1960, 435.14–15 and generally 435–436). I read wa-huwa, see Lizzini (2006, 999 and n8; 1263–1264); cf. Afifi al-Akiti (2004, 194 n16).

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soul. The prophet’s faculties and their degree of perfection are very much determined by the prophet’s material complexion,5 and the key notion that explains their functioning is reception and therefore the kind of preparation or predisposition (isti‘dād) that renders the prophet capable of receiving the flow of forms.6 (1) Intellectual prophecy indicates the connection the prophet—like the philosopher—has with the separate intelligence which is at once the ultimate source and the guarantor of human knowledge: the so-called “tenth intelligence” that Avicenna, at least in one passage of his Book of the Soul (Kitāb al-Nafs), calls the “principle bestower of the intellect” (al-mabda’ al-wāhib li-l-‘aql), that is, the principle that confers the intellectual forms on the intellect.7 Because of this connection (its rapidity and efficacy), the prophet’s (theoretical) intellect is called—like the philosopher’s intellect—“holy intellect”.8 Avicenna deals with it in the fifth treatise of his Book of the Soul (V 6), defining it as the state of the human material intellect that reaches its highest degree without the need for any intermediary.9 In this respect, the modality by which the prophet is a prophet is essentially not different from that by which the philosopher is a philosopher; the only difference seems to lie in the effort and voluntary tending towards knowledge that belong to the philosopher and do not belong to the prophet: the philosopher reaches his conjunction with the separate intellect—and therefore understands reality—by virtue of his own intellectual perfection, which implies the refinement of his practical intellect realized through the

 See Ilāhiyyāt, X, 2; X, 3 (Anawati et al. 1960, 442.17; 443.16; Marmura 2005, 365; 367). This is consistent with Avicenna’s theory of soul: the human soul reaches only prepared matter, as Aristotle implicitly states: the actuality (ἐντελέχεια) of something is realised in what is in potency and in appropriate matter (οἰκεία ὕλη): De anima, 414a26–27. 6  Sebti (2008) stresses this idea. 7  See Avicenna, De anima V, 6 (Rahman 1959, 247.8); cf. Janssens (2006). 8  See Avicenna, De anima V, 6 (Rahman 1959, 248.18 (cf. Liber de anima, van Riet 1968, 151.84– 86); see also the “holy potency” or “holy faculty” in Avicenna, De anima V 6 (Rahman 1959, 250.4); cf. Liber de anima (van Riet 1968, 153.17: “virtus sancta”) and the ambiguous locution, “holy spirit” in Avicenna, De anima V, 6 (Rahman 1959, 249.1; cf. Liber de anima, van Riet 1968, 151.87: “ad intellectum sanctum”); as Gutas (2014, 182) explains, al-rūḥ al-qudsī should be the material intellect as sacred intellect; see also infra, n. 49). See also, for one, Hidāya (‘Abduh 1974, 293.6–294.3: “holy potency”: al-quwwa al-qudsiyya); Išārāt (Dunyā vol. II, 1992, 394.5–6; cf. Inati 2014, 103); in the Philosophy for ‘Alā’ al-Dawla (Dāneš-nāma-ye ʿalāʾī; literally: The Book of Knowledge for ‘Alā’ al-Dawla) Avicenna speaks of the “holy soul” (Meškāt 1383, 145–146; cf. Achena and Massé 1986, 2: 89). The Aristotelian distinction between the theoretical and practical intellects is interpreted in Avicenna as the distinction between two orientations or two sides (ǧiha or waǧh) of the intellect; the orientations explain the intellect’s activity and are reflected in the distinction between theoretical and practical sciences: see, e.g., Ilāhiyyāt, I, 1 (Anawati et al. 1960, 3.11–4.6; Marmura 2005, 2). The distinction depends therefore more on the object of intellection than on the intellect itself. In itself the intellect is one; see Lizzini (2009, 210–214). 9  See Avicenna, De anima V 6 (Rahman 1959, 248–250 and 248.16–17; 249.4–250.4 in particular); cf. Liber de anima (van Riet 1968, 151–153 and 151.84–86; 152.91–153.18 in particular). For an English translation of this passage, see Gutas (2014, 182; see also infra, n50) and Gutas (2006b, 345). 5

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exercise and the study that have modelled his rational soul, leading it to perfection.10 Natural complexion (or in other terms constitution) certainly plays a role also in the case of the philosopher: a good complexion is—one might say—a prerequisite for being a philosopher, and in some cases the complexion is so good that an exceptionally talented human being can be considered to be naturally a philosopher (he immediately knows the middle term; indeed this is how Avicenna describes himself).11 Nevertheless, a voluntary tendency towards perfection and knowledge is the key to defining the philosophical life: philosophers—one might say—are what they are precisely because they stretch towards their own perfection as human beings, while prophets are what they are simply by nature.12 And this is true in a twofold sense: not only is the prophet led to the conjunction with the active intellect—which is for him immediate and consists in pure reception—by virtue of his natural complexion; he is also necessary as regards the nature of the human species itself: without prophecy and its fundamental socio-political function, the human species could not be permanent.13 As regards representation, the intellectual—that is to say, philosophical—modality of prophecy presents no special problem: knowledge is properly intellectual for Avicenna and reality is in itself rational.14 Intellectual knowledge and the representation of reality it allows result in a universal (al-ma‘nā al-kullī) and imply the reference to an intentio (al-ma‘nā) that, corresponding to the essence of the thing in question, is neither universal nor particular and is comprised in the intellectual understanding and representation of the thing.15 In this sense, intellectual prophetic knowledge, like intellectual knowledge in general, does not properly represent  See Ilāhiyyāt IX, 7 (Anawati et al. 1960, 429.16 and, in general, 429.16–431.11; Marmura 2005, 354 ); see also Lizzini (2009, 227–236). 11  On the way in which Avicenna presents himself in describing a powerful mind, see, e.g., the Philosophy for ‘Alā’ al-Dawla (Dāneš-nāma-ye ʿalāʾī: Meškāt 1383, 145–146; Achena and Massé 1986, 2: 89). All the relevant textual references in Gutas (2014, 179–201). 12  See Gutas (2014, 201): “Avicenna states in the Philosophy for ʿAlāʾ-ad-Dawla (T2, §4) that his aptitude for Guessing Correctly the middle term was not such as to enable him to learn, like the prophets, without any study. He had to spend time with ‘book reading’ and other methods in order to supplement this deficiency and reach full understanding of the philosophical sciences. In the Autobiography he describes in great detail the methods by which he studied and learned. These are (in order of importance after ḥads) logic, prayer, dreams, and, what we might call pharmacological means, wine drinking. Conversely, understanding through ḥads and these auxiliary processes implies a rejection of rote memorization, traditional Authority (taqlīd), and Partisan Adherence to it (taʿaṣṣub), and a corresponding reliance on independent Verification (taḥqīq) and Determination of Validity (taḥṣīl).” On the definition of the philosophical life, see Lizzini (2009). 13  Ilāhiyyāt, X 2 (Anawati et al. 1960, 441.15–442.9; cf. Marmura 2005, 364–365). Prophecy and its political dimension are grounded in metaphysics: prophecy is good and must consequently be realised; cf. Ilāhiyyāt, IX 6 (Anawati et al. 1960, 418–419; cf. Marmura 2005, 343–344). 14  See in particular Gutas (2005, 2012a). 15  Ilāhiyyāt, V 1–2; Madḫal I 3, 17.7–18. In themselves, conceptual representations are neither true nor false; truth corresponds to existence (‘Ibāra 72. 15–16) and existence is affirmed or established through the assent (taṣdīq) to propositions; cf. Lizzini (2012, 18–28); some critical remarks are to be found also in Sebti (2008 and 2005). 10

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external reality, particular and contingent as it is, but instead its inner and ultimate meaning. Or—as one might also say—it coincides with or represents the form of intelligible reality that is at once the source and the ultimate guarantee of external reality, as well as of the knowledge we can have of it. The problems inherent in intellectual prophecy are in this respect essentially the same as those we find in Avicenna’s theory of knowledge.16 (2) The second kind or property of prophecy is the one that is normally defined as “imaginative” (which in fact corresponds to a well-known locution of Avicenna’s).17 Presented in unclear or even ambiguous terms,18 imaginative prophecy is related to something that is not universal: so-called “imaginative” prophecy corresponds either to the knowledge (and expression) or just to the expression of a particular reality.19 Indeed, two main modes seem to be ascribed to this property. The first is what Avicenna presents by saying that by means of this property the prophet knows special events; he “sees” them—as can happen in visions and dreams—as a human being normally sees the particular entities of external reality. This kind of prophetic knowledge is explained by virtue of the contact between the prophet’s soul and those intelligences that, in Avicenna’s cosmology, are linked to the celestial spheres: the celestial or angelic souls. By virtue of imaginative prophecy, the prophet has access to the knowledge and therefore the recognition and the representation of particular events—of the past, the present and the future—that belong to the celestial souls20 (the terms al-ġayb and al-muġayyabāt—“invisible” or “unseen” things—seem in fact to indicate hidden events in particular).21 Such access

 On Avicenna’s theory of knowledge, see (very different in their interpretations): Gutas (2001, 2012b); Hasse (2013); McGinnis (2007); Sebti (2008). 17  See al-nubuwwa al-ḫāṣṣa bi-l-quwwa al-mutaḫayyila in Avicenna, De anima IV 2 (Rahman 1959, 173.20–21). 18  Hasse (2000, 158); Gutas (2006b, 340–341) considers Avicenna’s definition of imaginative prophecy “less clear” and “imprecise.” 19  See Elamrani-Jamal (1984); Michot (1986); Hasse (2000); Gutas (2006b). Gutas also dwells on the fact that some scholars have highlighted the role of the imaginative faculty in an exaggerated or improper manner (see 2006b, 341 and n12). Rahman (1958, 38–40) stresses the imaginative power but describes visions according to Avicenna “as purely mental phenomena.” On the fortuna of imaginative prophecy in the Western Latin tradition, see, for one, Zambelli (1985). 20  See Avicenna, De anima IV 2 (Rahman 1959, 173–182; see, in particular, 178.14–20, where Avicenna refers to metaphysics; see also Ilāhiyyāt, IX 2–5). It is worth noting that Avicenna ascribes the knowledge of particular events to both the separate intelligences and the celestial souls; every kind of celestial entity has its own way (ǧiha) of recognizing them. The celestial souls have not only knowledge of the particulars, but also a representation (taṣawwur) of it; a representation that also depends on their imaginative power, or something that is almost an imaginative power (šibh taḫayyul); see Ilāhiyyāt, IX 2 (see Anawati et  al. 1960, 386.9–387.1  in particular; Marmura 2005, 311); see also Michot (1986, 110–118). 21  See Gutas (2006a, 359–365); cf. Gutas (2006b, 350): “It can come to prophets, of course, but also to every man, even simpletons and fools – and this fact alone is enough to guarantee that this is not any kind of knowledge of divine or mystical secrets.” 16

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is possible because of a sort of conjunction between the prophet’s soul and the celestial spheres, with which the prophet (or more generally the human being) shares a sort of common structure: the prophet and celestial souls have a certain homogeneity or “congeneric similarity” (muǧānasa), which—as Gutas has highlighted (2006b)—are to be explained by virtue of the prophet’s practical intellect. It is the human practical intellect—that is to say, the side of the intellect that is oriented towards the body and the sublunary world—that can be considered to correspond to or be congeneric with the being of celestial souls. These are, indeed, celestial intelligences—to which Avicenna also ascribes representative imagination (see the use of taṣawwur and taḫayyulāt)—which are related to celestial bodies.22 In some cases, these intelligences are even called “operative angels,” because they are concerned with operations,23 just as the human practical intellect is. Here too, what sustains the homogeneity between the prophet’s soul and celestial souls, allowing the conjunction between them, is the perfection of the prophet’s complexion; complexion (i.e. “constitution”) is what enables not only the prophet’s intellect, but also the prophet’s being in general, to be extraordinarily powerful. In fact, the imaginative power does play a role here, although in a negative sense. As Michot explains it (1986, 125–133, in particular 126), the prophet’s imaginative power does not prevent contact between human and heavenly souls. In this sense, this first mode of imaginative prophecy, which corresponds (also) to the literal meaning of prophecy as the prediction of (or the ability to predict) future events (προφητεία), involves both the imaginative-combinative power of the soul and the inferior side of the intellect, the practical intellect, which governs that power. The second mode—and this is the point upon which I shall be dwelling—of imaginative prophecy is normally presented as a translation or a conversion: imaginative prophecy is what translates, transposes or converts, into concrete and imaginative terms, the intellectual truth the prophet’s intellect is able to attain. In the first mode or sense, imaginative prophecy indicates how the prophet (fore) sees particular events and has particular instances of knowledge. In the second mode or sense, in which the imaginative combinative power of the soul is involved together with the theoretical intellect, imaginative prophecy indicates how the prophet expresses, through particular images, essentially the same universal and necessary truths or instances of knowledge that he can grasp thanks to his theoretical intellect (the intellect Avicenna refers to when he speaks about intellectual prophecy).24 In this second mode or sense of imaginative prophecy, the power of combining and separating forms should “translate” the intellectual truth (normally  See Ilāhiyyāt, IX 2 (and, in particular, Anawati et al. 1960, 387.4–11; Marmura 2005, 312).  Ilāhiyyāt, X 1 (Anawati et al. 1960, 435.6–8: Marmura 2005, 358: “the active angels”; but active normally translates fa“āl; see Lizzini 2009, 230 n.81 and 237–239); cf. Ilāhiyyāt, IX 2 (Anawati et al. 1960, 387.4–7; Marmura 2005, 312); Išārāt III, 10–11 (Dunyā 1985, 134–142; cf. Inati 2014, 147–149). 24  The theoretical intellect receives the flow of forms from the tenth intellect. I shall not discuss here the question of the role of abstraction and/or reception in Avicenna’s theory of knowledge. For a recent assessment, see Hasse (2013). 22 23

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expressed by logic) into the poetic and rhetorical language of images that one finds in holy scripture.25 (3) Finally, the third modality of being a prophet indicates not knowledge, but a kind of ability. If we look at the Book of the Soul, we find that this property or modality comprises, in fact, the prophet’s poietical, that is, (physically) productive and motive skills. The third property (or the third kind) of prophecy is that by virtue of which the prophet intervenes in the external world: the prophet’s soul does not only move and govern his own body—as is the case for every human being—but also a body separate from his own.26 In short, by means of this prophecy, intimately connected with the corporeal world as it is, Avicenna legitimates miracles, that is to say, acts through which the soul has an influence on the external physical world; these acts depend on the motive faculty of the soul, although here too other powers are involved: the imaginative and combinative faculty of the prophet’s soul and his will.27 In this respect, miracles are, like actions in general, “natural” (and in this sense one can also speak of the theory of “natural prophecy” in Avicenna).

2  Representation and Imaginative Prophecy Many critical issues are involved in Avicenna’s theory of prophecy. Among them are the questions about the place the prophet occupies within the ranks of being; the social, political and ultimately metaphysical function Avicenna ascribes to prophecy; the fundamental question of how the prophetic message is integrated into Avicenna’s philosophical doctrine; and the determinism that prophetic prediction necessarily implies.28 Related to these questions—which I shall not be discussing here—is the question of representation: what kind of reality does the prophetic mes For this point in particular, see Michot (1986, 126–133); on imaginative prophecy, Avicenna, De anima V, 2 (Rahman 1959, 173.9–21 and, more generally, 169–182); cf. The Philosophy for ‘Alā’ al-Dawla (Dānešnāme-ye ʿAlāʾī), Meškāt 1383, 145–146; Achena and Massé, 1986, 2: 89–90; more generally 78–90; Meškāt 1383, 123–146); see also The Provenance and Destination (K. alMabda’ wa-l-ma‘ād; Nūrānī 119–121). On this, see also Hasse (2000, 157–160); Elamrani-Jamal (1984); Afifi al-Akiti (2004); Gutas (2006b). 26  See Avicenna, De anima IV 4 (Rahman 1959, 200.11–201.16; see Hasse (2000, 162): “The key concept is that of purification. The soul of the prophet is purified, that of the sorcerer is not.” Cf. Elamrani-Jamal (1984, 136–138). 27  See also The Philosophy for ‘Alā’ al-Dawla (Dānešnāme-ye ʿAlāʾī), Meškāt 1383, 141; Achena and Massé 1986, 2: 87. 28  For a strongly deterministic interpretation, see Michot (2006); Belo (2007). The question of determinism should be examined by taking into consideration Avicenna’s idea of providence: on the one hand, divine providence concerns the species, not individuals; on the other, miracles, as well as natural phenomena, are to be explained by the flow of forms. I provide a discussion of these topics in Lizzini (2011, 451–482; 510–514); for the texts, see e.g. Ilāhiyyāt, VI 5 (Anawati et al. 1960, 289.16–290.15 ; Marmura 2005, 225–226). 25

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sage express, and how is it expressed? This is the question I shall attempt to deal with here. Let’s now return to imaginative prophecy. We have introduced the two main modes or senses of imaginative prophecy Avicenna distinguishes (see above). Both senses (that of the knowledge of particular events and that of necessary truths conveyed through poetical and rhetorical images) involve (in a negative or in a positive sense) the imaginative-combinative power; both senses involve the prophet’s intellect: the practical intellect explains the contact with celestial souls and the knowledge that is derived therefrom; the theoretical intellect underpins “intellectual revelation” as this is conveyed by prophetic language. Both senses involve visions. Avicenna introduces imaginative prophecy in the sense of prophetic visions in the fourth treatise of the Book of the Soul, where he discusses the formative power or faculty (al-quwwa al-muṣawwira)—that is, imagination (ḫayāl), or the faculty that stores the forms known through perception—and the cogitative faculty (al-quwwa al-mufakkira)—that is, the faculty by virtue of which the soul combines and separates the forms already perceived through the senses and stored by the imagination (Hasse 2000, 157–58). This faculty is also generally called, as regards animals, alquwwa al-mutaḫayyila. In his discussion of prophecy and dreams, Avicenna refers not only to the tradition of Aristotle’s De anima, but also to the Arabic philosophical tradition of Aristotle’s Parva naturalia, that is, to the Arabic elaboration of the text, called Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs, the “Book on Sense Perception and the Perceived.” Traces of the influence of the Arabic Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs are evident in the discussion of dreams and visions and in the very fact that they are integrated in the analysis of the soul. Moreover, traces of the Arabic elaboration of the Aristotelian text have been detected in the doctrine of the internal senses, in the definition of intentions (ma‘ānī)—although these are by no means identical with the ma‘ānī introduced by the Arabic Parva naturalia—and in the doctrine of sleep.29 Imagination is the thesaurus of the forms perceived through the senses; the imaginative-cogitative power (al-mutaḫayyila or al-mufakkira) is the faculty that composes or combines and distinguishes these same forms. The result of the work of combination (or separation) of the imaginative-cogitative faculty does not necessarily correspond to reality or need not correspond to reality (the imaginative and therefore image-making power is creative) and can be memorized by imagination also as regards its fictive result. In fact, the thesaurus does not contain forms as they are perceived, but—Avicenna states—forms as they are elaborated by the soul  See Avicenna, De anima (Rahman 1959, 177–178). In fact, in its Arabic version, Aristotle’s Parva naturalia was an important source for the Arabic philosophical theory of prophecy. About this question, see especially Di Martino (2003); Hansberger (2010) and Hansberger’s contribution to this volume. On internal senses, see Strohmaier (1996). On the link between imagination and dreams in Aristotle’s De anima, see Aristotle, De an. 3.3, 428a5–9. An interesting text for the transmission to the Arabic world of the collection of Aristotelian texts later known as Parva naturalia is al-Risāla al-Manāmiyya, which was ascribed to Avicenna but is, according to al-Bayhaqī and Ibn-Abī-Uṣaybiʿa, by Abū-Sahl al-Masīḥī; see Gutas (2010, 51; 2014, 526); Daiber (2010); Pines, (1974). For the edition of the text, see Khan 1956. Cf. Liber de somno et visione, ascribed to al-Kindī—and for this, see Nagy (1897, 12–27); for the translation, see Adamson and Pormann (2013, 124–133). In the same context (for Averroes), see Gätje (1961) and cf. Blumberg (1961).

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according to the abstraction (taǧrīd) realized by the imaginative (image-making) power.30 Indeed, the imaginative power also explains untruthful perceptions. As a result of different causes—imaginative activity (taḫayyul) and cogitative activity (al-fikr), and/or some celestial configurations (al-tašakkulāt al-samāwiyya)—a human being is able to hear voices and see coloured images that have neither existence nor causes in the outside world (fa-yasma‘ wa-yarā alwānan wa-aṣwātan laysa la-hā wuǧūd min ḫāriǧ wa-lā asbābu-hā min ḫāriǧ).31 By means of these distinctions, Avicenna fundamentally explains the perceptions and visions of fools, drunks and the mentally ill. Nonetheless, almost the same mechanism serves to explain prophecy: some individuals who have a very strong and dominant imaginative-­cogitative faculty (al-mutaḫayyila šadīda ǧiddan ġāliba), and, more generally, a powerful soul, are able to incline towards the intellectual world without losing their contact with the physical one: in these individuals the soul’s inclination towards the intellect does not inhibit the soul’s application to the senses.32 These are the prophets who are prophets because of their imaginative power (or in so far as their imaginative power is taken into consideration): they have visions, they enter into contact with the celestial world and are able to see even in their waking lives what most people see, if at all, only when asleep. In other words, the basic idea of what Avicenna here calls “the prophecy that is specific to the imaginative power” (al-nubuwwa al-ḫāṣṣa bi-l-quwwa al-mutaḫayyila)33 is the same idea that explains visions, in principle even those that are false. Clearly, a key role must be assigned not only to the imaginative activity and/or faculty of the soul (the taḫayyul, which governs the activity of combining and separating forms), and to the intellect (in its practical but also in its theoretical orientation), but also to the sensory faculties of the soul. Indeed, one detail should be emphasized. In describing the (untruthful and faulty) visions of a fool or a madman, Avicenna speaks about the possibility of a certain impression which involves the common sense itself (amkana an yartasima ḏālika fī l-ḥissi al-muštaraki nafsi-hi ‘alā hay’ati-hi).34 Evidently, imaginative perception is special due to form’s being represented as a sense datum (maḥsūsatan), precisely because a specific role must be attributed to the common sense, “the innermost of the senses.”35 In this respect, since visions and prophetic visions are the result of almost the same mechanism, prophetic visions can be defined, together  Avicenna, De anima IV 2 (Rahman 1959, 170.3); see also Elamrani-Jamal (1984, 131). For the Aristotelian discussion of imagination (phantasia), see at least Aristotle, De an. 3.3; 3.7, 431b3– 10; 3.8, 432a8–9; 3.11. 31  Avicenna, De anima IV 2 (Rahman 1959, 170.5–14; for sleep, illness and fear, see ibid. 172.9– 173.8) and see also Elamrani-Jamal (1984, 131–132), who rightly stresses that in this way Avicenna bases imaginative prophecy on his theory of knowledge and anthropology, i.e., on the human ability to reproduce images that have no direct correspondence with reality. 32  Avicenna, De anima IV 2 (Rahman 1959, 173.9–21); cf. Hasse (2000, 159); Elamrani-Jamal (1984, 133). 33  Avicenna, De anima IV 2 (Rahman 1959, 173.20–21); see Rahman (1958, 72). 34  Avicenna, De anima IV 2 (Rahman 1959, 170.9); cf. Rahman (1958, 73). 35  Avicenna, De anima IV 2 (Rahman 1959, 170.9–14); Michot (1986, 154–156); Sebti (2005, 117–118). 30

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with dreams and theo-pathic experiences in general, as related to sensation. In other words, prophetic vision—for example the vision of an angel, which is what Avicenna implicitly refers to when he mentions “voices and coloured images”36—is the result not (or not only) of an imaginative representation (i.e. of the combination or separation of forms already perceived), but instead of a perception, and indeed a perception that does not correspond to any element of external reality (the angel has no physical existence). So, if in untruthful visions (such as those of someone who is mentally ill, drunk or a fool) nothing corresponds to sensory perception, in prophetic vision an intelligible reality corresponds to it. The prophet “sees” something that exists as an intelligible reality as if it had a sensible reality. In other words, in the case of an ordinary human being who has a false vision, the external physical reality that should underpin or justify sensory perception does not exist; in the case of the prophet, however, there is indeed a reality that corresponds to his vision, a reality that is not physical, but intellectual. The angel does not exist as such: what does exist and what validates the prophet’s visions and auditory apparitions,37 “created” by the imaginative power (the combinative imagination),38 is the separate intelligence, whose existence philosophy deduces.39 The ultimate cause of visions—both in the case of an ordinary human being and of a prophet—is the reception of flux40 and the conjunction with the celestial world, a conjunction which is not sought as such and which can involve many elements— intelligibles (ma‘qūlāt), warnings (inḏārāt), poetical inspirations (ši‘r), etc.—and which is always also explained in terms of the material preparation or disposition (al-isti‘dād) of the receiving substance, or its attitude (al-‘āda) and constitution (al-ḫulq).41 Yet the causes of reception are in turn both internal and external. If the causes are internal, they reside in one of the properties (sabab min al-asbāb) of the actions related to the imaginative and cogitative powers. If they are external, they reside (also) in some of the celestial representations (al-tašakkulāt al-samāwiya). 36  Avicenna uses the same wording—voices and coloured images—for both untruthful and prophetic visions; see Avicenna, De anima IV 2 (Rahman 1959, 170.5–14); cf. ibid. 173.19–21; Ilāhiyyāt X 1 (Anawati et. al. 435.15–16; Marmura 2005, 359). 37  See the locution alfāẓ masmū‘a: Avicenna, De anima (Rahman 1959, 173.18–21): “Sometimes, what is presented to [such people] is an apparition: they imagine that what they perceive is a speech from this apparition with audible words which [can be] remembered and recited, this being [the kind of] prophethood specific to the imaginative faculty” (translation by Hasse 2000, 158). 38  On the image as an imitation, see Sebti (2005). For the recognition of fictional beings as the result of an intellectual elaboration of an image (forms of fictional beings do not survive the death of the body), see Michot (1987); cf. Black (1997). 39  This is what Michot elegantly and suggestively states (1986, 126–127): “L’expression imagée et anthropomorphique, l’apparence sensible et contingente, ne peuvent pas faire partie de l’essence de la révélation. Concevant le Très-Haut comme absolument transcendant, Avicenne refuse de lui attribuer ce qui impliquerait une multiplicité ou une dimension quelconques ….”; cf. Ta‘līqāt (Badawī, 1973, 82, 1–5). This is the sense of prophetic visions as “purely mental phenomena” (Rahman, 1958, 38–40). 40  See, in a nutshell, Elamrani-Jamal (1984, 131–136). 41  Avicenna, De anima (Rahman 1959, 174); cf. Gutas (2006b, 349–350): visions come unsolicited and comprehend an “extreme variability of manifestations”; cf. Gutas (2006a, 363).

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Generally, these causes—be they internal or external—are successful in their influence either because the intellectual powers of the human soul are not vigilant, being in a state of quietude, or because the estimative faculty simply does not exercise any control function: visions come primarily, although not exclusively, when one is asleep. Only the excellence that characterizes the prophet, in both his intellectual and his imaginative powers, allows him to be assisted in his vision by the practical intellect, that is, by his intellect when it is oriented towards the body and the sense-­related faculties, like the imaginative combinative faculty. This is how the prophet “sees,” without having sought his vision, not only when he is asleep, but also when he is awake.42 The practical intellect, which has its own autonomy and cognitive legitimacy with regard to the imaginative faculty, is called upon to legitimize the highest imaginative activity—that of the prophet—, which serves to explain dreams and revelations obtained from the celestial souls. Many studies have highlighted this aspect.43

3  Imaginative Power and Translation Visions are the modality whereby imaginative prophecy is realized. In this respect, they involve not only the first mode of imaginative prophecy (how the prophet foresees particular events), but also its second mode: how the prophet conveys divine truth through rhetorical and poetical images. Yet the notion of visions gives rise to many questions. First of all, the prophet sees—both when asleep and when awake— particular realities, which cannot be considered simply contingent: they convey a divine meaning and should therefore be considered to imply absoluteness and truthfulness, like universals. But how can one ascribe absolute truthfulness to particulars? Some of the major interpreters of Avicenna—Elamrani-Jamal, Michot, Hasse and Gutas—rightly stress that it is not reception (the reception of the divine flux) that should be ascribed to the imaginative faculty, but the transformation or translation of what the intellect receives. In other words, if the prophet foresees particular events, this is because his relation to the celestial souls is realized through the practical intellect, and not through his imaginative power; if he conveys divine truth, this is because his theoretical intellect (and not his imaginative power) receives the divine flow. In other words, the communication between the divine world and the human world of the prophet is to be attributed, even in the case of imaginative prophecy, to the intellect. Avicenna often speaks of the soul in general—for example, he speaks of a flux of forms from the angelic realm (the malakūt) to the soul as that which explains the veridicality of dreams (when this flow of forms is not the  Avicenna, De anima IV 2 (Rahman 1959, 173.9–21). Cf. Michot (1986, 118–125); Gutas (2006b, 345–351 and his translation ibid., 345): “In some people, the faculty of imagination may happen to have been created so very strong and dominant that the senses cannot overpower it and the formbearing [faculty] cannot disobey it ….” 43  On the practical intellect, see Sebti (2003); Lizzini (2009). On the prophet’s practical intellect, see Michot (1986, 118–125); Gutas (2006b). 42

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cause of the dream, the dream is not veridical; indeed not every dream is veridical: De anima, Rahman 1959, 179.4–6); he also speaks of a relationship or connection (nisba) that involves the soul, the imaginative power and the world of the invisible (De anima, Rahman 1959, 178.1–3)—but communication with the divine world is always to be ascribed to the intellect and not directly to the imaginative-combinative power of the soul. This should also enable us to explain the fact that only humans and not animals can be prophets44 (Avicenna would then refer to the soul in order to indicate the intellect, that is, the rational soul, not imagination; nonetheless, in some passages imagination is clearly involved).45 Indeed, when Avicenna speaks of a contact between the celestial souls and the human soul and of a correspondence (munāsaba) and homogeneity or congeneric similarity (muǧānasa) that makes communication possible,46 he refers—as we have seen—to the practical intellect: the prophet enters into conjunction with the celestial souls, the “operative angels,” by virtue of his soul, that is, essentially, his practical intellect, and has access to the knowledge of particular events that they have.47 As for intellectual conjunction, it always occurs through the theoretical intellect. Indeed—as Michot makes clear— two roles are to be ascribed to the imaginative power: a negative one, by virtue of which it does not prevent the human soul’s contact with heavenly souls, and a positive one, by virtue of which the prophet’s imaginative power translates universal forms into a language: it transposes and translates forms—Michot states—into the repetition of phrases that are necessary to express the word of God, and by so doing it “degrades” divine epiphany.48 But how should one understand this act of translation? Is it possible to conceive of it as distinct from intellectual reception? As we have seen, a prophetic vision does not involve only imaginative power, but also the common sense: a vision is in some respects an experience and therefore a “perception”. And indeed, in the fifth treatise of his Book of the Soul (V 6)—in a well-known passage—Avicenna refers to visions. He dwells on the idea of preparation, the powerful predisposition or preparation  See Hasse (2000, 159); Gutas (2006b, 341). Nevertheless, the Qur’ān ascribes revelation to bees (Cor. 16, 68) and natural entities (Cor. 99, 4–5; Cor. 41, 12), and the Islamic tradition has in some cases accepted the idea of revelation to animals (the most significant example is The Epistle on the Animals by the Brethren of Purity). 45  Indeed, some passages pose a problem, see Afifi al-Akiti (2004, 205–206), where he discusses The Provenance and Destination (K. al-Mabda’ wa-l-ma‘ād; Nūrānī 117.20–21) and State of the Human Soul (Aḥwāl al-Nafs); cf. Gutas (2006b, 338–339 and 347–348), where a passage of Avicenna’s De anima (Rahman 1959, 180.5–6) is quoted: “The celestial bodies drop forms into the imagination in accordance with [its] predisposition” (and a further difficulty here has to do with the fact that celestial bodies and not souls are involved). 46  See Avicenna, De anima (Rahman 1959, 178.11–182); cf. Gutas (2006b, 343–344); Sebti (2005, 125–126). 47  This knowledge is said to belong both to pure intelligences and to celestial souls; in each case according to a different way or mode; see Avicenna, De anima (Rahman 1959, 178.13–16); cf. supra, n20. 48  Michot (1986, 129–130 and n113); cf. Hasse (2000, 160): in his Book of the Soul, Avicenna does not mention the active intellect as a source of any knowledge that comes to the imagination for the unseen events; Gutas states that “imagination” “converts” or “imitates” (2006b, 350). 44

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required for attaining knowledge and intellection, i.e. the ability of intuition, and introduces the idea of imaginative prophecy in terms of reception: in some individuals—he states—intellectual preparation or predisposition can be so intense that they need neither exercise nor learning to realize their conjunction with the intellect. It is as if these individuals could directly attain the intellect’s preparation or disposition, which enables them to receive forms, as if they could achieve everything on their own, without mediation; nonetheless, the imaginative power as such seems to be involved in their reception: it is not impossible that the flow of forms regards the imaginative power as such: This predisposition may be so strong in certain people that they do not need great effort, or training and instruction, in order to make contact with the active intellect—or rather their predisposition for this is so strong that it is as if they were in actual possession of the second predisposition [i.e., the intellect in habitu]; indeed it seems as if they know everything of themselves. This is the highest degree (daraǧa) of this predisposition. In this state the material intellect ought to be called “sacred intellect” (ʿaql qudsī), being of the genus of intellect in habitu, except that it is so lofty that it is not something shared by all people. It is not unlikely that some of these actions pertaining to the “sacred spirit” (al-rūḥ al-qudsī)49 because of their powerful and overwhelming nature arrive to overflow (tafīḍu fayaḍānan) into the imagination which then reproduces them also in terms of perceptible and audible linguistic images in the way in which we have previously indicated.50

In other words, if this interpretation is correct, the flow of forms, from the Agent Intellect to the prophetic intellect and normally destined to the theoretical intellect, can involve the imaginative faculty itself. This passage reveals that what is normally considered an ambiguity—Avicenna refers both to the soul and to the rational soul, sometimes to the imaginative faculty, and finally sometimes to the practical intellect51—is more than ambiguity. Avicenna thinks of the human soul as a unitary  Another question concerns the meaning of al-rūḥ al-qudsiyya / al-rūḥ al-qudsī; this locution is generally related to the prophet’s holy intellect. For this usage, see e.g. Gutas (2014, 182), who explains it as “the material intellect as sacred intellect.” Indeed, scholars generally accept the Latin interpretation (see Liber de anima, van Riet 1968, 151.86–152.90: “Non est autem longe ut, ab his actionibus comparatis ad intellectum sanctum potestate earum et virtute, emanet aliquid ad imaginativam quod imaginativa repraesentet etiam secundum exempla visa vel audita verba, eo modo quo praediximus”). It should be noted that in some writings the Holy Spirit (al-rūḥ al-muqaddas) is likened to the agent intellect; cf., e.g., Ilāhiyyāt, X 2 (Anawati et al. 1960, 442.9; Marmura 2005, 365; cf. Qur’ān 16, 102; 2, 87, 254; 5, 109); on the identification of this Spirit with Gabriel, see Pedersen 1965. For other similar occurrences in Avicenna, see R. fī aqsām al-‘ulūm al-‘aqliyya in Tis‘ Rasā’il fi l-ḥikma wa l-ṭabī‘iyyāt, 114; cf. al-Fārābi, Siyāsa (Najjār 1993, 32): “The Active Intellect ought to be called the ‘protective spirit’ and the ‘holy spirit’— since it is given names similar to these two—and its rank ought to be called ‘the heavenly kingdom’ and other such names” (for the English translation, see McGinnis/Reisman 2007, 82). 50  Avicenna, De anima (Rahman 1959, 248.16–249.3); cf. Liber de anima, 151.84–152.90; Avicenna, De anima (Rahman 1959, 173.9–21; translation by Gutas 1998, 97 and 96–98); cf. Gutas (2006b, 345): “… it is not unlikely that some of these acts pertaining to the sacred spirit because of their powerful and overwhelming nature deluge the imagination which then reproduces them in terms of perceptible and audible linguistic images”; Gutas (2014, 182), where tafīḍu fayaḍānan is rendered as “are forced to overflow”; cf. also Gutas (2006a, 365–366); this passage should also be compared with Ta‘līqāt (Badawī 1973, 82, 1–5). 51  For textual references, see Gutas (2006b). 49

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entity: the imaginative power of the human soul belongs, in that respect, to the “human soul”; as a consequence, Avicenna must acknowledge an aporetic but precise relationship between the imaginative and intellectual properties of prophecy. If the latter property is the power by which the prophet, like the philosopher (or, more particularly, the power by which the philosopher, or the prophet, to the extent that he is a “philosopher”), receives and therefore understands everything (universally and intellectually), then imaginative prophecy is not only the power whereby the prophet “translates” what is received from the heavenly souls’ representations, but also the power whereby the prophet is able to receive—and at the same time to translate—the very same intellectual flux that justifies, supports and gives substance to his knowledge. The prophet’s practical intellect certainly controls imaginative activities (and the emotions) and can be in contact with the celestial souls; the theoretical intellect ensures communication with the divine, but the reception of the flow in visions cannot be explained as exclusively intellectual: visions are not simply intellectual. This passage seems to suggest that Avicenna involves the imaginative-­ combinative faculty in the process of reception that includes prophetic visions. The reasons that induce readers to deny any essential receptive role to the imaginative-­ combinative faculty can be found in the theoretical stumbling-blocks with which one would otherwise be faced. If prophecy were explained through a bodily faculty, such as the imaginative-combinative faculty, one would have to accept the notion of contact between what is physical and what is not, which seems aporetic and unacceptable.52 But at least two questions arise: first of all, does speaking of a translation of the imaginative faculty or of its service to or cooperation with the intellect really solve these problems? If the obstacle to involving the imaginative power is that it presupposes acknowledging the (impossible) contact between an animal and an intellectual faculty, why should the ideas of translation and cooperation not (or not also) be problematic?53 Secondly, why should a human prophet’s imaginative faculty be regarded simply as an animal faculty? Avicenna has no mereological conception of the soul; in this respect, speaking of the imaginative-combinative power of a human being cannot be the same as speaking of an animal’s. And this is due

 Again, see especially Gutas (2006b, 340–341). In fact, images are particulars; therefore, they should be recognizable through the senses (although the practical intellect too must recognize particulars in order to act). To this a further problem can be added: from a metaphysical perspective, particulars are “indifferent” to the “aims” of the flow or universal nature (see e.g. Ilāhiyyāt, IX 1 and VI, 5; see Anawati et al. 1960, 379.2–4; 289.17–291, 2–3; Marmura 2005, 304, 226–227). 53  The question can also be reversed: how is one to understand reception if one accepts the idea of intelligible forms that flow into the imaginative-combinative faculty? Can one really assign it a different meaning from that of a translation of intellectual into imaginative data? See, e.g., Ta‘līqāt (Badawī 1973, 82, 1–5; the passage is cited by Michot 1986, 126–133). A major role has been ascribed to the imaginative power by Gardet (1951, 119–125); Rahman (1958, 30–64); and Marmura (1963, 50). On the role the imaginative power plays in the formation of images, see Sebti (2005, 125–126). 52

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precisely to the role the practical intellect plays in controlling and guiding the human “animal” soul.54 Visions or prophetic representations are the result of the prophet’s capacity to receive and at the same time transform what is received: the prophet sees the angel— by virtue of whom revelation comes to him—with a shape that is not the “real angel’s” (the intelligence’s) shape; he hears the angel speaking in a voice that is determined more by the prophet’s capacity to receive (and elaborate what is received) than by the real nature of what he is perceiving. It is in the light of reception, and therefore of the prophet’s potentiality, that imaginative prophecy and prophecy itself are explained. In other words, the prophet is not a philosopher who uses his imagination to “translate” intelligible data. The prophet is a perfect human being who translates intelligible data into images at the very moment in which he receives them: he perceives the flow in a way that involves both the receptive activity of the practical and theoretical intellects and the productive activity of the imaginative faculty. That is to say, the prophet translates the data into imaginative terms in the process of actualising his reception, not only in communicating it. The vision is itself a translation: the particular imaginative representation of reality one finds in the prophetic vision corresponds, in fact, to a particular way of grasping or understanding reality—a reality that is, in itself, intellectual—which is at the same time a way of representing and therefore communicating it. On the other hand, the content of intellectual prophecy that Avicenna discusses in his Book of the Soul (Kitāb al-Nafs V 6), that is, the prophecy of the holy intellect, which needs no intermediary to grasp the truth and which is the highest degree of actualisation of the material intellect, is typical—to the extent that it remains intellectual without being transformed into any vision—of the philosopher or, at all events, is entirely philosophical in itself.55 The kind of representation it results in is that of the intelligible form that perfectly corresponds—or is actually identical—to intelligible reality just as it is. In this case, the translation into images is completely different from that effected by the prophet and is subsequent to reception: the philosopher can choose to use imaginative language to explain his ideas (for example, “light” to explain intellectual emanation), whereas his understanding of reality is completely and exclusively intellectual. The only thing that the prophet’s symbolic  The real problem lies in the fact that an animal faculty is corporeal, while the intellect is not. Nevertheless, there is not a distinct partition of the soul (vegetative, animal, human) in Avicenna; a partition of this nature applies more to the faculties than to the soul as such. A further general problem is the definition of the soul and its relationship to the intellect; in some texts Avicenna states that the proper meaning of the soul is the intellect, and the question of the soul as perfection and/or form and/or substance must be linked thereto; on this subject, see Michot (1997). 55  See Avicenna, De anima (Rahman 1959, 248.16–19); cf. Gutas (2012a, 422): “The prophet’s intellection of the intelligibles thus vouchsafes him the contents of revelation, which turn out to be identical with the contents of philosophy. It is therefore to be noted that Avicenna’s use of the term ‘sacred’ (qudsī) for the intellect at this level does not at all imply a divine or otherworldly provenance for the intellect but merely points to the fact that its contents are those which are presented by the prophet as revelation.” Or, as one might say, reality itself implies a divine or otherworldly provenance (see e.g. Anawati et al. 1960, 438, 18-439, 18; Michot 1986, 61–62). 54

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language shares with the philosopher’s is the function one must ascribe to symbols themselves: prophecy makes use of symbols and images to enable ordinary people to understand the metaphysics of divine reality (whereas the prophet must communicate about God only elementary and simple truths).56 The philosopher uses symbols in order to introduce students to the abstract truths of philosophy. Thus symbols communicate the truth to all men; at the same time they offer the opportunity (to some) to grasp their deeper meaning and to use them as a key to speculative investigation. In fact, in the images of religious language, philosophy recognizes the possibility of referring to a form of truth that goes beyond prophetic language. This truth is none other than philosophy itself.

4  The Question of Truth The source of all reality is the unique divine flow, and differences derive from the different forms of its reception. Intellectual theoretical reception results in intellectual knowledge, material reception results in all natural beings and phenomena, and “imaginative” reception (and translation) results in particular visions (or images). These correspond—as we have seen—both to the particular events recognized by the souls of the celestial spheres, and to the images that “translate” universal forms, convey intellectual content and reach a non-philosophical audience through holy scripture. Thus, to the questions already mentioned, one must add that of truth. From the point of view of philosophy, visions and dreams seem in fact to admit of a further problem: in philosophy, truth is by its nature universal, while dreams and visions are necessarily particular. Dreams and visions downgrade the truth from the realm of the universal and place it in the narrow, diverse and ever-changing realm of the particular.57 This seems to be in opposition to the principles of Greco-­ Arabic philosophy: the Arabic Plotinus—and this is just one example—states it

 See, e.g., Ilāhiyyāt X, 2 (Anawati et al. 1960, 442.10–443.12); on this point, see Michot (1986, 30–43); cf. the translations by Marmura (2005), 365–366, Lizzini (2006), 1017–1019, with notes, and Bertolacci (2007), 803–805. Gutas (2014, 337) indicates symbol and prophecy as the origin of what he calls the “symbolic method.” He also stands by the meaning he provides of the term “symbol,” in contradistinction to the interpretation given by Corbin and Bausani (Gutas 2014, 337 n2; cf. Corbin 1990 (1st ed. 1960); Bausani 1968). But although a symbol is certainly  – as Gutas states – “something used for or regarded as representing something else; a material object representing something, often something immaterial,” the use of symbols does suggest two as yet unanswered questions: (1) why should a symbol be used?; (2) does the symbolic content correspond perfectly to the apodictic/philosophical content, without any element unaccounted for? 57  Averroes—to give but one example—mentions the dream in his Decisive Treatise precisely because of the particulars it implies: his aim is to defend the idea that, according to the philosophers, God has knowledge of particulars (see for example the last paragraph of his Kitāb faṣl al-Maqāl (Hourani 1976): “And how is it conceivable that the Peripatetic philosophers could have held that the eternal Knowledge does not comprehend particulars, when they held that It is the cause of warning in dreams, of revelation, and of other kinds of inspiration?” 56

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clearly: the soul must follow the intellect and therefore seek the universal58. This is not only an epistemological imperative, but also a moral and eschatological duty. As one reads in the Arabic Plotinus, the soul, without an upward orientation, would not be able to gaze upon the first principle and attain the happiness or pleasure that this guarantees.59 And Avicenna’s eschatology and theory of happiness are also grounded on the idea of a necessarily upward orientation (as demonstrated by the theory of the two sides of the intellect, one superior—corresponding to the theoretical intellect— and one inferior—corresponding to the practical intellect). Dreams and visions thus seem to contradict the ineluctable commitment to the universal: one must recognize the truth in the particular world of images. In this respect it could be said that prophecy has something in common with experience, or even goes beyond it.60 If experience enables us to move from the particular to the universal, because it contains a part of the truth, then veridical dreams and visions—and thus imaginative prophecy—let us see the ontological value of the universal in the particular itself.61 In this respect, prophetic vision could be considered the opposite of abstraction: if the latter proceeds from the particular to the universal, prophetic vision is either the reception of the particular itself (the particular event to be predicted) or the “translation” of the universal into the particular.62 But is this the definitive answer to the question? Indeed, the translation that prophecy realizes (the necessary content of truth transformed into the particular content of prophetic language) is true only in so far as it is in turn translated into a universal abstract truth that is the same truth as that of philosophy. Revelation, which is particular, is true only because it can be translated (at least when its discourse is subject to the rules of assent) into a philosophical language and ultimately refers to the same philosophical truth that is conceived by metaphysics and expressed according to the rules of logic, which all sciences—and hence also metaphysics— must follow. Dream and prophecy imply a process of translation and interpretation, and then finally a transposition of sense. The ultimate meaning of prophetic representation resides in intelligible reality. Aristotle states that veridical dreams cannot be the result of a divine communication because even ordinary people have them.63 But in the light of the distinctions  See e.g. the so called Theologia Aristotelis (in Badawī 1955, 111, 3–11); cf. Plot. Enn., V.1.4.  Theologia Aristotelis (in Badawī 1955, 102.2–18); cf. Plot. Enn., IV.4.5.9–7.3. 60  On experience in classical Arabic philosophy, see Janssens (2004). 61  One might suggest an analogy with the knowledge of the particular which is in itself universal, as in the case of the eclipse, see Ilāhiyyāt, VIII 6 (Anawati et al. 1960, 360.11–362.11; Marmura 2005, 288–290); cf. Aristotle, An. pr. 1.8, 75b30–35. 62  Dream and prophecy recognize truth in the particular not only because of the particular truths they have access to, but also because of the particular subject who has access to the particular itself: the prophet and the man who dreams a veridical dream. 63  See the initial passage in De divinatione per somnum: “As to the divination which takes place in sleep, and is said to be based on dreams, we cannot lightly either dismiss it with contempt or give it implicit confidence. The fact that all persons, or many, suppose dreams to possess a special significance, tends to inspire us with belief in it [such divination], as founded on the testimony of experience; and indeed that divination in dreams should, as regards some subjects, be genuine, is 58 59

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just drawn it seems clear that the reason why revelation and veridical dreams can come to ordinary people is, in the Arabic-Islamic tradition to which Avicenna belongs, precisely that they are sent by God: revelation and veridical dreams encompass the truth and the only possible source of truth is the divine world (in the Arabic version of Aristotle’s Parva naturalia, the veridical dream is explained as having a divine source, the “universal intellect,” while the ultimate source of the dream is God himself; see Hansberger 2008). Truth belongs to logic and therefore has a particular language, which is elaborated and understood by philosophy. Only when truth is outside the realm of logic and instead uses the language of rhetoric or poetry can it concern ordinary people. While its representation in rhetorical and imaginative terms belongs to ordinary people and to the discourse ascribed to them, its translation into a philosophical sense is something that only philosophers, who can understand its inner meaning, are capable of. In this respect, the theory behind imaginative prophecy is not only the rational explanation of facts that concern everyday human experiences (thus including dreams as well as visions), but also the expression of the same line of reasoning one finds in authors like al-Fārābī and Averroes: truth is one, but the nature of its communication depends on the interlocutor. In conclusion, it would seem that the prophet, in his vision, is not dominated by his imagination (while the fool or the drunk is); his communication with the celestial, divine world is essentially intellectual (his soul is the rational human soul), but his language, the “symbols and indications” (Ilāhiyyāt, X 2 [Anawati et al. 1960, 442.12–443.12; Marmura 2005, 365–366]) he uses (and must use) in representing and conveying his knowledge of the truth are those that are familiar (and comprehensible) to the human beings on whom the imaginative world exercises its suggestive force.

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Chapter 9

The Byzantine Reception of Aristotle’s Parva naturalia (and the Zoological Works) in Eleventh- and Twelfth-Century Byzantium: An Overview Michele Trizio

Abstract  The treatises known as Parva naturalia play quite an important role in Byzantine culture and education. Contrary to what happened in late antiquity, the most important Byzantine commentators devoted great attention to these texts. This probably reflects the Byzantine understanding of Aristotle’s natural philosophy as a reliable account of nature and physiology. More importantly, since there are no late-­ antique commentaries on the Parva naturalia, the Byzantine commentators were eager to excerpt from all sort of available material that could be helpful for composing an exegesis on these Aristotelian treatises. The way they assembled this material is of greatest interest and justifies a thorough study of the Byzantine commentary tradition.

Around 1155, George Tornikes, who would later become the Metropolitan of Ephesus, composed his renowned funeral oration for Anna Komnene.1 Besides documenting Anna’s life, this speech offers information regarding the literary activity of the scholars who benefited from Anna’s patronage.2 In particular, Tornikes recalls Anna’s request to intellectuals around her to compose commentaries on Aristotelian works which had hitherto received scant attention:3  See Browning 1990.  On literary circles in Byzantium see Cavallo (2003); Bianconi (2004); Orsini (2005); Marciniak (2007); Menchelli (2010); Gaul (2011). According to Mullet (1984, 178), Anna did not have a circle of her known, but shared that of her mother, Irene Doukaina. 3  George Tornikes, Funeral Oration on Anna Komnene, 283.4–7: Τεκμήριον τοῦ ταύτης φιλομαθοῦς τὰ πρὸς αὐτὴν ἐκπεφωνημένα τῶν παρ’ ἡμῖν φιλοσόφων πονήματα, ἐφ’ οἷς τῶν Ἀριστοτέλους μέχρις ἐκείνης ὑπομνηματισμοὶ μὴ συνεγράφησαν ἐξηγήσεων, ἀλλ’ ἐξ ἀκροάσεως ἡ τούτων σαφήνεια διεδίδοτο παντοίως οὐκ ἀσφαλὴ οὐδ’ οὕτω φιλότιμος. 1 2

M. Trizio (*) Università degli Studi di Bari, Bari, Italy e-mail: [email protected] © Springer International Publishing AG, part of Springer Nature 2018 B. Bydén, F. Radovic (eds.), The Parva naturalia in Greek, Arabic and Latin Aristotelianism, Studies in the History of Philosophy of Mind 17, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-26904-7_9

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The works which philosophers of our time addressed to her bear witness to her love of learning, works concerning those writings of Aristotle of which commentaries had not been written until her time, but the explanation of which was transmitted orally in every kind of form, without certitude and with little zeal (trans. Browning 1990, 406).

It is likely that George here refers to Michael of Ephesus’ commentaries on Aristotle’s zoological works and on his treatises on natural philosophy known as Parva naturalia. He had met Michael personally when the latter was an old man.4 George himself was surely not ignorant of philosophy, as the above text is riddled with antique technical vocabulary used for describing commentaries (e.g. hupomnēmatismos, exēgēsis, akroasis, saphēneia). More importantly, he must have known the late antique commentary tradition well enough to know that both Aristotle’s zoological works and the Parva naturalia had, in that period, been excluded from the list of Aristotelian works deemed worthy of study. The commentaries on the Categories by Ammonius, Simplicius and Philoponus, for example, ranked Aristotle’s research on animals and plants as intermediary between the particular and the more general writings. In their view, only more general writings such as De anima, De generatione et corruptione, De caelo, Physics and Meteorology were relevant, in so far as they concern the very nature of beings. Writings such as the Letters, which are particular in that they are addressed to individuals and concern a specific topic, and the zoological writings, which are intermediary because they move from the observations of particular individuals to the determination of the related species and genera, had been dismissed as irrelevant.5 Apparently the commentary on Categories attributed to Elias lists Aristotle’s zoological works and some of the treatises of the Parva naturalia among Aristotle’s general works in which he writes in the first person (autoprosōpa).6 However, scholars agree that the list can be traced to an earlier Peripatetic division of Aristotle’s work and does not reflect the view of the Neoplatonic commentators themselves (see Hadot 1990, 85). Aristotle’s zoological writings and some of those included in the Parva naturalia (De memoria, De somno et vigilia and De divinatione per somnum) are referred to in Philoponus’ commentary on Meteorology 1.1, 339a5–8, where Aristotle promises to investigate, after the meteorological phenomena, animals and plants “both generally and in detail.” Against Alexander of Aphrodisias, Philoponus maintains that in investigating these matters Aristotle invokes an aporetic method different from the scientific one adopted in Physics, De caelo, De generatione et corruptione,

 George Tornikes, Funeral Oration on Anna Komnene, 283.9–11.  See e.g. Ammonius, In Cat., in Busse (1895, 3.20–4.5); Simplicius, In Cat., in Kalbfleisch (1907, 4.10–17); Philoponus, In Cat., in Busse (1898, 3.8–4.22). Note that Philoponus explains the intermediary status of the zoological writings on the grounds that they concern, on the one hand, a general description of living beings, while, on the other, all possible generation. These commentators list among intermediary writings those concerning political constitutions. See Hadot (1990, 63–75, in particular 69–70). 6  Elias, In Cat., in Busse (1900, 115.21–116.2). 4 5

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Meteorology and De anima.7 The subject matter of these works is ontologically different from those belonging to the study of animals and plants: the former are the causes, the latter are that which is caused and composite.8 Ultimately this fits in well with the previously mentioned arrangement of Aristotle’s natural treatises within the intermediary writings. While explaining the expression “both generally and in detail,” Philoponus also claims that even within the study of animals and plants one can distinguish writings exposing theories and doctrines valid for all living beings (Philoponus lists Historia animalium, De generatione animalium, De partibus animalium, De motu animalium) from writings concerning particular phenomena (Philoponus lists De memoria, De somno et vigilia, De divinatione per somnum). In other words, according to this latter division, Philoponus seemingly grants the zoological works the status of general writings.9 Yet, not even this latter inconsistency changes the scenario of the late antique commentary tradition. According to the Neoplatonic commentators, Aristotle’s zoological works and the Parva naturalia ranked as intermediary works which, due to the nature of their subjects, were deemed unworthy of being read and studied. Possibly this explains why we know of no commentary on these writings written in this period. There is only one exception to this trend, namely Priscian of Lydia’s Solutiones ad Chosroem, where the author elaborates on Aristotle’s view on sleep and dreams in the Parva naturalia.10 According to Tornikes, Byzantine scholars of his time confronted the same situation. However, just as the Neoplatonists excluded these works from the curriculum because of their low-status subject-matters, it is legitimate to ask if the middle Byzantine rediscovery of Aristotle’s zoological works and the Parva naturalia originates from an equally strong theoretical assumption. In other words, it is worthwhile to ask whether or not this middle Byzantine renewed interest in Aristotelian natural philosophy stems from an authentic philosophy of nature. In what follows I shall sketch some features of the Byzantine readership of these work. I will first present some of the most notable middle Byzantine manuscripts preserving these works, and secondly the works of their interpreters.

1  Manuscripts MS Par. gr. 1853 is the largest Aristotle manuscript produced in the middle Byzantine period (370 × 265 mm). Together with Vindob. phil. gr. 100, it is also one of the oldest extant Aristotelian manuscripts and is known under the siglum E. Scholars

 Philoponus, In Meteor., in Hayduck (1901, 9.4–10. See Hadot (1990, 85–90).  Philoponus, In Meteor., in Hayduck (1901, 7.35–8.17). 9  Philoponus, In Meteor., in Hayduck (1901, 9.12–18. See also the slightly different list in Olympiodorus, In Meteor., in Stüve (1900, 14.8–15). See Hadot (1990, 90). 10  See Börje Bydén’s introduction to this volume, Chap. 1 (p. 15). 7 8

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agree that it was copied by a team of scribes in the tenth century.11 Among other Aristotelian material, it transmits De sensu et sensibilibus (203r–210r); De memoria et reminiscentia (210r–212v); De somno et vigilia, De insomniis and De divinatione per somnum (212v–221r); De motu animalium (221r–225v); De partibus animalium (318r–351r); De generatione animalium (352r–393r); De incessu animalium (393r, incomplete). Like other philosophical manuscripts of this period, E is also problematic with respect to its exemplar, its production and its legacy. Arguably, the exemplar of E belongs to a late-antique edition of Aristotle’s works produced at the time of the Roman empire (cf. Jaeger 1917), in the milieu of the late Peripatetic school (cf. Hecquet-Devienne 2004), or even in that of the Neoplatonic school in Athens (cf. Rashed 2005, ccvi–ccxii). A recent codicological and paleographic study of the Parisinus, however, has challenged these views and suggested that it gathers together different textual units originating from different sources (cf. Ronconi 2012). Thus, identifying the erudite scholars lurking behind the production of this manuscript remains problematic. The scant available information on philosophy in tenth-­ century Byzantium makes any hypothesis on the milieux in which the manuscript was produced a hazardous one. As to the legacy of our manuscript in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, it seems that neither E itself nor a manuscript of the same family was the basis for Michael of Ephesus’ commentary on the Parva naturalia. In fact, for the most part, Michael’s text agrees with the readings of the manuscripts L (Vat. gr. 253) and M (Urb. gr. 37) (cf. Ross 1955, 65). MS Oxford, Corpus Christi College 108 provides another important glimpse into the Middle Byzantine reception of Aristotle’s natural philosophy.12 Apart from ff. 37–59 and 125, this manuscript was copied in the ninth century and later extensively annotated during the twelfth century. It contains, for what concerns this paper, De partibus animalium (60r–61v, 1r–59v), De incessu animalium (62v–73v), De generatione animalium (74r–161r), De longitudine et brevitate vitae (161v–164r), De iuventute et senectute (164v–178r). Thus, the manuscript’s relevance lies not only in its witnessing the circulation of these Aristotelian works, but also in its telling of the story of their twelfth-century reception. More importantly, since the anonymous twelfth-century scholiast who composed the extensive marginalia often cites Michael of Ephesus’ commentaries on Parva naturalia and the zoological treatises, this manuscript must be considered as the first witness of the reception of these commentaries not so long after their actual production. Research suggests that this annotator was a scholar mostly interested in the philological aspects of the texts, yet, at times, he goes beyond philological notation to critically engage Michael’s interpretation of Aristotle and blame it as unsound.13 For the period under consideration Michael’s commentaries are preserved in MS Vat. gr. 2199. Here one and the same scribe, a professional whose formal ­handwriting  Cf. Moraux (1967). Further information on the literary hands present in E are found in HecquetDevienne (2000). 12  For a description of this MS, see Wilson (2011). 13  See Golitsis (2013, 38–43). 11

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dates to the second half of the twelfth century, copied the text of Michael’s commentaries on Parva naturalia and on De motu animalium. The manuscript is competently produced in all respects. The copyist left wide margins for the insertion of scholia and marginal notes. However, these have been filled only in ff. 2v–11 by a later Palaiologan hand, who summarized Aristotle’s text there. Most importantly, this manuscript is the first known testimony of Michael’s commentary after their composition. MS Vat. gr. 260 contains a collection of Aristotelian zoological and natural-­ philosophical works, including De partibus animalium (1r–88r), De incessu animalium (88r–102r), De anima (103r–152v), De sensu et sensibilibus (152v–171r), De memoria et reminiscentia (171r–177r), De somno et vigilia (177r–184r), De insomniis (184r–190r), De divinatione per somnum (190v–193r). Besides ff. 1–7v and 191r–193v, where a fifteenth-century scholar restored the previously missing leaves and recopied the missing portions of the texts, the rest of the manuscript has been copied by a late twelfth-century hand. This manuscript, too, is carefully produced: the handwriting is formal and very clear and wide spaces are left empty for the marginalia. Also in this case, however, few margins have been filled, either by a later Palaiologan handwriting (such as at f. 136r) or, more often, by the copyist himself. Among other things, the importance of this manuscript rests in its connection with Michael’s commentaries. In fact the few scholia in the margins of Parva naturalia show remarkable similiarities with the content of Michael of Ephesus’ comments on these treatises. For example, at. f. 175r the main text copyist adds the following in the margin of De memoria et reminiscentia 452a12–13: He calls “loci” the contrary terms, the similar terms and the other terms that have been stored in memory, through which people recollect: [Aristotle] discussed this issue also in the Topics. For just as if we had stored the loci in memory, we will be capable of arguing more easily.14

On that very same passage Michael writes: [Aristotle] is calling “loci” either the contrary, the correspondent and the similar terms, or the principles present in us. In fact, just as we produce an argument on a given matter thanks to being trained on the basis of the loci discussed in the Topics and in the first book of Aristotle’s Rhetoric, so we also discover the connected terms on the basis of the inherent principles, as if they were a kind of loci.15

Quite clearly the note in our manuscript belongs to a corpus of marginal notes from which Michael borrowed in order to comment on the text. However, while incorporating the reference to the Topics (8.14, 163b29–30 and 1.17, 108a13), Michael adds  [διὸ ἀπὸ τόπων δοκοῦσιν ἀναμιμνήσκεσθαι ἐνίοτε]: τόπους λέγει τὰ ἐναντία, τὰ ὅμοια, τὰ ἄλλα, ἃ παρέθεντο εἰς μνήμην δι᾽ ὧν ἀνεμιμνήσκοντο, ὃ καὶ ἐν τοῖς Τοπικοῖς εἶπε· καθάπερ γὰρ ἐν τῷ μνημονικῷ θέντες τοὺς τόπους, ῥᾷον δυνησόμεθα ἐπιχειρεῖν (Vat. gr. 260, f. 175r, ad Mem. 452a12–13). 15  [διὸ ἀπὸ τόπων δοκοῦσιν ἀναμιμνήσκεσθαι ἐνίοτε]: Λέγων τόπους ἢ τὰ ἐναντία τὰ σύστοιχα τὰ ὅμοια, ἢ τὰς ἀρχὰς τὰς ἐνούσας ἡμῖν. ὡς γὰρ ἀπὸ τῶν ἐν τοῖς Τοπικοῖς παραδοθέντων τόπων καὶ ἐν τῷ πρώτῳ τῆς Ῥητορικῆς αὐτοῦ στομούμενοι ἐπιχειροῦμεν πρὸς τὰ προκείμενα, οὕτω καὶ ἀπὸ τῶν ἐνουσῶν ἀρχῶν, ὡς ἀπό τινων τόπων, εὑρίσκομεν τὰ ἐφεξῆς (Michael of Ephesus, In Parva nat., 29.6–10, ad Mem. 452a12–13). 14

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something of his own, that is to say, the reference to the Rhetoric (1.2, 1358a29–31). This fits well with his usual method of appropriating and re-­elaborating earlier material.16

2  Figures The first testimony to the appreciation of Aristotle in eleventh- to twelfth-century Byzantium is a controversial text by Michael Psellos. Although he famously paid tribute to Aristotle’s undisputed primacy in logic by paraphrasing Aristotle’s De interpretatione, Psellos’ estimation of Aristotle as a philosopher is far less positive. In one of his theological writings he compares the style of his hero Gregory Nazianzen to both Demosthenes and Aristotle, who are each described, for different reasons, as monotonous and tedious. Psellos considers Aristotle more a physiologist than a theologian, and complains that his unadorned style further obscures his already brachylogical way of writing.17 Intriguingly, narrowly defining Aristotle as a physiologist reiterates the late antique restriction on the validity of Aristotle’s philosophy to the natural world.18 Nonetheless, Psellos complains that, even with respect to human physiology (here Psellos must have in mind the Parva naturalia and the first two books of De anima), Aristotle cannot compare with other sources such as Galen, and his zoological works derive from secondary sources: But as far as the nature of man is concerned, I must admit that the doctor from Pergamon [Galen] dealt with that subject in his treatise on the utility of the members of the body more accurately than Aristotle. The latter’s treatises on animals are just collections of researches from the works of other authors. I prefer drinking water directly from the Nile itself to drinking from a jar containing water pumped from that river.19

 Cf. Ebbesen (2002, 23). Lutz Koch has kindly reminded me that Michael’s dependence upon the marginal notes in ms Vat. gr. 260 had already been suspected by Escobar (1990), 122. 17  Michael Psellos, Theologica II, ed. Duffy & Westerink, 6.12–21. According to Psellos, Gregory Nazianzene’s rhetoric surpasses all pagan rhetors. Id., Orationes Panegyricae, ed. Dennis, 153.276–287. Aristotle’s obscurity is a late antique topos. Here Psellos understands it in negative terms. On this see Bydén (2013, 55 n35). See also Theologica I, ed. Gautier, 98.114–121, where Psellos reviews Aristotle’s style in comparison with that of the other philosophers. Here Psellos distinguishes between the obscure and brachylogical style of De anima and the more pleasing style found in the zoological works. 18  This is evident in Atticus’ hostile approach towards Aristotle (on which see Karamanolis 2006, 175–177) and in Clement of Alexandria, Stromata, ed. Früchtel, Stählin & Treu, 7.16.101.4. 19  Michael Psellos, A funeral oration for John Xiphilinos, in Polemis (2014, 160.75–79): τὰ δὲ περὶ ἀνθρώπων φύσεως ὁ ἐκ Περγάμου Ἀσκληπιάδης κάλλιον Ἀριστοτέλους φυσιολογεῖ ἐν τῷ περὶ χρείας μορίων συντάγματι· τὰ δέ γε περὶ ζώων αὐτῷ συναίρεμά ἐστιν ἀλλοτρίων ἱστοριῶν, καὶ μᾶλλον ἂν ἀπὸ τοῦ Νείλου πίοιμι ἢ τοῦ ἀμφορέως ὃς τοῦ Νειλῴου ἠρύσατο ῥεύματος. The English translation is that by Kaldellis and Polemis (2015, 221). The reference to the Nile’s water is probably a sarcastic reference to Aristotle’s On the Inundation of the Nile. This very same text is also discussed in Bydén (2013, 170). 16

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But Psellos’ judgement of Aristotle’s physiological treatises does not affect his appreciation for his natural philosophy as such. Possibly, Psellos reads other sources such as Galen when Aristotle’s work is insufficient. In fact, in a text where Psellos lists pagan philosophical views that cannot be reconciled with Christianity, he claims that “of the works of the Hellenes we have not been deceived by all of them, but we accepted only those concerning nature (physis)” (Phil. min. I, ed. Duffy, 3.211–213 et passim). Elsewhere the study of nature is said to be the most acceptable part of Hellenic philosophy on the basis that the Hellenic philosophers described nature as God himself created it (Orat. min., ed. Littlewood, 24.73–75). Through these claims the Byzantine polymath apparently implies that by studying natural philosophy one can somehow contemplate God through his creatures. Possibly this is also the meaning of a text by Psellos’ pupil John Italos, where he paraphrases Simplicius’ discussion of the utility of “physiology” with respect to ethics, on the one hand, and metaphysics, on the other,20 and concludes that the study of physiology is useful in that it prepares us for happiness (eudaimonia).21 While attributed to Psellos, the treatise entitled Ἀριστοτέλους περὶ νεότητος, γήρως, ἀναπνοῆς, ζωῆς καὶ θανάτου (ed. Duffy, in Philosophica minora I, 18) mostly consists of excerpts from corresponding Aristotelian works. Some are direct quotations, others paraphrases of the text. After comparing Ross’s text of De juventute et senectute, De vita et morte and De respiratione with that used by Psellos (cited as Ps.),22 I noticed the following variant readings:23 467b28 οὖν: om. Ps. | 467b30 εἴη: om. Ps. et X | 467b31 ἐφ’ ὅ: ἐφ’ ᾧ Ps. et LX | 467b32-33 τῶν ζώντων πάντων: τῶν ζῴων τῶν πάντων Ps. et M | 467b33 τῷ τ’: τὸ Ps. | 468a1 ἀρχὴν ἔχοι ἂν: ἂν ἔχοιεν ἀρχὴν Ps. et L | 468a4 ἐναντίως: ἐναντίον Ps. | 468a6 τὸ ἔχειν: om. Ps. | 468a15 δὲ: τούτων add. Ps. et LX | 468a17 δὲ: om. Ps. | 468a18 τὰ: om. Ps. et P | 468a23 τῶν ζῴων: ζῷα Ps. et LX | 468b2 δὲ: om. Ps. | 468b4 αἰσθητικήν: ἀρχήν add. Ps. et LSXP | 468b4 φαίνεται: φαίνονται Ps. | 469b4 οὖν: om. Ps. | 469b7 σύμφυτον: om. Ps. et X | 469b9 δὴ: δ’ εἶναι Ps. et LX | 469b12 τὴν τροφὴν πάντα: inv. Ps. et LX | 469b14 τοῦ: τὸ Ps. | 469b19 εἶναι: καὶ Ps. et X | 469b23 γήρᾳ: γῆρας Ps. | 469b32 πλεῖον πῦρ: πλέον Ps. et LS | 469b33 πλείονι: ἐν πλείονι Ps. et PX | 470a10 ἂν: ἐὰν Ps. | 470a 12 δ’ ἔγκρυψις: δὲ κρύψις Ps. et LS | 470b15 ἐν τοῖς ὕδασι: om. Ps. et LSX | 470b18 ἑμύδες: μῦδες Ps. et LMPX | 470b20 ἔχουσιν: ἔχει Ps. et LX | 470b24 ἔχοντα: τὸν Ps. et LSX | 470b25 20  Compare John Italos, Aporias and Solutions 91, ed. Joannou, 141.10–25, with Simplicius, In Phys., ed. Diehl, 4.17–5.26. 21  John Italos, Aporias and Solutions 91, ed. Joannou, 141.23–25. 22  Other sigla used include L (Vat. gr. 253); X (Ambr. H 50 sup. [435 Martini-Bassi]); M (Urb. gr. 37); P (Vat. gr. 1339); S (Laur. Plut. 81.1). 23  My analysis of Psellos’ text does not entail any judgement on the value of this witness for the constitution of the text. I did not take into account those passages which are only paraphrased, as they contain too many differences from Aristotle’s text to be regarded as a trustworthy witness. Ross’s critical apparatus often includes readings present in Michael of Ephesus’ commentary and Sophonias’paraphrase, but does not include Psellos. However, in the preface to his edition, Ross dismissed the Byzantine indirect tradition and the medieval Latin translation as “too late to carry much weight” (1955, 63).

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πάντα: om. Ps. LX | 470b26 ἔχει: ἔχῃ Ps. | 470b28 μὲν οὖν: δὲ Ps. et LX | 470b 29 τῆς: om. Ps. et LSX | 470b33 τὸ ὕδωρ: οἱ ἰχθύες add. Ps. | 471a1 τὸν: τὸ ὂν Ps. | 471a27 τινὰ κίνησιν: inv. Ps. LSX | 470a27 τοῦ: δ’ add. Ps. | 471b3 τι ἄλλο: inv. Ps. | 471b8 διὰ τί τοῦτο: om. Ps. 471b11 | ἂν: om. Ps. et L Psellos’ text agrees 19 times with X; 19 times with L; twice with M; 4 times with P; and 8 times with S.  The same text also paraphrases excerpts from the same Aristotelian treatises and other material which, though consistent with the topics discussed by Aristotle, cannot be clearly classified. The distinguished editor of the text supposed that these passages originate from a now lost (late-antique?) commentary on Parva naturalia, as these controversial passages include some typical formulas of commentary literature, such as “Aristotle defined” and “he calls.” The editor further suggested that Michael of Ephesus used this very same source in his commentary on Parva naturalia. As I said before, everything we know about the fortune of the corpus aristotelicum in late antiquity suggests that the existence of such a commentary is unlikely (cf. Hadot 1990: 70). In fact, the passages in Psellos’ text which are not copied and pasted from Aristotle’s text can be explained otherwise: 1. Phil. min. I, 18.1–5 [See e.g. Arist.: Juv. 3, 468b31–469a1; Somn. 3, 456a31– 457b1; De part. an. 3.4, 665b15–17; 666a31–34; Hist. an. 3.3, 513a21–23; De gen. an. 3.4, 740a22–24.] 2. Phil. min. I, 18.35–50 [See Arist., De an. 2.2, 413b14–24; 1.5, 411b14–31; Ps.Simplicius (re vera Priscianus Lydus), In De an., ed. Hayduck (1882, 200.36–37)] 3. Phil. min. I, 18.58–64 [See Arist., Juv. 5, 469b33.] 4. Phil. min. I, 18.64–74 [See Arist., Juv. 1, 467b17–25; Resp. 21, 480a23–24.] 5. Phil. min. I, 18.74–85 [See Alexander of Aphrodisias, In De sensu, ed. Wendland (1903, 40.18–41.6).] 6. Phil. min. I, 18.85–93 [See Arist., Juv. 4, 469a29–32.] 7. Phil. min. I, 18.93–105 [See Arist., Juv. 5, 469b33.] 8. Phil. min. I, 18.145–160 [See Arist., Juv. 5, 469b21-470a18.] 9. Phil. min. I, 18.161–178 [See Arist., Juv. 6, 470a19–b5.] 10. Phil. min. I, 18.225–230 [See Arist., Resp. 5, 472b20–473a14.] 11. Phil. min. I, 18.231–236 [See Arist., Resp. 2, 470b33–35.] 12. Phil. min. I, 18.236–243 [See Arist., Resp. 4–5, 472b2–8.] 13. Phil. min. I, 18.243–250 [See Arist., Resp. 11, 476a33–34.] 14. Phil. min. I, 18.250–256 [See Arist., Resp. 14, 477b30–478a1; 478a7–10.] 15. Phil. min. I, 18.256–264 [See Arist., Resp. 14, 478a5; 16, 478a33–b13] 16. Phil. min. I, 18.264–270 [See Arist., Resp. 18, 479a29–32; 20, 479b20–21] The result of my analysis of the passages in Psellos’ texts which are not directly quoted from Aristotle’s text (some of which have been already identified by the editor of the text) suggests the following conclusions: some of the passages that are not excerpts from De juventute et senectute reproduce Aristotelian commonplaces found in Parva naturalia or the zoological works. This is the case, for instance, with text 1, in which Psellos mentions the Aristotelian theory of the heart as the principle of

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everything. The only relationship between this passage and Michael’s commentary is that they are both independently referring to the same passage of De juventute et senectute 3, 468b31–469a1. In general Michael indeed depends upon an earlier source. As I will mention later, this source is Alexander of Aphrodisias’ De anima.24 The passages which do not simply copy-paste excerpts from Aristotle either paraphrase or summarize the same Aristotelian treatises, namely, De juventute et senectute and De respiratione.25 These passages come from either earlier scholia that Psellos found in his manuscript(s) of Parva naturalia, or explanatory notes produced by Psellos himself for didactic purposes.26 Just as in the cases of text 1 and the other passages which resemble Michael of Ephesus’ commentary, the textual similarities can be attributed to Michael’s repeating of Aristotle’s words. In sum, there is no need to hypothesize the existence of a lost commentary on Parva naturalia as Psellos’ and Michael of Ephesus’ common source. The short treatise by Psellos’ pupil, John Italos, “On the elements in animals,” discusses the Greek philosophical views on the composition of substances. In the text Italos wonders, in particular, whether human beings and the other animals, just like all other existent things, are composed of a mixture and combination of elements; and whether humans, animals and substances in the Universe share a common coming-to-be and passing-away. The text is intricate and deserving of a better edition. Moreover, since its background is Aristotle’s De caelo, his De generatione et corruptione and the commentary tradition, it appears that it should be ruled out of the list of middle Byzantine testimonia about the fortune of Parva naturalia and the zoological works. Ultimately, Italos’ importance lies in his dependence on—and preservation of— non-Aristotelian sources on dreams, such as Synesius’ De insomniis, a text which is preserved in extenso in more than thirty MSS. This is evident in one of Italos’ texts, where he interprets Odyssey 19, 560–569 in the light of Synesius’ discussion of the role of phantasia in De insomniis. This suggests that, just as in the case of Psellos’ preference for Galen over Aristotle, Aristotle had to find his way through other competitors even in the disparate field of theories on dreams (on this see Trizio 2013). Then comes Michael of Ephesus and his scholarship on these Aristotelian works. With regard to the zoological works, Michael commented upon De partibus  Compare Michael of Ephesus, In Parva nat. (Wendland 1903, 100.8–101.7) with Alexander of Aphrodisias, De anima (Bruns 1887, 94.24–96.20). On Michael’s dependence upon Alexander, see Donini (1968). 25  Some of these had already been found by the editor of Psellos’ text. 26  A small hint to this latter conclusion is provided by passage 2. Here Psellos interprets Juv. 3, 469a18, where Aristotle states that the sensitive part of the soul is a principle. Psellos argues that the sensitive and the nutritive faculties are one and the same with respect to their subject, but differ with respect to their definitions. More importantly, Psellos claims that the soul has in itself the logoi of all sensible objects. This passage reflects the Neoplatonic commentary tradition on Aristotle’s De anima, in particular Ps.-Simplicius’ commentary (e.g. 200.37). As a matter of fact Psellos knew this text pretty well, for his De omnifaria doctrina 36–42 consists of excerpts from this work. 24

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­animalium, De incessu animalium, De motu animalium and De generatione animalium. With regard to the Parva naturalia, Michael commented upon De memoria et reminiscentia, De somno et vigilia, De insomniis, De divinatione per somnum, De longitudine et brevitate vitae, De juventute et senectute, De vita et morte and De respiratione. Note that Michael did not comment on De sensu, most probably because Alexander of Aphrodisias’ commentary on this text was still available. Michael’s way of commenting has been thoroughly investigated by Praechter.27 Praechter, however, failed to identify Michael’s references to various sections of Alexander of Aphrodisias’ De anima (cf. Donini 1968), which undermines the argument that Michael relied upon an earlier (now lost) commentary on Parva naturalia and offers evidence to further support the theory that such a commentary never existed. Otherwise, he would have had no need to plunder Alexander’s De anima.28 This work supplied Michael with essential information on physiology and biology and helped him prepare his notes on Parva naturalia. However, as I said earlier, Michael also relied on the earlier scholia on Parva naturalia available to him. Accurately dating these scholia would be helpful, but so far there is no clear indication of their origin. While eager to provide the reader with a clear and sound explanations of the text, Michael often disappoints modern readers’ expectations. For example, Michael is rather indifferent to Aristotle’s powerful defense of the study of animals as a worthwhile and pleasant pursuit in De partibus animalium 2.5, 645a4–30. Instead, he fills his commentaries with curiosities, anedoctes and personal memories, including the reminiscence of his beloved master (possibly John Italos) who died from pneumonia (In Parva nat. 142.5–15). Or, the apparition of the same master to one of Michael’s fellows (possibily Eustratios of Nicaea: ibid. 62.3–4).29 Or, finally, mentioning different names for “hyena” used in his native Ephesus (In De gen. an. 149.19). Such intimacy suggests that Michael’s strategy was to provide readers with a basic explanation of Aristotle’s text. This, however, does not mean that he slavishly follows Aristotle’s text. On the contrary, in individual passages Michael elaborates interesting autonomous comments (See e.g. Ricklin 1998, 298–299). Any comprehensive overview of eleventh- and twelfth-century Byzantine scholarship on Parva naturalia must include non-philosophical literature. In fact, the Byzantine novels written during this period regularly refer to Parva naturalia, and understandably so, given that dreams occupy one of the novels’ central motifs.30 For example, Theodore Prodromos’ Rhodanthe and Dosikles alludes to several Aristotelian theories. Among the many case-studies, I shall document that in book 3 Dosikles speculates on the physiology of dreams and maintains that wine causes

 Praechter (1906), to be updated with Kalogeridou (2010). See also Ebbesen (1981, 268–301)  According to Praechter (1906, 863–864) and others, Michael’s usage of medical vocabulary suggests he was a doctor as well. However, we know from Hohlweg (1989) that philosophical and medical education were taught together in Byzantium. 29  On these personal memories, see Ricklin (1998, 284–306) and Kalogeridou (2010‚ 93–95). 30  On this see MacAlister (1996, 140–164), upon which this part of the present paper depends. 27 28

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dreams because vapours rise up to the head. This explanation depends on Aristotle’s De somno et vigilia.31 Another twelfth-century love story can be found in the plot of Eusthatios Makrembolites Hysmine and Hysminias in which dreams and dreamlike experiences correspond to Aristotle’s descriptions of dreams in De divinatione per somnum and De insomniis. In one scene Hysminias dreams of having a sexual intercourse with Hysmine when suddenly the girl’s mother, Panthia, interrupts their love-­ making. Apparently Hysminias fears his dream to be an omen because he was melancholic while dreaming.32 This matches Aristotle’s description of predictive dreams in those who are in a state of melancholy (Div. somn. 1, 463b17–19; 464a32–464b1).

3  Concluding Remarks The possibility of Aristotelian-rooted dream motifs in Byzantine novels of this period poses an intriguing question: Did the authors intentionally introduce Aristotelian themes in their descriptions of oneiric experiences, or did they unconsciously refer to contemporaneous commonplaces? As the study of Byzantine theories of dreams is still in its infancy, I shall leave this question unanswered. In the same vein, it is impossible from the evidence to answer the more general questions. Why did the Parva naturalia regain popularity during the beginning of the twelfth century? What is Michael of Ephesus’ relationship to the Byzantine novelists of this period? Finally, to go back to the question posed at the beginning of this paper, what was the theoretical background for the rediscovery of these Aristotelian treatises? The evidence collected in this paper is too disparate to answer such questions cautiously and responsibly; however, it is hoped that these facts demonstrate the fruitfulness of thoroughly investigating the history of these works during the middle Byzantine period.

Bibliography Bianconi, Daniele. 2004. Eracle e Iolao: aspetti della collaborazione tra copisti nell’età dei paleologi. Byzantinische Zeitschrift 96: 521–558. Browning, Robert. 1990. An unpublished funeral oration on Anna Comnena. In Aristotle transformed: The ancient commentators and their influence, ed. Richard Sorabji, 393–406. Ithaca: Cornell. Bruns. (1887). = Alexandri Aphrodisiensis praeter commentaria scripta minora. Ed. Ivo Bruns. CAG suppl. 2.1. Berlin: Reimer. 31  Theodore Prodromos, Rhodanthe and Dosikles, 3.3–16 = Aristotle, Somn. 3, 457b7–10 and 457b30–458a9. 32  Other Aristotelian theories in this novel have been described in MacAlister (1996, 145).

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Busse. (1895). = Ammonius, In Aristotelis Categorias commentarium. Ed. Adolf Busse. CAG 4.4. Berlin: Reimer. ———. (1898). = Philoponi (olim Ammonii) in Aristotelis Categorias commentarium. Ed. Adolf Busse. CAG 13.1. Berlin: Reimer. ———. (1900). = Eliae in Porphyrii Isagogen et Aristotelis Categorias commentaria. Ed. Adolf Busse. CAG 18.1. Berlin: Reimer. Bydén, Börje. 2013. No prince of perfection: Byzantine anti-Aristotelianism from the patristic period to Plethon. In Power and subversion in Byzantium: Papers from the 43rd spring symposium of Byzantine studies, Birmingham, March 2010, ed. Michael Saxby and Dimiter Angelov, 147–176. Farnham: Ashgate. Cavallo, Guglielmo. 2003. Sodalizi eruditi e pratiche di scrittura a Bisanzio, in Bilan et perspectives des études médiévales (1993–1998): Euroconférence (Barcelone, 8–12 juin 1999), ed. Jacqueline Hamesse, 645–665. Brepols: Turnhout. Darrouzès. (1970). = Georges et Démétrios Tornikès, Lettres et Discours. Ed. Jean Darrouzès. Paris 1970. Dennis. (1994). = Michaelis Pselli orationes panegyricae. Ed. George T.  Dennis. Stuttgart: Teubner. Diels. (1882–1895). = Simplicii in Aristotelis physicorum libros octo commentaria. Ed. Hermann Diels. 2 vols. CAG 9–10. Berlin: Reimer. Donini, Pierluigi. 1968. Il De anima di Alessandro di Afrodisia e Michele Efesio. Rivista di filologia e istruzione classica 96: 316–323. Duffy. 1992. = Michaelis Pselli philosophica minora, vol. 1. Ed. John M. Duffy. Leipzig: Teubner. Duffy and Westerink. (2002). = Michael Psellus, Theologica, vol. 2. Ed. John M.  Duffy and Leendert G. Westerink. Munich/Leipzig: K.G. Saur. Ebbesen, Sten. 1981. Commentaries and commentators on Aristotle’s Sophistici Elenchi: A study of post-Aristotelian ancient and medieval writings on fallacies. Vol. 1. The Greek tradition. Leiden: Brill. ———. 2002. Greek-Latin philosophical interactions. In Byzantine philosophy and its Ancient sources, ed. Katerina Ierodiakonou, 15–30. Oxford: OUP. Escobar, Angel. 1990. Die Textgeschichte der aristotelischen Schrift De insomniis: ein Beitrag zur Überlieferungsgeschichte der Parva naturalia. Unpublished Ph.D. thesis: Freie Universität Berlin. Gaul, Niels. 2011. Thomas Magistros und die spätbyzantische Sophistik: Studien zum Humanismus urbaner Eliten der frühen Palaiologenzeit. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Gautier. 1989. = Michaelis Pselli Theologica, vol. 1. Ed. Paul Gautier. Leipzig: Teubner. Golitsis, Pantelis. 2013. Trois annotations de manuscrits aristotéliciens au XIIe siècle: les Parisini gr. 1901 et 1853 et l’Oxoniensis Corporis Christi 108. In Paleografia e oltre, ed. Daniele Bianconi, 33–52. Rome: Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei. Hadot. 1990. = Simplicius, Commentaire sur les Catégories: traduction commentée. Ed. Ilsetraut Hadot. Fasc. 1: Introduction, première partie. Leiden: Brill. Hayduck. 1882. = Simplicii in libros Aristotelis de anima commentaria. Ed. Michael Hayduck. CAG 11. Berlin: Reimer. ———. 1901. = Ioannis Philoponi in Aristotelis meteorologicorum librum primum commentarium. Ed. Michael Hayduck. CAG 14.1, Berlin: G. Reimer. ———. 1903. = Ioannis Philoponi (Michaelis Ephesii) in libros de generatione animalium commentaria. Ed. Michael Hayduck. CAG 14.3. Berlin: G. Reimer. Hecquet-Devienne, Myriam. 2000. Les mains du Parisinus graecus 1853. Une nouvelle collation des quatre premiers livres de la Métaphysique d’Aristote (folios 225v–247v). Scrittura e civiltà 24: 103–171 + pl. ———. 2004. A legacy from the library of the Lyceum? Inquiry into the joint transmission of Theophrastus’ and Aristotle’s Metaphysics based on evidence provided by manuscripts E and J. Harvard Studies in Classical Philology 102: 171–189.

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Hohlweg, Armin. 1989. La formazione culturale e professionale del medico a Bisanzio. Koinonia 13: 165–188. Jaeger, Werner. 1917. Emendationen zur aristotelischen Metaphysik Α–Δ. Hermes 52: 481–519. Joannou. (1956). = Joannes Italos, Quaestiones quodlibetales (Ἀπορίαι καὶ λύσεις). Ed. Perikles Joannou. Studia Patristica et Byzantina 4. Ettal: Buch-Kunstverlag. Kalbfleisch. (1907). = Simplicii in Aristotelis Categorias commentarium. Ed. Karl Kalbfleisch. CAG 8. Berlin: Reimer. Kaldellis and Polemis. (2015). = Psellos and the Patriarchs: Letters and Funeral Orations for Keroullarios, Leichoudes, and Xiphilinos. Trans. Anthony Kaldellis and Ioannis Polemis. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press. Kalogeridou, Ourania D. 2010. Μιχαήλ Εφεσίου Εις το Αριστοτέλους περί ζώων γενέσεως: από την αρχαία εξηγητική παράδοση στη βυζαντινή ερμηνευτική πρακτική. Thessaloniki: University Studio Press. Karamanolis, George. 2006. Plato and Aristotle in agreement? Platonists on Aristotle from Antiochus to Porphyry. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Littlewood. (1985). = Michaelis Pselli Oratoria minora. Ed. A. R. Littlewood. Leipzig: Teubner. MacAlister, Suzanne. 1996. Dreams and suicides: The Greek novel from antiquity to the Byzantine Empire. London: Routledge. Marciniak, Przemysław. 2007. Byzantine Theatron: A place of performance? In Theatron: Rhetorische Kultur in Spätantike und Mittelalter, ed. M.  Grünbart, 277–286. Berlin: De Gruyter. Marcovich. 1992. = Theodori Prodromi de Rhodanthes et Dosiclis amoribus libri ix. Ed. Miroslav Marcovich. Stuttgart: Teubner. Menchelli, Mariella. 2010. Cerchie aristoteliche e letture platoniche (Manoscritti di Platone, Aristotele e commentatori). In The Legacy of Bernard de Montfaucon: Three Hundred Years of Studies on Greek Handwriting. Proceedings of the Seventh International Colloquium of Greek Palaeography (Madrid  - Salamanca, 15-20 September 2008). Ed. Antonio Bravo Garcia, Inmaculada. Pérez Martín, Juan Signes Codoñer, 493-502, 891-897. Turnhout: Brepols. Moraux, Paul. 1967. Le parisinus graecus 1853 (Ms. E) d’Aristote. Scriptorium 21: 17–41. Mullet, Margaret. 1984. Aristocracy and patronage in the literary circles of Comnenian constantinople. In The Byzantine Aristocracy: XI to XIII Centuries, ed. Michael Angold, 173–201. Oxford: British Archaeological Reports. Orsini, Pasquale. 2005. Pratiche collettive di scrittura a Bisanzio nei secoli IX e X. Segno e testo 3: 265–342. Polemis. (2014). = Michael Psellos, Orationes Funebres, vol. 1. Ed. I. Polemis. Berlin: De Gruyter. Praechter, Karl. 1906. Review of Hayduck (1904). Göttingische gelehrte Anzeigen 168: 861–907. Rashed, Marwan. 2005. Les marginalia d’Aréthas, Ibn al-Tayyib et les dernières gloses alexandrines à l’Organon. In Scientia in margine. Etudes sur les marginalia dans les manuscrits scientifiques du Moyen Âge àla Renaissance,  ed. Danielle Jacquart and Charles Burnett, 57-73. Genève: Droz. Ricklin, Thomas. 1998. Der Traum der Philosophie im 12. Jahrhundert: Traumtheorien zwischen Constantinus Africanus und Aristoteles. Leiden/Boston/Cologne: Brill. Ronconi, Filippo. 2012. Le corpus aristotélicien du Paris. gr. 1853 et les cercles érudits à Byzance. Un cas controversé. Studia graeco-arabica 2: 201–225 + pll. Ross. (1955). = Aristotle, Parva Naturalia: A Revised Text with Introduction and Commentary by Sir David Ross. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Stählin and Früchtel. (1960). = Clemens Alexandrinus, vol. 2: Stromata 1–6. 3rd ed. Ed. Ludwig Früchtel. Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller 52. Berlin: Akademie Verlag. ———. (1970). = Clemens Alexandrinus, vol. 3: Stromata 7–8. 2nd ed, Ed. Ludwig Früchtel. Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller 17. Berlin: Akademie Verlag. Stüve. (1900). = Olympiodori in Aristotelis meteora commentaria, Ed. Wilhelm Stüve. CAG 12.2, Berlin: Reimer.

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Trizio, Michele. 2013. Escaping through the Homeric gates: John Italos’ Neoplatonic exegesis of Odyssey 19.562–567 between Synesius and Proclus. Documenti e studi sulla tradizione filosofica medievale 24: 69–83. ———. 2014. A late-antique debate on matter-evil revisited in Byzantium: John Italos and his Quaestio 93. In Fate, providence and moral responsibility in ancient, medieval and early modern thought: Studies in honour of carlos steel, ed. Gerd van Riel and Pieter d’Hoine, 383–394. Leuven: Leuven University Press. Wendland. (1903). = Michaelis Ephesii in Parva naturalia commentaria. Ed. Paul Wendland. CAG 22.1. Berlin: Reimer. Westerink. (1948). = Michael Psellus, De omnifaria doctrina. Ed. Leendert G.  Westerink. Nijmegen: Centrale Drukkerij. Wilson, Nigel G. 2011. A descriptive catalogue of the Greek manuscripts of Corpus Christi College, Oxford. Cambridge: D.S. Brewer.

Chapter 10

Albert the Great as a Commentator of Aristotle’s De somno et vigilia: The Influence of the Arabic Tradition Silvia Donati

Abstract  This paper deals with Albert’s interpretation of the treatise, focusing on some essential elements of his understanding of Aristotle’s doctrine of sleep: the nature of the common sense and its relationship to the special senses; the role of the heart and of the brain as, respectively, the ultimate source of sense perception and the organ of the common sense; the complexity of the notion of sleep, conceived, on the one hand, as an incapacitation of the external senses and, on the other hand, as an invigoration of the interior senses. My analysis brings to light Albert’s strongly unifying approach, which in contrast with modern interpretations of Aristotle’s treatise, emphasizes the internal coherence of Aristotle’s argument in the treatise. In my reconstruction, I draw attention to the wide systematic scope of Albert’s sophisticated interpretation, highlighting, on the one hand, the originality of some of its elements (for instance its conception of the relationship between the common sense and the sense of touch) and, on the other hand, its reliance on the Arabic philosophical tradition for some of its key concepts.

1  A  lbert’s Commentary on De somno et vigilia Within His Project of a Peripatetic Encyclopedia of Natural Sciences Albert’s commentary on De somno et vigilia is part of his Liber de somno et vigilia.1 Following the structure of the medieval Latin translations of Aristotle, in which the three Aristotelian treatises on sleep, De somno et vigilia proper, De insomniis and De divinatione per somnum, were regarded as a single work transmitted under the 1  I am currently preparing the critical edition of Albert’s Liber de somno et vigilia for the “Alberti Magni Opera omnia” within the framework of a research project of the Deutsche Forschungsgemeinschaft. In this article, in the quotations of Albert’s work, I follow the text of my edition, but also provide references to the edition in Borgnet (1890, 121–207). I wish to thank Sten Ebbesen for his help in translating Latin texts quoted in this paper into English.

S. Donati (*) Albertus-Magnus-Institut, Bonn, Germany © Springer International Publishing AG, part of Springer Nature 2018 B. Bydén, F. Radovic (eds.), The Parva naturalia in Greek, Arabic and Latin Aristotelianism, Studies in the History of Philosophy of Mind 17, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-26904-7_10

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general title “De somno et vigilia,”2 Albert’s Liber de somno et vigilia deals with all three Aristotelian treatises. The commentary on De somno constitutes Book 1 of Albert’s work. The Liber de somno et vigilia, which is based on the Translatio Vetus of Aristotle’s treatises on sleep, was written in the second half of the 1250s. On the one hand, it postdates the commentary on the De anima, the treatise De nutrimento et nutrito, the commentaries on the De sensu et sensato and the De memoria et reminiscentia and Book 1 of the treatise De intellectu et intelligibili. On the other hand, it antedates the treatises De spiritu et respiratione, De motibus animalium and De iuventute et senectute, the commentaries on the De longitudine et brevitate vitae and the De plantis, Book 2 of the treatise De intellectu et intelligibili, the commentary De principiis motus processivi (which deals with Aristotle’s De motu animalium), the treatise De natura et origine animae and the commentary on the so-called De animalibus, the Arabic-Latin translation of Aristotle’s De historia animalium, De partibus animalium and De generatione animalium. Given that the commentary on the De anima goes back to the years 1254–1257, and the commentary on the De animalibus was probably completed by 1258, a date around 1256–1257 seems to be a safe guess.3 Albert’s Liber de somno et vigilia is one of the earliest medieval Latin commentaries on the Aristotelian treatises on sleep.4 Albert’s most significant antecedent in the Latin commentary tradition of those Aristotelian works is the literal commentary written by the English famous commentator Adam of Buckfield, which probably goes back to the late 1230s or to the 1240s.5 Other commentaries based on the Translatio Vetus, such as the question commentary by the English master Geoffrey of Aspall6 and an anonymous commentary possibly written by another English master, William of Clifford,7 may be more or less contemporaneous with or slightly later than Albert’s work. The Liber de somno et vigilia is not the earliest work by Albert testifying to a close reading of Aristotle’s treatises on sleep. In the sections devoted to sleep, dreaming and divination, Albert’s De homine, an anthropological Summa completed in the early 1240s as the second section of his Summa de creaturis is based on the three Aristotelian treatises; it quotes extensively from those texts, structurally closely following Aristotle’s list of issues at the beginning

2  See De Leemans (2011, 917). For Albert’s commentary on the three Aristotelian treatises, see Borgnet (1890, 121–155 [De somno et vigilia]; 157–175 [De insomniis]; 177–207 [De divinatione per somnum]). 3  On the date of Albert’s commentaries on Aristotle’s Parva naturalia (see below), including his commentaries on Aristotle’s three treatises on sleep, see Donati (2017, XXIV–XXVI). 4  On the medieval commentary tradition of Aristotle’s treatises on sleep and, more generally, of the Parva naturalia, see De Leemans (2011). 5  On Adam of Buckfield’s literary production, see Weijers (1994–2012, 1: 24–30). On the date of Buckfield’s commentaries, see Burnett (1996, 40–41). 6  On Geoffrey of Aspall’s literary production, see Weijers (1994–2012, 3: 31–35); Donati (2012, 246–257). On the date of Geoffrey’s commentary, see Ebbesen (2014, 261). 7  See Donati (2008, 532–538; 594–595).

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of the De somno and almost providing a running commentary on the three treatises.8 The Liber de somno et vigilia is part of Albert’s monumental project of a philosophical encyclopedia developed according to the principles of Peripatetic philosophy, a project which started around 1250 with the commentary on the Physics, and which was implemented by Albert in a period of about 15 years. Albert’s project was originally meant to extend to the three branches of the philosophia realis— natural philosophy, mathematics and metaphysics,9 but during its implementation it came also to include logic and practical philosophy. As Albert explains in the prologue to the commentary on the Physics (1.1.1.1), his project has two main purposes, as far as the philosophy of nature is concerned: on the one hand, to provide a comprehensive exposition of that section of philosophy and, on the other, to provide a systematic explanation of Aristotle’s Libri naturales. Thus, as is clear from Albert’s subsequent elucidation, although his work is substantially based on the Aristotelian corpus of the Libri naturales insofar as it mainly consists of commentaries on Aristotelian (or pseudo-Aristotelian) treatises, the purpose of his project is much more ambitious than mere exegetical work. His aim is a complete and systematic exposition of the entire spectrum of disciplines that constitute the science of nature. Hence, in those fields of the philosophy of nature that—in his view—have not been appropriately treated in the received corpus of Aristotle’s Libri naturales, Albert has no qualms about supplementing Aristotle’s corpus with treatises of his own.10 Albert’s creative attitude as an Aristotelian commentator is nowhere as much in evidence as in the section of his encyclopedia devoted to the investigation of the soul, to which also the Liber de somno et vigilia belongs. Whereas Albert regards Aristotle’s treatise De anima as providing an adequate analysis of the soul and its powers, he feels compelled to integrate Aristotle’s investigation of the operations and the affections of the soul as carried out in the received corpus of the Parva naturalia in several places. The result of Albert’s efforts is an impressive corpus of writings,11 which provides a systematic investigation of the affections and o­ perations 8  See Albertus Magnus, De homine, 318–392. On the date of Albert’s De homine, see Anzulewicz and Söder (2008, XIV–XV). 9  See Hossfeld (1987, 1). It is, however, not clear to which extent Albert’s project was implemented as far as mathematics is concerned; the only mathematical work ascribed to Albert is a commentary on Euclid’s Elements whose authenticity, however, is not certain; see Tummers (2014, V–VI). 10  On Albert’s project, see Donati (2011a, b, 235–245). 11  This corpus includes four commentaries on Aristotelian works (De sensu et sensato, De memoria et reminiscentia, the three treatises on sleep and De longitudine et brevitate vitae) and five independent treatises (De nutrimento et nutrito, De intellectu et intelligibili, De spiritu et respiratione, De motibus animalium, De aetate sive de iuventute et senectute). Four of these treatises, De nutrimento et nutrito, De spiritu et respiratione, De motibus animalium, De aetate sive de iuventute et senectute, were meant to replace the corresponding Aristotelian works, whose existence was known to Albert, but which were not accessible to him. In contrast, Albert’s treatise De intellectu et intelligibili was probably inspired by the treatises on the intellect of the Late Ancient and Arabic tradition. A later addition to Albert’s treatment of the operations and affections of the soul is his commentary De principiis motus processivi, which deals with Aristotle’s De motu animalium, and was written by Albert after acquiring a Latin translation of the De motu animalium.

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of all four psychic powers discussed by Aristotle in the De anima: vegetative, sensitive, intellective and motive power.12 As Albert points out in the prologue to this work, in the case of the Liber de somno et vigilia there is an Aristotelian model on which to base the investigation, namely the three Aristotelian treatises on sleep known to Albert as parts of a single work named “De somno et vigilia.”13 Thus, there is no need to supplement Aristotle’s corpus with independent treatises: Albert is content with expounding Aristotle’s text according to the method described in the commentary on the Physics. Also in this case, however, Albert’s “creative” attitude often comes to light, although in less obvious ways. The most significant instance is provided by the commentary on Aristotle’s De divinatione. Albert is utterly dissatisfied with previous theories on divinatory dreams, even with Aristotle’s. Therefore, in Book 1 of his commentary on De divinatione, after a prefatory chapter (tr. 1 ch. 1) and the elucidation of Aristotle’s introductory remarks (ch. 2), Albert engages in a critical review of previous theories on the subject—even Aristotle’s own theory—that extends over ten chapters (chs 3–12), before turning to the exposition of the text (tr. 2).14 But also the exposition of the other two Aristotelian treatises on sleep, namely De somno and De insomniis, is complemented by several digressions, which provide the theoretical underpinnings for his interpretation, fill in the gaps he observes in Aristotle’s argument, or report later developments of the discussions in the post-Aristotelian philosophical tradition.15 As is well known, Albert’s interpretation of Aristotle is strongly influenced by the exegesis of the Muslim philosophers. As will be shown in the following discussion, this also holds true for his Liber de somno et vigilia. In his commentaries, Albert often contrasts the trustworthy interpretations of the early commentators of Aristotle, the Peripatetics, with the faulty interpretations of his contemporaries, who in his view have grossly misunderstood Aristotle on several points.16 Albert’s  See Aristotle, De anima 2.4 (vegetative power), 2.5–3.3 (sensitive power), 3.4–8 (intellective power), 3.9–13 (motive power). 13  See Albertus Magnus, De somno et vigilia, 1.1.1 (Borgnet 1890, 123). 14  For tr. 1 and 2 of Albert’s commentary on De divinatione, see Albertus Magnus, De somno et vigilia (Borgnet 1890, 177–196 and 197–207). 15  For the list of the titles of the chapters of Albert’s commentary on the De somno, see Appendix. 16  See, e.g., Albertus Magnus, De sensu et sensato, 1.5 (Donati 2017, 26.56–27.27): “Sed duarum opinionum quae nos extramittentes videre voluerunt una fuit Empedoclis antiquissima …. Et in hanc opinionem directe consentit Euclides et postea tempore longo Iacob Alchindius, qui multas demonstrationes de visu super hanc opinionem fundaverunt. Sunt etiam nonnulli Latinorum modernorum qui in eandem incidunt sententiam”; ibid. (Donati 2017, 28.51–53): “Quaedam autem novella et fatua invenitur, non opinio, sed insania quorundam dicentium nos videre et intussuscipientes et extramittentes”; ibid., 3.2 (Donati 2017, 99.19–24): “Sic igitur intelligendum est quod illuminatio est ad aliquid et quod est subito, quia sic declinantur abusiones quas fatuitas hominum introduxit dicentium lumen esse corpus aut substantiam spiritualem aut formam substantialem aut aliquid aliud, secundum quod in libro De anima diximus.” Albertus Magnus, De memoria et reminiscentia, 1.1 (Donati 2017, 113.15–18): “… Omnes fere aberraverunt Latini in cognitione harum virtutum quas memoriam et reminiscentiam appellamus, ut aestimo propter verborum Aristotelis obscuritatem.” 12

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a­ ttitude also becomes quite obvious in the preface to his Liber de somno et vigilia, where he remarks that in his exposition he will only consider the views of the Peripatetics, and disregard the views of modern—that is, contemporary Latin— authors. Predictably, the Peripatetics, on whose interpretations he relies, are all Muslim philosophers. Albert mentions Alhamidin, i.e., Al-Kindi, who authored a short treatise on sleep and prophecy, Avicenna, Al-Ghazali, Averroes and Al-Farabi.17 His mention of Al-Farabi calls for an explanation: as has been repeatedly pointed out by scholars, Albert sometimes quotes Averroes’ Compendium of the Parva naturalia as Averroes’, sometimes as if it was Al-Farabi’s.18 René Antoine Gauthier, in his Prolegomena to Aquinas’ commentaries on the De sensu and the De memoria (1985, 111*–113*), suggested that Albert used two different copies of the Compendium, one correctly attributed to Averroes, the other to Al-Farabi, without noticing that it was the same text. Interestingly, Albert does not seem to be the only thirteenth-century Latin commentator to make this erroneous attribution. The English commentator Geoffrey of Aspall seems to have incurred the same mistake, since in his commentaries on the De sensu and the De somno, Al-Farabi is quoted as the author of the Compendium along with the “Commentator,” that is, Averroes.19 Be it as it may, what is more interesting for our purpose is the fact that Albert often appeals to the consensus of the Muslim philosophers as an argument in favour of his interpretations.20 In the commentary on the De somno, the pervasive influence of the Arabic philosophical tradition is most prominently obvious in the doctrinal digressions with which Albert supplements his exposition of Aristotle’s text. Even more interesting—as will be elaborated in a more detailed manner in the following analysis—, however, is the fact that Albert also derives the conceptual framework within which he develops his exposition of the text from the Arabic philosophers.

17  Albertus Magnus, De somno et vigilia 1.1.1 (Borgnet 1890, 123a): “Quia vero librum Aristotelis de scientia ista habemus, sequemur eum eo modo quo secuti sumus eum in aliis, facientes digressiones ab ipso ubicumque videbitur aliquid imperfecte vel obscure dictum, dividentes opus per libros et tractatus et capitula sicut in aliis fecimus. Nos autem omissis opinionibus quorundam modernorum, sequemur tantum sententias Peripateticorum, et praecipue Avicennae et Averrois et Alfarabii et Algazelis, quorum libros de hac materia vidimus concordantes, tangemus etiam quandoque opinionem Galieni.” 18  In Albert’s earlier work De homine the Compendium is almost always ascribed to Al-Farabi; see Anzulewicz and Söder (2008, XVI). 19  Galfridus de Aspall, Quaestiones De sensu et sensato, MS Todi, Bibl. Com., 23, fol. 109rb: “Alfarabius enim, in suo libro De sensu et sensato ….”; Ebbesen (2014, 296): “Illud idem patet per Alpharabium; dicit enim quod somnus est introitus sensus communis ad interius.” 20  Cf. Albertus Magnus, De somno et vigilia, 1.1.9 (Borgnet 1890, 135a): “Dixit autem Abhamidin philosophus, et videtur Averroes praebere assensum, quod somnus est vigor et confortatio sensus spiritualis et debilitas et vinculum sensus corporalis …,” ibid. 1.2.4, 144a: “Nos autem ad intellectum praecedentium et sequentium interponemus hic sententiam Averrois et Abhamidin.”

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2  Aristotle’s Argument in the De somno et vigilia Aristotle’s treatise De somno includes three chapters. Ch. 1 opens with an introductory section (453b11–24) containing Aristotle’s philosophical agenda in the De somno and the two subsequent treatises, De insomniis and De divinatione. Specifically, concerning sleep and waking, which are the two affections investigated in the De somno, Aristotle lists (453b11–17) five questions to be discussed in the subsequent investigation: (q.1) what sleep and waking are; (q.2) whether these affections exclusively belong to one of the two principles of ensouled beings, that is, the soul and the body, or are common to both; (q.3) given that they are affections common to both principles, (a) to which part of the soul and (b) which part of the body they primarily belong; (q.4) what the causes accounting for them are; (q.5) whether they are affections distinctive of animal life, and given that they are, in which way they belong to animal species. After this introductory section, in ch. 1, Aristotle first (453b24–454a11) shows that sleep and waking are psychophysical affections: they do not belong only to the soul or only to the body, but are common to the soul and the body, insofar as they require an ensouled body as their substrate. Secondly (454a11–455a3), he proves that all animal species, but solely animal species—thus excluding all vegetal species—partake of sleep and waking in such a way that sleep and waking necessarily alternate in the same subject. Central to Aristotle’s argumentation is the idea of sleeping and waking as essentially related to sense perception: waking essentially consists in the exercise of sense perception, whereas sleep consists in an incapacitation of sense perception. Given that sense perception is an affection common to the soul and the body, Aristotle concludes that the same holds true for sleep and being awake. Moreover, provided that sense perception is the distinctive feature of animal life, as compared to vegetal life, he further concludes that sleep and waking are distinctive of animal life, too. In ch. 2 Aristotle investigates to which parts of the soul and of the body sleep and waking properly belong. In addition, in ch. 2 he also begins with the investigation of the causes of sleep and waking. Given that sleep is an incapacitation simultaneously affecting all special senses, Aristotle concludes that sleep and waking are not affections belonging to any of the special senses, but that they primarily affect the common sense (455a4–b13). Turning to the causes of those affections, he starts by investigating the final cause of sleep (455b13–34): he argues that, since it is not possible for an animal to exercise the activity of perception without interruption, sleep is necessary for the sake of animal preservation. Aristotle then proceeds (455b34–456a24) to investigate the role of the heart as the central organ of perception and the primary source of motion, thus concluding that sleep and waking are also affections primarily located in the heart. The investigation of the causes of sleep and waking is continued in ch. 3, which contains a physiological explanation of those phenomena (456a30–457b6). Aristotle argues that the alternation of sleep and waking is essentially linked to the processes of digestion following upon the ingestion of food. More precisely, sleep arises as a consequence of the reflux of nutritive matter towards the region of the heart after the warm exhalation produced by the digestion of food has been driven up towards the upper regions, and has then

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been cooled up there because of the coldness of the region around the brain. By contrast, waking occurs when the process of digestion has been completed. Aristotle’s treatise De somno has received special attention from Aristotelian scholars particularly for its discussion of the notion of the common sense (sensus communis). Specifically because of its introduction of the heart as the central organ of perception, that is, the bodily foundation of the common sense, it is regarded as an important complement to parallel discussions contained in the De anima and in the De sensu et sensibilibus, where no explicit reference to the heart as the organic centre of sense perception can be found.21 Precisely this peculiarity, however, has given rise to disagreements concerning the position of the treatise within Aristotle’s psychological corpus.22 Moreover, the structure of the treatise has also been closely scrutinized: alleged discontinuities and inconsistencies in Aristotle’s argumentation have led some Aristotelian scholars to question the internal unity of the treatise. Commentators have been especially puzzled by Aristotle’s causal analysis in chs 2–3. According to Drossaart Lulofs, for instance, the treatise consists of two sections rather clumsily patched together at 455b13, and corresponding to two different versions of the treatise; the first section (ch. 1–ch. 2, 455b13)—considered chronologically later—is regarded as incomplete (1947, xvi–xxvii). According to Malcolm Lowe (1978), by contrast, the unity of the treatise is broken by a fragment of an earlier version corresponding to ch. 2, 455b13–34, which was added to the text by some misguided editor. In Lowe’s opinion, this addition of extraneous material to the original text is responsible for the discrepancies between Aristotle’s introduction at 455b15–17, in which an investigation structured according to the classic fourfold division of the causes is announced, and Aristotle’s actual discussion in the subsequent section, which does not follow this scheme. Further, it also accounts for the fact that the discussion of the efficient cause seems to be introduced twice, first in ch. 2 of the De somno, at 455b28, and then again at the beginning of ch. 3 (456a30). Further inconsistencies have been detected between Aristotle’s view in the De somno, where sleep is conceived as a deactivation of the common sense, and his position in the De insomniis, in which dreaming is described as a sort of perceptual awareness involving the activity of the common sense (Gallop 1996, 20–21). Like modern interpreters, also medieval commentators were puzzled over the structure of Aristotle’s treatise as well as over its position within Aristotle’s psychological corpus. However, since they considered the Aristotelian corpus a closed system and their exegetical approach equally refrained from genetic hypotheses and from the idea of later editorial interventions into Aristotle’s text, they searched for doctrinal explanations for the structural peculiarities of the treatise; they were also inclined to explain away possible inconsistencies between the De somno and other treatises. Albert supports a rather sophisticated, strongly unifying interpretation, which succeeds in fitting the different pieces of Aristotle’s analysis together into a single, coherent explanation—although, as we shall see, at the price of some serious misunderstanding of the text.  See, e.g., Kahn (1979, 13–16).  See, e.g., the different views of David Ross (1955) and Irving Block (1961) concerning the chronology of the Parva naturalia.

21 22

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3  A  lbert’s Interpretation: The Logical Structure of the Treatise At the beginning of his commentary, Albert correctly remarks that, in dealing with the issues mentioned in his introductory list at the beginning of the De somno, Aristotle does not follow the order of the enumeration.23 Ch. 1 of the treatise deals with qq.2 and 5, but it also generally introduces q.3, since it starts from the preliminary assumption that sleep and waking involve sense perception. In ch. 2 Aristotle discusses q.3 more detailedly, investigating precisely (a) to which part of the sensitive soul and (b) to which part of the body sleep and waking properly belong. Ch. 2 also opens the investigation of the causes (q.4), which is then continued in ch. 3. Albert’s interpretation of ch. 2 and 3 may be compared with the more elementary interpretation of the English commentator Adam of Buckfield. The following table summarizes the main points of Albert’s (Borgnet 1890, 123–155) and Buckfield’s (Adam de Bocfeld, Super De somno et vigilia, Oxford, Balliol College, MS 313, fols. 144rb-150va) analysis of the structure of the treatise, including also some modern reconstructions:

Aristotle, De somno et vigilia ch.1, 453b11-24

Introduction: questions about sleep and waking to be discussed:   q.1 what they are;   q.2 whether they are properties belonging only to the soul or only to the body, or whether they are common to both;   q.3 if they are common, which part (a) of the soul and (b) of the body possesses them;   q.4 what causes them to belong to animals;   q.5 do all animals partake of both or do some partake of one only, and some of the other; or do some partake of neither and some of both.

Drossaart Lulofs’s reconstruction (1947, xvi–xxvii) ch.1, 453b11-ch.2, 455b13 Version A of De somno (incomplete at the end)

M. Lowe’s reconstruction (1978, 285–286) ch.1, 453b11-­ ch.2,455b13 Final version of De somno (part 1)

Adam of Buckfield’s reconstruction ch.1, 453b11-24

Albert’s reconstruction ch.1, 453b11-24

Introduction

Introduction

(continued) 23

 See Albertus Magnus, De somno et vigilia, 1.1.2 (Borgnet 1890, 123–124).

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Aristotle, De somno et vigilia ch.1, 453b24-454a11

Drossaart Lulofs’s reconstruction (1947, xvi–xxvii)

Sleep and waking are affections common to the soul and the body.

ch.1, 454a11-455a3 Sleep and waking are affections distinctive of animal beings, to which they alternately belong.

ch.2, 455a4-b13 Sleep and waking are affections belonging to the central sense and to the central organ of perception.

ch.2, 455b13-16

ch.2, 455b13-­ c.3, 458a32 Distinction of the four kinds Version B of of explanatory factors. De somno

M. Lowe’s reconstruction Adam of Buckfield’s (1978, reconstruction 285–286) ch.1, 453b24454a11 Sleep and waking are affections common to the soul and the body (= q.2). ch.1, 454a11-455a3 Sleep and waking are affections distinctive of animal beings, to which they alternately belong (= q.5). ch.2, 455a4-b13 Investigation of that part of the soul, to which the affections sleep and waking belong (= q.3a) ch.2, 455b13-34 Fragment of an earlier version of De somno added by an editor

ch.2, 455b13-28 Final cause of sleep (= q.4)

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Albert’s reconstruction ch.1, 453b24-454a11 Sleep and waking are affections common to the soul and the body (= q.2). ch.1, 454a11-455a3 Sleep and waking are affections distinctive of animal beings, to which they alternately belong (= q.5). ch.2, 455a4-b13 Investigation of (a) that part of the soul and (b) that part of the body to which the affections sleep and waking belong (= q.3a + q.3b) ch.2, 455b13-28 Final cause of sleep (= q.4)

ch.2, 455b16-28: Sleep occurs for the sake of preserving the animal. (continued)

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Aristotle, De somno et vigilia ch.2, 455b28–34 The factors explaining sleep and waking in other animals are the same or analogous to those explaining these affections in sanguineous animals, notably in man. ch.2, 455b34 – 456a29

Sleep and waking are affections of the heart, which is the source of motion, sense perception.

ch.3, 456a30-458a10: Sleep is an incapacitation of the perceptual part of the soul that arises especially from the intake of food. It is brought about by the reflux of nutritive matter that, after being brought to the upper regions, is cooled there by the coldness of the brain. ch.3, 458a10–25: Waking ensues when the digestion of food has been completed. ch.3, 458a25–32 Retrospect on the causes of sleep

S. Donati Drossaart Lulofs’s reconstruction (1947, xvi–xxvii)

M. Lowe’s reconstruction Adam of Buckfield’s (1978, reconstruction 285–286) ch.2, 455b28–34 Material cause of sleep and waking (= q.4 + q.3b)

ch.2, 455b34-­ ch.3,458a25 Final version of De somno (part 2)

Albert’s reconstruction ch.2, 455b28–34 Primary efficient cause of sleep and waking (= q.4)

ch.2, 455b34 ch.2, 455b34 –ch.3, 458a25 –ch.3, 458a25 Efficient cause of sleep and waking (= q.4)

Proximate efficient cause and material cause of sleep and waking (= q.4)

ch.3, ch.3, ch.3, 458a25–32 458a25-32 458a25-32 Later addition Recapitulation Recapitulation of an editor

As is clear from the preceding table, according to Adam, in De somno, ch. 2, 455a4–b13, Aristotle deals with q.3a of his list, investigating which part of the soul is affected by sleep and waking, and concluding that they are affections of the common sense.24 The final section of ch. 2 and the entire ch. 3 contain Aristotle’s causal analysis, which corresponds to q.4 of Aristotle’s list; in this part of the treatise, he first deals with the final, then with the material and finally with the efficient cause 24

 Adam de Bocfield, Super De somno et vigilia, Oxford, Balliol College, MS 313, fol. 146rb.

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of sleep (respectively: [1] ch. 2, 455b13–28, [2] ch. 2 455b28 ff., [3] ch. 3). In Buckfield’s interpretation, however, the discussion of the material cause of sleep and waking also provides an answer to q.3b of Aristotle’s list by identifying the bodily organ primarily affected by sleep and waking; Buckfield maintains that for Aristotle the heart is both the bodily organ primarily affected by sleep and waking and the material cause of those phenomena.25 Like some modern commentators,26 Buckfield maintains that the treatise contains no extensive treatment of the formal cause of sleep and waking; the question of the formal cause is only briefly touched upon in the recapitulation at the end of the treatise, which contains a definition of sleep (ch. 3, 458a28–30). However, he also notes that a complete answer to q.1 of Aristotle’s list, namely the question concerning the quiddity of sleep and waking, is implicitly provided by Aristotle’s causal investigation, since a complete definition of those phenomena must include a complete enumeration of their causes.27 Compared to Buckfield’s, Albert’s analysis provides a more sophisticated reconstruction of the structure of the treatise, which strongly emphasizes its coherent articulation and unity. The point in which Albert clearly deviates from Buckfield is the interpretation of ch. 2. I will discuss Albert’s interpretation of this chapter more elaborately in the following sections, because it is central to his understanding of Aristotle’s doctrine. Here, it will be sufficient to point out the main differences between Albert’s and Buckfield’s interpretations. Unlike Buckfield, Albert maintains that both q.3a and q.3b—meaning the questions that ask which part of the soul and which bodily organ are primarily affected by sleep and waking—are dealt with in De somno, ch. 2, 455a4–b13,28 and that they are not addressed again in the subsequent causal explanation introduced in De somno, ch. 2, 455b13—ch. 3. In his view, Aristotle’s causal explanation is primarily focused on the final and the efficient causes of sleep and waking. Like Buckfield, Albert maintains that it starts with the investigation of the final cause (455b17–28), and he explains the priority assigned to it by appealing to the primacy of the final cause with respect to the other causes (“causa causarum”).29 In contrast, Albert deviates from Buckfield in the interpretation of the final section of ch. 2 (455b28ff.), in which Aristotle introduces the heart as the source (arche) of motion and of sense perception. In his understanding, Aristotle is not dealing with the material cause of sleep and waking at that point, but he starts his investigation of their efficient cause. Albert’s account of the relationship between De somno, ch. 2, 455b28ff. and the physiological investigation contained in ch. 3 is based on the distinction between a primary and a proximate efficient cause of sleep and waking. The primary efficient cause, introduced in De somno, ch. 2, at 455b28ff., is identified by Aristotle with the primary principle of

 Adam de Bocfield, Super De somno et vigilia, Oxford, Balliol College, MS 313, fols. 147ra, 147rb, 148ra. 26  See Lowe (1978, 283); Gallop (1996, 128). 27  Adam de Bocfield, Super De somno et vigilia, Oxford, Balliol College, MS 313, fol. 150ra–b. 28  Albertus Magnus, De somno et vigilia 1.2.1 (Borgnet 1890, 137a–140a). 29  Albertus Magnus, De somno et vigilia 1.2.2 (Borgnet 1890, 140a–141a). 25

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life, that is, the heart.30 In contrast, ch. 3 deals with the proximate efficient causes of sleep and waking, namely the warm exhalation rising from the region around the heart towards the upper regions during the digestion of food and the completion of that process, respectively.31 Once it has been cooled in the region around the brain, the exhalation of nutritive matter is driven back towards the centre. On its way back to the interior regions, such exhalation hinders the vital heat and the sensitive powers from flowing from the heart towards the sense organs, thus causing the deactivation of sense perception. However, when the digestive processes have been completed, the hindrance of the vital flux vanishes, and sense perception is reactivated. Albert seems to think that Aristotle’s physiological analysis in ch. 3 does not only entail the proximate efficient cause of sleep, but also its material cause.32 Although he does not elaborate on this point, his interpretation is probably to be understood to the effect that the exhalation in itself, and before its cooling down, is to be regarded only as the material cause of the process, since the exhalation of nutritive matter can deactivate the sense organs only once it has been cooled down by the coldness of the region around the brain. By distinguishing two different levels in the investigation of the efficient cause—the investigation of the primary cause and the investigation of the proximate cause of sleep—, Albert is able to explain away the redundancies detected by modern scholars in Aristotle’s investigation of the efficient cause. In fact, as we shall see, in Albert’s interpretation, the core of Aristotle’s causal investigation is precisely the analysis of the role of the heart, which is carried out in ch. 2, and which in his understanding provides a sketchy, yet full account of its different functions as the primary principle of life. According to Albert’s explanation there is no formal treatment of the formal cause in the De somno, although he does point out that the treatise answers the question of the “quid est,” providing several definitions of the phenomena under discussion. One of them, occurring in ch. 1, describes sleep as an incapacitation of sense perception due to an excess of waking.33 Later on, in the context of his physiological explanation in ch. 3, Aristotle distinguishes sleep from other instances of incapacitation of the senses by referring to its specific physical cause; there, sleep is described as a sort of inward concentration of the hot matter and a natural reflux of it, following upon the intake of food.34 Albert sees a precise relationship between those definitions. Once again, Albert’s aim is apparently to bring the logical structure underlying Aristotle’s argumentation to light. His explanation rests on Aristotle’s analysis of the relationship between definition and demonstration in Posterior Analytics, Book 2. In Posterior Analytics, Book 2, Aristotle discusses the possibility of demonstrating the definition of properties, and ends up distinguishing three dif Albertus Magnus, De somno et vigilia 1.2.3 (Borgnet 1890, 141b–143b).  Albertus Magnus, De somno et vigilia 1.2.6 (Borgnet 1890, 146b–148a). 32  Albertus Magnus, De somno et vigilia 1.2.3 (Borgnet 1890, 142b); 1.2.6 (Borgnet 1890, 146b). 33  Aristotle, De somno et vigilia 1, 454b4–5; Albertus Magnus, De somno et vigilia 1.1.4 (Borgnet 1890, 128b). 34  Aristotle, De somno et vigilia 3, 457a33–b2; Albertus Magnus, De somno et vigilia 1.2.9 (Borgnet 1890, 152b). 30

31

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ferent kinds of definition: (1) a nominal definition, which is based on an incomplete description of the object under consideration, and which is both the starting point of our investigation and the conclusion of the demonstration; (2) a causal definition, corresponding to the middle term of the syllogism proving the nominal definition; (3) a complex definition, corresponding to the entire syllogism.35 In Albert’s view, the logical structure of Aristotle’s De somno conforms to the procedure described by Aristotle in the Posterior Analytics. By analyzing the affection of sleep itself as an incapacitation of the perceptive power, Aristotle’s first definition only conveys an incomplete description of the phenomenon of sleep. In contrast, the final definition, which describes sleep in terms of its proximate cause, conveys a perfect causal description of sleep.36

4  Albert’s Interpretation: Main Doctrinal Issues The following section focuses on Albert’s discussion of two issues that are central to his interpretation of Aristotle’s argument in the De somno, the nature of sleep and the nature of the psychic and bodily structures involved in this phenomenon. A formal discussion of the first issue is contained in a doctrinal digression following Albert’s explanation of De somno, ch. 1, in which Aristotle introduces his definition of sleep. Albert’s views on the second issue emerge from his explanation of some key passages of De somno, ch. 2, in which Aristotle deals with the common sense and its bodily organ. In my investigation, I will first review Albert’s treatment of the principles of sleep within his discussion of De somno, ch. 2, and then come back to his discussion of Aristotle’s definition of sleep in De somno, ch. 1.

4.1  T  wo Different Principles of the Central Sense: The Heart and the Brain As already mentioned, according to Albert’s interpretation, the issue of the bodily organ affected by sleep and waking (q.3b) is not dealt with in De somno, ch. 2, at 455b28ff. In his understanding, this has a good reason, since this question and the question addressed at 455b28ff. have different answers: the master organ of sense perception introduced in De somno, ch. 2, at 455a20ff.—that is, the bodily organ serving as the physical counterpart of the common sense—and the primary source of sense perception addressed at 455b28ff. are two different organs. Whereas the principle discussed at 455b28ff. is the heart, the organ introduced earlier in the chapter at 455a20 is the brain. The doctrinal framework of Albert’s interpretation is 35 36

 Aristotle, An. post. 2.10.  Albertus Magnus, De somno et vigilia 1.1.4 (Borgnet 1890, 128b).

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provided by the Arabic doctrine of the interior senses, which systematizes Aristotle’s fragmentary treatment of the interior powers of the sensitive soul. The aspect of this theory that is relevant for the present discussion concerns the location of the interior senses. As is well known, the Arabic philosophers are influenced by the Galenic medical tradition, which, in opposition to Aristotle’s cardiocentric conception, locates the centre of sense perception in the brain. Following this medical tradition, Avicenna and Averroes locate the interior senses in the different ventricles of the brain.37 However, they try to reconcile the medical encephalocentric theory with Aristotle’s strictly cardiocentric conception by subordinating the heart and the brain to each other as two hierarchically ordered principles. Thus, in his Compendium on the De somno et vigilia, Averroes refers to the role of the heart as the primary source of all life functions, and relates the brain and the heart to each other as the immediate and the primary substrate of the central sense, respectively.38 Similarly, as we shall see in more detail in a subsequent section of this paper, Avicenna solves the problem by stressing the role of the heart as the primary source of perception and of the other life functions. Albert’s strategy in the interpretation of De somno ch. 2 is very close to Averroes’ conciliatory solution. As already mentioned, he distinguishes a master organ which is the seat of sense perception—the brain—, and a primary efficient cause which is the ultimate source of the perceptive power—the heart. Indeed, although the problem of the location of the central organ of perception is not directly addressed by Albert within his explanation of De somno, ch. 2, 455a20ff., where Aristotle introduces the common sense and its organ, Albert does state that this organ is to be found in the anterior ventricle of the brain.39 In turn, Albert makes clear that Aristotle’s treatment of the heart at 455b28ff. is to be understood as the introduction of the primary efficient cause of sense perception and of the phenomena related to it—among them sleep and waking—in his careful reformulation of Aristotle’s conclusion at 456a21–24: when Aristotle, with reference to the heart, concludes that— if sleep and waking are indeed affections of that part—the location and the bodily

 Avicenna Latinus, Liber de anima seu sextus de naturalibus 1.5, (van Riet 1968, 87–90); Averroes, Compendium libri Aristotelis De memoria et reminiscentia (Shields 1949, 57–58) (especially Versio Parisina). On the Arabic theory of the interior senses, see Harvey (1975). 38  Averroes, Compendium libri Aristotelis De sompno et vigilia (Shields 1949, 84–85) (Versio Parisina): “Oportet igitur ut primum subiectum virtutis illius, que est sensus communis, sit cor, quoniam hoc est universale principium omnium virtutum corporis: ipsum enim est principium vite, conservans omnes virtutes in corpore per influenciam caloris naturalis et spirituum ad omnia membra. Subiectum autem immediatum sensus communis est anterior pars cerebri, que si fuerit bene disposita, bona erit operacio sensus communis; si vero fuerit lesa, ledetur operacio eius”; ibid. (Versio Vulgata): “Et quia ista virtus necessario habet subiectum proprium, et illud est membrum in quo est ista virtus, perscrutandum est de hoc membro quid sit. Dicamus igitur quod iam declaratum est superius quod sensus communis est in corde et quod cerebrum est unum instrumentorum complentium hanc actionem secundum temperamentum existens in eo.” 39  Albertus Magnus, De somno et vigilia, 1.2.1 (Borgnet 1890, 138b): “Cum igitur infrigidatus humor primo tangit organum sensus communis, quod est in anterioribus capitis et cerebri, tunc continue tangit nervos sensuum particularium ad sensum communem directos.” 37

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part in which sleep and waking first develop will be evident,40 Albert remarks that Aristotle’s statement must be understood in the sense of the primary efficient cause: The result of what has been said is that if sleep and being awake are affections of the part that is the heart in the sense that it is their first efficient cause, then it is clear in which part of the soul and in which place in the body sleep and being awake are located in the sense of its being their first efficient cause.41

The interpretation of this passage in terms of the efficient cause is probably also suggested to Albert by Aristotle’s terminology; as he remarks earlier in the commentary, the technical term “principium” (arche), which is used in this context, properly indicates the efficient cause.42 It is interesting to compare Albert’s approach in the discussion of the location of the internal senses to that of another early commentator of Aristotle’s De somno et vigilia, the already mentioned English master Geoffrey of Aspall. In his questions on De somno et vigilia, which are possibly slightly later than Albert’s commentary, Geoffrey, like Albert, consents to Averroes’ theory of a twofold principle of sense perception, that is, the heart and the brain, but he also stresses the existence of a disagreement between Aristotle and Averroes. More precisely, he reports three different positions, that of the physicians (medici), who identify the organ of the common sense with the brain, Aristotle’s position, who identifies that organ with the heart, and Averroes’ mediating position, which he prefers. On this point there are three opinions. One is that of the physicians, according to which the proper organ of the common sense is in a straightforward way the brain, whereas the heart is so only incidentally, for the heart does not flow into the particular senses except via the brain. The heart, they say, for all its being the first sensorium and the origin (principium) of sense, yet is not the proximate origin, whereas the brain is the proximate origin of the common sense. Others say—as also Aristotle appears to hold—that the heart is the proper organ of the common sense and by itself, whereas the brain is so only incidentally. According to them, the particular senses do not rely on the brain except incidentally. Since, namely, the spirits that originate directly from the heart are hot, and so would destroy the particular senses if they were directly mixed with or admitted to them, nature has come up with a cold organ, viz. the brain, so that the heat of the spirits may be moderated before they are transmitted further to the particular senses. A third, and truer, opinion, is, as it were, midway between the two first ones, and in better accord with Averroes’ view in his On the Treatise about Memory and Recollection, in which he says that the heart is the first organ of the common sense, but the brain its secondary and proximate organ.43 40  Aristoteles Latinus, De somno et vigilia 2 (456a21–24), p. 6*0.21–24: “Si vero est sompnus et vigilia passio particule huius, in quo quidem loco et in qua particula prima fit sompnus et vigilia, manifestum.” 41  Albertus Magnus, De somno et vigilia, 1.2.3 (Borgnet 1890, 143b): “Ex dictis constat quod si somnus et vigilia sunt passio particulae huius sicut primi efficientis quae est cor, tunc patet in qua particula animae et in quo loco corporis sicut in efficiente primo sit somnus et vigilia.” 42  Albertus Magnus, De somno et vigilia, 1.2.2 (Borgnet 1890, 140b). 43  Cf. Geoffrey of Aspall, Quaestiones super librum De somno et vigilia (Ebbesen 2014, 303–304): “Hic est triplex opinio. Una est medicorum, quae dicit quod proprium organum sensus communis simpliciter est cerebrum, et non cor nisi per accidens; cor enim non influit sensibus particularibus nisi mediante cerebro. Et isti dicunt quod cor, licet sit primum (corr. Ebbesen; principium ed.) sensitivum et principium sensus, non tamen proximum; cerebrum autem est proximum principium

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Unlike Geoffrey, Albert does not show awareness of such a disagreement between Aristotle’s authentic position and Averroes’ interpretation of it. On the contrary: he seems to regard the Arabic doctrine of the location of internal senses in the brain as a natural complement to Aristotle’s scattered remarks in the De anima and in the Parva naturalia. Hence, in another passage of the Liber De somno he claims that all Peripatetic philosophers agree in locating the organ of the central sense in the head in the case of animals endowed with a big head, although the heart is conceived as the ultimate source of the perceptive power.44 Similarly, in the commentary on the De anima, he generally ascribes the theory of the location of the internal senses in the brain to the Peripatetics stressing that it is also confirmed by medical evidence.45 Finally, in the commentary on the De memoria he abstains from any qualification in reporting Averroes’ and other philosophers’ claim that the theory of the location of the interior senses in the brain conforms to Aristotle’s authentic thought.46

sensus communis. Alii dicunt, sicut videtur Aristoteles velle, quod cor est proprium et per se organum sensus communis et non cerebrum nisi per accidens. Et isti dicunt quod sensus particulares non innituntur [a] cerebro nisi per accidens; quia enim spiritus, qui immediate oriuntur a corde, sunt calidi, si immediate admiscerentur sive admitterentur ad sensus particulares, tunc ipsos corrumperent, et propter hoc ingeniavit natura quoddam membrum frigidum, ut cerebrum, ut ibi temperetur caliditas spirituum antequam transmittantur ad sensus particulares ulterius. Tertia opinio e[s]t verior quasi media inter istas, et est magis consonans menti ipsius Averrois super tractatum De memoria et reminiscentia, ubi dicit quod cor est organum sensus communis primum, cerebrum autem eius organum secundarium et proximum.” 44  Albertus Magnus, De somno et vigilia, 1.2.3 (Borgnet 1890, 143b): “Sed tamen observandum est quod verisimile est aliter esse in anulosis et parvis animalibus et aliter in aliis. In parvis enim valde minuta sunt capita, in quibus impossibile est distingui organa sensuum, et in illis sunt corda frigida, et forte non habent organa distincta in capite sed vias habent sensus communis ad organa in aliis partibus corporis distincta. Et cor in talibus est organum sensus communis. Et huius signum est apis crocea, quae vocatur apis caeca, quae oculos habet in posteriori parte corporis post succinctorium. In animalibus autem magna capita habentibus organum sensus communis est in capite secundum omnes Peripateticos, licet primus fluxus sensuum sit a corde et ad ipsum referatur.” 45  Albertus Magnus, De anima 2.4.7 (Stroick 1968, 158.3–13): “Secundum congruentiam autem operum Peripatetici dederunt istis viribus situm; omnes enim organicas esse tradiderunt, eo quod sunt circa particularia tantum; omnis enim forma particularis in materia aliqua est, quoniam forma sine omni materia accepta est universalis, circa quam operatur intellectus. Sensum igitur communem in anteriori parte cerebri posuerunt in loco, ubi concurrunt nervi sensitivi quinque sensuum sicut in quodam centro, qui locus medullosus est et umidus ….” 46  Albertus Magnus, De memoria et reminiscentia 1.1 (Donati 2017, 114.12–53): “Propter quod eleganter dicit Averroes in huius libri commento quinque loca organorum apprensivarum (sc. virtutum) esse in capite. Quorum unus est exteriorum organorum, quem vocat valde corporalem duri corticis, quia in cortice praesentiae rei accipit, et complementum illius loci est in organo sensus communis in prima parte capitis medullosa et humida. Secundus autem locus sensus communis, qui primus est locorum spiritualium, sicut diximus alibi, quia sensus communis formalis est ad sensus proprios comparatus, et ideo iste locus est complementum, ut diximus, loci primi …. Hoc est igitur quod Averroes et alii dicunt esse sententiam Aristotelis.”

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4.2  T  he Structure of the Sensitive Power: The Role of the Common Sense and Its Relationship to the Sense of Touch In Aristotle’s psychology, the notion of common sense (koinē aisthēsis) is a complex notion evoked by the explanation of several different but related functions, which are in different ways involved in the coordination and the control of the activity of the single special senses.47 According to C. Kahn (1979, 16–22), for Aristotle the common sense is the sensitive power considered in itself, the common root of all perceptive powers; it is one in itself, but multiplied insofar as it is specified according to the special senses. According to Pavel Gregoric’s more recent analysis (2011, 52–61) Aristotle’s notion of common sense—taken stricto sensu—designates the higher-order cognitive power resulting from the sum of the single special senses, and is to be distinguished from a wider notion of common sense designating the entire sensitive power of the soul, that is, besides the perceptual power also the imaginative power. In Kahn’s classic discussion of Aristotle’s common sense, the notion of a common sense is first introduced by Aristotle in the De anima, progressively taking shape, and culminating in Aristotle’s treatment in De somno, ch. 2, where the common sense is described as the foundation of all sensitive powers, and is assigned its own organ. Specifically, the common sense is introduced in De somno, ch. 2, to account for the fact that sleep entails the simultaneous deactivation of all special senses: obviously, then, sleep and its opposite condition, waking, are affections not belonging to a special sense, but to the perceptive power as a whole, that is, to the common sense. For Albert, the general discussion of the notion of the common sense, along with that of the other powers of the soul, essentially belongs to the De anima, whereas in the De somno, Aristotle confines himself to summarizing those points of his doctrine that are relevant to the issue at hand: the explanation of the two opposite conditions alternately characterizing animal life, namely sleep and waking.48 Accordingly, Albert’s formal treatment of the common sense is to be found in the commentary on the De anima rather than in his commentary on the De somno.49 As already mentioned, Albert is influenced by the doctrine of the interior senses of the Arabic philosophers. Specifically, he follows Avicenna and Averroes who strongly emphasize  According to some scholars (e.g. Gregoric 2011, 129–201) they basically include the simultaneous perception of a plurality of special perceptibles (for instance, the perception that something is at the same time white and sweet), the discrimination of different perceptibles (for instance, discrimination between colours and flavours), the awareness of perceptual activity (for instance, one’s being aware of the fact that one is seeing something), the activation and the deactivation of the perceptive powers (as in the phenomena, discussed in this study, of sleep and waking). According to other scholars (e.g. Kahn 1979, 16–22) they also include the perception of the so-called sensibilia communia (i.e., change, magnitude, number etc.) and accidental perception (i.e., the perception of proper objects of one sense by another sense). 48  Albertus Magnus, De somno et vigilia, 1.2.1 (Borgnet 1890, 138a). 49  Albertus Magnus, De anima 2.4.7–12 (Stroick 1968, 156–165). 47

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the idea of the common sense as the unifying principle of the sensitive powers and the common root of sense perception.50 In the commentary on the De anima, Albert explains that the common sense is one according to form and substance insofar as it is the common root of all perceptive powers, and it is multiplied insofar as the perceptive power flows into the organs of the special senses.51 This conception of the common sense obviously underlies his description of the relationship between the common sense and the special senses in the commentary on the De somno: given that sleep is a deactivation simultaneously affecting all special senses, it primarily belongs to the common sense, for it is caused by the interruption of the flow of the perceptive power from the common sense to the organs of the special senses.52 If Albert follows the standard interpretation of Aristotle in emphasizing the function of the common sense in the phenomena of sleep and waking, a distinctive feature of his interpretation is the central role he ascribes to the sense of touch: although in a different way, in his understanding, both the common sense and the sense of touch can be regarded as the basic foundation of the different perceptive powers, and are thus both responsible for the periodical alternation of sleep and waking in animal life. Albert’s interpretation is inspired by a passage in De somno, ch. 2 (455a22ff.), in which Aristotle suggests the existence of some sort of connection between the common sense and the sense of touch: he remarks that the sense of touch can exist in animal beings without the necessity of other external senses, whereas the reverse is not the case, and that the common sense can be ascribed to an animal as soon as it is endowed with the sense of touch: For there exists a single sense-faculty, and the master sense-organ is single, though its being differs for the perception of each kind of thing, e.g. of sound or colour. And this accrues to an animal at the same time as the sense of touch, in particular. For this can exist separately from the other sense-organs, whereas the others are inseparable from it. These points have been discussed in our studies on the soul. Given these things, it must plainly follow that

 See, e.g., Avicenna Latinus, De anima 4.1 (van Riet 1968, 5.56–59): “Et haec virtus est quae vocatur sensus communis, quae est centrum omnium sensuum et a qua derivantur rami et cui reddunt sensus, et ipsa est vere quae sentit”; Averroes, Commentarium Magnum in Aristotelis De anima libros 2, comm. 149 (Crawford 1953, 356.37–357.51): “Et quasi opinatur quod virtus primi sentientis melius est ut dicatur esse una forma et multa instrumentis copulatis cum ea ….” 51  Albertus Magnus, De anima, 2.4.11 (Stroick 1968, 164.38–51): “Sic omni eodem modo dicimus sensum communem esse principium omnium sensuum particularium et esse formam, a qua est influentia sensus in omnibus propriis sensibus, et esse unum in substantia et forma sensibilitatis, sed distinctum per hoc quod influit particularibus organis particulares sensus, et prout dirigit sensum huic vel illi proprio organo. Et sic iudicium diversorum sensibilium per hoc quod dicit ea esse altera vel eadem ad invicem, est per unum forma et substantia et per diversa per hoc quod illud unum aliquid attribuit diversis et influentiam habet super diversa; et hoc non dicitur diversum nisi per hoc quod est diversorum, simpliciter tamen unum et indivisum est.” 52  Albertus Magnus, De somno et vigilia, 1.2.1 (Borgnet 1890, 138b–139a): “Cum in quolibet sensu proprio duo sint necessaria ad usum, virtus scilicet et perfecta dispositio organi, virtus ipsa fundatur supra virtutem sensus communis, qui est suum principium unde fluxit formaliter …. Sic igitur patet quod somnus primo est passio sensus communis influentis virtutes particularibus, et per hoc ligantur ne hauriant formam sentiendi ….” 50

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waking and sleep are an affection of this. That is why they belong to all animals. For it is only touch that belongs to all of them.53

The text of the De somno contains no further discussion of the role of touch with respect to the phenomena of sleep and waking, and modern interpreters have been puzzled about the precise meaning of Aristotle’s remark: whether Aristotle only wants to establish a concomitance between the common sense and the sense of touch, or whether he is pointing to some sort of dependence of the central sense on the sense of touch.54 Drossaarts Lulofs, in his introduction to the edition of the Latin translation of Aristotle’s De insomniis and De divinatione (1947, xvi–xix), seems to prefer the second alternative: because of the abrupt turn in Aristotle’s argument, he was also led to assume that De somno, ch. 1–ch. 2, 455b13, contains an incomplete version of the treatise; a subsequent section, now lost or never written by Aristotle, included or should have included his further elaboration on the sense of touch. The idea of a special relationship linking the common sense to the sense of touch is also found in some early commentators. A radical interpretation was advanced by the Byzantine commentator Michael of Ephesus (twelfth century), who went so far as to fully identify the common sense with the sense of touch; accordingly, he understood Aristotle’s remark to the effect that sleep and waking are affections of the sense of touch.55 Albert’s interpretation is more moderate, but he also supports a strong reading of Aristotle’s reference to the sense of touch. He reads De somno ch. 2, 455a4–b13—where, according to him, Aristotle investigates the psychic power and the bodily organ primarily affected by sleep and waking—in the following way: although sleep primarily (primo) belongs to the common sense, it immediately (proxime) belongs to the sense of touch; moreover, it affects both the central organ of perception and the organ of touch. A more radical, but in fact more accurate formulation of Albert’s view can be found in his earlier work De homine, where he goes so far as to stating that the psychic power primarily affected by sleep is the sense of touch, whereas, properly speaking, the common sense is affected only by way of concurrence, that is, insofar as it is related to the special senses. For Albert, as we shall see in a later section, it is, properly speaking, not the activity of the common sense as such that is affected by sleep—indeed, the common sense is active with respect to internal operations during sleep—but only its function as the ultimate root of the activity of the external senses:

53  Aristotle, De somno et vigilia 2 (455a15–25), trans. Gallop (1996, 69). Cf. Aristoteles Latinus, De somno et vigilia (ibid.), 4*.11–27: “Est autem et quedam communis potentia que sequitur omnes, que quod videt et audit et percipit …, hoc autem simul aptikon, id est ei que per tactum exercetur, maxime inest (hoc enim separatur ab aliis organis sentiendi, alia vero ab hoc inseparabilia. Dictum est autem de hiis in hiis que sunt De anima speculationibus): manifestum igitur quoniam huius est passio vigilia sompnusque. Ideoque omnibus inest animalibus: nam et tactus solus omnibus.” 54  Cf. Wood (1992, 179–188). 55  In Parva naturalia 48.4–10; cf. Wiesner (1978, 244–245). See also Péter Lautner’s contribution to this volume, Chap. 3 (pp. 65–76).

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However, detailed inspection will lead one to say that sleep is not an affection of the common sense except incidentally (namely in so far as it makes the sense-spirit flow into the proper senses), and not such that the proper organ of the common sense is immobilized by sleep.56

Albert’s distinctive view on the sense of touch as a central factor in the phenomena of sleep and waking rests on his notion of touch as a mediating factor between the common sense and the other external senses: for Albert, as the common sense is the ultimate root of the perceptive power, the sense of touch, likewise, is the basic foundation of all the external senses. This entails that the activity of the other external senses is grounded in the activity of the sense of touch, in the sense that the activation and the deactivation of the sense of touch also cause the activation and the deactivation of the other senses, respectively. Albert’s peculiar views on the sense of touch come to the fore in his exposition of a passage of the De anima that analyzes the relationship between the sense of touch and the other external senses. In this passage, after stating that all animals are endowed with the sense of touch, and that therefore their bodies cannot be simple but must be composed of elements, Aristotle claims that, in a certain sense, also the organs of the distal senses, sight, hearing and smell, perceive by touch. For without touch it cannot have any other sense-perception; for every ensouled body is capable of touch, as we have said. Now the other elements, except for earth, could become sense-organs, but all the latter produce sense-perception by perceiving through something else and through media. But touch occurs by directly touching objects; that too is why it has its name. Indeed even the other sense-organs perceive by touch, but through something else; touch alone seems to perceive through itself.57

What Aristotle means in this passage simply seems to be that, although the distal senses perceive their objects through an external medium—unlike the sense of touch—, they still perceive by contact in a certain way—whatever this may look like. Albert seems to understand Aristotle’s point that also the other senses perceive by contact, but, in the end, he comes to a stronger conclusion, namely that they perceive through the sense of touch, which means that the sense of touch is the foundation of the other senses: But the other objects of sensation produce sensation via other, external means, and everything that produces sensation via something else that is not in contact produces sensation via an intermediary that intervenes and produces a distance between the object of sensation and that which senses. Touch, however, senses by touching the objects of sensation without

 Albertus Magnus, De homine (Anzulewicz and Söder 2008, 333.46–50): “Si quis autem subtiliter vellet intueri, diceret quod somnus non est passio sensus communis nisi per accidens, scilicet inquantum influit spiritum sensibilem sensibus propriis, et non sic, ut immobilitetur proprium organum sensus communis per somnum.” 57  Aristotle, De anima, 3.13 (435a12–19), trans. Hamlyn (1993, 75). Cf. Aristoteles Latinus, De anima (ibid.), in Albertus Magnus De anima (Stroick 1968, 246.63–66): “Sine quidem enim tactu neque unum contingit alium sensum habere. Corpus enim possibile tangere animatum omne est, sicut dictum est. Alia autem praeter terram sensus fiunt, omne autem per alterum sentire facit sensus et per media; tactus autem est in tangendo ipsa, ex quo et habet hoc nomen. Et tamen alii sensus tactu sentiunt, sed per alterum, hic autem solus per se ipsum.” 56

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any intermediary to produce a distance, and is named ‘touch’ accordingly. Yet, also the other senses touch their sense objects, just not in a straightforward way but in some way, for this touch occurs via something else, which is an intermediary producing a distance—not to the species of the sense-object but to the thing sensed according to the being it has in nature. The other senses also sense by touch in another way, for touch is the foundation of all senses, and therefore when the nerve of sight (which the Greeks called the optic nerve) is numbed by cold, the eye sees nothing, and when it is opened up again by the heat of the complexion, sight returns. This is corroborated by the fact that cold ties up the senses in sleep, and cold does not affect the sense-nerves except in so far as there is touch in them. So, in every sense, the organ of touch must first be prepared before it can perform some other sense’s job. In this way the remaining senses act by means of touch because they all rest on touch as their primary foundation.58

The theoretical foundation for Albert’s peculiar notion of the sense of touch as the basis for all external senses seems to rest on his view on the organ of the sense of touch. This is a notoriously controversial problem within the Aristotelian tradition. Albert’s treatment of the issue is clearly influenced by Avicenna, although, as we shall see, it shows the signs of a certain evolution. According to the orthodox Aristotelian view, the flesh is not the organ of the sense of touch, but its medium—in the same way that the air is the medium of the distal senses—whereas the organ of touch is something internal to the animal body.59 In contrast, in his Liber de anima, Avicenna identifies the natural instrument of the sense of touch with the caro nervosa, or, more precisely, with both the tissues of the sensitive nerves and the flesh, so that ultimately the skin of the entire animal body turns out to be the organ of touch. As Avicenna remarks, since the sense of touch is essential for the preservation of the animal body, it cannot be confined to a single part, but must be extended to the entire body.60 Albert’s treatment in the De homine is characterized by distinct Avicennian traits. Thus, he understands Avicenna to the effect that, insofar as the sense of touch is a constitutive component of the essence of an animal, its perceptive  Albertus Magnus, De anima 3.5.3 (Stroick 1968, 246.45–247.5): “Alia autem sensibilia per altera et extrinseca media faciunt sensum, omne autem per alterum non coniunctum faciens sensum facit sensum per medium, quod intercidit et distantiam facit sensibilis a sentiente. Tactus autem est sentiens in tangendo sensibilia sine medio faciente distantiam et ex hoc sortitus est nomen, quod tactus dicitur. Tamen etiam alii sensus tangunt sensibilia, non simpliciter, sed quodammodo, sed tactus ille est per alterum, quod est medium faciens distantiam non speciei sensibilis, sed rei sensatae secundum esse, quod habet in natura. Sentiunt autem alii sensus et aliter tactu, eo quod tactus est fundamentum omnium sensuum, et ideo, quando frigiditate stupescit nervus visivus, qui opticus fuit vocatus a Graecis, tunc oculus nihil videt, et quando resolvitur per calidum complexionis, redit visus. Cuius signum est, quod frigiditas in somno ligat sensus, cum tamen frigiditas non immutet nervos sensibiles, nisi inquantum tactus est in eis. Oportet ergo in quolibet sensu prius disponi organum tactus, quam possit agere operationem sensus alterius; et sic alii sensus agunt tactu, eo quod fundati sunt omnes in tactu sicut in primo fundamento.” 59  Aristotle, De anima 2.11 (422b34–423a17). 60  Avicenna Latinus, De anima 2.3 (van Riet 1968, 138.2–141.49): “Ex proprietatibus autem tactus est quod instrumentum naturale quod est caro nervosa aut caro et nervus ex hoc quod sentit, sentit ex tactu …. Ex proprietatibus etiam tactus est quod tota cutis, quae circumdat totum corpus, est sentiens per tactum, et non una sola eius pars. Quia enim sensus iste est natura conservans corpus ab accidentibus quae multum nocerent, si consisterent in aliquo membrorum cui acciderent, oportuit idcirco ut totum corpus poneretur sentiens per tactum ….” 58

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power, unlike the perceptive powers of the other external senses, informs every part of an animal body—which obviously also includes the tissues of the sensitive nerves: We say that touch has two constitutive elements. One is is that it is an evaluation of the objects of touch, and as such it is a power of the sensitive soul. The other is that it is the being and perfection from which the definitional account of the sensitive soul is derived, and as such it is not a part of the sensitive soul but is that which constitutes the sensitive soul and makes it be. Two arguments make this clear, one of which is necessary, namely that if there is touch there is an animal, and if there is no longer touch there is no longer an animal. And this is not the case with the other senses (vision, hearing, smell, taste) except in so far as taste is a sort of touch. Now, since it is sense that makes an animal an animal, as Avicenna says, touch will be a sense that makes an animal an animal. But since being sensitive is a defining feature of an animal, taste will be that sense from which is derived the being sensitive that defines an animal …. To the first we then say that since touch is a perfection of the whole animal, it must occur not just in one organ but in all parts of the body (in a way which will be described below). And through this also the solution to the next is clear, for in so far as it is a perfection of the animal, touch is the foundation of the other senses.61

In his later commentary on the De anima, Albert wants to stay closer to the orthodox Aristotelian doctrine that the flesh is the medium and not the organ of the sense of touch. Consequently, he now distances himself from Avicenna’s view that the flesh, and therefore the entire animal body, is the organ of the sense of touch,62 revising it to the effect that, properly speaking, the organ of touch is not generally the flesh, but, more precisely, the tissues of the sensitive nerves.63 Given the fact that in both  Albertus Magnus, De homine (Anzulewicz and Söder 2008, 246.68–247.29): “Dicimus quod tactus duo habet de ratione sui. Quorum unum est quod est iudicium tangibilium, et sic est potentia et pars animae sensibilis. Alterum est quod est esse et perfectio, a qua sumitur sermo diffinitivus animae sensibilis, et sic non est pars animae sensibilis, sed est id quod constituit ipsam et facit esse sensibilem animam. Et hoc patet duabus rationibus. Quarum una est necessaria, scilicet quod posito tactu ponitur animal et destructo tactu destruitur; et non est sic in aliis sensibus, scilicet visu, auditu, odoratu, gustu nisi secundum quod gustus est quidam tactus. Cum igitur propter sensus animal sit animal, ut dicit Avicenna, tactus erit sensus, propter quem animal est animal. Cum autem sensibile sit diffinitivum animalis, tactus erit ille sensus, a quo est sensibile, quod diffinit animal …. Ad primum ergo dicimus quod cum tactus perfectio sit totius animalis, oportet ipsum non tantum esse in organo uno, sed in omnibus partibus corporis secundum aliquem modum, ut infra dicetur. Et per hoc patet solutio etiam ad sequens. Tactus enim secundum quod est perfectio animalis, fundamentum est aliorum sensuum.” 62  Interestingly, the arguments that—according to the account in the De anima—support Avicenna’s view are, at least partially, exactly the same as he had previously used in his work De homine himself; cf. Albertus Magnus, De anima 2.3.34 (Stroick 1968, 147.24–35): “Et ideo Avicenna et multi alii hanc sententiam Aristotelis imitari contempserunt et dixerunt carnem nervosam esse organum tactus, et non esse in tactu sicut in ceteris sensibus, quoniam tactus non tantum est vis quaedam et potentia sensitiva animae, sed etiam forma, quae facit animal esse animal, quoniam nullum animal est sine tactu et omne quod habet tactum, est animal. Et ideo tactus non est in uno membro, sed est in multis, sicut omnis forma substantialis actum, quem habet, essentialem operatur in tota materia et non in una eius parte tantum; et ideo dicunt tactum non habere medium aliquod.” 63  Albertus Magnus, De anima (Stroick 1968, 147.40–82). 61

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versions of Albert’s position—his original, strongly Avicennian position in the De homine and his revised position in the De anima—the tissues of all sensitive nerves are informed by the tactile power, both versions provide an explanation for his view on the sense of touch as the basic foundation of the external senses. Albert seems, namely, to think that the tactile power is a general determination of the tissues of the sensitive nerves, which is more basic than the specific powers of the other external senses. This explains why the activity of the other external senses is essentially dependent on the activity of the sense of touch, so that the activation and the deactivation of the sense of touch entail the activation and the deactivation of the other senses, respectively. Albert’s understanding of the relationship between the sense of touch and the other external senses is central to his explanation of the role of touch in the physiology of sleep. Given that sleep essentially consists in an incapacitation of the external senses brought about by the cold exhalation of the nutritive matter, it is Albert’s view that the sense of touch is primarily affected in this process, whereas the other senses are affected mediately, that is, through the sense of touch. Albert’s argument rests on the tacit assumption that the sense of touch is especially exposed to the impairing action of low temperatures.64 Provided that the organ of touch requires a moderate heat to work properly, whereas its action is impaired by low temperatures, the cold exhalation following upon digestion brings about an incapacitation of the sense of touch; this in turn produces a general deactivation of other external senses, and thus induces the phenomenon of sleep. Albert’s analysis of the physiology of sleep, which is merely hinted at in the above-quoted passage of the commentary on the De anima,65 is expounded in greater detail in the relevant passages of his commentary on the De somno, where it defines his explanation of the corresponding sections of ch. 2. Albert’s analysis in the commentary on the De somno rests on the  Albertus Magnus, Quaestiones super De animalibus 12.20 (Filthaut 1955, 237.36–47): “Dicendum, quod gustus et tactus naturaliter et principaliter habent esse iuxta cor, alii vero sensus in capite. Et huius ratio est, quia nihil sentitur sine calore. Sed in organo tactus et gustus maxime dominatur terra, et per consequens illud organum sibi derelictum frigidum est et impotens ad sentiendum, et ideo natura sagax sagacitate, cuius non est finis secundum Galenum in De criticis diebus, organum tactus et gustus ordinavit iuxta cor, ut calorem, quem non habent complexionaliter, recipiant a corde, quod est fons caloris, per participationem et influentiam a corde.” 65  See also Albertus Magnus, De homine (Anzulewicz and Söder 2008, 225.59–71): “Ad aliud dicendum quod sensus tactus non est in uno nervo, sed in omnibus. Unusquisque enim sensus in organo suo supponit tactum, ut posterius dicemus. Et propter hoc intendit Philosophus quod a frigido descendente a cerebro primo occupantur organa sensuum et immutantur, et quia talis immutatio est per obiectum tactus, necesse est vim tactivam esse in organis, et ex hoc causatur somnus. Unde si etiam vis alterius sensus fundati super tactum removetur ab organo, non propter hoc removetur tactus, sed remoto tactu removentur alii omnes sensus. Et hoc patet in illis qui caeci sunt et tamen habent oculos, quia si tangitur pupilla eorum, sentiunt laesionem”; ibid., 335. 25–32: “Dicimus quod primae rationes sunt necessariae, quia somnus est passio, quae primo vel principaliter inest secundum organum tactus, quod in aliqua parte sui est fundamentum omnium sensuum, scilicet in principio ortus nervorum sensibilium a cerebro, quia in illo loco concurrunt nervi sensibiles et fundantur in nervo tactus, et ideo quando vis tactiva in illa parte nervi deficit a tangendo, necesse est deficere omnes alios sensus.” 64

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distinction between two different factors that are entailed in an act of perception: on the one hand, the perceptive power continuously flowing towards the peripheral organs, on the other hand the receptivity of the peripheral organs with respect to the perceptive power flowing towards them from the centre. Both aspects are relevant for the process, in which the cold exhalation of nutritive matter brings about the deactivation of the perceptive power that is the cause of sleep. On the one hand, it hinders the flow of the perceptive power from the common sense to the peripheral senses by influencing the central organ of perception; on the other hand, it impairs the ability of all peripheral organs to receive the perceptive power flowing from the centre by influencing the tactile power that underlies the specific sensitive powers in the nerve connections between the peripheral organs and the central organ of perception. On the basis of this interpretation, Albert concludes that both the central sense and the sense of touch as well as their respective organs are directly affected by sleep and waking: The upshot is that while the nerves of all the specialized senses are directed to the organ of the common sense, the power that primarily and as a sort of foundation is in those nerves is the power of touch, and if that were to be tied up, all the others will be tied up. So when the cooled moisture first touches the organ of the common sense, which is in the front parts of the head and the brain, then it immediately touches the nerves of the particular senses which connect to the common sense. And when it affects them with its qualities, which (as will appear below) are coldness and wetness, it affects and immobilizes in them the power of touch, on which all the remaining rest, and so they are all tied up and immobilized. In this way it becomes clear that sleep is primarily an affection of the common sense, which makes powers flow into the particular ones, and thus they are tied up so that they cannot absorb the form of sensing—and in a direct way it is an affection of touch in so far as it is the foundation of the ensouled organs, indirectly it is an affection of all the specialized senses. Nor would there be any reason for sleep to tie them up, save in those two ways. In the first way in which it ties up the common sense it removes and turns away the spirit on which the power rides to reach each of the specialized senses. In the second way it ties up the capability of the organs so that they cannot receive their proper powers even if some vehicle were present to bring them from the common sense. So, since turning away the spirits means, by itself and quite generally, sleep, sleep is by itself an affection of the common sense. Moreover, since wetness and cold are not the cause of sleep except via the fact that they push the spirits and the heat away from the outer parts, sleep is also an affection of touch in so far as touch is the foundation of the senses, albeit via something else, but of the remaining particular senses this is an affection only incidentally.66 66  Albertus Magnus, De somno et vigilia 1.2.1 (Borgnet 1890, 138b–139a): “Ex quo relinquitur quod cum nervi omnium propriorum diriguntur ad organum sensus communis, quod vis quae primo et tamquam fundamenturn inest illis nervis est virtus tactiva, et si contingeret illam ligari, quod omnes aliae ligatae sunt. Cum igitur infrigidatus humor primo tangit organum sensus communis, quod est in anterioribus capitis et cerebri, tunc continue tangit nervos sensuum particularium ad sensum communem directos. Et cum immutet eos qualitatibus quae sunt frigus et humor, ut inferius patebit, immutat et immobilitat in eis virtutem tactus, in qua fundantur aliae, et sic omnes ligantur et immobilitantur. Sic igitur patet quod somnus primo est passio sensus communis influentis virtutes particularibus, et per hoc ligantur ne hauriant formam sentiendi, et proxime est tactus secundum quod est fundamenturn organorum animatorum, et per consequens est sensuum propriorum omnium. Nec haberet rationem ligandi eos nisi per hos duos modos, quia ex primo modo quo ligat sensum communem aufert et avertit spiritum super quem vehitur virtus in quemlibet sensuum propriorum. Ex secundo autem ligat habilitatem organorum

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The idea of the sense of touch as the common foundation of all the external senses, and as the link connecting the organs of the peripheral senses to the central organ of perception pervades Albert’s entire exposition of De somno, ch. 2, 455a22– b13. Hence, in explaining Aristotle’s conclusive remark at the end of the section devoted to the common sense and the sense of touch, Albert maintains that sleep and waking are affections of the common sense insofar as it is related to the nerves of the external senses, and those are informed by the tactile power.67 In explaining Aristotle’s claim that the peripheral organs are dependent on a master organ controlling them with regard to their affections, he remarks that this master organ is, in one sense, the organ of the common sense and, in another sense, the organ of the sense of touch.68 Finally, in explaining the following description of sleep, he maintains that sleep is an incapacitation of the common sense and of the organ of touch insofar as the sense of touch is the foundation of all peripheral senses.69 ne susceptibilia sint virtutum propriarum, etiamsi adesset vehiculum advehens eas ex sensu communi. Et quia aversio spirituum est somnus per se et generaliter, ideo per se somnus est passio sensus communis. Et quia humor et frigus non sunt causa somni nisi per hoc quod repellunt spiritus et calorem ab exterioribus, ideo tactus etiam est passio somnus secundum quod est fundamenturn sensuum, sed per aliud, sensuum autem particularium aliorum est per accidens passio ista.” 67  Aristoteles Latinus, De somno et vigilia 2 (455a25–26), p. 4*.24–27: “Manifestum igitur quoniam huiusmodi est passio vigilia sompnusque. Ideoque omnibus inest animalibus: nam et tactus solus omnibus”; Albertus Magnus, De somno et vigilia 1.2.1 (Borgnet 1890, 139a): “Manifestum igitur ex dictis est quod huiusmodi particulae quae est sensus communis secundum quod ad ipsum referuntur nervi tactus virtutem habentes est passio somnus et etiam vigilia; propter quod omnibus insunt animalibus istae passiones, eo quod tactus inest omnibus, quia ipse est sensus sine quo animal non est animal et quo posito constituitur esse animalis.” 68  Aristoteles Latinus, De somno et vigilia 2 (455a32–b2), p.  4*.33–38: “Quemadmodum autem nunc dicimus, rationabiliter se habet et de hiis: nam cum principale omnium aliorum organum sentiendi et cui innituntur alia patiatur aliquid, conpati necessarium et reliqua omnia, illorum autem cum sit aliquid inpotens non necesse est hoc inpotens fieri”; Albertus Magnus, De somno et vigilia 1.2.1 (Borgnet 1890, 139b): “Sicut enim nunc a nobis hic dictum est, rationabilius se habet de his passionibus dicere, quod scilicet sint passiones istae per se et primo sensus communis, per aliud autem tactus et per accidens sensuum propriorum. Nam, sicut iam patuit, cum sit principale membrum sentiendi et quod est quasi organum omnium aliorum organorum propriorum sensuum et cui omnia alia innituntur per modum quem diximus, tunc necesse est omnia alia simul pati cum illo. Sed non convertitur quod cum aliquod propriorum cui alia non innituntur impotens sit, fiant etiam alia impotentia et patiantur cum illo. Membrum autem et organum est uno modo sensus communis organum et alio modo tactus organum secundum quod est fundamenturn sensuum; huius igitur passio erit somnus et non sensuum propriorum.” 69  Aristoteles Latinus, De somno et vigilia 2 (455b7–13), p. 5*.2–8: “Set quando inpotentia usus neque in organo sentiendi, neque per quamvis causam, set, quemadmodum dictum est nunc, in primo quo sentit omnia: cum quidem enim hoc inpotens fuerit, necesse est et organa sentiendi omnia sensuum habere defectum: cum vero illorum aliquod, non necesse est hoc.”; Albertus Magnus, De somno et vigilia 1.2.1 (Borgnet 1890, 140a): “Sed somnus est, ut diximus, quando nec impotentia infirmitatis intercipit usum neque vis fit in organo sentiendi aliqua neque alia pro qualibet causa fit insensibilitas innaturalis, sed tantum, sicut diximus superius, tunc fit somnus naturalis, quando videlicet fit interceptio sensus in primo quo sentit anima, quod est sensus communis,

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4.3  T  he Heart as the Primary Source of Sense Perception and the Role of the Bodily Spirits Aristotle’s psychological hylomorphism—according to which psychological processes include both a psychic and a physiological component—requires that, as each of the special senses has its own bodily foundation in a special organ, likewise a central organ of perception, sometimes also called master sense organ or primary sense organ, underlies the activity of the common sense as its bodily instrument. As mentioned above, in opposition to the Hippocratic and Platonic traditions, Aristotle does not locate the centre of the perceptual activity in the brain; he locates it in the heart or, in the case of bloodless animals, in that part of the body that corresponds to the heart. The heart is officially introduced by Aristotle as the central organ of perception in De somno, ch. 2, at 455b28–456a24. Aristotle’s starting point for proving that the heart is the primary source of perception is its role as the source of motion. In his argument, Aristotle distinguishes two basic kinds of animal motion, namely respiration and local motion, proving that the heart is the source of both kinds of motions. From the assumption that local motion also entails sense perception—as David Gallop puts it (1996, 129): in an animal, local motion is always the answer to some external or internal stimulation—Aristotle further argues that the heart is also the source of sense perception. He does not elaborate on the relationship between the heart and the phenomena of sleep and waking: he probably thinks that, if sense perception ultimately originates from the heart, also its two opposite conditions, that is, sleep and waking, must originate from the heart. Hence, he simply concludes that his previous analysis has made clear that those affections belong to the heart. As shown above, Albert reads Aristotle’s introduction of the heart in De somno, ch. 2, 455b28–456a24, not as dealing with the bodily organ primarily affected by sleep and waking, but as dealing with the efficient cause of those affections, or more precisely, with their primary efficient cause as opposed to the proximate efficient cause, which is first introduced in De somno, ch. 3. Albert’s reading of De somno, ch. 2, 455b28, strongly emphasizes the role of the heart as the primary source of all life functions. The cornerstone of his interpretation is the medieval doctrine of the bodily spirits. As is well known, one important antecedent of this doctrine is Aristotle’s much discussed notion of the connate pneuma. Aristotle utilizes the notion of the connate pneuma in the explanation of some life functions such as animal reproduction (De gen. an. 2.3), animal local motion (De motu an. 10) and, in the chapter at hand, the refrigeration of the heart in the case of lungless animals, in which there is no inhaled air to serve as a refrigerating factor. Despite Aristotle’s repeated appeals to the concept of the connate pneuma, no articulated et in primo organo tactus secundum quod est fundamenturn sensuum aliorum. Cum enim hoc impotens fuerit, necesse est etiam organa omnium propriorum sensuum habere defectum utendi sensibus. Et non convertitur quod cum aliquod aliorum organorum deficiat in propriis sensibus, quod propter hoc defectum et eclipsim quandam patiatur primum organum sensus communis et organum tactus, in quo fundantur ceteri sensus.”

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treatment of this notion can be found in his works, and there is wide disagreement among scholars concerning his views on both the extent of the functions of this elusive entity and its precise nature.70 In contrast, in the later medical and philosophical tradition, the notion of pneuma or bodily spirit becomes an essential tool in the elucidation of the functions of living beings:71 as is indicated by its pregnant description as the “vehiculum vitae,” it is conceived as the soul’s basic instrument in the transmission of life power to the different parts of the animal body. Albert adopts a medieval version of the doctrine of the bodily spirits, which is influenced by Qusṭā b. Lūqā’s De differentia spiritus et animae but also, quite heavily, by Avicenna. Albert devotes the best part of his treatise De spiritu et respiratione, which immediately follows the Liber de somno et vigilia in his literary production, to a detailed elucidation of the notion of life spirit. However, an outline of Albert’s theory is already contained in a doctrinal digression of his commentary on the De somno.72 Albert obviously perceives this elucidation as a necessary complement to Aristotle’s text, which, in his understanding, uses the notion of bodily spirits without providing the required background clarifications. In sum, Albert’s doctrine runs as follows: The spirit is a very fine corporeal, aeriform substance produced by the action of the natural heat on the humid matter originating from the concoction of food. Since the source of natural heat is the heart, the heart is also the primary source of the spirit, which flows from the region around the heart to the outer regions of the animal body, transporting life power to them. In exploiting the notion of the bodily spirits as a sort of mediating factor in the explanation of the various kinds of life functions, Albert is well aware of the potential dangers of such a strategy with reference to the substantial unity of living beings, which are Aristotle’s paradigmatic examples of substantial compounds. Hence, in his treatise De spiritu et respiratione,73 he remarks that, given  For a discussion of various interpretation of Aristotle’s theory, see Freudenthal (1995, 106–114); for Freudenthal’s comprehensive interpretation see 1995, 114–148. 71  For the medieval doctrine of life spirits, see Bono (1984, 91–130). 72  Albertus Magnus, De somno et vigilia 1.1.7 (Borgnet 1890, 131b–133b). 73  Albertus Magnus, De spiritu et respiratione 1.1.8 (Borgnet 1890, 225b–226a): “Aliqui enim fuerunt, qui dixerunt omnino incorporeum et omnino grossum corporeum conjungi non posse sine medio quod conveniat cum utroque: et hoc dicunt spiritum esse, qui subtilitate sua convenit cum anima, et corporeis dimensionibus convenit cum corpore. Haec autem sententia nullam prorsus habet veritatem, et est contra omnia dicta Peripateticorum: quoniam spiritus non est medium quo anima conjungatur corpori: eo quod sine medio unita est ei sicut omnis perfectio suo perfectibili sine omni unitur medio, sed potius spiritus est, per quem anima operatur in corpore opera vitae. Et ideo hoc errore abjecto, dicamus quod spiritus est instrumentum animae, sicut malleus vel dolabrum est instrumentum architecti: et hoc instrumento anima facit vitam in corpore sicut formam artificiati facit artifex per instrumentum. Hic autem necessitas instrumenti non quaeritur propter motoris indigentiam et infirmitatem: quia motor sibi ad omnia sufficit, habens in se omnes formas quas inducere intendit, sicut artifex habet in se omnes formas architecticae: sed potius propter indigentiam et necessitatem corporis, quod recipit ab anima actum vitae et formam. Cum enim illa distent (distet ed.) a principio vitae indigent advehente (indigente ad vehendum ed.) vitam: quoniam licet virtutes quaedam sint in organis et partibus animatorum fixae non separabiles ab ipsis quamdiu sustinet animal, sicut visus est in oculo: tamen illae virtutes sunt ligatae et immobiles 70

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that the soul and the animal body constitute a substantial unity, a mediating factor is not necessary to explain their unity or, in other words, the presence of the soul powers in the different parts of the body: it is only necessary to explain their activity. Indeed, although the soul powers are formally present in the bodily organs, they are not themselves operative; to become operative, they need to be activated by the life power flowing from the heart, and transported from the center to the periphery by the bodily spirits. That this is the case is proved by the fact that, when the spirits are withdrawn from the organs during sleep, the latter suspend their activity. It is important to note that, since the bodily spirits are involved in different life functions, for Albert, different kinds of spirits must be distinguished. In the commentary on the De somno Albert follows the traditional threefold division into spiritus vitalis, spiritus naturalis and spiritus animalis. The spiritus vitalis delivers life power in its basic undifferentiated form to the body, whereas the spiritus naturalis is involved in the operations of the vegetative soul, and the spiritus animalis is involved in the operations of the sensitive soul, namely sense perception and local motion. Concerning the origin of those different kinds of spirits, Albert rejects a view that he ascribes to Galen, which considers the spiritus naturalis and the spiritus animalis products of the liver and the brain, respectively. Albert adopts a version of the theory of the spirits that harmonizes the view of a plurality of bodily spirits with Aristotle’s cardiocentric conception. Albert’s cardiocentric version of the doctrine of the bodily spirits is especially indebted to Avicenna. One crucial aspect of Avicenna’s theory is the notion that the different kinds of bodily spirits are the result of the transformations of a single basic substance. Since the liver and the brain are responsible for those transformations—insofar as they confer the appropriate complexion upon the substance of the spirit—, they cooperate on the production of the different kinds of bodily spirits. However, since the substance of the spirit is produced by the heart, the primary source of all the different kinds of bodily spirits is the heart.74 This solution is taken up by Albert, who explicitly refers to Avicenna as his source of inspiration: quando continue non influitur virtus alia perficiens eas a principio et fonte vitae, quod est ipsa anima secundum substantiam suam: et ideo spiritus est necessarius qui advehat hanc virtutem. Cujus signum est quod prius diximus: quoniam spiritu ad interiora retracto, organa exteriora contrahuntur et immobilitantur: et eo reducente, laxantur ad actum.” 74  Cf. Avicenna Latinus, De anima 5.8 (van Riet 1968, 176.64–177.90): “Unde si anima una est, oportet esse membrum unum propter quod principaliter pendeat ex corpore et ex quo regat corpus et augmentet, et hoc fiat mediante hoc spiritu; et ut prima actio quam facit anima sit ipsum membrum quo mediante diffunduntur eius virtutes in alia membra; et ut ipsum membrum sit generatum ante omnia membra, et sit primus locus ubi generatur spiritus: hoc autem est cor …. Anima autem vivificat animal ex corde; possunt autem virtutes aliarum actionum emanare a corde ad reliqua membra: emanatio autem prius debet emanare ab eo a quo principaliter pendet. In cerebro autem perficitur complexio spiritus qui est aptus ad vehendum virtutes sensus et motus ad corpora, ad hoc ut fiant apta ad exercendum suas actiones. Sic etiam est dispositio epatis comparatione virtutis nutritivae, quamvis cor sit primum principium ex quo principaliter pendet et a quo diffunditur ad alia et fiunt actiones in reliquis membris; sicut principium sensus, secundum eos qui dissentiunt ab hac dictione, non est nisi cerebrum, sed actiones sensus non sunt ex eo, nec in eo, sed ex aliis

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How this happens we have told above: although the natural spirit may, as the physicians say, receive the form by which it perfects natural things from the liver, yet its substance flows from the heart. And I say the same concerning the animal spirit in the brain, for there is undeniable empirical evidence that the sensitive and motive power flows from the brain. But, as Avicenna says, this power is conferred on the brain by the heart, and the substance of it and of its spirit comes from the heart. However, its being narrowed down to act in some specific way is due to the form that the brain confers on it in the way in which the power of the first sensorium is narrowed down in the organs of the specialized senses.75

If we now turn to Albert’s use of the notion of the bodily spirits in his interpretation of Aristotle’s doctrine of sleep, it is worth noting that such a strategy is not peculiar to Albert’s interpretation. Quite the contrary: understanding Aristotle’s doctrine in the light of the theory of the spirits, and thus describing sleep as an incapacitation of the sensitive power brought about by the reflux of the vital heat and of the (animal) spirits from the peripheral organs of perception towards the internal regions of the body, is a strategy common to both the Arabic writers and to their Latin readers.76 It is already utilized, for instance, by the early commentator Adam of Buckfield in his exposition of the De somno.77 What is peculiar to Albert’s interpretation is that he does not confine himself to using the doctrine of the bodily spirits to understand Aristotle; he reads Aristotle’s argument in De somno, ch. 2, 455b28ff., as a positive endorsement of the theory of the bodily spirits. Albert’s explanation of this section may be compared with that of Buckfield (Adam de Bocfeld, Super De somno et vigilia, Oxford, Balliol Coll., MS 313, fols. 147rb–vb):

membris, sicut ex cute et oculo et aure, nec propter hoc necesse est cerebrum non esse principium: similiter cor potest esse principium virtutum nutritivarum, quarum actiones sunt in epate, et virtutum imaginationis et memorialis et formalis, quarum actiones sunt in cerebro.” Cf. Harvey (1975, 22–23). 75  Albertus Magnus, De somno et vigilia 1.2.3 (Borgnet 1890, 142a–b): “Modum autem huius superius diximus, quoniam licet spiritus naturalis formam naturalia perficiendi accipiat forte ab hepate, sicut dicunt medici, tamen substantia spiritus fluit a corde. Et idem dico de spiritu animali in cerebro, eo quod innegabilibus experimentis probatur virtutem sensitivam et motivam fluere a cerebro. Sed haec virtus, ut dicit Avicenna, a corde est cerebro reddita, et substantia eius et sui spiritus est a corde. Determinatio autem eius ad aliter agere est a forma quam dat cerebrum, eo modo quo virtus sensitivi primi determinatur in organis sensuum propriorum.” 76  In the De homine (Anzulewicz and Söder 2008, 319.1–2), Albert reports Algazali’s definition of sleep as “retractio spiritus ab exterioribus ad interiora,” but similar descriptions are also to be found in Avicenna and Averroes; cf. Algazel, Metaphysica 2.5.5 (Muckle 1933, 188.17–19); Avicenna Latinus, De anima 4.2 (van Riet 1968, 33.66–34.80); Averroes, Compendium libri Aristotelis de sompno et vigilia (Shields 1949, 87.15–90.43). 77  See Adam de Bocfeld, Super De somno et vigilia, Oxford, Balliol College, MS 313, fol. 148rb: “Secundo cum dicit: ‘Necesse est enim,’ ostendit quomodo huiusmodi evaporatio efficit impotentiam sentiendi quae somnus est. Et est intentio illius partis quod vapor calidus ascendens ex primo nutrimento virtute caloris naturalis, cuius[modi] est ad superiora (pro: deferri?) impellitur usque ad cerebrum, ibique frigiditate cerebri infrigidatur et comprimitur quasi in nubem, qui quidem vapor postea descendens, obviat calori naturali et spiritibus actum et motum sensibus ministrantibus eos repellendo, quibus repulsis fit quaedam impotentia sentiendi in ipsis sensibus.”

Aristotle, On sleep (trans. Gallop 1996, 73) 1. 455b34–456a4 Now it has already been determined in other works that a perception in animals originates from the same part as does movement. Of three areas that have been determined, this is the one that lies midway between the head and the lower abdomen.

Aristoteles Latinus, De somno et vigilia 5*.36–6*.16 Quoniam quidem igitur sensus principium fit ab eadem parte animalibus a qua quidem et motus, determinatum est prius in aliis. Ipsa vero est trium determinatorum locorum media capitis et deorsum ventris.

Haec enim tria loca constituuntur spirituum regiones et a Platone et a philosophis omnibus, quia regio ventris, ubi est hepar, est regio spiritus naturalis vel spirituum naturalium, et regio capitis est principium spirituum animalium, et media, quae est cordis, principium vitalium est, et haec praecipue dicitur regio spiritualis. Peccavit autem Plato, ut in De anima scientia diximus, dispertiens animam per diversas essentias in has regiones, cum ipsa sit substantialiter una et diversificata in potentiis. Oportet igitur hoc esse in corpore quod est in substantia animae et potentiis eius, et ideo necesse est quod regiones illae ad unum aliquod principium referantur unde causatur spiritus in aliis.

Albert, De somno et vigilia 1.2.3, pp. 141b–143a. Nos autem iam alibi diximus quod in animalibus ab eadem parte est principium primum sensus a qua est etiam principium motus. In libro enim De anima probavimus quod non movent nisi intellectus et phantasia et iterum dicemus de hoc in libro De motibus animalium et in libro De animalibus. Locus autem unde originatur utrumque horum est pars media trium determinatorum locorum in animalium natura. ‘Media’ dico sursum capitis et deorsum ventris et hepatis.

Adam of Buckfield, Super De somno et vigilia Consequenter cum dicit: ‘Quoniam quidem igitur,’ prosequitur intentionem, ostendens quod somnus et vigilia in omni animali sunt circa cor vel aliquid simile cordi sicut circa proprium subiectum. Ad quod, ut videtur, dat unam rationem principalem, quae talis est: ab eadem parte animalis est et principium proprium motus et sensus, quae quidem pars in omni animali est aliquid simile cordi vel cor; sed somnus et vigilia sunt circa illud principium … ergo sompnus e vigilia in omni animali sunt circa cor vel aliquid simile cordi …. Primo ponit illam partem quam intendit probare, et est quod illa pars animalis a qua sunt motus et sensus est cor vel illi simile in omni animali, quod quidem cor secundum virtutem est medium inter caput et hepar, quod est ultimum ventris.

Aristotle, On sleep (trans. Gallop 1996, 73) 2. 456a4–6 In sanguineous animals, this is the region about the heart. For all sanguineous animals possess a heart, and both movement and perception in the full sense originate from there. 3. 456a6–7 As for movement, it is plain that breathing, Albert, De somno et vigilia 1.2.3, pp. 141b–143a. Hoc autem principium non est nisi cor ut in De animalibus probabitur. Omnibus igitur sanguinem habentibus cor erit principium primum motus et sensus. Omnia enim sanguinem habentia cor habent primum principium motus, et principium primum proprii sensus est ab eodem.

Manifestum est igitur quoniam primum principium motus animalium et spiritus est cor. Modum autem huius superius diximus, quoniam licet spiritus naturalis formam naturalia perficiendi accipiat forte ab hepate, sicut dicunt medici, tamen substantia spiritus fluit a corde. Et idem dico de spiritu animali in cerebro, eo quod innegabilibus experimentis probatur virtutem sensitivam et motivam fluere a cerebro. Sed haec virtus, ut dicit Avicenna, a corde est cerebro reddita, et substantia eius et sui spiritus est a corde. Determinatio autem eius ad aliter agere est a forma quam dat cerebrum eo modo quo virtus sensitivi primi determinatur in organis sensuum propriorum.

Aristoteles Latinus, De somno et vigilia 5*.36–6*.16 Sanguinem quidem igitur habentibus hec est circa cor pars: universa enim sanguinem habentia cor habent, et principium motus et proprii sensus hinc est.

Motus quidem ergo et spiritus manifestum quoniam principium

(continued)

Adam of Buckfield, Super De somno et vigilia Omnia enim habentia sanguinem habent cor a quo est principium motus et sensus et non habentia sanguinem aliquid proportionale cordi a quo fiunt haec tamquam a principio primo. Secundo cum dicit: ‘Motus quidem igitur,’ istam partem praedictam maioris probat, intendens ostendere quod in omni animali sunt motus et sensus a corde vel aliquo quod est cordi proportionale.

5. 456a15–16 Now, given that without strength it is impossible to move anything or to do anything, and the holding of breath produces strength ….

Aristotle, On sleep (trans. Gallop 1996, 73) 4. 456a7–11 and the cooling process in general, originate there; and that nature has provided both respiration and cooling by moisture with a view to conservation of heat in that part. We shall discuss that subject later in its own right.

Quoniam autem movere quidem et facere aliquid sine robore non est possibile, vigorem autem facit spiritus perseverantia ….

Aristoteles Latinus, De somno et vigilia 5*.36–6*.16 et prorsus inchoatio refrigidationis est hinc, et respirare quidem et humido refrigidari ad salutem eius qui est in hac particula caloris natura adepta est: dicetur autem de ea postmodo secundum se ….

Albert, De somno et vigilia 1.2.3, pp. 141b–143a. Sic igitur supposito quod cor sit principium sensus et spiritus et caloris et motus, oportet prorsus quod inchoatio refrigerationis secundum causam efficientem sit ab eodem. Refrigeratio enim est necessaria ad salutem caloris qui est in corde; nisi enim refrigeratio sequeretur, totus calor et spiritus efflueret et corrumperet animal, sicut ostendimus superius. Non autem hic loquimur de refrigeratione quae est per anhelitum, quia de illa non intendimus ad praesens, sed potius de refrigeratione quae fit per causam somni materialem. Illius enim refrigerationis causa prima est a corde, licet proxima causa efficiens sit a cerebro, sicut in sequentibus declarabitur, sicut prima causa efficiens refrigerationis pluvialis est a sole elevante vaporem, licet proxima causa condensans et convertens vaporem et infrigidans sit locus frigidus in medio spatio aeris. De hac autem media parte a qua est calor et inchoatio refrigerii postmodum secundum se dicetur cum de membris animalium tractabitur …. Hoc enim iam habitum est, quoniam non potest fieri aliquid secundum sentire vel movere sine robore et virtute devexa ad ea organa per quae fit opus illud. Vigorem autem illum non facit nisi spiritus perseverantia qui vehit virtutem ….

Consequenter cum dicit: ‘Quoniam autem movere,’ ostendit quod cor in sanguinem habentibus est principium motus localis processivi …. Quod sic probat: Motus localis huiusmodi in animali est a vigore; vigor autem est perseverantia spiritus, quae quidem spiritus perseverantia est a corde … ut praebitum est ….

Adam of Buckfield, Super De somno et vigilia Et quia motus in animali qui praecipue est a corde aut est motus aeris inspirati et exspirati ad mitigationem caloris circa cor aut est motus localis processivus, ideo potest dividi haec pars in tres, in quarum prima ostendit quod motus inspirationis et exspirationis est a corde …. In prima parte sic procedit: primo praemittit quod intendit probare, dicens manifestum esse quod motus inspirationis in omni animali est a corde vel ab aliquo quod est cordi proportionale …. Et dividitur in duas illa pars, in qua prima ostendit quod in habentibus sanguinem est cor principium spiritus sive motus aeris inspirati et exspirati ….

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As is clear from the parallel texts just quoted, when at 455b34–456a4 Aristotle locates the organ which is the source of motion and sense perception in the region lying midway between the head and the lower abdomen (= sect. 1), Albert explains this description on the background of the theory of the three kinds of bodily spirits. When at 456a6ff. (= sect. 3) Aristotle describes the heart as the source of the pneuma, Albert does not understand pneuma in the sense of the air inhaled through breathing, but as an allusion to the bodily spirits. Hence, in his interpretation, the heart turns out to be the source of (i) animal motion, (ii) sense perception and (iii) the bodily spirits that are instrumental in the performance of those two life functions. Albert adopts the same strategy also later on: when at 456a15 ff. (= sect. 5) Aristotle says that the strength that produces motion is caused by the holding of breath—spiritus perseverantia in the Latin text—, he again understands the expression as referring to the bodily spirits transporting the life power, and not to the air inhaled through respiration. A further step towards a unifying interpretation of Aristotle’s text is the fact that he does not understand Aristotle’s mention of the process of refrigeration (456a7ff. = sect. 4) as a reference to the refrigeration brought about by respiration, but as a reference to the cooling of the nutritive matter that in De somno, ch. 3 is described as conducive to sleep. Accordingly, Albert understands Aristotle’s argument to the effect that Aristotle first shows that the heart is the primary source of motion, sense perception and bodily spirits. From this premise he draws the further conclusion that it is also the primary source of the cooling of the nutritive matter which brings about the phenomenon of sleep, so that in the end, the heart turns out to be the primary efficient cause of sleep. The comparison between Albert’s and Buckfield’s exposition is again instructive. Although, as we have seen, references to the doctrine of the bodily spirits are to be found in other sections of Adam of Buckfield’s commentary, no reference to the bodily spirits can be found in the section at hand, in which the English commentator correctly understands the word “spiritus” of the Latin translation as referring to the air inhaled through respiration. Similarly, he understands Aristotle’s mention of the process of refrigeration as a reference to the refrigeration brought about by respiration. Buckfield’s more matter-of-fact exposition reaches a substantially correct line-­ by-­line understanding of the text—no mean feat, if one considers the shortage of exegetical tools at his disposal when reading Aristotle’s treatise. In contrast, Albert’s interpretation is certainly flawed by serious misunderstandings. At the same time, its historical significance becomes evident if one looks at the results of Albert’s strategy: by means of his “creative” reconstruction, Albert obtains the remarkable result of putting Avicenna’s doctrine of the bodily spirits directly under the aegis of Aristotle.

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4.4  The Definitions of Sleep The starting point of Aristotle’s analysis in De somno, ch. 1 is the definition of sleep and waking in terms of sense perception: whereas waking is essentially characterized by perceptual activity, sleep basically consists in a deactivation of sense perception (454a1–b9). Thus, although for Aristotle sleep is a fundamental element of animal life insofar as it is necessary for its preservation, in the De somno it is basically conceived in negative terms, that is, as a privation of the opposite, positive condition, namely waking. Scholars have called attention to the paradigmatic role of the distinction between sleep and waking in Aristotelian metaphysics. Sleep and waking are Aristotle’s standard example for the distinction between two basically different modalities of being—in scholastic terms, the distinction between a “first” actuality and a “second” actuality—, that is, the mere possession of a power and the actual exercise of that power.78 Insofar as it implies the actual exercise of the perceptual power, waking is the full actualization of animal life, that is, in technical terms, a “second” actuality. Given that sleep implies the possession of the perceptual power—and therefore can only belong to animals —, it is also an actuality, but an actuality of a lower kind, as during sleep the power of perception exists in a, so to say, dormant condition. Thus, insofar as it is compared to the absence of the perceptual power occurring in vegetal life, sleep is an actuality—more precisely a “first” actuality—and a kind of perfection; in contrast, insofar as it is compared to the full realization of animal life during waking time, it is a privation and a potentiality. As already mentioned, Aristotelian interpreters have noticed a tension between Aristotle’s basically negative definition of sleep in the De somno—that is, sleep as a deactivation of the perceptual power—, and his account of dreams in the De insomniis, where the dreaming activity is described as entailing some sort of perceptual awareness. A different conception of sleep is testified by the Arabic philosophical tradition, for instance in Averroes’ Compendium and, before Averroes, in Al-Kindi’s treatise on sleep and vision; as we shall see, this alternative conception of sleep plays an essential role in those philosophers’ accounts of dreaming.79 This alternative understanding of sleep turns on the already mentioned doctrine of the interior senses. In those philosophers’ views the interior senses, unlike the external senses, neither depend on external organs nor require the material presence of external objects affecting the sense organs in order to be active; therefore, the interior senses are also contrasted with the external senses as “spiritual” senses. Given the independence of the interior senses from the outer world, although sleep entails a deactivation of the external senses, it does not entail a deactivation of the interior senses. On the contrary, the activity of the interior senses is rather invigorated during sleep.  Cf. Sprague (1977).  It is worth noting, however, that this alternative account of sleep of the Arabic philosophers may, to a certain extent, have been inspired by the Arabic version of the Parva naturalia, which, as is well known, is an adaptation rather than a translation of the Aristotelian text. See Hansberger (2010); Hansberger (2008, 71–72). See also Rotraud Hansberger’s contribution to this volume, Chap. 6 (pp. 99–121).

78 79

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Indeed, whereas the perceptive power is entirely focused on the external world during waking time, the deactivation of the external senses during sleep produces a redirection of the perceptive power towards the internal sphere, so that it becomes more receptive towards internal stimulation. Thus, Al-Kindi describes sleep as an invigoration of the imaginative power (virtus formativa), which is freed from the constraints of the external senses during sleep, and can therefore operate more effectively on its own account.80 Confirmation for his view was found by Al-Kindi in a similar phenomenon occurring during waking time: in case of intense mental activity, when one’s mental powers are completely absorbed in the elaboration of some problem, one becomes unaware of the external world—a circumstance obviously implying that intense mental activity requires a reduction of the activity directed towards the outer world. Averroes likewise conceives sleep as a state compatible with mental activity.81 More precisely, in his view, the positive description of sleep as a redirection of the perceptive power towards the internal regions more adequately captures the essence of sleep than its negative definition as a privation of perceptual activity. Averroes agrees with Al-Kindi that the redirection of the perceptive power towards interiority produces a reinvigoration of the internal senses—as a confirmation, he also appeals to the insensibility to external stimulation in cases of intense concentration. In Averroes’ view, the explanation of those phenomena lies in the nature of the soul as an operative unity. Because of its essential unity, the soul cannot be simultaneously involved at full power in a plurality of operations: when it is busy with a certain operation, it must reduce its activity in other departments.82 This holds true both in the case of different faculties of the soul and in the case of different powers of the same faculty. Thus, when the vegetative power is busy with the concoction of food, the perceptive power must reduce its activity, and sleep ensues. Conversely, the deactivation of the external senses during sleep enables the soul to focus its perceptive powers on internal stimulations, thus bringing a reinvigoration of the internal senses about. For Al-Kindi and Averroes, this positive account of sleep smooths the way towards Aristotle’s account of dreams in the De insomniis, that is, as a kind of perceptive awareness of internal representations, and especially towards Aristotle’s understanding of divination in the De divinatione, that is, in Averroes’ reading, as a particular alertness of the human soul towards the influence of the immaterial world.83 The positive account of sleep propounded by the Arabic philosophers is addressed by Albert in a doctrinal digression introduced as a complement to the exposition of Aristotle’s definition of sleep in De somno, ch. 1. In this digression, Albert approvingly gives an account of Al-Kindi’s and Al-Farabi’s, alias Averroes’,84 positive

 Al-Kindi, Liber de somno et visione 1 (Nagy 1897, 14.5–16.20).  Averroes, Compendium libri Aristotelis De Sompno et Vigilia (Shields 1949, 78.43–80.66). 82  Averroes, Compendium libri Aristotelis De Sompno et Vigilia (Shields 1949, 91.57–92.65). 83  Averroes, Compendium libri Aristotelis De Sompno et Vigilia (Shields 1949, 79.61–62). 84  For Albert’s misattribution of Averroes’ Compendium to Al-Farabi, see above, n.18. 80 81

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descriptions of sleep, remarking on their similarity.85 Albert is well aware of the distance between this positive account and the negative Aristotelian description of sleep as a deactivation of the perceptive power. Thus, with reference to Al-Farabi’s, that is, Averroes’, definition of sleep as a redirection of the perceptive power towards the interior regions, he points out that, in opposition to Aristotle’s negative description, it entails some sort of motion, and consequently a kind of activity of the perceptive power. He argues, however, that the conflict between Aristotle’s and Averroes’ definition of sleep is only apparent: Al-Farabi, however, defines sleep by saying that it is a retreat of the sense to the inner parts and not a complete immobilization of the sense, whereas being awake is the progression of the sense to the outer parts. This philosopher thus holds that both being awake and sleep are movements, and neither of them is rest and immobilization, which seems contrary to what we have said. To solve this we must here take for granted something that we shall show later on, namely that sleep is in the animal in regard to the first sensorium, which is the common sense, and is that which compares the particular and proper sense-data, as we have said in the book On the Soul. Now, since the spirit is the vehicle of the forms of the objects of sense, and the spirit retreats towards the inner parts, the power is carried inwards, but it still compares them as it did before, and even more, as it is not distracted and led away by external factors ….86

As is clear from an already mentioned passage of the De homine,87 Albert’s solution seems to be based on the distinction between two different ways in which the com85  Albertus Magnus, De somno et vigilia 1.1.9 (Borgnet 1890, 135a–b): “Dixit autem Abhamidin philosophus, et videtur Averroes praebere assensum, quod somnus est vigor et confortatio sensus spiritualis et debilitas et vinculum sensus corporalis, vigilia autem e converso vigor et confortatio sensus corporalis et debilitatio sensus spiritualis. Quod dictum verissimum est, quoniam sensus spiritualis est in spiritualibus et non in corporalibus operans; spirituales autem sunt formae acceptae a rebus in anima et interius existentes; avertens autem spiritum et sensum ab exterioribus, sicut diximus, necessario convertit eum ad  interiora et confortat eundem circa illa. Facit autem hoc somnus, per contrarium autem vigilia, quae extrahit sensum et spiritum ad exteriora, avertit ab interiorum perceptione, et ideo circa talia debilitat sensum et spiritum vigilia. Sensus autem corporales dicuntur sensus formales, qui fiunt a praesentia corporum, et circa hoc extrahendo spiritum et sensibilern virtutem confortat vigilia et debilitat somnus, ut diximus.” 86  Albertus Magnus, De somno et vigilia 1.1.9 (Borgnet 1890, 135b–136a): “Alfarabius autem diffiniens somnum dicit quod est introitus sensus ad interiora et non immobilitas sensus omnimoda, vigilia autem est exitus sensus ad exteriora. Et iste philosophus vult quod tam vigilia quam somnus sint motus et neutrum quies et immobilitas, quod contrarium his quae dicta sunt esse videtur. Sed ad huius solutionem oportet hic supponere quod inferius ostendemus, quod scilicet somnus sit in animali secundum primum sensitivum, quod est sensus communis, et hoc est quod comparat sensata particularia et propria, sicut diximus in libro De anima. Cum autem spiritus sit vehiculum formarum sensibilium et recurrit spiritus ad interiora, virtus vecta ad interius adhuc comparat ea sicut prius, et tunc magis, quando exterioribus non abstrahitur et abducitur ….” 87  Albertus Magnus, De homine (Anzulewicz and Söder 2008, 333.13–50): “Dicimus quod sensus communis duas habet comparationes, unam ad sensus proprios, alteram ad imaginationem et phantasiam. Et in prima comparatione nervi sensibiles, qui terminantur in organis sensuum propriorum, principiantur in organo sensus communis, et ideo frigiditas descendens a cerebro primo tangit nervos sensibiles in sui principio, quod est anterior pars sensus communis, et immobilitat ipsos et oppilat non permittendo spiritum sensibilem ab organo sensus communis fluere in nervos sensibiles; et sic somnus est passio sensus communis secundum dictum quorundam philosophorum. Et

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mon sense may work, namely, on the one hand, as related to the external senses, as the ultimate source of their power, and, on the other, in itself, as an interior power. Thus, Aristotle’s negative definition of sleep focuses on the external senses, which are deactivated during sleep. In contrast, the positive definition of sleep focuses on the common sense, which is not deactivated altogether during sleep, but only insofar as its relationship to the external senses is concerned. Hence, as Albert remarks in the passage of the commentary on the De somno quoted above, when the perceptive power is withdrawn from the peripheral organs during sleep, the common sense continues its activity as an interior power; what is more, its activity is even invigorated by the fact that now the common sense can concentrate on it entirely. In fact, far from regarding the positive definition of sleep as incompatible with Aristotle’s negative account, Albert seems to consider it an essential complement to Aristotle’s negative description: he follows Al-Kindi and Averroes in regarding the positive description of sleep as an essential presupposition for a unified interpretation of Aristotle’s doctrine of sleep in the De somno and his doctrine of dreams and divination in the De insomniis and in the De divinatione.88 Once again, a comparison between Albert’s and Adam of Buckfield’s approach may be instructive. In the discussion of the nature of sleep, Buckfield shows no acquaintance with Al-Kindi’s short treatise, but Averroes’ remarks on the spiritual nature of the interior senses and the reinvigorating action of sleep on their activity do not escape his attention. Yet, although Adam duly reports Averroes’ views in his commentary, his account merely consists in a collection of excerpts from Averroes’ hoc est etiam quod dicit Philosophus in primo De somno et vigilia sic: ‘Quoniam autem inest,’ somnus scilicet, ‘secundum unumquemque sensuum, hoc quidem quid proprium est, istud vero quid commune, proprium velut visui videre, auditui audire, et aliis secundum eundem modum. Est autem et quaedam communis potentia, quae sequitur omnes quae quoniam videt et audit, communiter percipit’. Et intendit dicere quod ex quo in somno clauduntur omnes sensus proprii, quod oportet quod claudantur in sui principio, quod est sensus communis, qui confert sensata propria propter hoc quod ad ipsum recurrunt omnes proprii. Et ideo dicit infra parum quod est sensus unus proprium habens organum, sicut et nos supra ostendimus. Et in hac comparatione procedunt rationes primae. Secundum aliam autem comparationem, quam habet sensus communis ad interiores potentias, quae sunt imaginatio et phantasia, non immobilitatur, et secundum hanc etiam somnus non est passio eius. Et hoc modo procedunt rationes oppositae. Et sic distinguendo oportet eum procedere qui vult sequi dicta quorundam philosophorum. Si quis autem subtiliter vellet intueri, diceret quod somnus non est passio sensus communis nisi per accidens, scilicet inquantum influit spiritum sensibilem sensibus propriis, et non sic, ut immobilitetur proprium organum sensus communis per somnum.” 88  Albertus Magnus, De somno et vigilia 1.1.9 (Borgnet 1890, 135b): “Dixit autem idem philosophus quod sensus spiritualis dignior est quam corporalis quando est verus; quando autem est falsus, erit sensus corporalis dignior quam spiritualis. Quod iterum est verissime et subtiliter dictum, quoniam sensus spiritualis est perceptio sensibilium spiritualium, et haec vera sunt quando in anima monstrantur sicut in re eveniunt, et hoc est verissimum genus divinationis, quod potest esse in somnis, sicut in secundo huius scientiae libro demonstrabimus. Et iste sensus ideo vocatur, quia formae sensibiles tangunt instrumentum sensus in somnis. Dignior autem est quia ex propriis principiis animae perpetuis fluit. Quando autem falsus est, tunc est motus phantasticus confusus ex inordinatione phantasmatum, cuius inordinationis multae sunt causae quae posterius ostendentur.”

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Compendium on the De somno and from parallel passages of the Compendium on the De memoria, appended to his exposition of Aristotle’s text. Unlike Albert, he also makes no attempt at critically evaluating Averroes’ analysis, or comparing Averroes’ and Aristotle’s authentic view.89 Hence, in comparison with Buckfield’s excerpting procedure, Albert’s review of Al-Kindi’s and Averroes’ doctrine of sleep testifies to a much higher degree of doctrinal assimilation.

5  Conclusion This paper focuses on the first book of Albert’s Liber de somno et vigilia, which contains his commentary on Aristotle’s treatise De somno. Albert’s interpretation of the De somno is characterized by a sophisticated and strongly unifying approach, striving to detect the complex, but in his view coherent structure of the Aristotelian treatise. Our doctrinal investigation has been focused on Albert’s discussion of two issues that are central to Aristotle’s work, namely the nature of sleep and the nature of the psychic and bodily structures lying at the basis of the phenomena of sleep and waking. Albert’s treatment of those two issues provides a clear example of his exegetical method. According to the model described in the commentary on the Physics, Albert adopts a highly systematic approach that does not refrain from “creative” interpretations, filling in the gaps of Aristotle’s arguments by articulating their theoretical presuppositions. The result of Albert’s exegetical work is a sophisticated interpretation that shows his ability to put Aristotle’s texts into a wider  Adam de Bocfeld, Super De somno et vigilia, Oxford, Balliol College, MS 313, fol. 150rb– 150va: “Notandum est autem secundum Commentatorem super hunc locum quod sensus actualis apud Aristotelem est sensus corporalis, potentialis (rationalis? ms.) est spiritualis, ita quod sensus corporalis nobilior est apud apprehendens corporale, spiritualis vero nobilior est apud apprehendens spirituale, simpliciter tamen, sicut dicit, spiritualis est nobilior corporali. Adhuc quod sensus spiritualis non solum invenitur in somno, sed etiam in vigilia, et hoc apud adunationem et congregationem trium virtutum, scilicet imaginativae, discretivae, memorativae, de quarum adunatione ad hoc quod fiat [alibi?] sensus spiritualis in vigilia dicit se alibi dixisse, ut scilicet in tractatu suo super librum De memoria et reminiscentia. Cum enim virtus rationalis (?) praedenominans (?) iam dictis virtutibus tribus imperat unicuique illarum suum proprium obiectum praesentare et in eodem tempore et nunc (?) suas proprias operationes exercere, recuperat huiusmodi intentionem prius amissam et non solum hoc, sed etiam quod numquam fuit prius sensatum. Ista tamen adunatio ita difficilis est homini quod numquam vel vix contingit nisi his qui solitarie vivunt, et talia multa bona et mirabilia possunt comprehendere et adinvenire, et hoc quia omnino absolvunt se ab exterioribus sensus occupantibus. Talibus enim accidere potest ut (pro: in?) vigilia sensus spiritualis, qui est intentio specierum et intentionum sensibilium in eorum absentia. Et ista sunt de quibus praedixit Commentator quod quibusdam hominibus accidit simile morti; tales enim fere non vigilant extrinsecus. Adhuc autem aliud signum est a superius tacto secundum Commentatorem ad hoc quod virtutes sensibiles apud somnum contrahuntur ad interius quia vigilanti accidit quod, cum per ipsum transeunt sensibilia, non comprehendit ea, et hoc cum fortiter cogitaverunt de aliqua re difficili; tunc enim, sicut dicit, quiescunt instrumenta animae sensibilis et introducitur sensus communis ad interius corporis ad adiuvandum cogitationem; virtus enim cogitativa viget apud quietem aliorum sensuum. Et ideo comprehendit in somno futura et non in vigilia.”

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philosophical context. In his undertaking, he could take advantage of his outstanding knowledge of not only the corpus aristotelicum but also of later philosophical literature. More precisely, as Albert makes clear in the prologue to the commentary, and as has been confirmed by the preceding analysis, his main source of inspiration for the commentary on the De somno is the Arabic Peripatetic tradition. Indeed, it is the Arabic tradition that provides the philosophical background on which he develops his interpretation of Aristotle.

Appendix  he Contents of Albert’s Liber De somno et vigilia, Book I  T (= Commentary on Aristotle’s De somno et vigilia) Tr. 1 Cui conveniat somnus c.1 Et est digressio declarans quae sit libri intentio et modus et quis ordo eius in scientia naturali c.2 Quod somnus et vigilia insunt eidem et circa idem, in quo etiam enumerantur quaestiones huius scientiae (= De somno, ch. 1, 453b11–454a7) c.3 Quod solum secundum sentire insunt somnus et vigilia et quod plantis non conveniant, eo quod sensibilem partem non habeant (= De somno, ch. 1, 454a7–19) c.4 Quod omne animal quandoque dormit et quandoque vigilat et nullum semper facit alterum istorum, ex quo concluditur imperfecta somni diffinitio (= De somno, ch. 1, 454a19–b5). c.5 Quod omnis somnus est excitabilis et omnis vigilia terminatur ad somnum (= De somno, ch. 1, 454b5–14) c.6 Quod omne animal somno communicat et vigilia et solum et semper, sed differenter communicant illis (= De somno, ch. 1, 454b14–455a3) c.7 Et est digressio declarans principium spiritus, ut sciatur qualiter somnus est ligamentum sensus c.8 Et est digressio declarans qualiter omnis vigilia ad somnum et omnis somnus ad vigiliam terminatur c.9 Et est digressio declarans diversas somni diffinitiones Tr. 2: In quo agitur secundum quid et propter quam causam inest somnus c.1 Secundum quam partem animae est somnus (= De somno, ch. 2, 455a4–b13) c.2 Propter quas causas inest somnus et vigilia et praecipue quae sit causa finalis istarum passionum (De somno, ch. 2, 455b13–28) c.3 De causa efficiente somni et vigiliae (= De somno, ch. 2, 455b28–456a24) c.4 Et est digressio declarans quatuor causas somni secundun Abhamidin c.5 De his qui in somnis faciunt quasi opera vigilantium (= De somno, ch. 2, 456a24–29) c.6 De proxima causa propter quam est somnus (= De somno, ch. 3, 456a30–b19)

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c.7 Per quem modum fiat somnus ex nutrimenti evaporatione (= De somno, ch. 3, 456b20–34) c.8 De aliis causis somni per similem modum somnum causantibus (= De somno, ch. 3, 456b34–457a33) c.9 In quo concluditur vera causa somni et diffinitio et solvuntur dubia quae sunt circa eam (= De somno, ch. 3, 457a33–458a10) c.10 Quando et qua causa expergiscuntur animalia (= De somno, ch. 3, 458a10–32)

Bibliography Anzulewicz and Söder. 2008. = Albertus Magnus, De homine. In Alberti Magni Opera omnia 27/2, ed. Henryk Anzulewicz and Joachim R. Söder. Münster: Aschendorff. Block, Irving. 1961. The order of Aristotle’s psychological writings. The American Journal of Philology 82: 50–77. Bono, James J. 1984. Medieval spirits and the medieval language of life. Traditio 40: 91–130. Borgnet. 1890. = B. Alberti Magni Opera omnia. Parvorum naturalium pars prima. Cura ac labore Augusti Borgnet, vol. 9. Paris: Apud Ludovicum Vivès. Burnett, Charles. 1996. The introduction of Aristotle’s natural philosophy into Great Britain: A preliminary survey of the manuscript evidence. In Aristotle in Britain during the Middle Ages, ed. John Marenbon, 21–50. Turnhout Brepols. Crawford. 1953. = Averrois Cordubensis Commentarium Magnum in Aristotelis De anima libros, ed. F. Stuart Crawford. Corpus Commentariorum Averrois in Aristotelem 6/1. Cambridge, MA: The Mediaeval Academy of America. De Leemans, Pieter. 2011. Parva naturalia, commentaries on Aristotle’s. In Encyclopedia of Medieval Philosophy, ed. Henrik Lagerlund, vol. 2, 917–923. Dordrecht: Springer. Donati, Silvia. 2008. Guglielmo di Clifford († 1306) e alcuni commenti anonimi ai Libri naturales del ms. Cambridge, Peterhouse, 157 (De anima, De generatione et corruptione, Meteora, De somno et vigilia, De vegetabilibus). Documenti e studi sulla tradizione filosofica medievale 19: 501–618. ———. 2011a. Alberts des Großen Konzept der scientiae naturales: Zur Konstitution einer peripatetischen Enzyklopädie der Naturwissenschaften. In Albertus Magnus oder der Ursprung der Universitätsidee. Die Begegnung der Wissenschaftskulturen im 13. Jahrhundert und die Entdeckung des Konzepts der Bildung durch Wissenschaft, ed. Ludger Honnefelder, 354–381, 524–538. Berlin: Berlin University Press. ———. 2011b. Toward a critical edition of Albert the Great’s treatise De nutrimento et nutrito: A study of the manuscript tradition. Documenti e studi sulla tradizione filosofica medievale 22: 235–300. ———. 2012. Goffredo di Aspall († 1287) e alcuni commenti anonimi ai Libri naturales nei mss. London, Wellcome Hist. Med. Libr., 333 e Todi, BC, 23 (Qq. super I De gen. et corr., Qq. super Phys. V, VI), Part 1. Documenti e studi sulla tradizione filosofica medievale 23: 245–320. Donati. 2017. = Albertus Magnus, De nutrimento et nutrito, De sensu et sensato, cuius secundus liber est De memoria et reminiscentia, ed. Silvia Donati. In Alberti Magni Opera omnia 7/2A. Münster: Aschendorff. Drossaart Lulofs. 1943. = Aristotelis De somno et vigilia liber adiectis veteribus translationibus et Theodori Metochitae commentario, ed. H. J. Drossaart Lulofs. Leiden: Burgersdijk & Niermans. ———. 1947. = Aristotelis De insomniis et de divinatione per somnum, ed. H. J. Drossaart Lulofs. Leiden: Brill.

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Ebbesen, Sten. 2014. Geoffrey of Aspall, Quaestiones super librum De somno et vigilia: An edition. Cahiers de l’Institut du Moyen Âge Grecque et Latin 83: 257–341. Filthaut. 1955. = Albertus Magnus, Quaestiones super De animalibus, ed. Ephrem Filthaut. In Alberti Magni Opera omnia, vol. 12, 77–309. Münster: Aschendorff. Freudenthal, Gad. 1995. Aristotle’s theory of material substance: Heat and Pneuma, form and soul. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gallop. 1996. = Aristotle, On sleep and dreams. A text and translation with introduction, notes and glossary by David Gallop. Warminster: Aris and Phillips. Gauthier. 1985. = S. Thomae de Aquino Sentencia libri De sensu et sensato cuius secundus tractatus est De memoria et reminiscencia. Editio Leonina XLV/2. Rome: Commissio Leonina/ Paris: Vrin. Gregoric, Pavel. 2011. Aristotle on the common sense. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hamlyn. 1993. = Aristotle, De anima. Book II and III. Translated with introduction and notes by D. W. Hamlyn. With a report on recent work and a revised bibliography by Christopher Shields. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Hansberger, Rotraud E. 2008. How Aristotle came to believe in God-given dreams: The Arabic version of the De divinatione per somnum. In Dreaming across boundaries: The interpretation of dreams in Islamic lands, ed. Louise Marlow, 50–77. Boston: Harvard University Press. ———. 2010. Kitāb al-Ḥiss wa-l-maḥsūs. Aristotle’s Parva naturalia in Arabic guise. In Les Parva naturalia d’Aristote: Fortune antique et médiévale, ed. Christophe Grellard and PierreMarie Morel, 143–162. Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne. Harvey, E. Ruth. 1975. The inward wits: Psychological theory in the middle ages and in the renaissance, Warburg Institute Surveys 6. London: Warburg Institute. Hossfeld. 1987. = Albertus Magnus, Physica. In Alberti Magni Opera omnia 4/1, ed. Paul Hossfeld. Münster: Aschendorff. Kahn, Charles H. 1979. Sensation and consciousness in Aristotle’s psychology. In Articles on Aristotle, ed. Jonathan Barnes, Malcolm Schofield, and Richard Sorabji, vol. 4, 1–31. London: Duckworth. Lowe, Malcolm. 1978. Aristotle’s “De somno” and his theory of causes. Phronesis 23: 279–291. Muckle. 1933. = Algazel’s Metaphysics: A medieval translation, ed. J. T. Muckle. Toronto: PIMS. Nagy. 1897. = Die philosophische Abhandlungen des Jaʻqūb ben Isḥāq Al-Kindī, ed. A.  Nagy. Beiträge zur Geschichte der Philosophie des Mittelalters 2/5. Münster: Aschendorff. Ross. 1955. = Aristotle, Parva naturalia. A Revised Text with Introduction and Commentary by Sir David Ross. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Shields. 1949. = Averrois Cordubensis Compendia librorum qui Parva naturalia vocantur, ed. A.  L. Shields. Corpus Commentariorum Averrois in Aristotelem VII.  Cambridge, MA: The Mediaeval Academy of America. Sprague, Rosamond Kent. 1977. Aristotle’s metaphysics of sleep. Review of Metaphysics 31: 230–241. Stroick. 1968. = Albertus Magnus, De anima. In Alberti Magni Opera omnia 7/1, ed. Clemens Stroick. Münster: Aschendorff. Tummers. 2014 = Albertus Magnus, Super Euclidem. In Alberti Magni Opera omnia 39, ed. Paul M. J. E. Tummers. Münster: Aschendorff. van Riet. 1968. = Avicenna Latinus, Liber de Anima seu Sextus de Naturalibus IV–V, ed. van Riet, Simone. Louvain: Peeters. Weijers, Olga. 1994–2012. Le travail intellectuel à la Faculté des arts de Paris: textes et maîtres (ca. 1200–1500). 9 vols. Turnhout: Brepols. Wendland. 1903. = Michael of Ephesus. In Parva naturalia Commentaria, ed. Paul Wendland. In Commentaria in Aristotelem Graeca 22/1. Berlin: Reimer. Wiesner, Jürgen. 1978. The Unity of the De somno et the Physiological explanation of sleep. In Aristotle on mind and the senses, ed. G.E.R. Lloyd and G.E.L. Owen, 241–280. Cambridge: CUP. Wood, Michael J. 1992. Aristotle on sleep and dreams. Apeiron 25 (3): 179–188.

Chapter 11

Good Night and Good Luck: Some Late Thirteenth-Century Philosophers on Activities in and through Dreams Martin Pickavé

Abstract  This contribution looks at how the topic of sleep, prominent in the Parva naturalia, is picked up by philosophers and theologians of the late thirteenth century in texts that are not directly commentaries on the Parva naturalia. In particular, the chapter looks at the question of what sort of activity sleep is and whether it is possible to have higher-level cognitive activities during sleep. While most authors deny outright that we can perform acts of thinking while we are asleep, others defend the occurrence of thought during sleep. Authors discussed include Henry of Ghent, Richard of Middleton, Thomas Aquinas, Peter of Tarentaise, and Peter John Olivi.

In a well-known passage in his treatise De summo bono, the thirteenth-century arts master Boethius of Dacia writes that “whether the happy man sleeps or is awake or is eating, he lives in happiness so long as he does those things in order to be rendered stronger for the works of happiness.”1 Some modern commentators have been puzzled by this seemingly innocent remark. Sleep seems to be a state of inactivity and thus the complete opposite of happiness, an active state in which we realize our potentials. These commentators point to a passage in the Nicomachean Ethics where Aristotle explains that the possession of virtue alone cannot constitute happiness for exactly the reason that “it appears possible to possess it while you are asleep or without putting it into practice throughout life” (1.3, 1095b32–34). In this light, “to call happy a virtuous human being who sleeps or rests is,” according to Olivier Boulnois (2011, 305), “a paradox.” And so these commentators conclude that

1  De summo bono, in Green-Pedersen (1976, 372): “Ideo felix sive dormiat sive vigilet sive comedat, feliciter vivit, dummodo illa facit, ut reddatur fortior ad opera felicitatis.” For an English translation, see Wippel (1987, 30).

M. Pickavé (*) University of Toronto, Toronto, ON, Canada e-mail: [email protected] © Springer International Publishing AG, part of Springer Nature 2018 B. Bydén, F. Radovic (eds.), The Parva naturalia in Greek, Arabic and Latin Aristotelianism, Studies in the History of Philosophy of Mind 17, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-26904-7_11

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despite the broadly speaking Aristotelian conception of the highest good, Boethius of Dacia’s understanding of happiness incorporates some non-Aristotelian elements.2 It is not my goal in this paper to discuss what Boulnois calls “Boethius’s paradox,” but I do want to engage with the background assumption that renders Boethius’s statement problematic in the first place. Why conceive of sleep as a state of inactivity? After all, most of us dream when we sleep, and isn’t dreaming an activity? Moreover, since dreaming involves all sorts of cognitive processes, one might wonder whether we cannot also have some higher-level cognitive activity in sleep. The Parva naturalia impressively demonstrate that Aristotle too did not necessarily consider sleep a state in which the sleeping subject is inactive, although he says elsewhere that thinking is temporarily “covered up” during sleep, as it is during episodes of intense passion and disease (De anima 3.3, 429a7–8). In the following I will look at what some thirteenth-century philosophers and theologians had to say about cognitive activity during sleep.3 It might surprise the reader to learn that this topic was hotly debated during the second half of the thirteenth century. The relative scarcity of commentaries on Aristotle’s Parva naturalia does not mean that the themes from De somno et vigilia, De insomniis, and De divinatione per somnum were not on philosophers’ minds during that period, and in my contribution I will survey some of the relevant discussions.

1  Boethius of Dacia Boethius’s remark that the happy man sleeps in a way that renders him stronger for the works of happiness may become a bit less puzzling if we look at his short work De somniis. Despite its title, the work is not a commentary on Aristotle, but a short treatment of the question of whether a human being can have knowledge of future events (cognitio futurorum eventorum) through dreams. Certain elements indicate that the text is incomplete: it breaks off without a response to the arguments for the opposite and Boethius explicitly says that the question regarding knowledge of future events is what he will inquire into “first” (primo), without there being anything “second” to follow. Gianfranco Fioravanti, the only scholar who has devoted a close study to the De somniis, thinks it is not identical with the Quaestiones de somno et vigilia listed among Boethius’s works in the so-called Stams catalogue. Boethius might thus have written another work dealing with dreams, a work that no doubt would have been related to his teaching at the University of Paris, where the De somno et vigilia was on the curriculum in the Arts Faculty.4  On Boethius’s remarks, see also Bianchi (2005, 23).  For a different kind of survey, one that focuses more on the causes and kinds of dreams as well as the relationship between dreams and other visions, see Kruger (1992, ch. 5: “Aristotle and the Late-Medieval Dream”). 4  Fioravanti (1966–1967, 334–335). As is well known, medieval Latin authors considered the De somno et vigilia to comprise what we now treat as three different works: i.e., De somno et vigilia, De insomniis, and De divinatione per somnum. 2 3

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However this may be, Boethius affirms in  De somniis, closely following Aristotle’s De divinatione per somnum, that it is possible, to some extent, to know future events through dreams. He even coins a term for knowledge through dreams: scientia somnialis (De somniis, in Green-Pedersen 1976, 383).5 His idea is not that we are aware of future events as future while we are dreaming, but that dreams give us clues as to what might happen in so far as they are either themselves causes of future events or at least allow us to know causes of such events. However, not all dreams provide us with clues that allow us to know future events. Sometimes what we experience in dreams and what we experience later when we are awake are mere coincidences, as, for example, when I dream tonight about my students and then tomorrow, by chance, run into one of them at the market in Gothenburg. But there are cases where dreams and future events are truly connected, for instance, when “a man who is thinking deeply about some action, while he is asleep then remembers that action” in a dream and then also works out “that thing and a way of doing it within himself in his sleep.” This cognitive activity during sleep thus leads him to perform the action in question when he is awake. If there were a way to know such a dream, there would then also be a way to know the future event, since “causes make known their effects” (ibid. 385; trans. Wippel 1987, 72). But more often dreams are signs of future events rather than their causes. And this can happen in various ways. Some dreams are caused in us by an external cause. For instance, when we are in a cold environment, the environment affects our body in such a way as to lead us to have a dream of walking through snow and the like. Often a small change in our body will be enough, since in sleep there are fewer other activities going on and thus fewer impediments for such a change to register. If we know the effect, in this case the dream, we can reason back to its cause and make inferences about other, future effects of the same external cause (ibid. 386–387). More often, however, our dreams are caused by something within ourselves, namely, by our body or an emotional state. The first case obtains when we are sick or when we have eaten certain foods. The dream will then indicate something about the future condition of our body. This is the reason why, according to Boethius, still following Aristotle, “dreams of the sick should be made known to skilled physicians” (ibid. 388–390; trans. Wippel 1987, 74–76). Similarly, someone experiencing a strong emotion, say, because he is madly in love or exceedingly afraid of something, will have dreams that correspond to these emotions (ibid. 390). In this case, although the dream may be less helpful as a means of inferring future events caused by the emotional state of the agent—the awareness of the strong passion is already sufficient to do so—it is nevertheless true in principle that knowledge of such a dream can be the basis for knowledge of a future event. Although Boethius affirms, as we have just seen, that knowledge through dreams is possible, he is overall very cautious. Dreams, like other natural phenomena, allow us to make causal inferences, either because they are the effects of something else or because they are themselves causes. Like Aristotle, Boethius exhibits a fairly naturalistic approach to his scientia somnialis. Yet it is interesting to see how he  For the Aristotelian borrowings, see Fioravanti (1966–1967, 341–345).

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describes dreaming and the state of being asleep. The example of the temperature of the environment affecting our body and our dreams implies that people who are asleep still have some sort of sensory perception,6 although most of what the sleeper is aware of in dreams consists of previously acquired phantasms that are now conjured up by the imaginative power. The imaginative power is the central faculty responsible for our dream experiences, but it is not entirely passive, despite the fact that its movements in sleep are determined by the flow of heat and vapour in our body. For even in sleep our imaginative power forms images of new things.7 And as the example of the man thinking about a future action makes clear, for Boethius, we can remember in sleep and are also able to “sort out” (ordinare) things while we are dreaming.8 All this makes clear that sleep is a state of considerable cognitive activity. No doubt, our cognitive capacities are impeded while we are sleeping: we are no longer able to think about something at will and our external senses are mostly (but not totally) off. To be sure, Boethius does not go as far as John Buridan, who, while teaching at Paris in the first half of the fourteenth century, writes that a dream itself is an “actual cognition” (actualis cognitio);9 but there is still, in Boethius’s view, a lot of cognitive activity going on in sleep that should not be underappreciated.10

2  Peter of Tarentaise and Henry of Ghent This raises the question of how much cognitive activity can take place during sleep. Can we, for instance, have intellectual cognition (notitia intellectualis), that is, can we think, during sleep? That we have to sleep is obviously due to our bodily constitution, but nutrition, or whatever else causes the body to sleep, cannot affect our non-corporeal intellect. And since the presence of dreams shows that our higherlevel sensory capacities, on which intellectual cognition directly relies, seem to 6  Although it is somewhat unclear in the Parva naturalia whether human beings have genuine sensory perception, Aristotle says so explicitly in De generatione animalium 5.1, 779a11–21. 7  See De somniis, in Green-Pedersen (1976, 386): “Et si fit fortis infrigidatio in corpore dormientis per viam praedictam causata, cum eam percipit virtus imaginativa, et simul cum hoc aliquando percipit motum, quem facit phantasma ibi prius receptum et in anima conservatum, format idolum istarum rerum coniunctarum modo competentiori quo potest” (my emphasis). See also ibid. 390: “Format enim imaginativa phantasma conveniens passioni ….” 8  See ibid. 385: “Sicut enim homo aliquando vehementer cogitans de aliqua actione in dormiendo memor est illius actionis, sic aliquando homini in dormiendo apparet phantasma alicuius rei agibilis ab ipso, qui illam rem et modum agendi penes se ordinat in somnio” (my emphasis). 9  Quaestiones de anima, book II, q. 23, n. 1, ed. G. Klima et al. (forthcoming): “Somnium est. actualis cognitio.” Since this remark appears in the initial arguments, it might not reflect Buridan’s final view, but there is nothing in this question to make the reader doubt that he subscribes to this idea. 10  We do not have Boethius’s explicit responses to the initial arguments against knowledge through dreams, either because they are missing or because he did not bother to execute them. This is unfortunate, since the second and third arguments raise concerns about cognitive activity during sleep. See De somniis, in Green-Pedersen (1976, 382–383).

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work during sleep, it looks as if intellectual cognition and thought should, at least in principle, be possible when we dream. However, many medieval philosophers and theologians reject this conclusion. Peter of Tarentaise, for instance, a Dominican master of theology at Paris who later became Pope Innocent V, discusses the question of whether someone sleeping could sin in his first Quodlibet (Easter 1264). He denies this on the grounds that we sin through something by which we differ from brute animals, for brute animals do not sin, nor are they able to perform morally good acts. This means that we sin through the use of our intellect, the faculty on account of which we possess reason. Now, even if our faculty of imagination is not affected in sleep, it functions, according to Peter, in a way that makes it impossible for the intellect to receive objects from the imagination and thus to move to acts of thought.11 What exactly is the problem? Peter thinks it is the phantasms, that is, sensory mental representations, in the faculty of imagination. When we are awake, the faculty of imagination “considers” these phantasms as representations of extra-mental material objects, and when the imagination uses them in this way, they are said to move the intellect. But Peter insists, using a distinction Aristotle makes in De memoria, that there is also a different use of these phantasms, for the imagination can also “consider” them as things themselves, and in that case they cannot move the intellect and lead it to acts of thought. This is what happens during sleep.12 It is not entirely clear what Peter means by saying that in sleep our imaginative faculty considers the phantasms “as the things themselves” (ut ipsae res). He obviously cannot have in mind that we dream of phantasms qua phantasms, that is, that we dream of sensory mental representations. This would be absurd. We still dream of objects, but we dream of them independently of whether or not they are actually present to us and exist in reality. So in this sense the link the imagination normally entertains to the outside world has come loose during sleep, and that is why the imagination considers phantasms “as the things themselves” and no longer as “signs” (signa). Peter mentions two reasons why, in sleep, we are unable to consider phantasms in the normal way. The second reason addresses how the link between imagination and the extra-mental objects becomes untied. While we are awake, our imagination is related to the external senses and sensible objects by our common sense (sensus communis), through which we get phantasms into the imaginative power and are able to relate our sensory representations to objects outside of our mind. In sleep, however, the common sense is “tied up” (ligatus), so that this link is broken. According to the first reason, the vapours responsible for sleep perturb and ­obfuscate  Quodlibet I, q. 16, in Glorieux (1937, 257). Peter also deals with this question in his Sentences commentary, although in much less detail. See In II Sententiarum, d. 25, q. 4, a. 2, ed. Toulouse 1649, p. 221. 12  Quodlibet I, q. 16, in Glorieux (1937, 257): “Fantasmata tamen dupliciter possunt considerari a fantasia: vel ut similitudines rerum sensibilium, vel ut ipse res. Primo modo movent intellectum ad cognitionem ipsarum rerum; secundo modo, non.” The distinction between the two uses of phantasms goes back to Aristotle’s De memoria (450b20–27), but Peter seems to use it differently than Aristotle. 11

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the phantasms when they are mixed with them at the moment they move up to the brain.13 It is not clear how this first reason relates to the second, nor how exactly it explains why the imagination considers phantasms as things. And do these reasons apply to different situations or do they describe the same process, albeit from two different angles? Whatever the case may be, as we have seen, what Peter of Tarentaise is mostly interested in is the extent to which our imagination acts differently in sleep; he seems less interested in exactly why this makes the phantasms in our imagination unusable for the intellect (and thus unable to move us to thought). He just seems to stipulate that when the imaginative power is somewhat disconnected from the real world, that missing link also affects the interactions between phantasms and the intellect higher up the chain.14 At the end of his short quodlibetal question, Peter adds some further thoughts on the cognitive life of the sleeper. Boethius of Dacia is less clear on this point, but Peter seems happy to grant explicitly that the sleeper’s exterior senses are active during sleep. For, according to Peter, what is affected by sleep is not the apprehension of the exterior senses, but the judgment to which they lead.15 Moreover, the fact that sleepers seem to reason during sleep and even make syllogisms does not mean that they actually use their intellects. On the contrary, what the sleeper does and experiences as reasoning is just the association of phantasms that accompanies similar reasoning processes in him when he is awake.16 We can find a different—and somewhat more refined—elaboration of the same theory for why thinking is impossible during sleep in q. 9 of Henry of Ghent’s Quodlibet VI (1281). Henry admits that, in a supernatural way, that is, by means of a divine intervention, it would be possible to have intellective acts during sleep, but according to the common course of nature (secundum communem cursum naturae) this is impossible.17 According to Henry, sleep primarily affects the organ of the common sense and this leads to a situation in which the sensory power (vis sensitiva) withdraws from the particular external senses. As a result, the imaginative power can no longer perceive the external objects as  such, “because it perceives

 Quodlibet I, q. 16, in Glorieux (1937, 257): “Quare vero in sompno similitudines accipiuntur ut res, ratio est duplex. Una, ipsa perturbatio fantasmatum et obnubilatio per admixtionem vaporum tempore illo ad cerebrum ascendentium, sicut si nebula superexpanderetur coloribus. Alia est sensus communis ligacio, quo mediante rerum similitudines ad fantasiam transferuntur a rebus cum conferuntur sive applicantur ipsis rebus.” 14  During the course of his short question, Peter says twice that the intellect requires phantasms that move it not as res, but as similitudes of things. But he does not say why this is so. 15  Quodlibet I, q. 16, in Glorieux (1937, 257): “Sensus exteriores possunt claudi dupliciter: vel quoad apprehensionem vel iudicium. Utroque modo in vigilantibus aperti sunt; secundo modo in dormientibus clausi sunt.” 16  Quodlibet I, q. 16, in Glorieux (1937, 257–258): “Dormiens sillogizando facit opus ratione simile, non opus rationis …; ordinat enim fantasmata terminorum et propositionum et conclusionum dormiendo sicut solitus erat ordinare vigilando.” 17  Quodlibet VI, q. 9, in Wilson (1987, 84). Henry discusses the question of whether revelation in sleep happens in the intellectual or imaginative power in Quodlibet II, q. 13. 13

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these things only when the particular external senses are engaged in their work.”18 The imaginative faculty, on the other hand, is not directly affected by sleep and remains free; thus, it can have perceptions. But how can the imagination perceive if there is nothing coming to it from the external senses? Henry uses the image of a source of water: when a source is active, water will flow from it, but when it reaches the point at which it is exhausted, water will flow back to it. Something similar happens in sleep: species, that is, mental representations, which normally flow from the external senses and their organs to the inner senses, will now “flow” back to them. To be precise: the species will flow back from the sensory memory to the organ of the common sense, “where the imaginative power will see them through similar species existing in the imaginative power.” Henry does not mean to say that the imaginative power will see the species itself existing in the imaginative power. The idea is that in sleep the imagination puts representations into the common sense. From here, the “normal course” of the cognitive process then sets in. The sleeper will thus imagine the object that is represented by the species in the common sense, a process that leads him to think that the object he perceives is present in the same way as an object that one perceives while awake is present.19 Furthermore, because the representation from which a dream perception starts does not at that moment come from the external senses, and thus does not come from an external sensible object, we are in some sense constantly deceived when we dream.20 This explains why in dream we mistake our imaginings for the things themselves (pro ipsis rebus). So far, Henry’s account of what happens in sleep is just a more elaborate version of the picture presented by Peter of Tarentaise. Henry tries to explain how exactly the missing link between imagination, the sensory objects, and the particular external senses affects us in our dreams. The same similarities between Peter and Henry can be found at the next level, namely, when we look at Henry’s account of why the imaginings we have during sleep are not of the right sort to move our intellect. As Henry explains, in order to get intellective activity going we have to actively imagine the object we are thinking about. What this means is that we have to imagine the  Quodlibet VI, q. 9, in Wilson (1987, 84): “Cuius ratio est quod in somnis est ligamen communis particulae secundum Philosophum, hoc est organi sensus communis, et virtus, quae viget interius, non possit percipere res sub ratione rerum, quia illas non percipit nisi intentis in opus sensibus particularibus.” 19  Ibid. 84–85: “Sed quod imaginativa virtus videt imaginations pro rebus, hoc contingit quia, cum in somnis sopiti sunt sensus particulares extra et non fluunt ab organis eorum species sensibilium ab extra interius, tunc ad modum aquae fluentis de fonte, cum aqua de fonte exhauritur, refluit ad fontem, species a memoria sensitiva per organum imaginativae refluunt usque ad extremitatem organi sensus communis versus interius, ubi per species similes existentes in imaginativa videt imaginativa illas species lucentes in extremitate organi sensus communis.” The idea that in sleep the direction of the movement of representations is reversed can also be found in Averroes’s Paraphrase of De somno et vigilia, versio latina, in Shields (1949, 98–99), although for Averroes the movement goes all the way to the exterior senses. A closer parallel is the anonymous treatise of an arts master on the soul and its powers, which, like Henry’s text, talks about forms coming back to the common sense: see Gauthier (1982, 46). 20  According to Henry, in the process described above our imagination “non potest non decipi” (Quodlibet VI, q. 9, in Wilson 1987, 85). 18

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object as a thing “under the aspect of being a thing.” In sleep, however, because of the interruption caused in our sensory capacities, our imagination can actively imagine only a species that comes from something previously imagined under the aspect of being a thing. But this is simply not the right kind of input required for the intellect to operate in sleep.21 Admittedly, the details are murky, and medieval authors are the first to admit this,22 but Henry’s (and Peter’s) insistence that only the sort of phantasm we can get when we are awake (and when there is some sort of active involvement of the external senses) is able to lead to intellectual cognition adds an important detail to the common thesis that intellective activity requires phantasms. Henry not only has the same explanation of alleged episodes of reasoning during sleep as Peter, but he also applies the explanation to a wider range of phenomena and events that occur in sleep, including physical actions, reciting verses, and emotions. The sleepwalker does not act on the basis of rational decision, but on account of custom and images in the imagination that derive from those he acquired while awake.23 The emotions and desires that we have during sleep are also the result of what we have become accustomed to while awake. The latter is for Henry the reason why Aristotle says in the Nicomachean Ethics (1.13, 1102b10–12) that “the dreams of the just are better than those of all the others.” The just dream better, not because they make moral decisions during sleep, but because they have become prone to having some dreams and not others (Quodlibet VI, q. 9, in Wilson 1987, 86).

 Ibid. 85–86: “Quare, cum in somnis non potest imaginari res sub ratione rei, sed solummodo species sub ratione rei ab aliquo imaginato … nullo modo potest abstrahi universale quod praesentatur intellectui possibili sicut proprium et primum eius et per se obiectum.” 22  William de la Mare writes in his Sentences commentary (Scriptum in II Sententiarum, dist. 25, q. 9, in Kraml 1995, 344): “Augustinus autem, 12. Super genesim ad litteram [c. 15], investigat rationem et causam ligationis rationis in somno et quasi accipit speciem pro re ipsa et est satis difficile intelligere dictum suum.” This statement is interesting for two reasons: (1) It explains to some extent why medieval philosophers rely so heavily on Aristotle’s distinction between the two uses of phantasms (see above in nn12 and 14) in De memoria, namely because it seems to fit nicely with Augustine’s understanding of dreams. (2) Medieval philosophers themselves find it puzzling how the Augustinian/Aristotelian explanation of why we can’t think in sleep is supposed to work in detail. 23  Quodlibet VI, q. 9, in Wilson (1987, 86): “Si vero contingat aliquem somniando quasi syllogizare aut versus componere aut facere exterius opera vigiliae quasi directa a ratione, hoc non contingit nisi propter quandam impressionem quae per assuetudinem operis talis in vigilia directi a ratione facta est in viribus sensitivis cognitivis currentibus imaginationibus et vi imaginativa eas per quandam impressionem sibi factam dirigente.” For the Aristotelian background of this response, see De somno 2, 456a24–29. For medieval approaches to the phenomenon of sleepwalking, including the question of whether we can be morally responsible for actions committed during sleepwalking, see Boureau (1993a). 21

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3  Gerard of Abbeville If we go just by the number of extant texts, Gerard of Abbeville must have been particularly interested in sleep and how it affects our moral and cognitive life. Not only did he discuss two quodlibetal questions on this topic (Quodlibet VIII, q. 1 and XIV, q. 11), he also left us a longer question on the topic among his Quaestiones de cogitatione (q. 18). All these texts are from the 1260s. Gerard’s treatment is interesting for many reasons and not only because he maintains that, in one sense, we do indeed think during sleep. According to Gerard, we have to distinguish two acts of the intellective faculty: first, intuitive acts and second, acts which involve discursivity, reasoning, and in general, all the intellectual activities that make use of the senses. Now, while it is true that intellectual acts of the second type are impeded during sleep, for these acts involve the senses, the same is not true for the first.24 The intellect always understands itself by an intuitive act. Gerard does not explain why this is so, at least not in the texts we are considering here. The main idea must be that it belongs to the nature of the intellect to understand (intelligere). But if that is so, then it seems to follow that the intellect must always understand or think something, for if it ceases to understand it ceases to be an intellect. Obviously, the intellect does not always understand or think about extra-mental material or immaterial objects, so it must always understand at least itself.25 Gerard explicitly says that a person who is asleep possesses this intuitive intellectual self-understanding: even children and madmen have it.26 Many of his contemporaries would disagree with him. Aquinas, for instance, insists that we need our senses even for self-knowledge, for we can only have the reflexive act of noticing that we are thinking or understanding when we engage in a direct act of thinking or understanding a material object, an activity for which we require sensory input.27 So if sleep affects our sensory input, it also affects our self-knowledge. Gerard counters this sort of objection by clarifying that this first act of the intellect is impeded in sleep with respect to neither its origin nor its execution, “but only with respect to its manifestation.” What Gerard means is that even though the intellect always understands itself, it isn’t always aware of itself. Self-understanding, according to Gerard, is an essential act of the intellect, but being actually aware that it understands itself  Quaestiones de cogitatione, q. 18, in Pattin (1993, 319): “Duplex est operatio intellectus, et secundum hanc operationem potest dupliciter considerari vel impediri, primo ut aspectus et instinctus [lege intuitus?] quidam sine collacione, vel ut est deliberativus et collativus et secundum hoc rationalis dicitur in quantum intellectus ordinatur ad sensum .... Quantum ad primum actum non impeditur in sompno.” 25  This seems confirmed by a short remark Gerard makes in Quodlibet XIV, q. 11, in Pattin (1993, 106), where he says that the intuitive act of the intellect is as natural for it “as shining is for the shiny thing” (sicut lucentis lucere). 26  Quaestiones de cogitatione, q. 18, in Pattin (1993, 320): “Et iste primus actus manet tam in dormiente quam in furioso et in puero.” See also Quodlibet XIV, q. 11, in Pattin (1993, 106). 27  See, for instance, Summa Theologiae I 87.1. 24

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is something further and somewhat accidental to it.28 The point that Aquinas and others are making is obviously about the latter. However, we require our senses for intellectual acts involving things other than ourselves, and this explains why we cannot think or reason during sleep. Gerard lists a whole series of arguments for why thinking or reasoning during sleep is impossible. In this, he is not alone: similar lists of arguments can be found in works of other late thirteenth-century authors such as Bonaventure, William de la Mare, and Matthew of Aquasparta.29 The first argument on Gerard’s list has to do with the idea that the soul is limited with respect to what it does at any given time. So if the soul is occupied with one sort of activity, it is unable to exercise another at the same time. The idea is not so strange. When I listen to music, I usually cannot concentrate on the text that I am trying to read at the same time. Applied to our case this means that the soul cannot think during sleep because it is too occupied with the activities of the vegetative soul.30 The problem with this explanation is that, by the same reasoning, activities of the sensitive soul seem to be ruled out too. But that’s obviously not the case, for we experience dreams. Moreover, isn’t sleep a state where I am less distracted than when I am awake? But if so, the opposite should happen: my thinking should be improved.31 A second argument for the absence of thought in sleep has to do with the intensity and vehemence of the corporeal changes that accompany sleep, such as the heat that moves to the inner parts of the human body. Just as it is impossible to see images in water when it is agitated, so the intellect cannot get species from the higher-level sensory powers when the body and its organs are agitated and perturbed in sleep.32 This reasoning also suffers from being too general, so it is no surprise that Gerard adds another argument.33 According to this one, sleep dissolves the connection between the intellect and the faculty of imagination. Here Gerard  Quaestiones de cogitatione, q. 18, in Pattin (1993, 319): “Quantum ad primum actum non impeditur in sompno secundum actus originem vel execucionem, sed tantum secundum manifestacionem, quia mens semper se intelligit, sed non semper se cogitat. Primus actus est ei essencialis, secundus accidentalis.” 29  See, for instance, Bonaventure, In II Sententiarum, dist. 25, p. 2, a. un., q. 6, in Bonaventure (1885, 621–623); William de la Mare, Scriptum in II Sententiarum, dist. 25, q. 9, in Kraml (1995, 342–344); Matthew of Aquasparta, Quaestiones de cognitione, q. 10, in Matthew of Aquasparta (1957, 395–400). See also the texts by Peter John Olivi and Richard of Middleton that I discuss below. 30  Quaestiones de cogitatione, q. 18, in Pattin (1993, 320): “Anima vero est natura limitata in substantia, virtute et operacione. Idcirco cum circa actum unius virtutis fuerit occupata retrahitur ab occupacione operacionum virium aliarum, quia anima in sompno nimis intenta est et occupata regimini operacionum partis vegetative.” 31  This argument is rejected by many of Gerard’s contemporaries. See, for instance, Bonaventure, In II Sententiarum, dist. 25, p. 2, a. un., q. 6, in Bonaventure (1885, 621b); William de la Mare, Scriptum in II Sententiarum, dist. 25, q. 9, in Kraml (1995, 342); Peter John Olivi, Quaestiones in II Sententiarium, q. 59, in Jansen (1924, 531). 32  Quaestiones de cogitatione, q. 18, in Pattin (1993, 321–322). See also Quodlibet VIII, q. 1, in Pattin (1993, 58). 33  Besides the argument discussed here, Quodlibet VIII, q. 1, in Pattin (1993, 58–59) contains a further argument, based on the (Augustinian understanding of) memory. 28

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gives, broadly speaking, the same analysis as Peter and Henry and alludes to the two ways of considering phantasms.34 But there are also interesting differences. For instance, according to Gerard, rather than blocking the way species are transmitted from the external objects to the imagination, sleep blocks the conduits of the attention through which the soul controls sensory cognition.35 This emphasis on the role of attention in sensory cognition indicates that Gerard is following an Augustinian account of sense perception. But this does not mean the traditional (more Aristotelian) explanation of why we do not think in sleep is unavailable to him. Gerard regards the traditional explanation of the missing link between intellect and imagination, the one he lays out in his third argument, as the most important reason for why we do not think during sleep. In Quodlibet XIV, q. 11, it is the only explanation he provides, and even in the Quaestiones de cogitatione he elevates it over the other explanations by calling it the proximate essential cause (causa per se proxima) of the phenomenon in question; each of the other explanations provides us only with a necessary cause (causa sine qua non), but not a sufficient one.36 The questions in which Gerard discusses the possibility of thought in sleep are instructive not only for the arguments they contain, but also for the sources Gerard uses to advance his case. Gerard not only demonstrates first-hand knowledge of Aristotle’s Parva naturalia, especially of De somno and De memoria, but also of texts on similar problems by Augustine and other theologians. Gerard’s account of sensory perception is strongly Augustinian, and his idea that the intellect always understands itself even if it is not always aware of itself is equally Augustinian and lifted straight from Augustine’s De trinitate.37 But more importantly, Gerard’s sources give us a clue as to why there was such an interest in cognitive activity during sleep in the first place. Gerard’s questions make reference to a famous biblical dream, namely, the sleep of King Solomon during which he is said to have received wisdom from God (1 Samuel 3:5–10), and above all to Augustine’s notorious discussions in the Confessions and the De Genesi ad litteram of whether sexual arousal during sleep constitutes a sin.38 The materials from the Parva naturalia detailing what is going on in sleep help medieval theologians and philosophers decide the latter question from a philosophical perspective.

 Quaestiones de cogitatione, q. 18, in Pattin (1993, 322–324); see also Quodlibet VII, q. 21, in Pattin (1993, 54–55); Quodlibet VIII, q. 1, in Pattin (1993, 59–61); Quodlibet XIV, q. 11, in Pattin (1993, 108–109). 35  Quaestiones de cogitatione, q. 18, in Pattin (1993, 322). 36  Ibid., 322: “Hec utraque causa est causa sine qua non, non cause per se et propter quam.” 37  De trinitate XIV 7 and 9. 38  Confessions 10.30.41; De Genesi ad litteram XII 15; see also De civitate Dei I 25. The topic of sexual arousal during sleep is, of course, an old one. Plato already mentions it in the Republic, book 9, 571C–D. 34

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4  Peter John Olivi Notwithstanding Gerard’s view about the first act of the intellect, there seems to be agreement that there cannot be intellectual activity during sleep. However, this view calls for some qualification, since sleep seems to come in degrees. For this reason, Peter of Tarentaise was willing to admit that “there is no complete activity of the intellect in a complete state of sleep, although there can sometimes be an incomplete activity of the intellect in an incomplete state of sleep.”39 Similarly, Thomas Aquinas writes about degrees in the incapacitation of our rational capacities when he remarks that “the use of reason (ratio) is more or less impeded in sleep according to how much the interior sensory powers are overcome by sleep.”40 But this raises the question of whether there are medieval philosophers who maintain that thinking can take place even when we are fully overcome by sleep. Peter John Olivi seems to be just such a philosopher. He disagrees, for instance, with the view that whatever complex cognitive activity is going on during sleep is just a reflection of the reasoning processes that happen when we are awake, and he explicitly defends the idea that our reasoning power can be active during sleep. In q. 7 of his first Quodlibet (c. 1290), Olivi advances two lines of argument: he attacks the traditional account of why the intellect cannot act during sleep and he raises objections to the common explanation of reason-like activity during sleep.41 As we have seen, all those who deny the possibility of intellectual acts in sleep locate the problem in the phantasms, i.e. the mental representations. Olivi thinks this will not do. Let us consider these phantasms. Those we entertain in sleep are of the same sort as those we have when we are awake; they are not less abstract, nor in a lower power of the soul. But if this is so, why would our reasoning faculty be able to direct itself to the phantasms and think in the one case, but not in the other?42 Here Olivi seems to put his finger on the weak spot in his opponents’ view. For as we have seen, they do not give much more than an ad hoc reason for why the phantasms created in sleep are unintelligible for the intellect. Since they admit that the imagination is active in sleep and that there are thus functional phantasms present, they owe us a more robust account of why some phantasms lead to thought and others do not. Moreover, the fact that we are deceived in our dreams and believe that certain things are present when they are not is due not to the phantasms, but to a  Quodlibet I, q. 16, in Glorieux (1937, 258): “Completa operatio intellectus non est in sompno completo, quamvis in sompno incompleto possit aliquando esse incompleta.” 40  Summa Theologiae II–II 154.5 ad 2. For this gradual approach see also Summa Theologiae I 84.7 ad 2; In IV Sententiarum, dist. 9, a. 4, qc. 1 ad 4. 41  On this text see also Boureau (1993b). On Olivi’s view in comparison with his contemporaries see Mauro (1999). 42  Quodlibet I, qq. 6-7, in Defraia (2002, 24): “Unde est quod saltem ratio non possit ad illam speciem converti, aut ipsam pro obiecto immediato habere, sicut habet in uigilia, cum illa species sit omnino eiusdem et equalis essentie, sicut erat in uigilia; nec secundum suam essentiam sit minus abstracta a sensibilibus, quam erat in uigilia, nec sic in inferiori potentia quam prius?” See also Olivi’s Quaestiones in II Sententiarum, q. 59, in Jansen (1924, 534–536). 39

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defect of reason. It is not the case that some phantasms are of things as present and others of things as absent. All mental representations, by their very nature, represent things that are absent, for why would there be a need for such a representation unless what is represented were absent?43 According to Olivi, the traditional account also contradicts what we experience in sleep. In our dreams we sometimes seem to think about the fact that we are dreaming and wonder whether what we see in the dream is in fact so. The existence of reflexive mental acts is for Olivi obviously incompatible with the absence of thought. And he seems to have a point. Maybe thinking that we are dreaming can still somehow be represented in the form of sensory images, but other acts, such as doubting, seem to be very different cases.44 That the common explanation of reason-like activities during sleep does not work is for Olivi clear both from the things we dream about and from the outcome of some of our dreams. First, Olivi notes, we can obviously dream about objects that transcend our sensory powers; we can dream, for instance, about faith, chastity, charity, understanding, and love. According to the standard explanation, dreams are caused when the sensitive part of our soul calls up sensory representations of things we experienced when we were awake. But there are clearly no sensory representations of abstract objects such as faith, chastity, and the like, because they transcend the sensory realm.45 A defender of the standard explanation might respond by saying that in dreams we use sensory representations of these items; for instance, we represent the sound or the image of the words “faith” or “chastity,” or we represent what we felt when we thought about these things. But I think this explanation would not be enough for Olivi. For then, rather than being able to dream that we think about chastity or faith, we would just dream as if we were thinking about them or what it would be like to be thinking about them. Olivi seems to believe that this is not enough and that we can actually think when we are dreaming. Second, the outcome of our dreams is further evidence for Olivi that the common explanation of reason-like activities must be wrong and that actual thought can take place in sleep. For when we dream of making arguments we do not merely dream of making arguments already made when we were awake. We can also make new  Quodlibet I, qq. 6-7, in Defraia (2002, 24): “Secundum ueritatem illa species non representat in somniis rem presentem, immo uere absentem; nec mirum, quia omnino impossibilis est ad representandum rem ut realiter et uere presentem, quia ex sua essentia habet representare rem ut absentem, sicut et omnis species memorialis de quarum genere est utique ipsa; ergo quod res falso estimetur esse presens ex defectu est rationis conferentis.” 44  Ibid.: “Sepe in somniis cogitamus nos somninare et aliquando in somniis dubitamus an id quod videmus in somniis sit ita in re, aut solum imaginabiliter appareat in somniis.” 45  Ibid. 24–25: “Rursus euasio, quam contra expressa experimenta plurium nostrarum ratiocinationum et necessarium contrarium quas facimus in somniis, non solum est falsa, sed et impossibilis, quia impossibile est quod aliqua impressio uel species cuiuscumque potentie sensitiue representet aliquod obiectum omnino trascendens omnem aspectum et ambitum potentiarum sensitiuarum. Constat autem quod uniuersales termini et eorum uniuersales habitudines, et maxime quando non sunt uniuersalia indiuiduorum sensibilium sed intellectualium, ut sunt largitas, castitas, fides, caritas, et amare et intelligere et consentire trascendunt omnino totum ambitum potentiarum sensitiuarum.” 43

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a­ rguments and explore completely new avenues of reasoning. But this should not be possible under the common explanation, according to which dreams come about from impressions left behind in the sensory powers.46 Again, a defender of the common explanation might respond that Olivi underestimates the power of the imagination and of our memory, which not only provide us with representations of things of which we were previously aware, but are also able to generate new representations on the basis of the ones we acquired when we were awake. In other words, Olivi’s understanding of our higher-level sensory cognitive powers is too passive. Here too, I think Olivi would not be impressed by the objection. Even if our higher-level sensory powers are active and capable of producing new representations, it is hard to see how they can produce the right sort of new representations, unless thinking is involved. For when we dream of making an argument we do not just dream of entertaining premises; we also dream of entertaining a conclusion, which has to fit the premises. It is hard to see how the laws governing thought are merely psychological laws of association. Should we now conclude that for Olivi, contrary to his contemporaries, we are fully able to think even when we are completely asleep? And if this is so, does he not acknowledge that there is a difference between my thinking now and my thinking during the night? Looking closer, the first question turns out to be more difficult than it seems at first. Note that the title of Olivi’s quodlibetal question (Quodlibet I, q. 7) is “How some people who are half asleep (semidormientes) see and hear and speak and walk and ride a horse …?” If Olivi’s point is merely to say that those who are not fully asleep can somehow think, then his view is not so radical. Or maybe he uses the term semidormientes simply to refer to sleepwalkers without thereby claiming that they are strictly speaking only half asleep. His quodlibetal question provides no decisive clues to determine this matter, but luckily he deals with sleep much more extensively in q. 59 of his so-called Questions on the second book of the Sentences.47 Although this longer discussion is, strictly speaking, concerned with whether children (infantes), those who sleep (dormientes), and mad people (furiosi) have free choice (liberum arbitrium), it contains many remarks that apply implicitly or explicitly to thought. Right from the start, Olivi affirms that “we understand during sleep many principles correctly and we are able to reason correctly about many things.”48 Since at the beginning of his response he also declares that “all generally agree” (omnes communiter conveniunt) that “the intellective part can sometimes, but not always, have activities” during sleep, in childhood, and in the state of madness, it seems as if Olivi does not have in mind the condition of the deepest possible  Ibid. 25: “Preterea, in somniis non solum facimus rationes quas prius in uigilia feceramus, immo aliquando inuenimus et facimus nouas et inusitatas et ualde subtiles; et etiam aliquando tales quas in uigilia uix unquam excogitassemus.” 47  In Quodlibet I, q. 7 he explicitly refers to this text (Defraia 2002, 23): “Licet autem de his diffusius tractauerim in generali quaestione de impedimento usus liberi arbitrii nihilominus hic breuiter tango …” 48  Quaestiones in II Sententiarum, q. 59, in Jansen (1924, 532). 46

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sleep, but a state in which we are overcome by a sleep that only partly affects our cognitive capacities.49 So Olivi too thinks that sleep affects our intellectual capacities. In explaining how this happens, he develops an idea that can already be found in the writings of his Franciscan confrère Bonaventure, who locates the impediment that sleep imposes on thought in the substantial union of body and soul.50 According to Olivi, although the human body and the intellective soul are not united as matter and form, that is, by a formal union (formalis unio)—for he denies that the intellective soul can be the form of the body—both are still intimately connected by a substantial union (unio substantialis).51 As a result, the united parts enter into a certain mutual order, natural connectedness (naturalis colligantia), and interdependence, which means that changes in the body will immediately affect the functioning of even the intellective soul.52 How do bodily conditions such as sleep affect the intellect? They do so by affecting the intellect’s “general focus” (generalis aspectus), which is nothing other than a “spiritual or intentional turning” of the psychological power towards its objects.53 When a deep sleep severely limits my intellectual focus, then I may not be able to think much; but if it only moderately interferes with my focus, as it usually does, then “one should very well admit that the higher part of the soul can during sleep do many things both with respect to intellective acts and also acts of the will.” By limiting the “general focus” of our psychological powers, sleep restricts what we can think about and the control we have over our thoughts. Moreover, sleep also restricts our will. But there are only two types of acts that our intellective soul is completely—and in principle—incapable of during sleep, and those are higher-level volitional acts, such as acts of choice and consent.54 The upshot of Olivi’s account of intellectual activity during sleep is quite optimistic: we can, at least in principle, have all sorts of intellectual acts, even if, due to the natural connectedness (naturalis colligantia) of body and intellective soul, sleep affects the focus of our intellectual powers and consequently the range with which we can employ them. That the will is incapable of genuinely free acts during sleep is an additional reason why we lack the mastery (dominium) over our thoughts that we usually enjoy when we are awake. It is interesting to compare this account with that of Thomas Aquinas. Both thinkers allow for intellectual activity during sleep, unless someone is in a really deep sleep where all cognitive functions are off.  Ibid. 530 and 552 (about the somnus profundissimus).  In II Sententiarum, dist. 25, p. 2, a. un., q. 6, in Bonaventure (1885, 623a). 51  Quaestiones in II Sententiarum, q. 59, in Jansen (1924, 538–540). For Olivi, the sensitive soul is the form of the body, and body and intellective soul are united via the sensitive soul (see Quaestiones in II Sententiarum, q. 51). For more on this issue, see Pasnau (1997). 52  Ibid. 547–548. 53  Ibid. 549–551. For the “definition” of aspectus see ibid. 543. 54  Ibid. 563–564: “Dicendum quod bene concedendum est partem superiorem in somnis multa posse agere et quantum ad actus intellectuales et etiam voluntatis. Et pro tanto sunt concedenda omnia argumenta et auctoritates quae hoc probant, quoniam veraciter hoc probant; tamen eligere et consentire non conveniunt sibi proprie in statu isto.” We can perform actions that seem like acts of choice or consent during sleep, but real choices and acts of consent are not possible in this condition. 49 50

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But contrary to Olivi, Aquinas pins the lack of control over our thoughts on an incapacitation on the side of the intellect (and not of the will). According to Aquinas, sleep does not primarily affect the intellect’s ability to apprehend objects; rather it disables its power to make judgments. What the sleeper thus lacks is the free judgment of reason (liberum iudicium rationis); for this reason, he is also incapable of free choice of the will, which presupposes judgments of reason.55 Against this background, Olivi is indeed more radical than his predecessors, since he thinks that all types of intellectual acts are possible during sleep.

5  Richard of Middleton Olivi’s criticism of the standard argument for why we cannot think during sleep and his own alternative account of how sleep can impede our intellectual activities point to the fact that there was debate among thirteenth-century philosophers about the exact mechanism by which sleep interferes with our intellect (and will).56 We have also seen an attempt to provide multiple explanations of this phenomenon in Gerard of Abbeville. Quodlibet I, q. 17 of Richard of Middleton (1284) is another example of a text that explores different explanations—or at least different aspects—of what is going on with our intellect in sleep.57 Richard advances three reasons for the impossibility of thought during sleep. The third is his version of the traditional argument based on the unavailability of the right sort of phantasms. Compared with his predecessors, especially Henry of Ghent and Gerard of Abbeville, Richard’s version of this argument is less technical and relies on the notions of order and disorder. The basic idea is that in order to think the intellect requires phantasms, as a boy who has not yet been instructed in mathematics needs examples and drawings in the sand in order to learn. Now, just as it is clear that only well-ordered examples and drawings will make it possible for the boy to learn, so only well-ordered acts of imagination will make thinking possible.58 In sleep, however, the movement of the vapours and what goes along with it cause a 55  Summa Theologiae II–II 154.5 and ibid. ad 3; Summa Theologiae II–II 172.1 ad 2. The idea that during sleep the agent’s judgment is affected can already be found in Aristotle (De somno 461b5). We saw earlier how Peter of Tarentaise uses it to explain the functioning of the senses during sleep (above n15). 56  See also the text mentioned in n31 above. 57  Richard’s Sentences commentary contains what looks like an abbreviated version of this quodlibetal question. See In II Sententiarum, dist. 25, a. 5, q. 2, in Richard of Middleton (1591, 333–334). 58  Quodlibet I, q. 17, in Richard of Middleton (1509, f. 8va): “Oportet ipsum [i.e. intellectum] per actum ordinatum alicuius sensitiue interioris ad intelligendum quasi sensibiliter manu duci, sicut puero parum instructo oportet ostendi exempla et protractiones in puluere, ut per ista sensibilia manu ducatur ad acquirendam intellectualem cognitionem. Unde Avicenna expresse vult VI Naturalium lib. 5, c. 1, quod intellectus iuuatur per imaginationem quod est intelligendum per ordinatum actum imaginationis, quia inordinatus imaginationis actus non iuuaret, sed noceret, sicut mala exemplificatio et inordinata in puluere magis peruerteret intellectum discipuli quam dirigeret.” The example of the boy is obviously an allusion to the slave boy being taught mathematics by Socrates in Plato’s Meno.

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disorder in our phantasms, so that they no longer enable the activity of the intellect. As we have seen, this argument is open to Olivi’s criticism, for as long as there is a phantasm in sleep, there has to be a better account of what renders thought impossible. Disorder in the phantasms may explain why they are not conducive to knowing the truth, but it hardly explains why they cannot lead to any intellectual activity at all. Luckily, Richard has two other reasons for denying thoughts to those who sleep. The first is based on the idea that in order for a thing to be animated it has to be in a certain state of equilibrium (equalitas), that is, a certain equal disposition among its parts. And different forms of soul require different equilibria, for not every chunk of matter can become a plant or an animal or a human being.59 We also see this at the end of life, where a loss of equilibrium in matter leads to the death of an organism. Applied to the intellective soul, this idea means two things. First, the intellective soul can be considered in two ways, either in so far as it informs the human body, giving it life and its nature as a human being; in this case, we say that the intellective soul is in first actuality. Or we consider the intellective soul in so far as it is fully actual, that is, when it thinks, in which case we say that the intellective soul is in second actuality. Obviously, the equilibrium required for the intellective soul to inform the human body is not the same as the one required for the soul to think. And this explains why we are sometimes unable to think, as in the case of sleep, when the equilibrium of the human being is so changed by the vapours resulting from our nutritive processes that the intellective soul can no longer be in second actuality.60 It might be hard to say exactly what this equilibrium of our body required for thought consists in, but this does not render the idea implausible. Note that, unlike in Gerard of Abbeville’s additional arguments for the impossibility of thought during sleep, Richard wants to make sure that his arguments point to a specific cause for why thought is disabled. This quest for a specific cause that is appropriate to the phenomenon is also manifest in Richard’s second argument. This argument is a version of the one Gerard gives on the basis of the intensity of other acts of the soul, in particular the intensity of nutritive acts. The reason why intense nutritive processes in sleep shut out any intellectual activity, rather than cancelling all cognitive activity, is that understanding, as the highest activity of the highest power of the human soul, requires an especially strong effort (conatus) on the part of the soul.61 The latter is clear from the fact that in thinking many powers of the soul are engaged all at once. When the soul thinks, it is, according to Richard, like someone running very fast. When acts of the vegetative soul, such as acts of our nutritional capacities, require some of the soul’s effort, this amount is subtracted  Ibid. f. 8ra–b.  Ibid. f. 8rb: “Tunc autem dico quod in somnis, cum homo est perfecte dormiens propter vapores et retractationem caloris et spirituum ad interiora et frigiditatem ipsius cerebri fit quedam ingrossatio et compressio in organis virium sensitiuarum interiorum per quam ingrossationem et compressionem fit recessus quamdiu homo dormit ab illo gradu equalis dispositionis, qui requirebatur ad hoc quod anima intellectiua esse posset in actu secundo qui est intelligere.” 61  Ibid. f. 8va: “Ad actum nobilioris virtutis requiritur maior conatus.” 59 60

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from the effort necessary to maintain the “fast movement” of the soul. Like the runner who has to slow down when he is deprived of strength, the soul slows down in its cognitive activity. Richard’s point is this: a runner who moves more slowly is still moving. Likewise, when the soul is no longer engaged in its highest activity (that is, the activity of its highest part) on account of its diminishing strength, it is still engaged in some cognitive activity, albeit a notch down the scale. This is why during sleep the soul still engages in activities of the imaginative power.62 Whatever we think of the force of Richard’s new arguments, and he himself does not seem too sure about their individual strength,63 they do represent a significant change in comparison with earlier attempts to argue for the absence of thought during sleep. Note that, whereas some discussions of the possibility of thinking during sleep—for instance, the one in Gerard of Abbeville—make an explicit connection with Aristotle’s account of sleep in the Parva naturalia, with Richard we move ever farther away from Aristotle’s text. However, there is another quodlibetal question by Richard of Middleton that addresses, like Boethius of Dacia’s treatise, the issue of whether we can know the future through dreams: Quodlibet III, q. 11 (1286). From a philosophical point of view, Richard’s response is not very interesting. Of course, his response is to a limited extent positive and it follows closely the text of Aristotle’s De divinatione. “Following” is probably not the right term here, for Richard copies verbatim large chunks of Aristotle’s work, supplementing it with bits of the chapter on dreams in Avicenna’s Liber de anima.64 From this question alone we would not get the impression that Richard is otherwise an innovative thinker. There is, however, one element of Richard’s treatment of foreknowledge through dreams that is worth noting. At the beginning of the question he raises the objection that knowing the future through dreams is impossible, for we do not even know the future when we are awake, at least not by natural means. How then would we be able to do so when we are asleep?65 In De divinatione (463a8–22), Aristotle had already argued that small changes in us are more easily noticed during sleep than when we are awake, for in sleep we do not undergo the big perceptual changes characteristic of being awake. Richard turns this observation into a defence of the cogni Ibid.: “Nunc autem ita est quod in somnis excessiue intenduntur actus ipsius vegetatiue ad ipsam partem nutritiuam, ita quod tantum fertur de conatu ipsius anime ad illam actionem quam totaliter retrahitur ab actu intelligendi, cum tamen possint remanere in apprehensione interiori, que est per sensitiuas interiores. … Sicut enim vides quod citius impeditur homo ab actu velociter ambulandi quam ab actu ambulandi qualicumque ita citius impeditur homo a nobili apprehensione, que est apprehensio intellectualis, quam ab apprehensione minus nobili, que est apprehensio imaginaria.” 63  See ibid. f. 8vb: “Utrum autem quelibet istarum rationum per se esset sufficiens causa non affirmo nec nego, sed dico aut quod quelibet istarum esset per se sufficiens causa illius impedimenti aut quod iste tres sunt simul una sufficiens causa.” 64  Liber de anima seu sextus de naturalibus, lib. 4, c. 2, in van Riet (1968, 12–34). Although it has not yet been mentioned in this contribution, this text of Avicenna is one of the main sources for medieval philosophical discussions of dreams. 65  Quodlibet III, q. 11, in Richard of Middleton (1509, f. 34ra): “Contra quia plus potest anima in vigilando quam in dormiendo. Sed vigilando non potest naturaliter preuidere futura, ergo nec in dormiendo.” 62

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tive value of dreams. Although it is true that the soul is in general more powerful when we are awake, “this is not always true with respect to foreseeing the future through some determinate natural cause.”66 Dreams can lead us to know the future because we more readily experience the effects of some internal or external natural cause (respectively, in our body and in our natural environment) in dreams than would otherwise be the case. In this sense, dreams have their own place in our cognitive economy. In this respect, Richard goes far beyond Boethius of Dacia’s more defensive treatment of the cognitive value of dreams.

6  Conclusion With the exception of Boethius of Dacia’s De somniis, I have organized this survey around quodlibetal questions, that is, questions debated at special public sessions during Lent and Advent at the Faculty of Theology in Paris or, in Peter John Olivi’s case, in the Franciscan convent of Montpellier. Although this gives us a relatively small sample of texts over a thirty-year period, I hope that these texts nevertheless offer some impressions regarding the philosophical and theological preoccupations of the thinkers in this period and some ideas for further study. I have occasionally reached out to other works of the authors who debated quodlibetal questions on sleep, yet there remains a vast number of texts I haven’t been able to discuss.67 I hope it has become clear that later medieval philosophers and theologians did not consider sleep a state of mere inactivity, but one of considerable activity. If we consider the fact that we sleep a significant amount of time every night, it is only natural to ask what activities we engage in while we are sleeping and, in particular, whether what we do during sleep has any moral significance. The physio-­ psychological discussions in the three Aristotelian treatises the medievals subsumed under the title De somno and in Aristotle’s De memoria are of great importance in this respect, even if this does not always come across at first sight when we look at the medieval works themselves. To be sure, Aristotle never explicitly examines the question of whether or not one can think during sleep and therefore also whether  Ibid. f. 35ra–b.  There are at least two further authors who debated quodlibetal questions whom I was not able to discuss in this study: Matthew of Aquasparta, Quodlibet III, 6 (“Utrum anima in somnis adeo ligetur per actum vegetativae et sensitivae quod non possit cohibere actum virtutis vegetativae quantum ad ultimum complementum?”); and Raymund Rigaldi, Quodlibet VII, q. 24: “Utrum dormiens possit actus vigilantium exercere”; Quodlibet VIII, q. 20: “Utrum gaudium de eodem gaudibili in dormiente sit maius quam in vigilante.” These texts remain unedited. See the database “Quodlibase” (http://quodlibase.ehess.fr) for a list of quodlibetal question on sleep. Of course, there are many other texts by theologians engaging with the same material. A locus classicus for discussions of sleep and cognitive functions during sleep are commentaries on the second book of Peter Lombard’s Sentences and in particular commentaries on distinction 25 on free choice (liberum arbitrium). Many of these commentaries contain questions on whether we can maintain liberum arbitrium during sleep. In this contribution I have occasionally looked at commentaries on this passage, but the amount of untapped material is large.

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one can perform morally relevant actions during sleep. However, this does not show that medieval philosophers and theologians embark on an un-Aristotelian line of thought here. Thinking so would be very narrow-minded. It is of course true that the medieval pursuit of questions regarding intellectual activities in sleep is motivated by the interpretation of certain biblical dreams and moral problems raised by Augustine. But these questions also come naturally to every reader of Aristotle’s works, because they arise from certain things Aristotle says about the nature of the intellect and its relationship to phantasms. Even the question of the possibility of moral action during sleep has roots in Aristotle’s works. Just think of the passage in the Nicomachean Ethics, quoted by Henry of Ghent, that “the dreams of the just are better than those of all the others.” Yet just a couple of lines earlier, Aristotle also says that “when they are asleep you cannot tell a good man from a bad one” (1.13, 1102b6–7). Is this not a motivation to ask whether and how we are morally responsible during sleep? Even if the texts presented here are not commentaries on passages from the Parva naturalia, I suggest that we consider them as part of the wider commentary tradition.68 And if we do so, it will be somewhat less puzzling that there are relatively few extant commentaries on the Parva naturalia from the thirteenth century. For the number of proper commentaries gives us, in any case, just a meagre idea of the importance of Aristotle’s texts.

Bibliography Bianchi, Luca. 2005. Felicità intellettuale, “ascetismo” e “arabismo”: nota sul “De summo bono” di Boezio di Dacia. In Le felicità nel Medioevo: atti del convegno della Società Italiana per lo Studio del Pensiero Medievale (S.I.S.P.M.), Milano, 12–13 settembre 2003, ed. Maria Bettetini and Francesco D. Paparella, 13–34. Louvain-la-Neuve: Fédération internationale des instituts d’études médiévales. Bonaventure. 1885. = S.  Bonaventurae Opera omnia edita studio et cura PP.  Collegii a S. Bonaventura. Vol. 2. Quaracchi, Florence: ex typographia collegii S. Bonaventurae. Boulnois, Olivier. 2011. Sive dormiat sive vigilet: le sommeil du juste et l’activité du sage selon Albert le Grand, Boèce de Dacie et Maître Eckhart. In Philosophy and theology in the long middle ages: A tribute to Stephen F.  Brown, ed. Kent Emery Jr., Russell L.  Friedman, and Andreas Speer, 303–319. Leiden: Brill. Boureau, Alain. 1993a. La redécouverte de l’autonomie du corps: l’émergence du somnambule (XIIe–XIVe s.). Micrologus 1: 27–42. ———. 1993b. Pierre de Jean Olivi et le semi-dormeur: une élaboration médiévale de l’activité inconsciente. Nouvelle Revue de Psychanalyse 48: 231–238.  They can be considered continuations of issues raised in contemporary De somno commentaries, which all raise questions about the opera vigiliae of people who are asleep. See, for instance, the commentaries by Simon of Faversham (q. 6) and Godfrey of Aspall (book I, q. 16), both edited by Ebbesen (2013 and 2014, respectively). In fact, in Walter Burley’s commentary on De somno et vigilia, which dates to the first decade of the fourteenth century, the question of whether the intellect is “tied up” (ligatur) in sleep is now a part of the commentary (as q. X.2). See Thomsen Thörnqvist (2014, 505–506).

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Defraia. 2002. = Petri Iohannis Olivi Quodlibeta quinque, curavit Stephanus Defraia. Grottaferrata: Editiones Collegii S. Bonaventurae ad Claras Aquas. Ebbesen, Sten. 2013. Simon of Faversham, Quaestiones super librum De somno et vigilia: An edition. Cahiers de l’Institut du Moyen-Âge grec et latin 82: 90–145. ———. 2014. Geoffrey of Aspall, Quaestiones super librum De somno et vigilia: An edition. Cahiers de l’Institut du Moyen-Âge grec et latin 83: 257–341. Fioravanti, Gianfranco. 1966–1967. La scientia sompnialis di Boezio di Dacia. Atti della Accademia delle scienze di Torino, classe di scienze morali, storiche e filologiche 101: 329–369. Gauthier, René-Antoine. 1982. Le traité De anima et de potenciis eius d’un maître ès arts (vers 1225): Introduction et texte critique. Revue des sciences philosophiques et théologiques 66: 3–55. Glorieux, Palémon. 1937. Le Quodlibet de Pierre de Tarentaise. Recherches de théologie ancienne et médiévale 9: 237–280. Green-Pedersen. 1976. = Boethii Daci opera: opuscula, ed. N.  G. Green-Pedersen. Corpus Philosophorum Danicorum Medii Aevi 6.2. Copenhagen: Gad. Jansen. 1924. = Fr. Petri Ioannis Olivi Quaestiones in secundum librum Sententiarum, primum edidit B.  Jansen. Vol. 2. Quaestiones 49–71. Quaracchi, Florence: ex typographia collegii S. Bonaventurae. Kraml. 1995. = Guillelmus de la Mare, Scriptum in secundum librum Sententiarum. Ed. Hans Kraml. Munich: C. H. Beck. Kruger, Steven F. 1992. Dreaming in the middle ages. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Matthew of Aquasparta. 1957. = Fr. Matthaei ab Aquasparta Quaestiones disputatae de fide et de cognitione, editio secunda cura PP. Collegii S. Bonaventurae. Quaracchi, Florence: ex typographia collegii S. Bonaventurae. Mauro, Vincenzo. 1999. La questione della ratio ligata e Pietro di Giovanni Olivi. In Pierre de Jean Olivi (1248–1298): pensée scolastique, dissidence spirituelle et société, ed. Alain Boureau and Sylvain Piron, 57–70. Paris: Vrin. Pasnau, Robert. 1997. Olivi and the metaphysics of soul. Medieval Philosophy and Theology 6: 109–132. Pattin, Adrien. 1993. L’anthropologie de Gérard d’Abbeville: étude préliminaire et édition critique de plusieurs Questions quodlibétiques concernant le sujet, avec l’édition complète du De cogitationibus. Leuven: Leuven University Press. Richard of Middleton. 1509. = Authorati Theologi Ricardi de Media Villa … tria recognita reconcinnataque Quodlibeta …. Venice: L. Soardus. ———. 1591. = Clarissimi Theologi Magistri Ricardi de Mediavilla … super quatuor libros Sententiarum Petri Lombardi Quaestiones subtilissimae …. Brescia: V. Sabbius. Shields. 1949. =  Averrois Cordubensis Compendia librorum Aristotelis qui Parva naturalia vocantur, ed. A.L. Shields. Cambridge, MA: Medieval Academy of America. Thomsen Thörnqvist, Christina. 2014. Walter Burley’s Expositio on Aristotle’s treatises on sleep and dreaming: An edition. Cahiers de l’Institut du Moyen-Âge grec et latin 83: 379–515. van Riet. 1968. = Avicenna Latinus, Liber de anima seu sextus de naturalibus iv–v, édition critique de la traduction latine médiévale par Simone van Riet. Louvain: Éditions orientalistes & Leiden: Brill. Wilson. 1987. = Henrici de Gandavo Quodlibet VI. Ed. G. A. Wilson. Leuven: Leuven University Press. Wippel. 1987. = Boethius of Dacia, On the supreme good; On the eternity of the world; On dreams. Trans. F. John Wippel. Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies.

Chapter 12

George Scholarios’ Abridgment of the Parva naturalia: Its Place in His Œuvre and in the History of Byzantine Aristotelianism John A. Demetracopoulos

Abstract  George Gennadios II – Scholarios’ (ca. 1400–paulo post 1472) abridgment of the Parva naturalia forms part of his abridgment of Theodore Metochites’ (1270–1332) Paraphrasis of Aristotle’s natural works. Scholarios adds two Complementary Notes of his own, where, drawing directly upon Thomas Aquinas’ two Summae (in Demetrios Kydones’ Greek translation) and Albert the Great’s Paraphrasis of the Parva naturalia, he shows that Aristotle’s theory of dreams and prophecy is compatible with Christianity. In so doing, he deliberately refutes George Pachymeres’ (1242–post 1307) Complementary Note to his own Paraphrasis of Aristotle’s De divinatione per somnum (which is part of a full paraphrasis of Aristotle’s works), where it is argued that it is Platonic rather than Aristotelian anthropology that can provide Christian theology with a proper basis for accounting for God-sent dreams and prophecy. Το Scholarios, it is not man who renders himself a “matter” appropriate for receiving the “form” of revelation by setting his divine element free to receive God’s messages; rather, it is God Himself who provides not only “form” but even the “matter” itself. There follows a discussion of Scholarios’ Aristotelianism in the light of the above new findings. The article includes, in two Appendices, a re-edition of Scholarios’ abridgment of Metochites’ paraphrasis of Aristotle’s De divinatione per somnum along with a provisional editio princeps of Metochites’ paraphrasis, and a provisional editio princeps of Pachymeres’ paraphrasis of the same work.

J. A. Demetracopoulos (*) University of Patras, Patras, Greece e-mail: [email protected] © Springer International Publishing AG, part of Springer Nature 2018 B. Bydén, F. Radovic (eds.), The Parva naturalia in Greek, Arabic and Latin Aristotelianism, Studies in the History of Philosophy of Mind 17, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-26904-7_12

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1  Scholarios and Aristotle 1.1  Scholarios’ General Stance Towards Plato and Aristotle George – Gennadios II Scholarios (c. 1400–shortly after 1472), one of the major philosophical and theological figures and the most prolific author of the Byzantine era,1 is characterised by a unique as well as peculiar esteem for Aristotle. He holds2 that most of the ancient philosophers failed in their speculations on truth and morality; truth coincides fully with Christianity. Scholarios calls the intellectual world before Christ “the era of universal error,” the intellectual world after Christ being referred to, by sharp contrast, as “the era of truth.” Christians, therefore, have no need of and should not in principle favour any particular philosophical trend. Still, Scholarios stresses (by radicalising the Aristotelianism of his mentor, Mark Eugenikos), Aristotle had held fewer errors than Plato; his philosophy is incomparably closer to Christianity than that of Plato or any other ancient philosopher. Plato (like his predecessor, Pythagoras, the other of the three major ancient Greek philosophers) had greatly profited from Moses and the Egyptian sages; still, he badly mixed up their sacred truths with some Greek myths, thereby producing “a strange, abnormal philosophy” (ξένη τις καὶ ἀήθης φιλοσοφία), which, being an incoherent whole, failed to illuminate humankind. Thus Plato inaugurated a type of philosophy that, even in its most sophisticated versions, was always to prove guilty of polytheism and gave rise to the various anti-Trinitarian heresies by means of grading the three “principal hypostases.” By contrast, Aristotle (whose name Scholarios often uses along with—i.e. interchangeably with—“the philosopher,” “the truth,” and “the right opinion”),3 is depicted by Scholarios as an intellectual hero who, as if motivated by God, broke with polytheism and established, by means of his physics 1  On Scholarios’ life, personality and historical context, see Blanchet (2008). See also Tinnefeld (2002, 477–91); Demetracopoulos (forthcoming-a). 2  George Scholarios-Gennadios II, Εἰς τὸν εὐαγγελισμὸν τῆς ὑπεραγίας δεσποίνης ἡμῶν Θεοτόκου καὶ ἀειπαρθένου Μαρίας 25 (in Jugie et al. I: 23.2–4); Εἰς τὴν ἑορτὴν τῆς Ὀρθοδοξίας 4; 5 (in Jugie et al. I: 106.23–29; 108.16–32); Περὶ τῆς μόνης ὁδοῦ πρὸς τὴν σωτηρίαν τῶν ἀνθρώπων 6; 19 (in Jugie et al. III: 440.11–16; 451.14–21); Κατὰ τῶν Πλήθωνος ἀποριῶν ἐπ’ Ἀριστοτέλει (in Jugie et  al. IV: 2–14; 16–18; 77.25–28; 85.8–9; 95.5; 100.32–37; 113.5–6; 116.14–15); Τῷ Ἐφέσου Γεώργιος (in Jugie et  al. IV: 117.25–30; 118.16–17; 122.10–31; 125.7–12); Πρὸς Πλήθωνα ἐπὶ τῇ πρὸς τὸ ὑπὲρ Λατίνων βιβλίον αὐτοῦ ἀπαντήσει ἢ κατὰ Ἑλλήνων (in Jugie et al. IV: 170.21–25); Περὶ τοῦ βιβλίου τοῦ Γεμιστοῦ, καὶ κατὰ τῆς Ἑλληνικῆς πολυθεΐας (in Jugie et al. IV: 156.4–5; 156.18–19); Epistle to his disciple John (in Jugie et al. IV: 399.20–33); Paraphrasis of Aristotle’s De divinatione per somnum, ll. 85–98 (in Jugie et al. VII: 462.26–40; cf. Appendix I, pp. 301–2); Περὶ ἀνθρωπίνης εὐδαιμονίας· Ἀριστοτέλους καὶ Πλωτίνου συμβιβαστικόν (in Jugie et al. VIII: 505–7); Notes on the De caelo (VII: 424.4). On Scholarios’ philosophy-myth contrast, which mainly derives from Thomas Aquinas’ Commentary on Metaphysics, see Athanasopoulos (2015a). 3  Cf. Michael of Ephesus (Ps.-Alexander of Aphrodisias), Commentary on Metaphysics M: “… ὡς αὐτῷ τε Ἀριστοτέλει καὶ τῇ φίλῃ δοκεῖ ἀληθείᾳ” (in Hayduck 1891, 724.12).

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and metaphysics, monotheism, which is a fundamental Christian tenet. He also provided humankind with logic,4 which is an indispensable tool for producing clear notions and discerning truth from falsehood. In a possibly deliberate contrast with Michael Psellos’ celebrated indignant exclamation: “Are indeed Plato and Chrysippus [instead of Jesus Christ,5 whom I am supposed to follow] mine?,” which implied that no Christian can properly call any philosopher “his,” that is, regard him as formative of his intellectual identity, Scholarios did not hesitate to call Aristotle “his.”6 Besides, Scholarios regards Aristotle’s philosophy as part of God’s plan, in possible contrast with John of Damascus, who had attacked the integration of some Aristotelian concepts into theology by mocking the idea that Aristotle can be taken by Christians as a kind of thirteenth Apostle.7 To Scholarios, Aristotle, for all his emphasis on experience and reasoning, agreed with Plato that there is a sort of knowledge superior to that resulting from evidence and demonstration, namely, “inspiration” (ἐπίπνοια) or “possession by the divine” (θεία κατοχή). Still, Aristotle was aware that he was not one of the persons privileged with this exceptional sort of knowledge and that one should not mix up “things which by nature cannot be mixed with each other”; for “the philosopher’s task is to show the truth by means of arguments” (or “by means of plausible or necessary arguments”) and find out “what results from reason.” In so doing, Aristotle invented philosophical method proper  Cf. George Cedrenus, Historiarum compendium: “… Ἀριστοτέλης … εἰς τέχνην τὴν φιλοσοφίαν ἤγαγε καὶ λογικώτερος ἐγένετο” (in Bekker 1838, 281.11–12). Cf. infra, p. 275. 5  Cf. Gregory Nazianzen, Oration XVII 1, exordium: “… Ἰησοῦς ὁ ἐμὸς …” (PG 36: 336A); Oration XXI 29, 13: “… τὸν ἐμὸν Ἰησοῦν …” (in Mossay and Lafontaine 1980, 172); Oration XLIII 56, 5: “… ὁ ἐμὸς Ἰησοῦς …” (in Bernardi 1992, 244). 6  Scholarios, Κατὰ τῶν Πλήθωνος ἀποριῶν ἐπ’ Ἀριστοτέλει (in Jugie et al. IV: 95.23). Cf. Michael Psellos’ Epistle to Xiphilinos 7 (in Criscuolo 1990, 56). Scholarios, in the course of his negative depiction of the Byzantines’ interpretation of Aristotle, mentions as examples two names, one of them being Psellos’ (see infra, p. 237). Scholarios knew his Psellos well; it seems that he had made certain scholia on some of the versions of Psellos’ Paraphrasis of the De Interpretatione (see Cacouros 2015, 42–43; Balcoyiannopoulou 2018: 104–5). Psellos’ view of Aristotle was much more negative than positive (see Bydén 2003, 45 n17). 7  John of Damascus, Contra Jacobitas 10.10–14: “Οὐκ ἔστι τοῦτο φλήναφος καὶ ‘διανοίας ἀνάπλασμα κακοδαίμονος, δαιμόνων εὕρημα σκοτεινόν’ (Gregory Nazianzen, Oratio XXXIX 3 in Moreschini 1990, 152–54) καὶ τῆς Ἑλληνικῆς ‘τερθρείας’ (cf. Clement of Alexandria, Stromata I, 3, 22, 4, in Mondésert 1951, 60) τεράτευμα; Τίς τοῦτο τῶν θεοφόρων εἴρηκε πώποτε, εἰ μή που τὸν παρ’ ὑμῖν ἅγιον Ἀριστοτέλην ἡμῖν ὡς τρισκαιδέκατον ἀπόστολον εἰσαγάγοιτε καὶ τῶν θεοπνεύστων τὸν εἰδωλολάτρην προκρίνοιτε;” (in Kotter 1981, 113–14). Of course, John does not banish Aristotle from theology; his own Dialectica, confected out of some third-hand logical stuff, stands as a clear and clearly stated instance of philosophia (Aristotelica) ancilla theologiae. What his above-quoted passage means is that one should not apply Aristotelian concepts to theology unconditionally – which is a principle presumably shared by every Byzantine theologian. On the Greek Patristic and Byzantine critique of using Aristotle (or whatever his name stood for) in theology see, e.g., de Ghellinck (1930, passim); Vandenbussche (1944–45, passim); Bydén (2013, 152–4; 155 n34); Demetracopoulos (2015, 358; 366). 4

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and demarcated for the first time the specific research fields that fall under what can be strictly called “science.”8 As for those Platonic philosophers who, like, for ­example, Plotinus, laid emphasis on a superior type of knowledge and ethics, the so-­called mystical knowledge, which leads one to a supernatural state, one should not fail to recognise that these philosophers, man- and earth-oriented as they were by profession and default, did not come to think of this high state by themselves; they simply stole it from Christianity, just as several pre-Christian philosophers, including Plato himself, had profited a lot, thanks to their contacts with Egypt, from the earliest form of divine revelation, that is, the revelation to the Jews.9 Even in the case that some philosophers look like they are expounding metaphysical or ethical truths higher than those explicitly stated by Aristotle, a careful reading of Aristotle’s writings shows that these truths are in fact contained in nuce in his philosophy.10 To Scholarios, Aristotle’s superiority regards not only logic but also physics and ethics, that is, all the branches of philosophy.11 So, it is natural that Scholarios highly praised the “Westerners” for duly recognizing Aristotle’s superiority. The highest 8  Scholarios, Κατὰ τῶν Πλήθωνος ἀποριῶν ἐπ’ Ἀριστοτέλει (in Jugie et al. IV: 14.35–16.26; 18.3–6; 21.9–14; 83.14–20). Regarding Pythagoras, Plato and Aristotle as the pre-eminent philosophers of the Antiquity occurs, inter alia, in Themistius’ Sophista (in Schenkl et al. 1971, p. 94 = ed. Harduin 298C) and David’s Prolegomena philosophiae (in Busse 1904, 39.15–17). David’s text was reproduced in Michael Psellos’ Ἐπίλυσις εἰς τοὺς τῆς φιλοσοφίας τρόπους 205–7, in Duffy (1992, 184 and app. font.); see also Psellos’ Opuscula theologica 23.29–31, in Gautier (1989, 87). David puts these three philosophers into one group in terms of their having offered the three major definitions of philosophy. — Scholarios’ list of the positive qualities of Aristotle and negative features of Plato and Platonism through history could have influenced George of Trebizond’s comparison of these two major classical philosophical milestones (see John Monfasani’s study in this volume, Chap. 13, pp. 317–318). 9  Scholarios, Περὶ ἀνθρωπίνης εὐδαιμονίας· Ἀριστοτέλους καὶ Πλωτίνου συμβιβαστικόν (in Jugie et al. VIII, 499–502). Scholarios borrows the idea that Plotinus drew on the heights of Christian spirituality directly from Theodoret of Cyrus’ Graecarum affectionum curatio II 82–88 (in Canivet 2000, 161.1–162.22; see Athanasopoulos 2015b, 178–9). Scholarios, for all his utilization of the Graecarum affectionum curatio, did not share Theodoret’s view (Graecarum affectionum curatio V 46, in Canivet 2000, 242; Haereticarum fabularum compendium 10, PG 83: 484C–D) that Aristotle, by contentiously attacking his master, led astray from truth. Plethon himself, in his reply to Scholarios’ Κατὰ τῶν Πλήθωνος ἀποριῶν ἐπ’ Ἀριστοτέλει, points out to his adversary that the major Christian intellectuals in Antiquity, such as Gregory Nazianzen (Oration XXVII 10.7–9 in Gallay and Jourjon 1978, 94–96; Epistle XXXII 5–6 in Gallay 1964, 40–41) and Cyril of Alexandria (Contra Julianum I 40.17–24; 42.12–18; 45; 47–48; II 16.15–17.26, in Burguière and Évieux 1985, 186; 190; 200–4; 238–40), voted in favour of Plato and deemed Aristotle by far inferior to him (Plethon, Πρὸς τὰς Σχολαρίου ὑπὲρ Ἀριστοτέλους ἀντιλήψεις IV 5–6 in Lagarde 1989, 374– 76 = Maltese 1988, 3.33–4.6). — Viewed from the aspect of its content and purpose, Scholarios’ Concordance of Aristotle and Plotinus on Man’s Happiness (see infra, p.  254, Table  1, No 34) looks like an appendix to his Commentary on Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics. 10  See also Riccoldo da Monte Croce’s (1243–1320) Contra legem Sarracenorum in Demetrios Kydones’ translation (probably in the 60s of the fourteenth century; Ἀνασκευὴ τῆς παρὰ τοῦ καταράτου Μαχουμὲθ τοῖς Σαρρακηνοῖς τεθείσης νομοθεσίας) 16 (PG 154: 1144B12–1145C1); cf. Scholarios, De unica via ad salutem hominis 19 (in Jugie et al. III: 450.19–451.17). 11  Aristotle (Topics 1.14, 105b20–25) was most probably the earliest author to explicitly distinguish, from their material aspect, philosophical and dialectical “propositions” and “problems” into these three classes.

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amongst the Westerners (and one of the greatest Christian thinkers of all times) was, for Scholarios, Thomas Aquinas, whom he calls “the voice of the Spirit.”12 Scholarios described himself as the greatest admirer of Thomas that ever existed and believed that, if one has read Thomas’ writings, one can profitably ignore all the rest.13 Scholarios implies that the fact that he recognized Thomas’ superiority made him the most important philosopher of his time.14 Scholarios regarded Thomas as the best interpreter of Aristotle; for that reason, he explains, he decided to translate or abridge some of Thomas’ bulky works and commentaries, with which he had “strongly felt in love.”15 Thomas’ quality of properly interpreting Aristotle is shared by the Latin commentators in general, who profited from all of their predecessors, both Greeks, Persians, and Arabs, especially the latter, the greatest among them being Averroes. In contrast with the Latins, certain Aristotelian commentators and interpreters in Antiquity (e.g., Plotinus, Marinus, and Ammonius, in contrast with some better ones, who tried, successfully or not, to grasp the essence of Aristotle’s thought, such as Theophrastus, Alexander of Aphrodisias, Porphyry, Syrianus, and Simplicius), being contaminated by the anti-Aristotelian spirit of some Platonists, or being Platonists themselves, distorted Aristotle’s thought. Likewise, Byzantines such as Leon Magentenos and, especially, Michael Psellos, influenced by them, made things even worse because of their eagerness to maliciously detect contradictions in Aristotle’s writings.16 For this reason, Scholarios, apart from certain Thomistic writings, translated some other Scholastic works, which he deemed useful for one to achieve a proper understanding of Aristotle. Scholarios followed Thomas’ and his 12  Scholarios, Τῷ φρονιμωτάτῳ καὶ εὐσεβεστάτῳ ἄρχοντι κυρῷ Μανουὴλ τῷ Οἰσῇ (in Jugie et al. IV: 486.6–7; see Demetracopoulos 2004, 135; Demetracopoulos 2006, 334). 13  Scholarios, Proem to his translation of Armandus de Bellovisu’s Commentary on Aquinas’ De ente et essentia (in Jugie et al. VI: 179.25–28). This extreme position sounds like an echo of what Albert the Great is reported to have said of Thomas’ writings: “… frater Thomas in scripturis suis imposuit finem omnibus laborantibus usque ad finem saeculi … Omnes deinceps frustra laborarent” (Processus canonizationis S. Thomae Aquinatis, in Laurent 1937, 383; on the rather low historical value of this report, see Weisheipl 1980a, 43–44). A similar eulogy of Thomas’ writings occurs in the concluding lines of Demetrios Kydones’ Defensio S. Thomae Aquinatis contra Nilum Cabasilam (see passage in Demetracopoulos 2004, 68). The fact that Scholarios had utilised Demetrios Kydones’ partial translation of Bernardus Guidonis’ Life of Thomas Aquinas (see Demetracopoulos 2010a, 847–8; Demetracopoulos 2018, 171–4) renders it possible that he also had access to some other biographical pieces regarding Aquinas. 14  Scholarios, Proem to his translation of Armandus de Bellovisu’s Commentary on Aquinas’ De ente et essentia (in Jugie et al. VI: 179.25–33; 180.20–21); Περὶ τοῦ βιβλίου τοῦ Γεμιστοῦ, καὶ κατὰ τῆς Ἑλληνικῆς πολυθεΐας (in Jugie et al. IV: 159.34–36). Cf. Demetracopoulos (2004, 20 n12). 15  Scholarios, Ἰωάννῃ μαθητῇ (in Jugie et  al. IV: 399.29–400.5); Proem to his abridgment of Aquinas’ Summa theologiae, Ia Pars and Summa contra Gentiles (in Jugie et al. V: 1.4–5); Proem to his translation of Armandus de Bellovisu’s Commentary on Aquinas’ De ente et essentia (in Jugie et al. VI: 177.11–178.5; 179.22–23; 179.25–180.26). On Scholarios’ acquaintance with the corpus thomisticum, see the Table in Demetracopoulos 2018, 165–9. 16  Scholarios, Dedicatory Epistle to Constantine Palaiologos (in Jugie et al. VII: 3.4–34); Ars vetus (in Jugie et al. VII: 338.2–339.6); Κατὰ τῶν Πλήθωνος ἀποριῶν ἐπ’ Ἀριστοτέλει (in Jugie et al. IV: 77.25–28; 85,8–9); Epistle to his disciple John (in Jugie et al. IV: 399.20–33).

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followers’ thought so closely and was so proud of doing so that he compiled ­commentaries on many Aristotelian writings which almost fully consist of numerous long parts of some Latin commentaries excerpted and/or translated by himself and signed with his own name (presumably justifying this plagiarism policy on the grounds that he was a teacher who used these commentaries as handbooks). Really his in these compilations seem to be just some sparse notes, including some occasional attacks on certain “bad” commentators on Aristotle. His trust for Thomas Aquinas was so great that he often cited passages from the Holy Scripture, Aristotle’s works and various Greek Fathers (e.g., Basil of Caesarea and John of Damascus) not directly, but by copying the passages as they stand in Demetrios and Prochoros Kydones’ translation of Thomas’ writings and for the same purpose as Aquinas.17

1.2  Scholarios and the Corpus Aristotelicum To assess Scholarios’ acquaintance with and utilization of the corpus aristotelicum, one must mainly use the old edition of (the majority of) his writings by L. Petit, X. A. Sidéridès and M. Jugie, which, in fact, was carried out in a relatively short time practically only by Jugie. Some of the partly venial (occasional or reiterated) shortcomings of this edition have been repeatedly noticed by scholars.18 Based partly on this edition and partly on the manuscripts themselves, and taking into account certain findings since Jugie’s time, I hereby (see pp. 240–55) offer a fuller list of the Scholarian pieces relevant to the corpus aristotelicum, which I also try to classify better. I also include some of Scholarios’ translations and abridgments of some of Aquinas’ works not directly related to the corpus aristotelicum, because Scholarios construed Aquinas’ reception of Aristotle in such monumental works as the Summa theologiae, Ia IIae and IIa IIae as authentic Aristotelianism. The Table does not contain full or partial copies of (or excerpts from) this or that of Aristotle’s works (e.g., Politics and Economics) in Scholarios’ hand, unless edited by M. Jugie. In the margins of some of them, as well as in the margins of some commentaries on Aristotle’s writings, there are some scholia by Scholarios.19

 See, e.g., Demetracopoulos (2007, 318–21); Demetracopoulos (2018, 132–3; 134–7; 140–4; 148–9). The preceding section is heavily indebted to Demetracopoulos (forthcoming-a). 18  See, e.g., Cacouros (2000, 406; 410); Demetracopoulos (2010b, 85–88); Cacouros 2015 passim; Balcoyiannopoulou 2018, 93–94. 19  On pieces of this kind, see Cacouros (2000, 421–4); Alexandru (2015, 8–23; with an edition of Scholarios’ excerpta from Metaphysics, Bk. XII, 1069a32–1076a4); Cacouros (2015, 10–12; 39; 42–43; 283–8; 316–21, with an edition of three brief Scholarian comments against Psellos and Magentenos); Demetracopoulos (2017, 249, n17); Balcoyiannopoulou (2018, 95).

17

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2  Scholarios’ Paraphrasis of the Parva naturalia 2.1  T  he Paraphrases of the Parva naturalia in the  Byzantine Era Scholarios’ abridgment of the Parva naturalia (Nos 19–26 in Table 1; pp. 248–50) is the last link in the (not so very long) chain of Byzantine paraphrases of this set of Aristotle’s writings. In Table 2 (p. 256), a list of the Mid- and Late Byzantine paraphrases of the natural works of Aristotle is offered.20 To facilitate comparison with Scholarios’ Paraphrasis and detection of its literary background, I italicize the works included in the Parva naturalia and set the titles of the pieces included in Scholarios’ paraphrasis in bold face. As one can see, the fullest version of the Parva naturalia in the Byzantine paraphrastic tradition, which is that by George Pachymeres, includes the following writings: De sensu et sensibilibus, De memoria et reminiscentia, De somno et vigilia, De insomniis, De divinatione per somnum, De motu animalium, De brevitate et longitudine vitae, De senectute et juventute et de vita et morte, and De respiratione. Still, regarding the pieces included, the order of the pieces of the Parva naturalia and its placement in the paraphrastic set of the corpus aristotelicum, it is Metochites’ (1270–1332) paraphrasis that Scholarios’ set resembles most. Out of the nine pieces of Metochites, Scholarios includes in his own set eight, all put in the same order. True, these eight works figure in the same order in Michael of Ephesus, too, whose Paraphrasis, as has been shown,21 is the fundamental (if not the exclusive) basis of Metochites’ Paraphrasis. Still, only in Metochites and Scholarios, the Meteorologica comes immediately afterwards. The fact that Scholarios omits the De sensu et sensibilibus, with which Metochites concludes his entire set of Aristotle’s natural works, can possibly be accounted for as follows: Scholarios, having abridged Metochites’ paraphrasis of the Meteorologica, found it awkward to follow him in putting a piece from the Parva naturalia after a meteorological writing.22 Of course,

 MacAlister (1990) has argued that some 11th–12th-century pieces of Byzantine romance literature testify to a direct knowledge of Aristotle’s De insomniis and De divinatione per somnum. See also Michele Trizio’s contribution to this volume, Chap. 9 (pp. 164–165). 21  See Drosaart Lulofs (1943, xxix; 24–36). Cf. Bydén (2003, 35 n113); Bloch (2005, 4); Bloch (2007, 15). Metochites reproduced slavishly even an insignificant bypassing reference to Aristotle’s Meteorologica by Michael (Michael of Ephesus, In Parva naturalia, in Wendland 1903a, 82.14–18). 22  Why did Metochites do so? As Börje Bydén kindly informs me, in a forthcoming study he suggests that this has probably to do with the fact that Metochites relied on Michael of Ephesus for his other Parva naturalia paraphrases, but since Michael had not commented on the De sensu, Metochites had to wait until he had access to Alexander’s commentary. An additional evidence for this is the fact that the Meteorology paraphrase is displaced, too; since Metochites used Alexander’s commentary on this work too, it is possible that Metochites postponed his last two paraphrases until he could lay hold of a manuscript containing both of Alexander’s commentaries (e.g., cod. Marc. gr. Z 230). 20

A 1

Προλεγόμενα εἰς τὴν Λογικὴν καὶ εἰς τὴν Πορφυρίου Εἰσαγωγήν, ἐκ διαφόρων συλλεγέντα βιβλίων, μετὰ ἰδίων ἐπιστασιῶν *** Porphyry, Isagoge in full

1) Vat. 2223, f. 5–68 VII: 2) Par. 1941, f. 9–55 7–113 3) Barb. 124, 1–74 4) Mut. 50, f. 5–65 5) Vat. 942, f. 155–198 6) Vat. 1777, f. 5–28

Title MSS. *** (mainly those used respective Aristotelian (or Porphyrean) work/-s in Jugie’s edition) Ars vetus

Content (A) logic (B) physics (C) biology (D) metaphysics Edition (E) ethics (Jugie et al. 1928–36, unless (F) Aristotle’s philosophy in otherwise general stated)

Table 1  George Scholarios – Gennadios II’s works on the corpus aristotelicum

prolegomena and commentary

Literary form - commentary - paraphrasis - abridgment - abridgment of a paraphrasis - excerpts - treatise - commentary on treatise - prolegomena - summa L: translation of Radulphus Brito’s Quaestiones super Artem Veterem, intro., qq. 1–5; 10–16; 19–32 (Ebbesen and Pinborg 1981–82)

Provenance Greek (G)/Latin (L); title of the background text/-s

didactic

Purpose - didactic use - private use - defence of Aristotle

c. 1433/5

Date (Jugie et al. 1928–36, unless otherwise stated)

Γίλμπερτος Πορρετᾶνος, Περὶ τῶν ἓξ ἀρχῶν· ἑρμηνεία *** Categories: selectively (agere, pati, quando, ubi, jacere, habitus; majus, minus) Commentary on the De Interpretatione

3

4

Εἰς τὸ βιβλίον τῶν Ἀριστοτέλους Κατηγοριῶν ἐξήγησις *** Categories in full

2

Par. 1941, f. 146

1) Vat. 2223, f. 69–146 2) Par. 1941, f. 55–103 3) Barb. 124, f. 74–161 4) Mut. 50, f. 66r–129r 5) Vat. 1777, f. 29–75 Mut. 50, f. 130–5



VIII: 338–50

VII: 114–237

Ars vetus

Ars vetus

Ars vetus

abridgment

treatise

commentary

didactic

didactic

L: translation of Radulphus Brito’s Quaestiones super Artem Veterem, on De Interpretatione, qu. 1–4 (Balcoyiannopoulou, forthcoming)

didactic

L: translation of Ps.-Gilbertus Porretanus’ De sex principiis

L: Translation of Radulphus Brito’s Quaestiones super Artem Veterem, q. 8–9; 12–17; 19; 21–30 (Ebbesen and Pinborg 1981/1982)

(continued)

shortly before 1433/5

1435/6

c. 1433/5

5

Title *** respective Aristotelian (or Porphyrean) work/-s Εἰς τὸ Περὶ ἑρμηνείας βιβλίον ἐξήγησις *** De Interpretatione in full

Table 1 (continued)

MSS. (mainly those used in Jugie’s edition) 1) Vat. 2223, f. 147–212 2) Par. 1941, f. 104–47 3) Mut. 50, f. 137–90 4) Barb. 124, f. 162–240 5) Vat. 1777, f. 79–108

Content (A) logic (B) physics (C) biology (D) metaphysics Edition (E) ethics (Jugie et al. 1928–36, unless (F) Aristotle’s philosophy in otherwise general stated) VII: Ars vetus 238–348

Literary form - commentary - paraphrasis - abridgment - abridgment of a paraphrasis - excerpts - treatise - commentary on treatise - prolegomena - summa commentary Provenance Greek (G)/Latin (L); title of the background text/-s L: translation of: i) Thomas Aquinas, Commentary on the “De Interpretatione” (Demetracopoulos 2010b, 88–9; Balcoyiannopoulou 2018, 155, n66) ii) Radulphus Brito, Quaestiones super Artem Veterem, q. 16; 26 (Ebbesen and Pinborg 1981–82) iii) hitherto unidentified author, Continuatio to Aquinas’ Comm. (Demetracopoulos, forthcoming-a); Balcoyiannopoulou 2018, 110)

Purpose - didactic use - private use - defence of Aristotle didactic

Date (Jugie et al. 1928–36, unless otherwise stated) c. 1433/5

6

Ἐκ τῆς Διαλεκτικῆς τοῦ μαΐστωρος Πέτρου τοῦ Ἰσπανοῦ· ἑρμηνεία, *** Porphyry’s Isagoge; Categories; Prior Analytics; Topics; theory of supposition

1) Laur. Plut. 71.33, VIII: 283–337 f. 1–28 2) Misc. Oxon. 275, f. 288–309 3) Mut. 50, f. 194–222 4) Pal. 235, f. 202–385 5) Matrit. 4618, f. 121–159 6) Matrit. 4643, f. 1–51 7) Ambr. C 46 sup., f. 1–50 8) Ambr. D 27 sup., f. 1–49 9) Monac. 548, f. 1–53 10) Biblioteca statale oratoriana dei Gerolamini XXII.1, f. 219–234 11) Barocc. 76, f. 123–139 12) Vindob. phil. 333, f. 4–5 13) Alex. 76, f. 1–30

Ars vetus and Ars nova

treatise

L: translation of Peter of didactic Spain’s Summulae logicales, I–VI 1435/6

(continued)

8

7

Content (A) logic (B) physics (C) biology (D) metaphysics Edition (E) ethics (Jugie et al. Title 1928–36, unless (F) Aristotle’s MSS. *** philosophy in otherwise (mainly those used respective Aristotelian general stated) (or Porphyrean) work/-s in Jugie’s edition) Bk. I.1, Nn. 1–6 Ars nova 1) Vat. 2233, f. Commentary on in VII: 18–20; 11–12 “Posterior Analytics” reliqua 2) Par. 1941, f. *** desiderantur 13–14 Posterior Analytics: in (see VIII: 3) Barb. 8–9 full 4,34–5,12) 4) Mut. 50, f. 8 Ars nova Commentary on 1) Vat. 2223, f. 5–11 VII: “Sophistici Elenchi” 2) Par. 1941, f. 9–13 8–11 3) Barb. 124, f. 1–8 4) Mut. 50, f. 10–15

Table 1 (continued)

commentary

Literary form - commentary - paraphrasis - abridgment - abridgment of a paraphrasis - excerpts - treatise - commentary on treatise - prolegomena - summa commentary

L: translation of Radulphus Brito’s Quaestiones super Artem Veterem, proem (Ebbesen and Pinborg 1981/1982)

Provenance Greek (G)/Latin (L); title of the background text/-s L: Translation of Thomas Aquinas’ Commentary on “Posterior Analytics”

didactic

Purpose - didactic use - private use - defence of Aristotle didactic

c. 1433/5

Date (Jugie et al. 1928–36, unless otherwise stated) c. 1433/5

B 10

9

1) Laur. Plut. 71.33, f. 29–44 2) Misc. Oxon. 275, f. 311–21 3) Mut. 50, f. 223–38 4) Pal. 235, f. 239–57 5) Matrit. 4643, f. 56–83 6) Matrit. 4618, f. 163–181

Διαίρεσις κεφαλαιώδης Laur. Plut. 86.19, f. 1–36 τῶν βιβλίων τῆς Φυσικῆς ἀκροάσεως ἀρίστη καὶ θαυμασιωτάτη, δι’ ἧς καὶ ἡ τοῦ φιλοσόφου σοφία δείκνυται τοῦ οὕτω τάξαντος τὰ αὐτοῦ καὶ ἡ ἀγχίνοια τῶν καὶ διελόντων καὶ ἐκθεμένων ἐνταῦθα, ὡς ὁρᾶται, πρὸς γνῶσιν εὐσύνοπτον *** Physics, Bks. I–V

Περὶ τῶν σοφισμάτων· ἐκ τῶν τοῦ φιλοσόφου Θωμᾶ *** Sophistici Elenchi: in full

VIII: 1–133

VIII: 255–82

natural philosophy

Ars nova

paraphrasis

treatise

L: translation of a hitherto unidentified scholastic text (Demetracopoulos, forthcoming-a)

L: translation of (Ps.-) Thomas Aquinas’ De fallaciis

didactic

didactic

c. 1431

1435/6

(continued)

13

12

11

Ἐκ τῶν τοῦ Θωμᾶ *** Physics, Bk. I – Bk. II, up to 198b32

Title *** respective Aristotelian (or Porphyrean) work/-s Προλεγόμενα ἢ προθεωρούμενα εἰς τὴν Φυσικὴν ἀκρόασιν Ἀριστοτέλους *** Physics Ἐκ τῶν Σιμπλικίου, προλεγόμενα τῆς Φυσικῆς ἀκροάσεως *** Physics

Table 1 (continued)

VIII: 163–254

Laur. Plut. 86.19, f. 43–54

1) Pal. 235, f. 258–303 2) Laur. Plut. 86.19, f. 36–7 (initium operis solum)

VIII: 157–62

MSS. (mainly those used in Jugie’s edition) Laur. Plut. 86.19, f. 36–43

natural philosophy

natural philosophy

Content (A) logic (B) physics (C) biology (D) metaphysics Edition (E) ethics (Jugie et al. 1928–36, unless (F) Aristotle’s philosophy in otherwise general stated) VIII: natural 134–57 philosophy

commentary

prolegomena

Literary form - commentary - paraphrasis - abridgment - abridgment of a paraphrasis - excerpts - treatise - commentary on treatise - prolegomena - summa prolegomena Purpose - didactic use - private use - defence of Aristotle didactic

private use G: Simplicius, Commentary on “Physics,” prolegomena (CAG IX, 1–8; 19–20; on pages 1–8, see Cacouros 2015, 115–6) L: partial translation of didactic Thomas Aquinas’ Commentary on “Physics”

Provenance Greek (G)/Latin (L); title of the background text/-s L: translation of an unidentified text (Jugie 1936, IV; Cacouros 2015, 110)

Ante 1438

unknown

Date (Jugie et al. 1928–36, unless otherwise stated) c. 1431

C 18

17

Σημειώσεις ἐκ τῶν Περὶ Vat. 115, f. 205–20 ψυχῆς βιβλίων τριῶν *** De Anima in full

Vat. 115, f. 156–93 Ἀποσημειώσεις τῶν βιβλίων τῆς Φυσικῆς ἀκροάσεως Ἀριστοτέλους *** Physics in full Σημειώσεις ἐκ τῶν Περὶ Vat. 115, f. 193–205 οὐρανοῦ βιβλίων τεσσάρων *** De Caelo in full

16

15

Laur. Plut. 86.19, f. marginal notes on 47–62 Physics *** Physics, Bk. I; Bk. II, 3; 4; 7; 8; 9; Bk. III, 1; 2; 3 *** Metaphysics XII, 8–10

14

psychology

natural philosophy and cosmology

VII: 409–29

VII: 429–54

natural philosophy

natural philosophy and natural theology

VIII: 505–7

VII: 349–408

natural philosophy

VII: 486–509

excerpts

excerpts

G: Theodore Metochites’ paraphrasis (Drosaart Lulofs 1943, xxvii; Bloch 2007, 15, nt. 50), which is based on: (i) Themistius’ Par. “De anima”; (ii) John Philoponus’ Comm. on “De anima” (sources unidentified by Jugie)

i) Vita Aristotelis vulgata 25–29 (ed. I. Düring 1957, 135–6) ii) Theodore Metochites’ Semeioseis 11–12? G: i) Simplicius, Comm. on “Physics” ii) John Philoponus, Comm. on “Physics” (via some late Byzantine source?) G: Simplicius, Comm. on “De Caelo” (via some late Byzantine source?)

short treatise

excerpts

G: Simplicius, Comm. on “Physics” (Demetracopoulos 2010b, 86–7)

excerpts

(continued)

ante 1450

ante 1450

private use

private use

ante 1450

ante 1450?

defence of Aristotle

private use

c. 1434

private use

Vat. 115, f. 222–3

Vat. 115, f. 223

Περὶ ὕπνου καὶ ἐγρηγόρσεως *** De somn. et vig. in full

Περὶ ἐνυπνίων *** De insomn. in full

21

MSS. (mainly those used in Jugie’s edition) Vat. 115, f. 221–2

20

19

Title *** respective Aristotelian (or Porphyrean) work/-s Ἐκ τοῦ Περὶ μνήμης καὶ ἀναμνήσεως βιβλίου *** De mem. et remin. in full

Table 1 (continued)

VII: 459–60

VII: 457–9

psychology

psychology

Content (A) logic (B) physics (C) biology (D) metaphysics Edition (E) ethics (Jugie et al. 1928–36, unless (F) Aristotle’s philosophy in otherwise general stated) VII: psychology 455–7

abridgment of a paraphrasis

abridgment of a paraphrasis

Literary form - commentary - paraphrasis - abridgment - abridgment of a paraphrasis - excerpts - treatise - commentary on treatise - prolegomena - summa abridgment of a paraphrasis Provenance Greek (G)/Latin (L); title of the background text/-s G: Theodore Metochites’ paraphrasis, vat. 303 (Drosaart Lulofs 1943, xxvii; Bloch 2007, 15, n50) G: Theodore Metochites’ paraphrasis, Vat. 303 (Drosaart Lulofs 1943, xxvii; Bloch 2007, 15, n50) G: Theodore Metochites’ paraphrasis, vat. 303 (Drosaart Lulofs 1943, xxvii; Bloch 2007, 15, n50)

Date (Jugie et al. 1928–36, unless otherwise stated) ante 1450

private and/ ante 1450 or didactic use

private and/ ante 1450 or didactic use

Purpose - didactic use - private use - defence of Aristotle private and/ or didactic use

Vat. 115, f. 223–5

Vat. 115, f. 225–7

Vat. 115, f. 227

Περὶ τῆς καθ’ ὕπνον μαντικῆς *** De divin. per somn. in full

Ἐκ τοῦ Περὶ ζῴων κινήσεως *** De motu anim. in full

Ἐκ τοῦ Περὶ βραχυβιότητος καὶ μακροβιότητος *** De brev. et long. vit. in full

22

23

24

VII: 466–7

VII: 463–5

VII: 460–2

zoology

zoology

psychology

abridgment of a paraphrasis

abridgment of a paraphrasis + two notes, the former based on Albert the Great’s De somno et vigilia III,1,12 and 2,6 and the latter on Aquinas’ Summa theologiae, IIa IIae, q. 95, a. 6 co. and Summa contra Gentiles III.154, 1–13 abridgment of a paraphrasis G: Theodore Metochites’ paraphrasis, Vat. 303 (Drosaart Lulofs 1943, xxvii; Bloch 2007, 15, n50) G: Theodore Metochites’ paraphrasis, Vat. 303 (Drosaart Lulofs 1943, xxvii; Bloch 2007, 15, n50)

(continued)

private and/ ante 1450 or didactic use

private and/ ante 1450 or didactic use

private and/ ante 1450 G: Theodore Metochites’ paraphrasis, or didactic use Vat. 303 (Drosaart Lulofs 1943, xxvii; Bloch 2007, 15, n50; cf. Cacouros 2015, 224)

Vat. 115, f. 228–9

Vat. 115, f. 229–35

Περὶ ἀναπνοῆς *** De resp. in full

Ἐκ τῶν Μετεωρολογικῶν *** Meteorologica in full

27

MSS. (mainly those used in Jugie’s edition) Vat. 115, f. 227–8

26

25

Title *** respective Aristotelian (or Porphyrean) work/-s Ἐκ τοῦ Περὶ γήρως καὶ νεότητος καὶ ζωῆς καὶ θανάτου *** De sen. et juv. in full

Table 1 (continued)

VII: 470–81

VII: 468–70

natural philosophy and cosmology

zoology

Content (A) logic (B) physics (C) biology (D) metaphysics Edition (E) ethics (Jugie et al. 1928–36, unless (F) Aristotle’s philosophy in otherwise general stated) VII: zoology 467–8

abridgment of a paraphrasis?

abridgment of a paraphrasis

Literary form - commentary - paraphrasis - abridgment - abridgment of a paraphrasis - excerpts - treatise - commentary on treatise - prolegomena - summa abridgment of a paraphrasis Provenance Greek (G)/Latin (L); title of the background text/-s G: Theodore Metochites’ paraphrasis, Vat. 303 (Drosaart Lulofs 1943, xxvii; Bloch 2007, 15, n50) G: Theodore Metochites’ paraphrasis, Vat. 303 (Drosaart Lulofs 1943, xxvii; Bloch 2007, 15, n50) G: i) Alexander of Aphrodisias, Comm. on “Meteor.” ii) John Philoponus, Comm. on “Meteor.,” Bk. I (via some late Byzantine source?)

Date (Jugie et al. 1928–36, unless otherwise stated) ante 1450

private and/ ante 1450 or didactic use

private and/ ante 1450 or didactic use

Purpose - didactic use - private use - defence of Aristotle private and/ or didactic use

30

D 29

28

Scor. Δ. IV.8

1) Laur. Plut. 86.19, f. 269–347 2) Pal. 235, f. 33–201

Vat. 115, f. 236–7 *** Metaphysics, Bks. I–VI

Commentary on “Metaphysics” *** Metaphysics in full

Εἰς τὴν Περὶ ψυχῆς πραγματείαν Ἀριστοτέλους ἐξήγησις τοῦ Θωμᾶ *** De Anima in full

VII: 482–5

burnt in 1671

VI: 327–581

metaphysics

metaphysics

biology

excerpts

commentary

commentary

L: Translation of Thomas Aquinas’ Commentary on “Metaphysics” (De Andrés 1968: 112; Demetracopoulos 2012b, 121) G: Asclepius, Commentary on “Metaphysics,” ed. M. Hayduck, CAG VI, 2, 347.20–2; 347.23– 348.18; 348.19–37; 349.1–25; 349.26– 350.13; 340.31–341.25; 341.26–342.7; 342.8– 343.7; 343.8–28; 347.14–9 (Demetracopoulos 2010b, 87)

ante 1450

private use

(continued)

ante 1443/4 (Demetracopoulos 2012b:121)

c. 1435

didactic

L: translation of Thomas didactic Aquinas’ Commentary on “De anima”

31b

31a

Ἐξήγησις εἰς τὸ τοῦ διδασκάλου Θωμᾶ ἀπὸ τοῦ Ἀκίνου βιβλίον τὸ Περὶ τοῦ εἶναι καὶ τῆς οὐσίας *** Metaphysics, Bk. V

Title *** respective Aristotelian (or Porphyrean) work/-s Τοῦ Θωμᾶ Περὶ διαφορᾶς οὐσίας καὶ τοῦ εἶναι ἑρμηνευθὲν καὶ πρὸς τὴν Ἑλλάδα μετενεχθέν *** Metaphysics, Bk. V

Table 1 (continued)

MSS. (mainly those used in Jugie’s edition) 1) Misc. Oxon. 275, f. 278–88 2) Pal. 235, f. 304–18 3) Par. Suppl. 618, f. 9–19 4) Scor. Υ.III.13, f. 11–27 1) Laur. Plut. 86.27, VI: 178–326 f. 1–91 2) Par. Suppl. 618, f. 19–96 3) Scor. Υ.III.13, f. 28–144 metaphysics

Content (A) logic (B) physics (C) biology (D) metaphysics Edition (E) ethics (Jugie et al. 1928–36, unless (F) Aristotle’s philosophy in otherwise general stated) VI: metaphysics 154–78

commentary on treatise

Literary form - commentary - paraphrasis - abridgment - abridgment of a paraphrasis - excerpts - treatise - commentary on treatise - prolegomena - summa treatise

Purpose - didactic use - private use - defence of Aristotle didactic

didactic L: translation of Armandus de Bellovisu’s Commentary on Thomas Aquinas’ “De ente et essentia” (Barbour 1993, 74–85)

Provenance Greek (G)/Latin (L); title of the background text/-s L: translation of Thomas Aquinas’ De ente et essentia

1445/50

Date (Jugie et al. 1928–36, unless otherwise stated) 1445/50

33a

E 32

1) Par. 1417, f. 72–164 2) Barb. 85, f. 1–186 3) Alex. 342, f. 1–206

Vat. 433, f. 81–179

*** Nicomachean Ethics

Ἐκλογὴ τοῦ Πρώτου τῶν Ἠθικῶν τοῦ σοφωτάτου Θωμᾶ δὲ Ἀκίνο, τοῦ ἀριθμοῦ καὶ τῆς τάξεως τῶν ζητημάτων πάντων πεφυλαγμένων VI: 1–153

i) Prol.: Dorandi 2010: 303–305; Schäfer 2010 ii) Comm. on Bks. I–X: Cacouros 2015, 282–3; Schäfer forthcoming

general ethics

ethics

summa

prolegomena

G: didactic i) Prol.: Eustratius of Nicaea’s Commentary on “Nicomachean Ethics,” Bk. I, ed. G. Heylbut, CAG XX, 1892, 1.23–3.35; 4.8–15; 4.21–32; 4.38–5.12; 4.17–21 (Dorandi 2010, 305); ii) commentary on Bk. I and VI: Eustratius of Nicaea’s Comm. on Bks. II–IV and VII; anonymous authors; Bk. VIII: Aspasius’ Comm.; Bks. V, IX and X: Michael of Ephesus’ Commentary (Schäfer, forthcominga; cf. Cacouros 2015, 282–3) L: abridgment of private use Demetrios Kydones’ translation of Thomas Aquinas’ Summa theologiae, Ia IIae

(continued)

probably after 1443/5 and before 1458/9 (Demetracopoulos 2018, 157; 167)

c. 1430/38 (or 1432/46; see Schäfer, forthcoming)

F 34

33b

Περὶ ἀνθρωπίνης εὐδαιμονίας· Ἀριστοτέλους καὶ Πλωτίνου συμβιβαστικόν *** Nicomachean Ethics, Bk. I

Title *** respective Aristotelian (or Porphyrean) work/-s Τοῦ σοφωτάτου Θωμᾶ ντὲ Ἀκουίνω τοῦ παρὰ Λατίνοις διδασκάλου τῆς ἱερᾶς θεολογίας τοῦ Δευτέρου τῶν Ἠθικῶν τὸ Δεύτερον

Table 1 (continued)

Laur. Plut. 86.27, f. 91–3

MSS. (mainly those used in Jugie’s edition) Par. 1237 in toto

VIII: 499–502

ethics; defence of Aristotle’s philosophy

Content (A) logic (B) physics (C) biology (D) metaphysics Edition (E) ethics (Jugie et al. 1928–36, unless (F) Aristotle’s philosophy in otherwise general stated) unedited special ethics

short treatise

Literary form - commentary - paraphrasis - abridgment - abridgment of a paraphrasis - excerpts - treatise - commentary on treatise - prolegomena - summa summa Purpose - didactic use - private use - defence of Aristotle private use

G: Theodoret of Cyrus’ defence of Graecarum affectionum Aristotle curatio II, 82–84; 91 (Athanasopoulos 2015b, 178–9) L: Riccoldo da Monte Croce, Contra legem Sarracenorum (in Demetrios Kydones’ tr.) 16 (cf. Demetracopoulos 2014a, 193–4)

Provenance Greek (G)/Latin (L); title of the background text/-s L: abridgment of Demetrios Kydones’ Translation of Thomas Aquinas’ Summa theologiae, IIa IIae

c. 1446/50

Date (Jugie et al. 1928–36, unless otherwise stated) c. 1436 or a bit later (Demetracopoulos 2018, 133; 157; 167)

Κατὰ τῶν Πλήθωνος ἀποριῶν ἐπ’ Ἀριστοτέλει

IV: 1) Dionysiou (Mount Athos) 330, 1–116 f. 1–65 2) Par. Suppl. 618, f. 99–191 (et al. recent.)

all branches of Aristotle’s philosophy: 2 logical, 7 natural, 3 moral, and 6 metaphysical topics, dealt with in Plethon’s De Aristotelis differentiis cum Platone

Defence of 18 particular doctrines of Aristotle’s philosophy

L.: some of Thomas Aquinas’ commentaries on Aristotle (including Comm. on De Int., Physics and Metaphysics); Thomas Aquinas, Summa contra Gentiles and Summa theologiae in Demetrios Kydones’ translation (Demetracopoulos 2004, 169–70; 2012b, 121–3; forthcoming-a; Mariev 2014, 119; 122; Athanasopoulos 2015a) G: Simplicius’ Comm. on Aristotle’s Physics (Demetracopoulos 2017, 248–9) et al. defence of 1443/45 Aristotle and the compatibility of his philosophy to Christianity

a

My sincere thanks to Philipp Schäfer (Hamburg) for promptly sharing with me this core information on his forthcoming edition of this hitherto undetected Scholarian work.

35

256

J. A. Demetracopoulos

Table  2  Scholarios’ Paraphrasis of Aristotle’s natural works compared to his Mid- and Late Byzantine predecessors

Michael of Ephesus (CAG XXII/1–2) (late 11th – early 12th cent.)

Sophonias (Ps.-Themistius) (CAG V/6) (fl. in the latter half of the 13th cent.; Searby 2011, 1208; 2016, 473) De anima (CAG XXIII/1)

De mem. et remin. De somn. et vig. De insomn. De div. per somn. De mot. anim. (CAG XXII/2, 103–31) De brev. et long. vitae De sen. et juv. et de v. et m. De resp. ** ** **

De mem. et remin. De somn. et vig. De insomn. De div. per somn. ***

George Pachymeres**** (Berol. Ham. 512; cf. present study, Appendix II); tr. Becchius 1560, 73–372 (post 1285 – c. 1307; Pappa 2002, 16) Physics De coelo De gen. et corr. Meteor. De part. anim. De incessu anim.

Theodore Metochites (Vat. gr. 303; cf. present study, Appendix I); tr. Hervetus 1559 (c. 1310/12; Bydèn 2003, 34–35) Physics De anima De coelo De gen. et corr. De mem. et remin. De somn. et vig.

Scholarios (Vat. gr. 115; ed. Jugie 1936; present study, Appendix I) Physics De coelo De anima De mem. et remin. De somn. et vig.

De anima De sensu et sensibilibus De mem. et remin.

De insomn. De div. per somn. De mot. anim.

De insomn. De div. per somn. De mot. anim.

De somn. et vig.

De brev. et long. vitae De sen. et juv. et de v. et m. De resp. Meteor.

De brev. et long. vitae De sen. et juv. et de v. et m. De resp. Meteor.

De insomn. De div. per somn. De motu anim. De brev. et long. vitae De sen. et juv. et de v. et m. De resp. De gen. anim.

De sensu et sensibilibus

*Michael’s Paraphrasis of the De mot. anim., to judge from its place not in the edition of his ­writings but in the main manuscript used by the editor (cod. Par. gr. 1925; see CAG XXII/1, VII), must be probably construed as placed by its author between the paraphrasis of the De divinatione per somnum and the paraphrasis of the De brevitate et longitudine vitae. **See CAG XXII/1, 149.8–12: “Τὰ μὲν οὖν Περὶ ζῴων μορίων καὶ πορείας, ἔτι τὰ Περὶ μνήμης καὶ ἀναμνήσεως, Περὶ ζῴων τε κινήσεως καὶ Περὶ ζῴων γενέσεως, τά τε Περὶ μακροβιότητος καὶ βραχυβιότητος, καὶ σὺν τούτοις τὰ Περὶ γήρως καὶ νεότητος, οὕτως ἐμοὶ σεσαφήνισται κατὰ δύναμιν” (cf. Wendland 1903a, V). On the order of the pieces of this list in the manuscript tradition, see Wendland (1903a, VII–VIII). ***See Themistii (Sophoniae) in Parva naturalia commentaria (in Wendland 1903b, 44.25–26 [concluding lines]): “Τί μὲν οὖν ἐστιν ὕπνος καὶ ἐνύπνιον …, ἔτι δὲ περὶ τῆς τῶν ἐνυπνίων μαντείας εἴρηται. Περὶ δὲ κινήσεως τῆς κοινῆς τῶν ζῴων λεκτέον.” **** Pachymeres’ Paraphrasis was reproduced in the Handbook of Philosophy by Joseph Rhakendytes (14th cent.); see Terzaghi (1902), Gielen (2012), Gielen (2015).

12  George Scholarios’ Abridgment of the Parva naturalia

257

it is also possible that Scholarios’ manuscript of Metochites’ paraphrases simply did not include the one on the De sensu. As for the pieces put before the set of the Parva naturalia, both Metochites and Scholarios include Physics, De anima and De caelo, whereas Metochites includes the De generatione et corruptione, too. Further, Scholarios’ pieces are shorter. In view of the fact that, as we shall see, Scholarios’ paraphrases are abridgments of Metochites’, this means that he intended to abridge Metochites’ huge work so as to produce an easy-to-digest or easy-to-handle (student- or reader-friendly, so to speak) version of it. For instance, Scholarios’ paraphrasis of the De divinatione per somnum, which I am going to focus on here, is the shortest of all the Byzantine paraphrases of this work.23 Scholarios’ piece, then, can be classified as an “abridgment of a paraphrasis,” the main obvious difference from the literary form of paraphrasis being that the repeated “φησί …” (“he [i.e. Aristotle] says that …”), which occurs more in paraphrases than in commentaries, is absent, as, for brevity’s sake, it is implied throughout.24

2.2  Scholarios’ Use of Theodoros Metochites’ Paraphrasis 2.2.1  The Literary Fact An examination of the content of Scholarios’ set of the Parva naturalia verifies that Scholarios’ exclusive source was Metochites.25 For practical as well as essential reasons, I will confine myself to the De divinatione per somnum. A comparison of Scholarios’ text with the relevant texts by his Greek predecessors shows that several words and phrases are common only to him and Metochites. In Appendix I, I offer a re-edition of Scholarios’ Paraphrasis of this work on the basis of Scholarios’ single autograph, along with an edition of Metochites’ Paraphrasis on the basis of cod. Vat. gr. 303. Using quotation marks, bold and italics, I will make it easier for the patient reader to reconstruct the way in which Scholarios worked for every single word of his Paraphrasis. A full comparison between the two texts shows two main things. (i) Scholarios’ text adds to Aristotle’s text some of the unessential words added by Metochites. (ii)  Aristotle’s text, which counts 1200 words, is amplified by Michael of Ephesus into c. 3500 words, whereas Sophonias paraphrases it in c. 1500 words. Metochites’ Paraphrasis is c. 2500 words. Pachymeres’ Paraphrasis counts 1212 words (including the author’s Note, which counts 391 words), whereas Scholarios’ abridgment of Metochites’ Paraphrasis, including the two Complementary Notes (which count 383 words), counts in sum 1209 words. 24  Martin Jugie, who produced the edition of Scholarios’ Paraphrasis, was unaware of Scholarios’ use of Metochites (see Jugie 1939, 492). 25  See Drosaart Lulofs (1943, xxvii) and Bloch (2007, 15 n50), where it is stressed that Scholarios, in his paraphrasis of the De memoria et reminiscentia, reproduces Metochites’ “talkative” paraphrasis verbatim. More texts are compared in Cacouros 2015, 88–96 and 195–223, showing in the same direction. 23

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All the Aristotelian words and phrases in Scholarios’ text occur in Metochites’ text, too; this means that there is nothing in Scholarios’ text that needs to be explained with reference to Aristotle himself. Scholarios even uses the traditional “(Aristotle) φησίν” without checking if what follows it is Aristotle’s ipsissima verba or not. He writes, for example: “Ἔστι γάρ, φησίν, ὁρᾶν καὶ κύνας ἐν τῷ καθεύδειν μινυρίζοντας ὡς φαντασιουμένους” (see infra, Appendix I, p. 300). Yet, in fact, not only the wording but even the very content of these lines (i.e. the example of the dreaming dogs) does not occur in Aristotle’s De divinatione per somnum at all; this example was borrowed by Scholarios from Metochites, who in turn had picked it up from Michael of Ephesus’ comment ad loc.26 Besides, this is what Metochites himself does often in his paraphrases.27 2.2.2  Why Metochites? Why did Scholarios opt for Metochites’ paraphrasis of Aristotle’s natural philosophy? Since Scholarios had studied under a professed Aristotelian, that is, Mark Eugenikos,28 and was a professed Aristotelian himself (see supra, pp. 234–6), it is plausible to assume that he had been attracted by Metochites’ high estimation for Aristotle’s logic and physics. According to Metochites, Aristotle has been sent down to us by Nature in order to state everything about it perfectly. Likewise, his logic is a monumental achievement, which will endure forever.29 I know of no other Byzantine author who extolled Aristotle so fervently—with the exception of Scholarios, who seems to imitate Metochites in his Praise of Aristotle’s Monotheism by having, in all probability, recourse to what probably was Metochites’ main source, namely, a relevant passage from the Vita Aristotelis vulgata (see infra, p. 275).30 26  Michael of Ephesus, In Parva naturalia (in Wendland 1903a, 81.18–19). On Metochites’ reproduction of Michael’s examples and Michael’s Paraphrasis in general, see Bloch (2005, 4 n6; 6). 27  On Metochites’ taking rather excessive liberties in using “φησί,” see Bloch (2005, 5–6). 28  See what Scholarios himself says in a letter of his to Mark: “… τῶν Ἀριστοτέλει προσκειμένων εἶναί σε πάνυ καλῶς οἶδα …” (in Jugie et al. IV: 118.16–17). Given Mark’s familiarity with certain Scholastics (see Demetracopoulos 2011, 348–68; Athanasopoulos 2018, 80–84), which was no doubt known to Scholarios, it is quite plausible to take this Scholarian statement on his mentor’s taking philosophical sides as referring to the Aristotelian trend in general. As for the other mentors of Scholarios, Joseph Bryennios and Makarios Makres did not seem to have any philosophical predilection (ne dicam skill), whereas John Chortasmenos taught Aristotelian logic, not physics (see Barbour 1993, 42–43; Cacouros 2000; Blanchet 2008, 15; 297, with bibliography). 29  Theodore Metochites, Miscellanea 11, 1.6–12, 7.5; 21, 1.3–4 (in Hult 2002, 108–26; 190.24– 192.5 = Müller and Kiessling 1821, 81–96; 156). Cf. Bydén (2003, 43; 61). 30  A strikingly similar praise of Aristotle’s physics occurs in Averroes (Proem to his Commentary on Physics, 1562, fols. 4v–5r); see also his Long Commentary on the De anima, Bk. III, in Crawford (1953, 433.142–45). There is, however, no evidence that Averroes’ relevant writings were ever translated into Greek (see Gutas 2012, 252–9). Still, we cannot exclude that Scholarios, with his good knowledge of scholastic Latin, had, at some time, access to some piece or part of Averroes Latinus, which was extensively used by Albert the Great and Aquinas.

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Still, what about Metochites’ severe critique of Aristotle’s metaphysics?31 I guess that Scholarios was not deterred by it. Quite the contrary, I would say that he must have liked it. As seen (supra, p. 237), Scholarios complained that most Byzantines distorted Aristotle because they viewed him through Neoplatonic glasses. On the other hand, he must have known that Metochites was a Platonist.32 In reading Metochites, then, he had found a Platonist who knew his Aristotle and appreciated his real merits, but nevertheless refused to regard the core of his philosophy as compatible with Plato’s. So, Scholarios felt that this was his man as far as Aristotle’s physics was concerned. As for Aristotle’s logic, whose praise by Metochites was not unreserved,33 Scholarios had a substantially better option: to translate some handbooks from the best Aristotelian tradition, namely Western Scholasticism. What about metaphysics?34 In this direction, Scholarios did two things: (i) he translated Thomas Aquinas’ Commentary on Aristotle’s Metaphysics as well as Thomas’ De ente et essentia along with Armandus de Bellovisu’s Commentary on it; and (ii) he wrote a brief but fervent Praise of Aristotle’s Monotheism, arguing that Aristotle’s natural philosophy culminates in his monotheistic metaphysics, which paved the way for Christianity. Moreover, Scholarios expurgated Metochites’ Paraphrasis from the position that “Aristotle, Plato and many other heathen philosophers imagined that this generated and material nature, which is radically different from the divine things, is ruled by some demons”35 by simply omitting Aristotle’s discussion of the “demonic” character of nature (De divinatione per somnum 463b13–15). This discussion had been continued in Michael of Ephesus’,36 Sophonias’,37 and Pachymeres’38 Paraphrases. Apart from Metochites, before Scholarios’ time, only one full Byzantine corpus of Aristotle’s philosophy had ever been produced: George Pachymeres’ Philosophy. Yet, as will be seen in the next paragraph (pp. 267–71; 274–7), Pachymeres’ halfhearted estimation of Aristotle, which cohabited rather uneasily with his staunch  See Bydén (2003, 69–71).  On Metochites’ Platonism, see Bydén (2003, passim); Demetracopoulos (forthcoming-b). 33  See Bydén (2003, 73). 34  On Metochites’ severe criticism of Aristotle’s Metaphysics, see Miscellanea 21, 1.5–2.6 (in Hult 2002, 192.6–11; 194.3–19 = Müller and Kiessling 1821, 156–58). Cf. Bydén (2003, 40–49). 35  See infra, Appendix I, pp. 294–5. Cf. Nicephoros Gregoras, Explicatio in librum Synesii “De insomniis”: “Ἔοικεν ὁ Συνέσιος ἐνταῦθα τῇ Δημοκρίτου καὶ Σέξτου δόξῃ καὶ ἄλλων Ἑλλήνων ἀκολουθεῖν. Φασὶ γὰρ ἐκεῖνοι δαιμόνια εἶναί τινα περί τε ἀέρα καὶ γῆν … Προσπελάζειν οὖν φασι ταῦτα τοῖς ἀνθρώποις, καὶ μάλιστα ὅταν οὗτοι καθεύδωσι, καὶ προλέγειν πολλὰ τῶν μελλόντων …. περὶ τὴν γενητὴν καὶ τρεπτὴν τῶν πραγμάτων φύσιν …” (in Pietrosanti 1999, 36.5–37.3). Gregoras seems to mix his mentor Metochites’ lines just quoted in English translation with Sextus Empiricus’ relevant recording of Democritus’ view (Adversus Mathematicos IX, 19  =  B166  in Diels and Kranz 1951–52, II: 178.5–9). On Gregoras’ sources, see Bydén (2014, 180–1; Demetracopoulos 2015, 358, n381). On the meaning of δαιμόνιος in Aristotle, see Siwek (1963, 196 n5); Altmann (1978, 2). Cf. Cacouros 2015, 240–2; 246–7. 36  Michael of Ephesus, In Parva naturalia (in Wendland 1903a, 81.20; 83.26–28; 84.25–27). 37  Sophonias, Paraphrasis libri De divinatione per somnum (in Wendland 1903b, 17.11; 42.6–7). 38  See infra, Appendix II, pp. 302–7. 31 32

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Platonism and affected even the form of his exposition of the content of Aristotle’s writings, completely averted Scholarios from taking that Course as a basis for his own paraphrases. Quite the contrary: he wrote against it. 2.2.3  S  cholarios Own Complementary Notes: Their Albertinian and Thomistic Provenance and Their Aim Scholarios appended to his abridgment of Metochites’ Paraphrasis of the De divinatione per somnum two Notes, which, along with the Praise of Aristotle’s Monotheism (see infra, pp.  272–3) and some brief notes in his abridgment of Metochites’ Paraphrasis of the set of Aristotle’s natural works, show that his Paraphrasis was a piece of “art engagé”—a work ideologically nuanced. His first Note (see infra, Appendix I, pp. 301–2) states that Aristotle does not deny the possibility of God-sent dreams in general but simply says that the dreams that foretell, in this or that natural way, the future cannot be God-sent. As for the Christian idea that some dreams are God-sent, no pre-Christian author, including Aristotle, remarks Scholarios, could say anything, because none of them had as yet had access to such a conception at all.39 Presumably, Scholarios presents Christianity as a supernatural doctrine that can be simply added to the natural Aristotelian doctrine without any involvement of contradiction. This is Thomas Aquinas’ “two-­ storeyed” view of the relation of philosophy to Revelation.40 As Scholarios puts it (ll. 87–88; see infra, Appendix I, p. 301), Aristotle treated the things that take place naturally in a natural way (“φυσικῶς … ὡς περὶ φυσικῶν, τὰ φυσικῶς γινόμενα”), by contrast with those things that draw their origin exclusively and directly from God’s will (“τῆς θείας ἠρτημένα μόνης ἀμέσως βουλήσεως”). This is also very close to Albert the Great’s celebrated defence of the legitimacy of discussing the natural processes in a way detached from how God’s will can affect them: Quaeramus ergo, quae causa est quod generatio sit semper …; nunquam enim secundum naturam cessavit, nec cessabit generatio. Si autem quis dicat quod voluntate Dei cessabit aliquando generatio, sicut aliquando non fuit, et post hoc incepit: dico quod nihil ad me de Dei miraculis, cum ego de naturalibus disseram.41 Let us, therefore, investigate the reason why generation always exists …; for, according to nature, generation has never ceased, nor will it ever cease. But if someone says that, because of God’s will, generation will at some time cease, just as at some time it did not exist and it started to exist after that time, I reply that I am not concerned here with God’s miracles, because I am discussing natural things.  Scholarios no doubt knew that, in the pagan world of Antiquity, dreams were regarded as a means for gods to inform mortals about various things normally inaccessible to them. So, what he must mean here is that no pre-Christian author believed in the existence of a sole God who cares about humanity and reveals the fundamental truths for its salvation. 40  See, e.g., Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, IIa IIae, qu. 2, art. 3; Summa contra Gentiles I, 4–5. 41  Albert the Great, De generatione et corruptione I, 1,22 (in Hoßfeld 1980, 129.13–16). Albert depends directly on a similar passage from Bernard of Clairvaux’s Commentary on the Song of the Songs (see Pouliot 2005, 29 n4; de Libera 2005, 56; de Libera 1990, 39–40). 39

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It is quite probable that Scholarios derived his remark from Albert, for Albert makes this remark in several writings of his,42 including his paraphrasis of the De divinatione per somnum (sc. Bk. III of his paraphrasis of the De somno et vigilia):43 Est autem et aliud genus visionis et prophetiae secundum altissimos theologos [1] qui de divinis [2a] loquuntur inspirationibus [2b], de quibus ad praesens nihil dicimus omnino: eo quod hoc ex physicis rationibus nullo modo potest cognosci [3]: physica [4] enim tantum suscepimus dicenda, plus secundum Peripateticorum sententiam persequentes ea quae intendimus [5], quam etiam ex nostra scientia [3] aliquid velimus inducere: si quid enim forte propriae opinionis haberemus, in theologicis [6] magis quam in physicis [4], Deo volente, a nobis proferetur.44 There is also another sort of vision and prophecy according to the highest theologians, who speak about divine inspirations, which I am not discussing here at all, the reason for this being that such a thing can in no way be known in terms of natural causes. For I have set out to speak here only about natural things, intending in this investigation to follow the doctrine of the Peripatetics rather than additionally setting forth anything from our science [i.e. Christian theology]. And, if it happens that I hold some personal opinion on this, I will express it, if God wills, in some of my theological, not natural, writings.

This is very close to Scholarios’ distinction between the philosophical and the theological way of approaching the issue of God-sent dreams (ll. 87–89; 104–11; 115–19): Φυσικῶς [4] γὰρ περὶ τῶν τοιούτων προτεθειμένου [5] αὐτῷ σκοπεῖν καὶ ὡς περὶ φυσικῶν [4], τὰ φυσικῶς γινόμενα [4] τῇ σκέψει μόνον προτίθησιν [5] · ἄλλως τε οὐδ’ οἷόν τ’ ἂν ἦν [3a] οὐδὲ βουληθέντι τὰς θεόθεν [2a] ἀποκαλύψεις ἔχειν εἰδέναι [3b] …. Τὰ δ’ εἰς τὴν θείαν [2a] ἀνήκοντα κατοχήν [2b] …. Ἥτις δὴ θρησκεία τὴν … εἰδικωτάτην πρόνοιαν … ὕλην [sc. subject-­matter] {6} ποιεῖται λεπτοτέραν ὁμοῦ καὶ ἀληθεστέραν πάσης φυσικῆς [4] ἐπισκέψεως. Καὶ ταύτης τῆς θείας [2a] προνοίας μέρος οὐ τὸ τυχὸν ἡ ἐπίπνοια [2b] καὶ ἡ κατοχὴ [2b] τοῦ θείου [2a] …. Ὅσοις δὲ τρόποις τὴν τοιαύτην {2a} ἐπίπνοιαν [2b] λέγουσιν ἱεροὶ καὶ τῷ θείῳ πεφωτισμένοι Πνεύματι …, ἴσασιν οἱ τῶν ἱερῶν ἐκείνων τοῖς λόγοις προσέχοντες [1] [sc. the theologians].45  See de Raeymaeker (1933, 9–10); Nardi (1960, 120–2); Anzulewicz (1998, 763–4).  In Scholasticism, the title De somno et vigilia is a “titre générique qui regroupe les trois traités De somno et vigilia, De insomniis et De divinatione per somnum” (Grellard 2010, 222). 44  Albert the Great, De somno et vigilia III, 1.12 (in Borgnet 1890b, IX: 195b). (The numbers in brackets are there in order to facilitate comparison with the next quotation.) See also ibid. III, 2.9: “… de divinatione quae ex somno est, secundum quod ex physicis rationibus sciri potest” (in Borgnet 1890a, b, IX: 207b). Albert’s De somno et vigilia is placed between 1254/57 and 1260 (see Weisheipl 1980a, 35). Cf. Thomas Aquinas, Summa contra Gentiles II, 4 (“Ὅτι ἑτέρως θεωρεῖ περὶ τῶν κτισμάτων ὁ φυσικὸς καὶ ἑτέρως ὁ θεολόγος”), par. 2 and 3: “Καὶ διατοῦτο περὶ τὰ κτίσματα ἕτερα ὁ φιλόσοφος καὶ ὁ πιστὸς θεωρεῖ. Ὁ μὲν γὰρ φιλόσοφος ἐκεῖνα σκέπτεται, ἃ τούτοις κατὰ τὴν ἰδίαν φύσιν ἁρμόζει, ὥσπερ τοῦ πυρὸς τὸ φέρεσθαι ἄνω, ὁ δὲ πιστὸς ἐκεῖνα μόνα περὶ τὰ κτίσματα σκέπτεται, ἃ τούτοις ἁρμόζει καθόσον πρὸς τὸν Θεὸν ἀνάγονται, ὡς λόγου χάριν καθόσον ὑπὸ τοῦ Θεοῦ εἰσιν ἐκτισμένα ἢ τῷ Θεῷ ὑποτεταγμένα καὶ τὰ ὅμοια. … Ὁ μὲν γὰρ φιλόσοφος τὰς ἀποδείξεις λαμβάνει ἐκ τῶν ἰδίων αἰτίων τοῦ πράγματος, ὁ δὲ πιστὸς ἐκ τῆς πρώτης αἰτίας· ὥσπερ ὅτι οὕτως ἐστὶ παραδεδομένον θεόθεν, ἢ ὅτι τοῦτο εἰς δόξαν ἀνήκει Θεοῦ, ἢ ὅτι ἡ τοῦ Θεοῦ δύναμίς ἐστιν ἄπειρος” (trans. by Demetrios Kydones in a codex owned by Scholarios [see Demetracopoulos 2018, 166], i.e. Taurin. XXIII, fols. 69v37–70r4; 70r10–13; see also Scholarios’ Compendium Summae contra Gentiles ad loc., in Jugie et al. V: 62.20–31). 45  See infra, Appendix I, pp. 301–2. There is no evidence on when or how Scholarios got access to Albert’s writings. Albert’s name occurs six times in Scholarios’ Latin-based Ars vetus (in Jugie et al. VII: 15.18–21; 27.19–20; 28.32–37; 35.3–7; 191.16–17; 347.27–33). This translation dates 42

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As he [i.e. Aristotle] had set out to examine this sort of things from the point of view of natural philosophy and in so far as they are natural things, he scrutinizes only those things that take place naturally …; besides, it would have been impossible for him, even if he wished to lay hold of the things divinely revealed, to know of them …. As for the truths related to divine possession …. This religion takes as its subject-matter the most special divine providence, which is both finer and truer than any subject of examination by natural philosophy. And inspiration and possession by the divine forms is one of the most important parts of the aforesaid divine providence …. As for how many kinds of such inspiration the holy men, illuminated by the divine spirit, talk about, this is something known by those who carefully examine the writings of such men.

In the above passage, Albert announced a treatment of the issue of the God-sent dreams in a forthcoming theological writing of his, probably (but not certainly) his Quaestio de prophetia.46 Scholarios starts his second Note by drawing on Aquinas’ theological thought. Scholarios’ view of the prophetic dreams as an additional sort of dreams occurs in Thomas Aquinas’ Summa theologiae, IIa IIae, qu. 95 (“De superstitione divinativa”/“Περὶ μαντείας”), art. 6 (“Utrum divinatio quae fit per somnia sit illicita”/“Περὶ τῆς δι’ ἐνυπνίων μαντείας”).47 The Respondeo48 seems to be based from 1433/35, i.e. from the same period as Scholarios’ Paraphrasis of Metochites’ abridgment of Aristotle’s natural works. It is therefore possible that this was the spark for Scholarios’ interest in Albert. If he had ever had a glance at Albert’s works on Aristotle, he should certainly have understood that these works lie behind several of Thomas’ references to Aristotle in the Summa theologiae and elsewhere. Besides, Scholarios, as reader of Albert’s tripartite De somno et vigilia, could see that Albert’s digressiones “sont particulièrement nombreuses dans le troisième traité du De somno et vigilia, qui correspond au De divinatione per somnum: le premier traité comprend 12 chapitres qui sont tous des digressions, à l’exception du chapitre 2 …. Le second traité (qui correspond à la suite du De divinatione) ne contient aucune digression” (Grellard 2010, 224; see also Ricklin 1998, 33). This could have been an additional inspiration for Scholarios to add some personal Notes on the De divinatione per somnum. 46  According to Kübel and Anzulewicz (1993, XIV.73–85), the Quaestio de prophetia postdates the De somno et vigilia and must be placed “non prius quam post medium decennium sextum.” Likewise, Torrell (1981, 202) places it in 1245/48. On the issue of the date of the Quaestio de prophetia in connection with Albert’s announcement of a treatise relevant to this issue, see also Weisheipl (1980b, 569); Rigo (2001, 58 n159). Of course, Scholarios was not an expert on the dates of Albert’s writings. Still, the passage from Albert’s De divinatione per somnum could make him look for some Albertinian text relevant to prophecy. 47  Cod. Par. gr. 1237, fol. 244v28. This manuscript, partly written by Scholarios himself (produced in his early period, i.e., c. 1432), contains the entire IIa IIae (on this manuscript, see Demetracopoulos 2018, 133, n9; 157–9). From qu. 64 on, in a part written in Scholarios’ hand, it is a drastically abridged version, enriched with some sparse notes by Scholarios himself (see, e.g., fol. 251r19–36, on qu. 108, art. 4). Matthew Kamariotes, who had been familiarised with Thomas while attending Scholarios’ courses in c. 1435–45 (see Chatzimichael 2005, 60–61; 119), produced a critical assessment of the previous article: Πρὸς τὰ παρὰ τοῦ Θωμᾶ περὶ τῆς σημασίας τῶν οὐρανίων σωμάτων (on Aquinas’ Summa theologiae, IIa IIae, qu. 95, art. 5; edited in Demetracopoulos 2007, 371–6). 48  Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, IIa IIae, qu. 95, art. 6, Resp. in Demetrios Kydones’ translation (c. 1360): “… ἡ τῶν ἐνυπνίων αἰτία ποτὲ μέν ἐστιν (1) ἔνδοθεν, ποτὲ δὲ (2) ἔξωθεν. Ἑκατέρα δὲ τούτων διπλῆ. Ἡ γὰρ ἔνδοθεν (1) ἡ μέν ἐστι (1.1) ψυχική, καθόσον δηλονότι προσπίπτει τῇ φαντασίᾳ οἷς ὁ ἄνθρωπος ἐνδιέτριβεν ἐγρηγορώς, ἥτις οὔκ ἐστιν αἰτία τῶν μελλόντων εἰμὴ κατὰ συμβεβηκός, ὡς ὅταν συντρέχωσιν ἀπὸ ταὐτομάτου, ἡ δέ ἐστι (1.2) σωματική· ἐκ γὰρ τῆς ἔνδον

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on Aristotle’s De insomniis and De divinatione per somnum, most probably via Albert the Great.49 Aquinas lists three natural causes of dreams, two internal (“animalis” and “corporalis”) and one external (“corporalis”), and then he adds another external, which is “spiritualis”: God Himself. This is exactly the point of Scholarios’ first Note. Further, Albert (wrongly) remarks that even Aristotle does not exclude the possibility that some dreams are supernatural, that is, God-sent: Aristoteles tangit causam frequentis [sc. natural; cf. Aristotle’s “ὡς ἐπὶ τὸ πολύ”] somnii …. Dicit enim quod non semper hoc est falsum, quod somnia sunt a Deo: et per hoc innuit quandoque somnia esse per revelationem divinam.50 Aristotle discusses the cause of the majority of dreams … For he says that it is not always false that dreams are from God – by which he implies that, sometimes, dreams happen by means of divine revelation.

Elsewhere, Scholarios, based on Metaphysics Λ 8, 1074a16–17 (“τὸ γὰρ ἀναγκαῖον ἀφείσθω τοῖς ἰσχυροτέροις λέγειν”), argues that Aristotle did recognise that there is a sort of knowledge superior to the natural-philosophical one:

τοῦ σώματος διαθέσεως εἰδοποιεῖταί τις κίνησις ἐν τῇ φαντασίᾳ οἰκεία τῇ διαθέσει, ὥσπερ ἐν ᾧ ψυχροὶ χυμοὶ πλεονεκτοῦσιν, ὕδωρ καὶ χιὼν ἐπιφαίνεται. Ὅθεν καὶ οἱ ἰατροί φασι δεῖν προσέχειν τοῖς ὀνείρασι πρὸς διάγνωσιν τῶν ἔνδον διαθέσεων. Ὁμοίως δὲ καὶ ἡ ἔξωθεν αἰτία (2) ἡ μέν ἐστι (2.1) σωματική, καθόσον ἡ φαντασία τοῦ καθεύδοντος μεταβάλλει ἢ ὑπὸ τοῦ περιέχοντος ἀέρος ἢ ἐκ τῆς δράσεως τοῦ οὐρανίου σώματος, ὥστε τῷ οὕτω καθεύδοντι φαίνεσθαί τινας φαντασίας ὁμοιοειδεῖς τῇ τῶν οὐρανίων διαθέσει, ἡ δὲ (2.2) ἀσώματος ποτὲ μὲν παρὰ τοῦ Θεοῦ ἀποκαλύπτοντός τινα τοῖς ἀνθρώποις τῇ τῶν ἀγγέλων διακονίᾳ, κατὰ τὸ ιβʹ τῶν Ἀριθμῶν· ‘εἴ τις γένηται ἐν ἡμῖν προφήτης Κυρίου, ἐν ὁράμασι ὀφθήσομαι αὐτῷ ἢ δι’ ἐνυπνίων λαλήσω πρὸς αὐτόν’ [Num. 12:6]). Ποτὲ δὲ δι’ ἐνεργείας δαιμόνων φαντασίαι τινὲς φαίνονται τοῖς καθεύδουσιν, ἐξ ὧν πολλάκις τινὰ τῶν μελλόντων ἀποκαλύπτουσιν τοῖς πρὸς αὐτοὺς συνθήκας ἔχουσιν. Οὕτω τοίνυν ῥητέον ὡς, εἴ τις τοῖς ὀνείρασι χρῆται πρὸς τὴν τῶν μελλόντων πρόγνωσιν, καθόσον τὰ ἐνύπνια προΐασιν ἢ ἐκ θείας ἀποκαλύψεως ἢ ἔκ τινος ἔνδον αἰτίας φυσικῆς ἢ ἐξωτερικῆς, ἐφ’ ὅσον δυνατὸν τὴν δύναμιν ταύτης τῆς αἰτίας ἑαυτὴν ἐκτείνειν, οὐκ ἔσται πονηρὰ ἡ μαντεία. Εἰ δ’ ἡ μαντεία ἔχει αἰτίαν τὴν ἀποκάλυψιν τῶν δαιμόνων, μεθ’ ὧν ἔχουσί τινες ὡρισμένας συνθήκας, ὡς ἐπὶ τούτῳ καλούμενοι, ἢ καὶ σεσιγημένας), διὰ τὸ τὴν μαντείαν ταύτην ἐκτείνεσθαι ἐφ’ ὃ μὴ δύναται ἑαυτὴν ἐκτείνειν, ἔσται ἡ μαντεία πονηρὰ καὶ δεισιδαίμων” (cod. Par. gr. 1237, fols. 244v29–245r9; cf. Glycofrydi-Leontsini and Spyralatos 2011, 262.10–263.11). On Aquinas’ view of the various kinds of dreams and of prophesizing through dreams, see the collection of passages in Manzanedo 1997, 397; 404–8. 49  Albert the Great, Summa de creaturis II, 52, Solutio: “… quodlibet somnium est reducibile ad aliquam causam efficientem, quae causa efficiens vel est in somniante, vel extra ispum, vel partim in ipso, vel partim extra. Et si est in somniante, talis est ex parte corporis, vel ex parte animae. Et si ex parte corporis, tunc est ex ventris plenitudine vel inanitione. Si autem ex parte animae solum est in somniante, tunc est cognitio solum. Si vero est extra, vel est a bonis angelis, vel malis. Si a malis, tunc est ab illusione. Si a bonis, tunc est a revelatione. Si vero partim intra et partim extra, tunc vel erit a bonis angelis, vel a malis. Et si a bonis, tunc est ex cogitatione et revelatione. Si a malis, tunc est ex cogitatione et illusione” (in Borgnet 1896, XXXV: 445). My gratitude to Silvia Donati (Bonn), Guy Guldentops (Cologne) and Alessandro Palazzo (Cologne) for our discussions on Albert the Great’s approach to divination. 50  Albert the Great, Summa de creaturis II, 52 ad quaest. (in Borgnet 1896, XXXV: 445b).

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Ὥστε καὶ μείζω τινὰ ἀνάγκην ἀληθείας οἶδε τοῦ φαινομένου εὐλόγου, ἣ τοῖς ἐπίπνοις ὑπὸ τοῦ θείου ἐνδίδοται …, φιλοσοφίαν … τῆς ὑπὸ τοῦ θείου κατοχῆς καλῶς διακρίνας.51 Therefore, he [sc. Aristotle] recognises that there is a kind of necessity of truth that is superior to simple plausibility, which truth is injected into the inspired men by the divine … thus clearly and correctly distinguishing philosophy from possession by the divine.

As for the De divinatione per somnum, Scholarios, building on a biographical tradition that presented Aristotle as prudently abstaining from explicitly clashing with traditional theological views (see infra, p. 273), argues that Aristotle “simulates” that he fully denounces Democritus’ (alleged) view of the existence of some superior powers (“demons”) and their influence on the human soul and that he restricted himself to admitting the influence of the heavenly bodies on man. This is a latent interpretation of Aristotle’s description of nature as “δαιμονία,” which differs from Metochites’, at least in tenor, as Scholarios abstains from disambiguating this characterization as referring to “demons.” Presumably, what Scholarios believed about what Aristotle held on the issue runs as follows. Aristotle was a monotheist. Still, living before Christ, he could not think of the idea that the one God reveals truths directly to man. Nevertheless, he believed that some superior beings (intellects?), connected with the celestial bodies, do exert some influence on humans, via, for example, prophetic dreams. Still, he had not conceived of a way to account for this influence, and hence he was supposed to challenge the reality of this influence. This web of beliefs was in fact the best one could form by means of guesswork (“μαντεύεται”) in a realm that objectively lay beyond his and his age’s reach. Scholarios’ second Note (see infra, Appendix I, p. 302) enlarges the picture in this direction. Supernatural transmission of truths, Scholarios claims, does occur; this is what Christians call “possession” (κατοχή) or “inspiration” (ἐπίπνοια) of man by God (cf. supra, p. 261–2). This process forms part of the second kind of divine providence, the “special” one (εἰδικωτάτη πρόνοια), which has as its object humankind, the first one being the “general providence,” which is God’s ruling the universe as a whole. This is directly derived from the Quaestio “De providentia” from the Ia of Aquinas’ Summa theologiae (qu. 22: “providentia respectu omnium” vs. “providentia respectu hominum specialiter”). As is known,52 Scholarios owned a copy of the Prima Pars (corrected and occasionally commented by himself) as early as 1432, that is, before abridging Metochites’ Paraphrasis of Aristotle’s works on natural philosophy. Besides, Scholarios, much later (after 1458/59), abridged the entire Prima Pars.53 He also produced a fivefold set of treatises On the Divine

 Scholarios, Κατὰ τῶν Πλήθωνος ἀποριῶν ἐπ’ Ἀριστοτέλει (in Jugie et al. IV: 16.23–31). Cf. infra, p. 276. In so doing, Scholarios goes further in the direction of reconciling Aristotle than Albert and Thomas had done; in their commentaries on Aristotle’s Metaphysics, neither of them interprets Aristotle’s passage in this way. 52  Eustratiades and Arcadios (1924, 55); Papadopoulos (1967, 38 n68); Cacouros (2000, 416–20; 431); Fonkitch (2002). One should add a second autograph copy (see Demetracopoulos 2018, 153–4; 165). 53  In Jugie et al. V: 338–510. On this dating, see Demetracopoulos 2018, 154–6; 169. 51

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Providence and Predestination, which was mainly based on Aquinas’ doctrine of Providence as expounded in the Summa theologiae and the Summa contra Gentiles.54 What is more, Scholarios’ wording in his second Note is very close to the Summa contra Gentiles III, 154 (“De donis gratiae gratis datae; in quo de divinationibus daemonum”/“Περὶ τῶν προῖκα διδομένων τῆς χάριτος δώρων· ἐν ᾧ καὶ περὶ μαντειῶν τῶν ἀπὸ τῶν δαιμόνων”),55 where the divine Revelation is described  See Demetracopoulos (2007, 318).  Thomas Aquinas, Summa contra Gentiles III, 154, par. 1–5, 7–9 and 19–20  in Demetrios Kydones’ translation (1354): “… ἀνάγκη τοίνυν τὰ διὰ πίστεως παρ’ ἡμῶν κρατούμενα παρὰ τοῦ Θεοῦ εἰς ἡμᾶς κατελθεῖν. Ἐπεὶ δὲ τὰ παρὰ τοῦ Θεοῦ τάξει τινὶ γίνονται …, ἐν τῇ φανερώσει τῶν περὶ τὴν πίστιν τάξιν τινὰ τηρεῖσθαι ἐδέησεν, ὥστε δηλονότι τινὰς μὲν ἀμέσως παρὰ τοῦ Θεοῦ δέχεσθαι ταῦτα, ἄλλους δὲ ἀπὸ τούτων, καὶ οὕτω κατὰ τάξιν μέχρι τῶν ἐσχάτων. … ‘Τὰ γὰρ ἀόρατα’ (Rom. 1:20), ὧν ἡ θεωρία μακαρίους ποιεῖ καὶ περὶ ἅ ἐστιν ἡ πίστις, πρῶτον μὲν παρὰ Θεοῦ τοῖς μακαρίοις ἀγγέλοις (1) ἀποκαλύπτονται ἀπαρακαλύπτῳ θεωρίᾳ …. Ἔπειτα μεσιτευόντων ἀγγέλων τισὶ τῶν ἀνθρώπων (2) ἀποκαλύπτει, οὐ μέντοι δι’ ἀπαρακαλύπτου θεωρίας, ὡς εἴρηται, ἀλλὰ διά τινος βεβαίας πειθοῦς ἐκ τῆς θείας ἀποκαλύψεως προϊούσης· ἥτις γίνεται τῷ ἔνδοθεν καὶ νοητῷ φωτὶ μετεωρίζοντι τὴν διάνοιαν πρὸς τὸ δέξασθαι ταῦτα, ἐφ’ ἃ διὰ τοῦ φυσικοῦ φωτὸς ὁ νοῦς ἀφικέσθαι οὐ δύναται. … Αὕτη δὲ ἡ παρὰ Θεοῦ τῶν ἀοράτων ἀποκάλυψις τῇ σοφίᾳ προσήκει, ἥτις τῶν θείων γνῶσις ἰδίως ἐστί. … Ἃ δὲ πρὸς τὴν ἑτέρων διασάφησιν γινώσκει ὁ ἄνθρωπος, καλῶς ἄγειν [Demetrios Kydones: προάγειν] οὐ δύναται ἄνευ λόγου. Ἐπεὶ δὲ οἱ παρὰ Θεοῦ λαμβάνοντες ἀποκάλυψιν κατὰ τὴν θεόθεν καταστᾶσαν τάξιν ἑτέρους διδάσκειν ὀφείλουσιν, ἀνάγκη τούτοις χάρισμα διδασκαλίας (cf. I Cor. 12:19) δεδόσθαι, καθὼς ἡ χρεία τῶν διδαχθησομένων ἀπῄτει. … Ἀλλ’ ἐπεὶ ὁ προτεθεὶς λόγος καὶ βεβαιώσεως δεῖται, ὥστε προσδεχθῆναι, εἰ μὴ φανερὸς εἴη καθ’ ἑαυτόν, τὰ δὲ τῆς πίστεως ἀφανῆ τῷ ἀνθρωπίνῳ λόγῳ εἰσίν, ἀνάγκη ἦν δοθῆναί τι, δι’ οὗ ἂν ὁ τῶν τὴν πίστιν κηρυττόντων λόγος ἐβεβαιώθη. Οὐκ ἠδύνατο δὲ βεβαιοῦσθαι διά τινων λογικῶν ἀρχῶν, ὥσπερ αἱ ἀποδείξεις· τὰ γὰρ τῆς πίστεως ὑπὲρ λόγον εἰσίν. Ἐδέησε τοίνυν σημείοις τισὶ βεβαιωθῆναι τὸν λόγον τῶν κηρυττόντων, δι’ οὗ ἂν ἐδείχθη φανερῶς τὸν τοιοῦτον λόγον ἀπὸ Θεοῦ προελθεῖν ἐν τῷ τοὺς κηρύττοντας ἀσθενεῖς ὑγιάζειν καὶ ἄλλας δυνάμεις ποιεῖν (Mt. 7:22; Act. 19:11; I Cor. 12:28–29), ἃ μηδεὶς δύναται ποιεῖν πλὴν τοῦ Θεοῦ. … Ἦν δὲ καὶ ἕτερος βεβαιώσεως τρόπος, τὸ τοὺς κήρυκας τῆς ἀληθείας ἀληθεύοντας περὶ τῶν ἀδήλων μέν, μετὰ δὲ ταῦτα δυναμένων φανερωθῆναι, πιστεύεσθαι τούτοις [Demetrios Kydones: τούτους] καὶ περὶ ὧν οἱ ἄνθρωποι πείρᾳ μαθεῖν οὐκ εἰσὶ δυνατοί. Ὅθεν ἀναγκαῖον ἦν τὸ τῆς προφητείας χάρισμα (I Cor. 12:19), δι’ οὗ τὰ μέλλοντα καὶ τὰ καθόλου τοὺς ἀνθρώπους λανθάνοντα γινώσκειν ἠδύναντο καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις σημαίνειν ἀποκαλύπτοντος τοῦ Θεοῦ, ἵν’ οὕτως ἐν αὐτοῖς ἀληθεύοντες κἀν τοῖς περὶ πίστεως ἀληθεῖς δοκῶσιν ὁμοίως. … Μετὰ δὲ τὸν βαθμὸν τῶν ἀμέσως παρὰ Θεοῦ τὰς ἀποκαλύψεις δεχομένων ἔστι καὶ ἕτερος βαθμὸς χάριτος ἀναγκαῖος. Ἐπεὶ γὰρ τὰς ἀποκαλύψεις παρὰ Θεοῦ οἱ ἄνθρωποι ὑποδέχονται οὐχ ὑπὲρ τοῦ παρόντος χρόνου μόνον, ἀλλὰ καὶ πρὸς διδασκαλίαν πάντων τῶν ἐσομένων, ἀναγκαῖον ἦν ὥστε μὴ μόνον τὰ τούτοις ἀποκαλυπτόμενα λόγοις διδάσκεσθαι τοὺς παρόντας, ἀλλὰ καὶ γράφεσθαι πρὸς τὴν τῶν ἐσομένων διδασκαλίαν. Ὥστε ἀνάγκη εἶναί τινας τοὺς ἑρμηνεύοντας τὰ γράμματα ταῦτα χάριτι θείᾳ, (3) ὥσπερ καὶ αὐτὴ ἡ ἀποκάλυψις θείᾳ χάριτι γέγονεν. … Ἕπεται δὲ καὶ ἕτερος ἔσχατος βαθμός, τῶν τοῖς ἄλλοις μὲν δηλονότι ἀποκεκαλυμμένοις, παρ’ ἄλλων δὲ ἑρμηνευομένοις πιστῶς πειθομένων (4)” (cod. Taurin. XXIII, fols. 288v28–291r25). Cod. Taurin. XXIII is Scholarios’ own copy of the Summa contra Gentiles (see supra, p. 261, n44). Cod. Marc. gr. II,2, which is an autograph of Demetrios Kydones, offers a better reading (fols. 231v, col. b15–233r, col. b32) only in the two cases noticed above. By coincidence or not, Scholarios, in his abridgment of the Summa contra Gentiles (in Jugie et al. V: 227.30–231.28), avoided to reproduce verbatim the phrases that contain these mistakes, possibly because he confected the abridgment on the basis of this manuscript of his own and was aware of the fact that these phrases ruin the meaning of the passages where they occur (cf. cod. Vat. gr. 616, fols. 168v15–171v28). On Scholarios as the earliest owner and user of Taurin. XXIII, see Frassinetti (1953, 81). 54 55

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as “donum” and a theological classification of its various kinds is offered. Scholarios, in full accordance with Aquinas, argues that the content of the divine revelation to man is transmitted first to a few elected, so to speak, persons, whom God enables both to firmly hold this content as true and instruct others.56 Then, God inspires some other persons charged with the duty to interpret the texts written by the previous ones, who had directly received the truth from God. These two groups in fact serve the last and most multitudinous one, which consists of those who believe, for their own salvation, in what they are told by the “prophets” and the exegetes. Let us scrutinize how Scholarios concludes his second Note: Ὅσοις δὲ τρόποις τὴν τοιαύτην ἐπίπνοιαν λέγουσιν ἱεροὶ καὶ τῷ θείῳ πεφωτισμένοι Πνεύματι, ἢ ἐγρηγορόσιν ἢ ἠρέμα ὑπνώττουσι καὶ καθάπερ ἐν ἐγρηγόρσει, γίνεσθαι τοῖς τοιούτων δώρων ἀξίοις, ἢ καὶ ἄλλοις, ὅπως ἂν τοιούτων ἄξιοι γένοιντο δώρων, ἴσασιν οἱ τῶν ἱερῶν ἐκείνων τοῖς λόγοις προσέχοντες (ll. 115–19, Appendix I, p. 302). As for how many kinds (i.e. when being awake or when being lightly asleep and as if being awake) this inspiration takes place, according to the holy men, illuminated by the divine spirit, in those who are worthy of such high gifts, or even in others, who become, in some way, worthy of such high gifts, this is something known by those who carefully examine the writings of such men.

“Those who carefully examine the writings of such [i.e. holy] men” are no doubt those who cultivate the science of theology, that is, the intellectuals who study the Holy Scripture. Thomas, in his Summa theologiae, IIa IIae, qu. 173, art. 3, ad 1um and 174, art. 3, Resp., reproduces the traditional Christian view that divine inspiration takes place “vel in dormiendo, quod significatur per ‘somnium’; vel in vigilando, quod significatur per ‘visionem’”—or “secundum differentiam somnii, quod fit in dormiendo; et visionis, quae fit in vigilando”—and argues that waking, which Scholarios lists first, is superior to sleep as one’s state while downloading divine revelation (“pertinet ad altiorem gradum prophetiae”; qu. 174, art. 3 Resp.).57 Still, Scholarios’ “τρόποι” does not refer to this distinction; it is more reasonable to think that by “τρόποι” he alludes to what Aquinas says in Summa theologiae, IIa IIae, qu. 174 (“De divisione prophetiae”/“Περὶ τῆς διαιρέσεως τῆς προφητείας εἰς τὰ αὐτῆς εἴδη”58), art. 1, which seems to be directly based on Albert’s Quaestio de prophetia, art. 1, par. 2, entitled “De modis prophetiae.”59 There, Aquinas distinguishes between “prophetia praedestinationis,” “prophetia praescientiae” and “prophetia comminationis.”60  See, e.g., Ex. 4:10–13; Act. 2:1–11.  Scholarios’ “καὶ καθάπερ ἐν ἐγρηγόρσει” does not refer to a third sort of state; this phrase is just a verbal addition to the second sort. It means “and as if one would be awake” (cf. Epiphanius of Salamis’ description of the state of dreaming: “… Ἡ ψυχὴ … πολλάκις … φαντάζεται καὶ ὁρᾷ αὑτὴν ὡς ἐν ἐγρηγόρσει …”; Adversus haereses, in Holl 1922, 227.7–9). 58  Cod. Par. gr. 1237, fol. 287v22. 59  In Fries (1993, 52–54). Of course, it is quite possible that Scholarios referred to the remaining distinctions of “prophecy” in the same Quaestio and/or in Aquinas’ distinctions in qu. 171–4. 60  The above shows that Cacouros’ suggestion (2015, 229–35; 335) that, behind Scholarios’ Complementary Notes, we should probably see some Latin translation-adaptation of Averroes’ 56 57

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Why did Scholarios take pains to succinctly make all these remarks? The reason must be sought not in Metochites’ Paraphrasis, but in George Pachymeres’ (1242 – post 1307) (cf. supra, Table 2, p. 256). As is known, Pachymeres, unlike Metochites, in his Aristotle-based Philosophy does not simply or fully abridge each of Aristotle’s writings; “we find in it some clear expressions of disagreement with Aristotle.”61 To the already known cases of such disagreement one must add what Pachymeres remarks at the end of his Paraphrasis of the De divinatione per somnum: “Ἀλλὰ ταῦτα μὲν ὁ φιλόσοφος. Ἔξεστιν δὲ λέγειν καὶ ‘θεόπεμπτά’ τινα ‘ἐνύπνια’ γινόμενα” (see infra, Appendix II, p.  305). To Pachymeres, certain dreams are instances of direct “illumination” (ἐλλάμψεις) by God. The fact that his statement is a deliberate denial of Aristotle’s ipsissima verba at 463b13 as well as the strongly Platonic and Christian Platonic (especially Ps.-Dionysian) character of his argument for this statement clearly indicates that Pachymeres intended to present Aristotle’s denial of the possibility of the divine origins of dream as misguided and Christian Platonism as the school of thought which holds the truth on this issue. It is precisely this point that Scholarios attempted to rebut by arguing that one should not fail to notice that Aristotle denied this possibility not simpliciter, but only in its Democritean version; Aristotle, Scholarios approvingly remarks, accepted that the celestial or divine things are causes of the prediction of some events. This is exactly Albert’s remark ad locum on Democritus’ doctrine as reported by Aristotle: Sed nos in hoc differimus a Democrito, quia ipse dicit defluxiones esse corpora parva atomalia, quae …. Sed in hoc convenimus cum eo, quod dicimus formam cum lumine defluere … et fortiter movere … et hunc motum animam tangere ….62 But we disagree with Democritus with regard to this: he says that the emanations are small, atomic bodies, which …. Still, we agree with him with regard to this: we say that the form flows down along with light … and moves strongly … and this motion affects the soul ….

Besides, Scholarios’ two Notes are absolutely exempt from any Platonic and Neoplatonic term and expression that figure in Pachymeres’ Critical Note—even from Platonic and Neoplatonic terms and expressions that occur in the Patristic literature e­ pitome of the Parva naturalia is not sustainable. – Although the Scholastic theologian expressly singled out by Scholarios as his favourite was Aquinas, he exploited many others. Apart from the names that figure in the list of his translations of Latin works (see supra, Table  1, pp.  240–6; 251–4), there is evidence that Scholarios had access to some writings by Duns Scotus (see Guichardan 1933), Bonaventure and Hervaeus Natalis (see Kappes 2013; Kappes et al. 2014, 199; 205; 217; 231; Kappes 2014, 163–9; 188–93). In view of this evidence, which no doubt is going to increase, we must find a reasonable way to reconcile this influence with Scholarios’ own repeated declarations of the superiority of Thomas as a theologian (cf. supra, pp. 236–8). One way would be to assume that Scholarios’ classification of the Scholastic trends differed from ours and that he regarded Scholastics after Thomas (e.g., Duns Scotus) as variants of Thomism. 61  Bydén (2005, 308). Cf., inter alia, George Pachymeres, Philosophy VI (De partibus animalium etc.), 2: “‘Τῶν οὐσιῶν ὅσαι φύσει συνεστᾶσι, τὰ μὲν ἀγένητα καὶ ἄφθαρτα εἶναί’ φησιν ὁ φιλόσοφος ‘τὸν ἅπαντα αἰῶνα’ (644b22–23) (τοιαῦτα γὰρ λέγει ἀτόπως καὶ ἀθέως τὰ οὐράνια) …” (in Pappa 2009, 8,10–12; cf. 54*–55*). Many thanks to Eleni Pappa (Berlin) and Pantelis Golitsis (Thessaloniki) for our discussions on Pachymeres’ Platonism and Aristotelianism. 62  Albert the Great, De somno et vigilia III, 2, 6 (in Borgnet 1890b, IX: 203). On Aristotle’s rejection of the atomic theory in this passage, see Morel (2002, 456–7).

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(ἔλλαμψις, ἑνίζεσθαι, ἁπλοῦσθαι, ἀφομοιοῦσθαι, and θεοειδής). It seems that what the Aristotelian and Thomist Scholarios found unacceptable in Pachymeres’ justification of the God-sent dreams is the anthropological assumption that the inner man (“τὸ ἐντός”), that is, the soul, is by nature (“πέφυκε”) susceptible of supernatural contact in terms of its being akin to God (“οἰκεία”; cf. the stark contrast with “ξένον”), just as the angels are (“ὥσπερ …, οὕτως …”) (cf. infra, Appendix II, pp.  306–7). To Scholarios, this clashes with the fundamentally composite character of the human nature,63 which Pachymeres seems to Platonically deny or drastically compromise64 by unilaterally defining man in terms of his spiritual element and explicitly placing him closer to the incorporeal angels than to the irrational animals.65 Further, Pachymeres’ explanation of dreams of divine provenance probably looked to Scholarios as a denial of the miraculous character of these dreams, as this explanation implicitly amounts to saying that the human soul is by nature able to receive them, provided one detaches oneself from earthly, base preoccupations. In Scholarios’ account of divine revelations, it is not man who prepares (παρασκευή) or renders himself a “matter,” so to speak, appropriate for receiving the “form” of revelation by merely setting his divine element free to receive God’s messages; rather, it is God Himself who provides in this process not only “form” but even the “matter” itself.66 In so claiming, Scholarios preserves the possibility of God’s  See, e.g., Scholarios, Περὶ τῆς λογικῆς καὶ ἀνθρωπίνης ψυχῆς, δεύτερον 22 (in Jugie et  al. I: 504.8–9). Cf. the anti-Platonic epistemological consequence of this anthropological doctrine in, e.g., Scholarios’ Περὶ ἐλεημοσύνης 11: “Αὐτὴ ἡ ψυχὴ γνοίη ἂν οὐδέν, ἐν τῷ σώματι οὖσα, τῶν ὄντων ἄνευ τοῦ σώματος· αἱ γὰρ αἰσθήσεις, τοῦ σώματος οὖσαι, τὰ φαντάσματα ποιοῦσιν, ὕλη δέ τις ταῦτα τῶν νοημάτων καὶ ὑπόθεσις γίνεται …. Ἄνευ τῶν φαντασμάτων οὐδὲν ἂν ἡ ψυχὴ νοήσειε τὴν ἀρχήν (cf. Aristotle, De sensu et sensibilibus 445b16–17; De memoria et reminiscentia 449b31–450a1; 450a13; De anima 431a16–17; 432a13–14; De somno et vigilia 456a25) …” (in Jugie et al. I: 100.31–37). 64  See, e.g., George Pachymeres, Paraphrasis Pseudo-Dionysii Areopagitae “De caelesti hierarchia” XV, 3: “… oἱ ἄνθρωποι ὀλίγον τὸ κατ’ αἴσθησιν ἔχουσι πρὸς τὰ ἄλλα ζῷα. Τὰ μὲν γὰρ ἄλογα τὸ πᾶν αἴσθησίς ἐστι …. Ἐν ἡμῖν δὲ βραχὺ τὸ αἰσθητικόν· οὐ γὰρ δι’ αὐτοῦ συνιστάμεθα, ἀλλὰ διὰ τοῦ νοεροῦ. Ἐπὶ δὲ τῶν ἀγγέλων οὐδὲ τὸ βραχύτατον ἔστι τῶν αἰσθήσεων, ἀλλὰ τύπος βραχὺς ἐκείνων τὰ καθ’ ἡμᾶς” (PG 3: 349A–B). 65   See also Pachymeres’ flagrantly Platonic, Neopythagorean (Nicomachus of Gerasa) and Neoplatonic spirit in the introductory chapters of his Quadrivium (in Tannery and Stéphanou 1940, 5.3–9; 20). A similar view is expressed in Ps.-George Pachymeres’ Compendium Aristotelis “Metaphysicae” 119–24: “… ὁ ἡμέτερος νοῦς τὸ τέλειον λαμβάνει, ὅταν τὴν γνῶσιν τῶν ὄντως ὄντων ἔχῃ, τὸ αὐτοαγαθὸν ἔχων, καθὸ τῶν ἄλλων ζῴων ἀποκέκριται καὶ εἰδοπεποίηται. Πράξεως γὰρ καὶ φρονήσεώς πη καὶ τἆλλα κεκοινώνηκε ζῷα, νοῦ δὲ οὐδαμῆ, οὐδέ τις ἔννοια ἀρχῶν αὐτοῖς καὶ τῆς ἀσωμάτου φύσεως (cf. Plutarch, De sollertia animalium 970E4–5; Bruta animalia ratione uti 991D9–10; 991F5)” (in Moraux 1980, 70). In this passage, it is not in practical life that man’s superiority to the other animals consists, but in intellect and the knowledge of the divine. 66  This is one of Thomas Aquinas’ points in Summa theologiae, IIa IIae, qu. 172, art. 3 (“Utrum ad prophetiam requiratur dispositio naturalis”/“Εἰ ζητεῖται πρὸς τὴν προφητείαν ἡ φυσικὴ διάθεσις”). This is what Scholarios excerpts from the Resp. of this quaestio in his personal, partly abridged copy of the IIa IIae: “Ὥσπερ ὁ Θεός, καθόλου ὢν αἴτιος ἐν τῷ ποιεῖν, οὐ προεπιζητεῖ ὕλην οὔτ’ ἄλλην τινὰ φυσικὴν διάθεσιν ἐν τοῖς σωματικοῖς ἀποτελέσμασιν, ἀλλὰ δυνατός ἐστιν ὁμοῦ καὶ τὴν φύσιν καὶ τὴν διάθεσιν καὶ τὸ εἶδος παράγειν, οὕτω κἀν τοῖς πνευματικοῖς ἀποτελέσμασιν οὐ προεπιζητεῖ διάθεσιν τινά, ἀλλ’ ὁμοῦ τῷ πνευματικῷ ἀποτελέσματι δύναται καὶ τὴν ἐπιτηδείαν 63

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miraculous interventions during sleep at no expense on the anthropological level; in full accordance with Aquinas’ anthropology, man, for all his having an immortal soul, is construed by Scholarios as a created, composite being, which implies that God’s descendance to the human level is always a miracle. For one to follow the other way, that is, to ascribe the divine revelations to the allegedly divine character of the human soul, would amount to risking coming close to Plethon’s description of the human soul as divine, eternal etc. Indeed, Scholarios’ hylomorphic theory of man sounds as a clear-cut differentiation from Plethon’s Platonic and/or Neoplatonic description of man as “soul” or as a composite of “two” distinct “forms” (sc. soul and body).67 True, the Greek Patristic provenance of Pachymeres’ vocabulary was too obvious to pass unnoticed by Scholarios. Still, it would be absurd to construe Scholarios’ emendation or refutation of Pachymeres’ account of supernatural dreams as an attack on, say, Gregory Nazianzen or (Ps.-) Dionysius. Rather, one might say that Scholarios raised objections to taking their Platonic and Neoplatonic vocabulary at its face value, since this would result in subscribing to an anthropology incompatible with the fundamental Christian tenet that no created being—including the human soul—is literally by nature “akin” to the Creator. Otherwise put, to Scholarios, one should not take the heathen dress of the Fathers’ doctrine for the doctrine itself. Still, we have no evidence for taking this explanation as what Scholarios really held on the Fathers’ Platonism, to which even Plethon had mockingly drawn Scholarios’ attention (see supra, p. 236, n9). An alternative would be that he held that the Fathers were impeccable as far as their conception of the Christian dogmas goes, not as far as their philosophical predilections were concerned. Non liquet. As far as I know, no study of the reception of the long-revered Patristic auctoritates such as Gregory Nazianzen in the Byzantine fifteenth century has been written. Still, one should not assume in advance that the Byzantines were blind to the fact that disagreement among the Church Fathers did exist or slavishly accepted everything they found in their writings. To invoke an instance, Manuel II Palaeologos, a typical adherent to Patristic fideism, paraphrased “some famous lines

εἰσάγειν διάθεσιν, οἵα ἂν ζητηθείη κατὰ τὴν τῆς φύσεως τάξιν. Καὶ περαιτέρω δύναιτ’ ἂν δημιουργῶν ἅμα προάγειν αὐτὸ τὸ ὑποκείμενον, ἤτοι τὴν ψυχήν, καὶ ἐν αὐτῇ τῇ δημιουργίᾳ διατιθέναι ταύτην πρὸς προφητείαν, καὶ ἔτι τὴν τῆς προφητείας χάριν ταύτῃ διδόναι” (cod. Par. gr. 1237, fol. 286v16–22; the passage fully coincides with Demetrios Kydones’ translation; see cod. Vat. gr. 611, fol. 127v31–39). In ad 1um, even Scholarios’ reference to the “divine power” occurs: “… ἀναιρεῖται δὲ θείᾳ δυνάμει, εἴ τι τῇ προφητείᾳ ἐστὶν ἐναντίον” (cod. Vat. gr. 611, fol. 128r2). On the fourteenth- and fifteenth-century manuscripts that contain Kydones’ translation of the IIa IIae, see Papadopoulos (1967, 50–52: Nos 9; 17–19); Leontsinis and Glycofrydi-Leontsini (1976, 14–16). On Scholarios’ production of cod. Par. gr. 1237 (shortly after 1436), see Demetracopoulos (2018, 133; 157; 167). 67  See Demetracopoulos (2002, 154–5). This historical setting of Scholarios’ Complementary Notes on the De divinatione per somnum renders it superfluous to discuss the account offered in Cacouros (2015, 224–31).

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of Gregory Nazianzen’s Oration XLIII” on the high value of secular learning “in such a way as to express full disagreement with them.”68 In any case, Scholarios seems to have had Pachymeres’ anti-Aristotelian Note before his eyes down to the end of his producing his own Notes. He does not leave unanswered even Pachymeres’ “ἅμα.” Instead of attributing the instantaneous character of the divine revelation to the natural capability of the human soul, Scholarios attributes it to the infinite power of God and the unmediated (“ἀμέσως”) character of God’s influence on the human mind. Moreover, Scholarios concluded his Notes with the same detail as Pachymeres, that is, by referring to those who had the privilege to receive revelations from God. Pachymeres: “… καὶ πολλῶν τῶν ἀξίων ἄλλων” (see infra, Appendix II, p. 307); Scholarios: “… τὴν τοιαύτην ἐπίπνοιαν … γίνεσθαι τοῖς τοιούτων δώρων ἀξίοις, ἢ καὶ ἄλλοις, ὅπως ἂν τοιούτων ἄξιοι γένοιντο δώρων …” (ll. 116–19; see infra, Appendix I, p. 302). What they both refer to are some exceptions, where God, in special circumstances, uses somebody, in spite of his not being a moral person, as a means of revealing truths.69 The issue of the real possibility of “divine inspiration” held pride of place among Scholarios’ concerns in his anti-Plethonic polemic. In his Κατὰ τῶν Πλήθωνος ἀποριῶν ἐπ’ Ἀριστοτέλει, written between 1443 and June 1445,70 that is, probably not much later than his abridgment of Metochites’ paraphrase of the Parva naturalia, Scholarios focused on Plethon’s rationalist rejection of divine revelation en bloc in favour of a purely rational quest for truth and announced a work in defence of the possibility and necessity of divine inspiration: Περὶ … τῆς θεόθεν ἐπιπνοίας, ὅτι τε ἔστιν ὡς ἀληθῶς, καὶ παρὰ τίσιν ἔστι, καὶ ὅτι ἄνευ ταύτης οὐχ οἷόν τε ἦν τὴν περὶ τῶν θείων ἀλήθειαν τὸν ἀνθρώπινον νοῦν κατειληφέναι καὶ ὁπωσοῦν, ὕστερον, ἂν ὁ Θεὸς θέλῃ, χωρὶς περὶ τούτων πραγματευσόμεθα.71 About … inspiration by God, that it truly exists, in whom it takes place, and that without it it would have been impossible for the human mind to grasp the truth on divine matters even in the slightest degree, I will later produce a specific treatise on these matters, if God wills.

The first two of the three issues included in this announcement, that is, the question of the reality of divine inspiration and the question about its bearers, are explicitly discussed in the De divinatione per somnum. As for the third issue, namely that, if humankind was ever to reach truth on the divine matters on a massive scale, divine inspiration was necessary, this is typically Thomistic.72 In one of his anti-­Plethonic writings, Scholarios reproduces this Thomistic view in a way very similar to his own words in Note Ι:

 Demetracopoulos (2012a, 398–9).  See also Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, IIa IIae, qu. 172, art. 4 (cf. cod. Par. gr. 1237, fol. 286v22–30). 70  See Jugie et al. ΙV: IV; Tinnefeld 2002, 484; 515. 71  Scholarios, Κατὰ τῶν Πλήθωνος ἀποριῶν ἐπ’ Ἀριστοτέλει (in Jugie et al., tome IV, 17.14–20). Cf. Demetracopoulos (2014a, 201–2 n198). 72  See, e.g., Thomas Aquinas, Summa contra Gentiles I, 5; Summa theologiae, IIa IIae, qu. 2, art. 4. 68 69

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Ὁ … ἀνθρώπινος νοῦς νοεῖ … τὰ ὑπὲρ αὑτόν, ἕως ἂν ἐν τῷ σώματι ᾖ, ἀμυδρῶς, ἀληθῶς μέντοι καὶ ὡς ἔν τινι τῆς κατ’ αὐτὰ ἀληθείας εἰκόνι, εἰ ταῖς οἰκείαις καὶ ἀληθέσιν ἀρχαῖς τῆς τοιαύτης σκέψεως ἕποιτο, ὃ τῶν εὐσεβούντων περὶ τὰ θεῖα μόνων ἐστὶ σοφίᾳ τε ἀληθεῖ καὶ φρονήσει κυβερνωμένων. Φυσικώτερον δὲ διαλεγόμενοι νῦν οὐ λέγομεν περὶ τῶν κατὰ θείαν ἀποκάλυψιν ἐν τοῖς ἁγίοις νοήσεων.73 The … human mind, as long as it is in the body, understands the things superior to it in a faint way, but nevertheless truly and as if grasping an image of the truth about them, if it follows the proper and true principles of this kind of investigation—which is something that can be achieved only by those who have pious views on the things divine and are governed by true wisdom and prudence. Still, since we are now discussing in the natural framework, we are not talking about what the saints understand when things are revealed to them by God.

Besides, as has been seen (pp. 268–9), Scholarios argued that the soul’s susceptibility to revelations should not be explained in terms of the soul’s own nature. This leaves no room for Plethon’s Plato-based doctrine that the human soul shares in the divinity. Scholarios’ defence of man’s participation in the supernatural realm is balanced, as it does not leave room for any pagan view such as Plethon’s emphatic declaration of the divine nature and eternal existence of the human soul,74 which Scholarios planned to rebut.75 It is possible that Scholarios was well aware of the danger lurking in overstating the likeness of the human souls to God thanks to another Thomistic treatment of the issue of the prophetic dreams, namely Summa theologiae, IIa IIae, qu. 171 (“De causa prophetiae”/“Περὶ τοῦ αἰτίου τῆς προφητείας”), art. 1 (“Utrum prophetia possit esse naturalis”/“Εἰ φυσική ἐστιν ἡ προφητεία”).76 In this Article, which contains an explicit discussion of Aristotle’s De divinatione per somnum (arg. 2; ad 2um), Thomas argues that it is not only the body’s natural qualities but also the soul’s capacities that cannot be construed as adequately accounting for supernatural prophecy. Although conceding that a purified soul or the soul in one’s state of sleep or immediately before death is apter to receive revelations from angels or God,77 he 73  Scholarios, Περὶ τοῦ ἑνὸς ἐν Τριάδι Θεοῦ ἡμῶν καὶ πάντων τῶν ὄντων δημιουργοῦ, καὶ κατὰ ἀθέων ἤτοι αὐτοματιστῶν καὶ κατὰ πολυθέων (in Jugie et  al. IV: 184.17–22). Cf. Demetrios Kydones, Defensio S. Thomae Aquinatis contra Nilum Cabasilam: “… περὶ Θεοῦ καθ’ αὑτὸν οὐ δυνατόν τι νοεῖν ἀποδεδειγμένως τὴν ἀνθρωπίνην διάνοιαν, εἰμὴ καθόσον τὰ ὄντα εἰκόνες εἰσὶν ἐκείνου καὶ ὁμοιώματα καθαρώτερα ἢ ἀμυδρότερα …. Ἔννοιάν τινα καὶ ὁπωσοῦν λαμβάνει Θεοῦ, καὶ μέχρι τούτου τὴν ἀνθρωπίνην ψυχὴν τὸ φυσικὸν … φῶς ἀνάγειν ἰσχύει. Πρὸς δὲ τὸ τὴν δι’ ἀναλογίας καὶ τῶν ὄντων γνῶσιν αὐτὴν ὑπεραναβῆναι Θεοῦ δεῖται μόνον χειραγωγοῦ· διὰ τοῦτο καὶ αὐτὸς …, βουλόμενος καθαρωτέραν περὶ ἑαυτοῦ τοῖς ἀνθρώποις γνῶσιν ἐνθεῖναι …, ἠξίωσε καί τινα τῶν ἀπορρήτων καὶ ἡμῖν ἀγνώστων πάντη … ἀποκαλύψαι, οὐχ ὥστε τούτων ἐνταῦθα θεωρίαν καὶ ἐπιστήμην ἀκριβῆ αὐτοῦ κτήσασθαι, ἀλλ’ ὥστε μόνον πίστιν λαβεῖν, τῆς τελείας αὐτῶν θεωρίας καὶ γνώσεως ἀποκαλυφθησομένης ἐν τῷ μέλλοντι τοῖς ἐνταῦθα κεκαθαρμένοις· ταῦτα δέ ἐστι τὰ ἐν ταῖς ἱεραῖς Γραφαῖς ἐγκείμενα …” (cod. Vat. gr. 614, fol. 111v9–18; ed. Denis Searby, forthcoming). 74  See, e.g., Plethon, Laws III, 36 (in Alexandre 1858, 260.8–13). 75  See Demetracopoulos (2002, 154–5). 76  Cod. Vat. gr. 611, fol. 126r1. 77  See also Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, Ia, qu. 12, art. 11 Resp.; Ia IIae, qu. 113, art. 3 ad 2um.

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nevertheless explains that construing the soul’s nature with her own power (“propria virtute”) as the “cause of prophecy” videtur esse secundum opinionem Platonis, qui posuit quod animae habent omnium rerum cognitionem per participationem idearum. … Sed quia verius esse videtur quod anima ex sensibilibus cognitionem acquirat, secundum sententiam Aristotelis …, ideo melius est dicendum alio modo. … Et ideo dicendum est quod prophetia simpliciter dicta non potest esse a natura, sed solum ex revelatione divina (Respondeo). δoκεῖ εἶναι κατὰ τὴν τοῦ Πλάτωνος δόξαν, ὃς ὑπέθετο τὰς ἀνθρωπίνας ψυχὰς ἔχειν πάντων τῶν ὄντων τὴν γνῶσιν τῇ τῶν ἰδεῶν μετοχῇ. … Ἐπεὶ δ’ ἀληθέστερον εἶναι δοκεῖ τὸ τὴν ψυχὴν ἐκ τῶν αἰσθήσεων τὴν γνῶσιν πορίζεσθαι, κατὰ τὴν τοῦ Ἀριστοτέλους ἀπόφασιν …, βέλτιόν ἐστι λέγειν καθ’ ἕτερον τρόπον. … Ὅθεν ῥητέον ὅτι ἡ κυρίως λεγομένη προφητεία οὐ δύναται παρὰ τῆς φύσεως εἶναι, ἀλλὰ μόνον ἐκ θείας ἀποκαλύψεως.78 is obviously said in accordance with the opinion of Plato, who argued that the souls have got knowledge of all things by participating in the Ideas …. But, as it seems closer to the truth to say that the soul acquires knowledge from the sensibles, as Aristotle argues, it is better to say something different … And, for this reason, we must say that prophecy, in the proper sense of the term, cannot be from nature, but only from divine revelation.

Scholarios draws the same clear distinction between natural and supernatural knowledge in the opening sentence of his first Complementary Note on the De divinatione per somnum: “Τὰ … εἰς τὴν θείαν ἀνήκοντα κατοχήν … οὐκ ἀκολουθοῦντα τῇ φύσει, ἀλλ’ ὑπερφυῆ τὴν αἰτίαν ἔχοντα …” (ll. 99–101; Appendix I, p. 302).79 Scholarios, in this Note (ll. 91–93; Appendix I, p. 301), grasps the chance to state once more that Aristotle ἐγγυτάτω τῆς ἀληθείας ὑπὲρ τοὺς ἄλλους ἐκείνους ἐν πολλοῖς ἔρχεται, ὥσπερ ἕνα Θεὸν καὶ μίαν πάντων ἀρχὴν ἐν τοῖς Μετὰ τὰ φυσικά τίθησι, φειδομένως μέντοι δέει τῶν ἁπλουστέρων. gets much closer to the truth than the remaining thinkers of that age with regard to many things; for instance, in his Metaphysics, he speaks about one God and one first principle of everything, even if he does so with restraint for fear of the shallow minds.

This is what he had already said in the Encomium in Aristotelis monotheismum (see supra, Table  1, p.  247, No 15), praising specifically Aristotle’s monotheism in Metaphysics Λ: Ὁ φιλόσοφος τῷ δέει τῶν χυδαίων καὶ πεπλανημένων … κατὰ μικρὸν καὶ κατὰ μέρος ἀποκαλύπτει τὴν περὶ τῆς μιᾶς ἀρχῆς καὶ τοῦ ἑνὸς Θεοῦ δόξαν καὶ τὴν πολυθεΐαν ἐλαύνει …, φειδομένως μέντοι καὶ πρὸς τοὺς πολλοὺς λανθανόντως τῷ δέει τούτων … κἀνταῦθα φειδομένως τῷ δέει τῶν πολλῶν … τίθησιν. Ἐν δὲ τῷ τέλει τοῦ Λ καὶ φανερώτερον τὴν 78  Cod. Vat. gr. 611, fol. 126v4–6; 11–13; 25–26. Cod. Par. gr. 1237, which is Scholarios’ autograph (see supra, p. 269, n66), contains this article in a drastically abridged form (fol. 286v1–11). 79  See also Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, Ia IIae, qu. 109, art. 1 Resp., where the nature of Revelation and prophecy are put on equal terms: “Altiora vero intelligibilia intellectus humanus cognoscere non potest (cf. Sir. 3:21) nisi fortiori lumine perficiatur, sicut lumine fidei vel prophetiae; quod dicitur ‘lumen gratiae,’ inquantum est naturae superadditum”/“Τὰ δὲ ὑψηλότερα νοητὰ ὁ ἀνθρώπινος νοῦς γινώσκειν ἀδυνατεῖ [hic Jugie εἰ perperam addidit] μὴ ἰσχυροτέρῳ φωτὶ τελειούμενος, ὥσπερ φωτὶ πίστεως ἢ προφητείας, ὅπερ ‘φῶς χάριτος’ λέγεται, καθόσον ἐστὶ τῇ φύσει προσκείμενον” (Scholarios, Abridgment of the Ia IIae, in Jugie et  al. VI: 128.8–11; see Scholarios’ autograph in cod. Vat. gr. 433, fol. 163r19–21; cf. Kydones’ translation in cod. Marc. gr. 147, fol. 450v21–24; ed. P.C. Athanasopoulos, forthcoming).

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πολυαρχίαν ἀναιρεῖ καὶ πολυθεΐαν, καὶ ἕνα μόνον βασιλέα τοῦ παντὸς καὶ Θεὸν εἶναι τίθησιν. Ὄντως φιλόσοφος σὺ μόνος ἐν Ἑλλάδι καὶ γέγονας καὶ δικαίως οὕτως ἐκλήθης κατ’ ἐξοχήν, Ἀριστότελες …. Σοφός τε γὰρ ὑπὲρ πάντας ἦσθα τοὺς Ἕλληνας ….80 The Philosopher, out of fear for the vulgar and lost spirits … reveals the doctrine of the one first principle and one God and expels polytheism step by step and only partially …, but in a restrained manner and so as not to be noticed by the multitude because he was afraid of them .… Here as well, his theses are restrained because he was afraid of the multitude. In the last part of Book Λ of his Metaphysics, however, he rejects the government by many and polytheism in a plainer way and posits that there is only one king and God of the universe. In Greece only you, Aristotle, have been truly a philosopher and have been rightly called so par excellence .… For, you were the wisest of all the Greeks ….

Here Scholarios elaborates explicitly81 on Aristotle’s juxtaposition of the traditional mythical views of the divine (which have a core of truth surrounded by a lot of flagrant but “pious” lies) and his own philosophical theology in Λ 8 (1074a38–b14). There, Aristotle says that mythical theologies were formulated so as to “be convincing for the vulgar” (“πρὸς τὴν πειθὼ τῶν πολλῶν”) and in this way they managed to come down to his time (“ταύτας τὰς δόξας ἐκείνων … περισεσῶσθαι μέχρι τοῦ νῦν”). To Scholarios, this presumably implies that the masses of Aristotle’s age were not as yet prepared to accept such sublime theological views as Aristotle’s in Metaphysics Λ. Diogenes Laertius’ report that Aristotle was officially prosecuted for “impiety”82 and the anonymous Neoplatonist’s report that Aristotle justified his taking refuge to Chalkis by saying that “he should not let Athenians sin against philosophy for the second time” (alluding to their having shamefully put the great Socrates to death),83 probably preferring to die on his own,84 can account for Scholarios’ view that Aristotle expressed his advanced theological views with “φειδώ” (pretended reluctance or reservation) and “δέος” (fear or caution). Scholarios’ reproduction of the concluding lines of Metaphysics Λ (“Ἐν δὲ τῷ τέλει {1} τοῦ Λ … ἕνα [2] μόνον βασιλέα [3] τοῦ παντὸς [4] καὶ Θεὸν [5] εἶναι τίθησιν” {6}) is verbally closer to the concluding paragraph of Thomas Aquinas’ Sententia “Metaphysicae” than to Aristotle’s text itself: Sed “pluralitas principatuum non est bonum.” … Unde relinquitur quod totum universum [4] est sicut unus principatus et unum [2] regnum [3]. Et ita oportet quod ordinetur ab uno gubernatore. Et hoc est quod concludit {1} quod est unus princeps totius universi [3/4], scilicet primum movens, et primum intelligibile, et primum bonum, quod supra [XII, 7, 9, 1072b24–30] dixit {6} “Deum” [5] …. (Sent. “Metaph.” ΧΙΙ, 12, 37). But “no good thing is a multitude of lords.” … Hence it follows that the whole universe is like one principality and one kingdom, and must therefore be governed by one ruler. And this is precisely [Aristotle’s] conclusion, namely, that there is one ruler of the whole uni-

 In Jugie et al. VIII: 505.9–12; 505.30–31; 506.30–37; 507.7–8.  Jugie et al. VIII: 505.32: “φησί ….” 82  Diogenes Laertius, Vitae philosophorum V 5; cf. Düring (1957, 31). 83  Anonymus, Vita Marciana 41 (in Düring 1957, 105). 84  Vita Hesychii 6 (in Düring 1957, 82). 80 81

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verse, i.e. the first mover, and the first intelligible object, and the first good, which above he called “God”… … ποιοῦσιν … ἀρχὰς πολλάς, τὰ δὲ ὄντα οὐ βούλεται πολιτεύεσθαι κακῶς. “Οὐκ ἀγαθὸν πολυκοιρανίη· εἷς κοίρανος ἔστω” [Homer, Iliad 2.204] (Metaph. Λ 10, 1076a1–4).85 … They introduce … many principles, whereas beings do not want to be badly ruled. “No good thing is a multitude of lords; let there be one lord.”

Further, Aquinas’ very last words read: “… ‘qui est benedictus in saecula’ (Rom. 1:25) saeculorum.86 Amen.”87 This is an explicit identification of Aristotle’s prime mover with the God to whom Christians pray,88 and this identification was more than enough for Scholarios to regard Aristotle’s theology as compatible with Christian monotheism. This case, inter alia, is a token of what Scholarios meant by saying that the Latin commentators understood Aristotle much better than his Byzantine predecessors (including Pachymeres, as we have already seen and will immediately see again) and that Aristotle is the philosopher who best accords with Christianity (cf. supra, pp. 234–7). Aristotle’s doctrine of the necessary existence of an eternal unmoved mover was half-heartedly accepted by George Pachymeres, who, in his paraphrasis of the Metaphysics, did not fail to notice that this true conclusion is drawn “from false assumptions,” that is, from the eternity of the world and its motion.89 By contrast, Scholarios, in his Κατὰ τῶν Πλήθωνος ἀποριῶν ἐπ’ Ἀριστοτέλει, released Aristotle from this usual Christian charge by arguing (along Aquinas’ lines, which go directly back to Moses Maimonides) that Aristotle did not firmly (or even at all) vote for the eternity of the world.90 So, it was of vital importance for Scholarios not to leave Pachymeres’ anti-Aristotelian points (see supra, p. 267) unanswered. Let me speculate on Scholarios’ production of the Encomium and its possible relation to Pachymeres. The Encomium is preserved in cod. Vat. gr. 115 as an autograph frustulum inserted (by Scholarios himself or somebody else) to some leaves  As is known (cf. supra, Table 1, No 29, p. 251), Scholarios had translated Aquinas’ Sententia “Metaphysicae” into Greek. Should this translation have been preserved, we would have been able to compare it to his lines just quoted. 86  This well-known Pauline phrase (Rom. 9:5; cf. II Cor. 11:31) derives from the Old Testament (see, e.g., Tob. 8:16; 11:14; 13:2; Ps. 40:14; 88:53; 105:48). 87  Aquinas concludes his Commentary on Physics (VIII 23.9) in the very same way: “Et sic terminat philosophus considerationem communem de rebus naturalibus, in primo principio totius naturae, ‘qui est super omnia Deus benedictus in saecula’ (Rom. 9:5). Amen.” Scholarios had translated this Commentary up to II 12.5 (in Jugie et al. VIII: 163–254) and also utilized some untranslated parts of it in some points of his Κατὰ τῶν Πλήθωνος ἀποριῶν ἐπ’ Ἀριστοτέλει (see Demetracopoulos 2012b, 122–23; Mariev 2014, 119; 122). 88  “Εὐλογητὸς ὁ Θεὸς ἡμῶν πάντοτε νῦν καὶ ἀεὶ καὶ εἰς τοὺς αἰῶνας τῶν αἰώνων. Ἀμήν” is the exordium of the Greek Byzantine Vespers and Matins. Cf. the Latin exordium of the Roman Catholic Liturgy: “Benedictus Deus in saecula.” 89  George Pachymeres, Philosophia X, 4, 4, 2 (in Pappa 2002, 72.22–73.12). 90  Demetracopoulos (2004, 72–74; 79–80; 170). Cf. Aquinas’ Sententia Metaphysicae XII, 5.8–12, where it is said that both the Physics’ and the Metaphysics’ arguments for the existence of an eternal prime mover are valid, whereas the arguments, in the same writings, that the world and its movement are eternal are not “demonstrative” but “probable.” 85

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containing a set of Scholarios’ excerpts from Aristotle’s Metaphysics Λ. Autograph full copies of, or excerpts from, the remaining books of Metaphysics figure in the previous folia.91 This set is placed before Scholarios’ set of Aristotle’s natural works (see supra, pp. 247–50, Table 1, Nos 16–27), whose most part (Nos 19–26) consists of his abridgment of Metochites’ Paraphrasis (with the interpolation of four blank leaves). The main source of Scholarios’ Encomium seems to be the Vita Aristotelis vulgata, which, inter alia, reads: Ἐν φιλοσοφίᾳ δ’ [Aristotle] ὑπερβέβηκε τὰ ἀνθρώπινα μέτρα [1] μηδὲν ἐλλιπὲς περὶ αὐτῆς πραγματευσάμενος, ἀλλὰ καὶ πολλὰ αὐτῇ προσθεὶς ἐκ τῆς ἑαυτοῦ ἀγχινοίας τὴν ὅλην κατώρθωσε φιλοσοφίαν. Τῇ μὲν γὰρ λογικῇ [2a] προσέθηκε διακρίνας τοὺς κανόνας ἀπὸ τῶν πραγμάτων καὶ ποιήσας τὴν ἀποδεικτικὴν μέθοδον [2b] …. Τῇ δέ γε φυσικῇ προσέθηκε τὴν πέμπτην οὐσίαν, τῇ δὲ θεολογίᾳ εἰ καὶ μηδὲν προσέθηκεν, ἀλλ’ οὖν οὐδὲν περὶ αὐτῆς ἐλλιπὲς ἐπραγματεύσατο· οὐ γὰρ τὰ ἐγκόσμια μόνα ᾔδει, ὥς τινες ὑπολαμβάνουσιν, ἀλλὰ καὶ τὰ ὑπερκόσμια, ὡς δηλοῖ ἐν τῷ ὀγδόῳ λόγῳ τῆς Φυσικῆς ἀκροάσεως, λέγων ὅτι τὸ πρῶτον αἴτιον οὐδὲ καθ’ ἑαυτὸ κινητόν ἐστιν οὐδὲ κατὰ συμβεβηκός, ἐκ τούτου δεικνύμενος ὅτι οὐδὲ σῶμά ἐστι τὸ θεῖον οὐδὲ παθητόν.92 With regard to philosophy, [Aristotle] surpassed human measure: he not only treated none of its topics in a deficient way, but also, by adding numerous things of his own ingenuity, he constituted philosophy in its entirety. What he added to logic was that he distinguished the rules from the subject-matters and constructed the apodeictic method …. To physics, he added the fifth substance, whereas, with regard to theology, even if he added nothing, he treated none of its subjects in a deficient way; for, he did not recognize the existence only of the worldly things, as some people think, but also of the things that transcend the world, as he himself makes clear in the eighth treatise of his Physics, arguing that the first cause is movable neither per se nor per accidens, thereby showing that the divine is neither a body nor subject to any passion.

Even if the Vita places Aristotle’s doctrine of the existence of a purely active, incorporeal God not in the “natural,” but in the “theological” branch of his philosophy, it is obvious that its reference to the doctrine of God as expounded not in the Metaphysics but in the Physics implies that his theology emanates from (or is the culmination of) his physics. Besides, Scholarios was early enough (i.e. in 1431/3293) aware that this was how Aquinas refuted the argument that it is superfluous to postulate the existence of God, as the natural causes and human deliberation look sufficient for explaining everything: Ἐπεὶ ἡ φύσις ὡρισμένου τινὸς τέλους ἕνεκα ἐνεργεῖ ἑτέρου τινὸς εὐθύνοντος ὑψηλοτέρου ποιητικοῦ, ἀνάγκη τὰ ὑπὸ τῆς φύσεως γινόμενα καὶ εἰς τὸν Θεὸν ἀνάγειν ὥσπερ εἰς πρώτην αἰτίαν. Ὁμοίως δὲ καὶ τὰ ἐκ προαιρέσεως γινόμενα ἀνάγκη εἰς ὑψηλοτέραν τινὰ αἰτίαν ἀνάγειν, ἥτις οὔκ ἐστιν ὁ λόγος ἢ ἡ ἀνθρωπίνη θέλησις, ἅτινα μεταβλητά εἰσι καὶ δυνάμενα ἐκλείπειν. Ἀνάγκη γὰρ πάντα τὰ μεταβλητὰ καὶ τὰ δυνάμενα ἀσθενεῖν ἀνάγεσθαι εἰς πρώτην τινὰ ἀρχὴν ἀκίνητον … (tr. Demetrios Kydones).94  See Jugie (1936, 505); Cacouros (2015, 277–82).  Vita Aristotelis vulgata 25–29 (in Düring 1957, 135–6). 93  See Demetracopoulos (2018, 165). 94  Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, Ia, qu. 2, art. 3 ad 2; cod. Vatop. 255, fols. 16v–17r. On Scholarios’ ownership of this manuscript, see Eustratiades and Arcadios (1924, 55). Cf. Papadopoulos (1967, 38 n68); Demetracopoulos (2007, 344 n92). 91 92

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This is a clear reproduction of Metaphysics Λ, 10, 1075a11–18, where Aristotle argues that “the entire nature” (“ἡ τοῦ ὅλου φύσις”), for all the diversity of its parts, which includes plants, fishes, birds etc. (namely, all kinds of beings described in his natural works), is necessarily permeated by a driving force that “orders them together to one end.” In the same vein, Scholarios, in his Κατὰ τῶν Πλήθωνος ἀποριῶν ἐπ’ Ἀριστοτέλει, stresses Aristotle’s originality in a way very similar to the passage from the Vita Aristotelis vulgata just quoted. Aristotle, says Scholarios, has treated everything εἱρμῷ τινι καὶ τάξει κρείττονι σχεδὸν ἢ κατ’ ἀνθρώπου φύσιν [1], ὥστ’ εἰ μὴ διά γε Ἀριστοτέλη, οὐκ ἂν φυσικῆς φιλοσοφίας τὸ τῶν ἀνθρώπων μετεῖχε γένος, ἠθικῆς δέ …, μεθόδου δὲ διαλεκτικῆς καὶ παντὸς ἐπιστημονικοῦ τρόπου [2] ἐχηρεύομεν ἄν ….95 … in a sequence and order almost superior to what human nature can do, with the result that, if it were not for Aristotle, humankind would not have taken part of natural philosophy, and we would also have lacked moral theory… as well as dialectical method and all kinds of scientific knowledge ….

It is in this context that Scholarios, in the same work, argues that Aristotle, contrary to what one might surmise, accepted “divine possession” or “inspiration” as a superior, God-sent way of knowledge: Ὥστε καὶ μείζω τινὰ ἀνάγκην ἀληθείας οἶδε τοῦ φαινομένου εὐλόγου, ἣ τοῖς ἐπίπνοις ὑπὸ τοῦ θείου ἐνδίδοται, αὐτὸς δὲ οὔτε τοιοῦτος ὢν οὔτε τὰ ἄμικτα μιγνύναι βουλόμενος, καὶ εἰδὼς ἔργον φιλοσόφου τὴν ἐκ λόγων ἀπόδειξιν, οὔτοι γε τὴν ἐκ τῶν ποιητικῶν μυθευμάτων καὶ μαντειῶν, φιλοσόφῳ πρεπόντως τὰ περὶ τοῦ ὄντος ἐπισκοπεῖ, τὰ δ’ ἄλλα ποιηταῖς τε καὶ ἱεροφάνταις παρίησιν, ὥσπερ φυσικὴν καὶ μαθηματικήν, οὕτω καὶ φιλοσοφίαν ποιητικῆς καὶ τῆς ὑπὸ τοῦ θείου κατοχῆς καλῶς διακρίνας96 Therefore, he [sc. Aristotle] recognises that there is a kind of necessity of truth that is superior to simple plausibility, which is injected into the inspired men by the divine, whereas he himself, since he was not one of them, and since he did not want to mix things that are by nature unmixed, and since he was aware that the philosopher’s task is to offer proofs by means of reasoning, and not, of course, to offer proofs by means of poetical myths and divine inspirations, he investigates the issues regarding being, as is proper for a philosopher to do, leaving the rest for the poets and the hierophants, thus clearly and correctly distinguishing philosophy from poetry and possession by God, just as he distinguishes from them physics and mathematics, too.

Besides, this is exactly the core of Scholarios’ first Complementary Note on his abridgment of Metochites’ paraphrase of the De divinatione per somnum.97 95  Scholarios, Κατὰ τῶν Πλήθωνος ἀποριῶν ἐπ’ Ἀριστοτέλει (in Jugie et al. IV: 5.10–16). See also Scholarios’ remark (ibid. 2.11) that all men “θεῖόν τι (sc. supra-human) τὸ κατ’ Ἀριστοτέλην ἥγηνται χρῆμα.” 96  Scholarios, Κατὰ τῶν Πλήθωνος ἀποριῶν ἐπ’ Ἀριστοτέλει (in Jugie et al. IV: 16.24–31). 97  In general, it is quite plausible to assume that Scholarios had read through some of the Greek biographies of Aristotle. Scholarios had also copied for himself, with few omissions, Diogenes Laertius’ Life of Plato (Vitae philosophorum III, in Dorandi 2011, 128–40) and probably used it in his Κατὰ τῶν Πλήθωνος ἀποριῶν ἐπ’ Ἀριστοτέλει. For instance, this is how he puts his view that Plato’s thought is not properly philosophical: “… τὸ τοιοῦτον γένος τῶν λόγων [sc. the sacred, divinely-inspired truths] τοῖς ἀπὸ τῆς φιλοσοφίας πάνυ ἐγκαταμίξαι ‘ὁμοῦ πάντα ποιοῦντα

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In one of the fourteenth-century manuscripts that contains Pachymeres’ Philosophia in its entirety, namely Laur. Plut. 86.22,98 Pachymeres’ work is preceded by this Vita. Could it be that the (probably later) placement of the leaf which contains Scholarios’ Encomium in cod. Vat. gr. 115 at the end of a set of Scholarian excerpts from Metaphysics and before Scholarios’ abridgment of Metochites’ paraphrasis of Aristotle’s natural works reflected this precedence? The two autographs that preserve Pachymeres’ Philosophia99 do not include this Vita, which indicates that the presence of the Vita in cod. Laur. Plut. 86.22 was probably not due to Pachymeres himself. Still, since we do not know which manuscript Scholarios used, it is probable that it was Scholarios himself who inserted the leaf with the Encomium at that place, all the more so in view of the fact that the Encomium lays emphasis on Aristotle’s theology. What is more, Pachymeres epilogued his commentary on Aristotle’s Physics by a eulogy of Aristotle, in which he says that Aristotle “grasped nature” and even “knew what pagans did not reach” by discovering the existence of a unique “eternal power which is nameless, always partless and the same, a safeguard unmoved by anything, which is free of pain, and it is beyond any change” etc., implicitly referring to Aristotle’s doctrine of God in Physics VIII (and, probably, to the unmoved mover in Metaphysics Λ) and construing Aristotle’s description of God as compatible with the Christians’ view of God.100 Scholarios, whose estimation for Aristotle was, unlike Pachymeres’, unreserved, in his Encomium in Aristotelis monotheismum, expressed the same idea in an unambiguous way and, again unlike Pachymeres, who thought that Aristotle’s argument for the existence of God was based on rotten grounds (see supra, p. 274), nowhere contradicted it.

χρήματα’ [note his bitter anti-Platonic usage of this phrase of Anaxagoras, used in a proverbial way—see Leutsch and Schneidewin (1851, II: 604.5: “Πάντα χρήματα”—by Plato first (Phaedo 72C4–5; Gorgias 465D4–5; cf. Aristotle, Metaphysics Γ 4, 1007b26; Scholarios had turned Plato against Plethon once again in the same work; see Demetracopoulos 2004, 87–89] οὐκ ἔχομεν ἐπαινεῖν” (Scholarios, Κατὰ τῶν Πλήθωνος ἀποριῶν ἐπ’ Ἀριστοτέλει, in Jugie et al. IV: 17.8–10). By contrast, Aristotle is praised for duly avoiding “τὰ ἄμικτα μιγνύναι” (in Jugie et al. IV: 16.26– 27; cf. supra, pp. 235–6) (for the proverbial phrase, see, e.g., Philo of Alexandria, Quaestiones in Genesim II, 12c: “τὰ ἄμικτα μιγνύς”; cf. Gregory of Nyssa, Contra Eunomium III, 2, 102; Plutarch, De primo frigido 945F7; Basil of Caesarea, Regulae morales 14, PG 31: 725C; Gregory Nazianzen, Epistle 232, 2, in Gallay 1967, 123). Moreover, this is what one reads in a paragraph of Laertius’ Life of Plato (III 80) copied by Scholarios: “[Plato] … μυθικώτερος ἐνίοις ὑπελήφθη τοῖς συγγράμμασιν ἐγκαταμίξας τὰς τοιαύτας διηγήσεις” (Scholarios, Platonis vita 326–7, in Dorandi 2011, 139). 98  See the description of the manuscript by Pappa (2002, 70*–71*). This manuscript must be added to the list offered by Düring (1957, 120–1). 99  Pappa, ibid. 100  Ed. Golitsis (2007, 652–3); tr. Golitsis (2012, 112). See also Golitsis (2012, 114–6; 120–1).

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3  Echoes from the Parva naturalia in Some Other Scholarian Pieces 3.1  Sermons Jugie’s edition of Scholarios’ œuvre almost totally lacks apparatus fontium. Thus, it is almost impossible for one to discover at one stroke the place of any of Aristotle’s (or any other author’s) works in any Scholarian piece of writing. This is a list of the Scholarian passages that echo this or that idea from the corpus of the Parva naturalia. From the quantitative point of view, the crop is poor. Still, some passages do have some import. Nos. 1–2, which occur in Scholarios’ Περὶ νηστείας (On Fast), explain how excessive food and drink impede thought, cancel vigilance and cause sleep. The Περὶ νηστείας was probably written in 1440/47.101 (1) Par. 3: Ὕπνου γὰρ καὶ ὀνείρων μακρῶν, οὐ σπουδῆς οὐδὲ μελέτης ἢ διακρίσεως ἡ γαστριμαργία γίνεται μήτηρ.102 For gluttony is the mother of sleep and long dreams, not of study, meditation or analysis. (2) Par. 11–12: Ὅτι δὲ τῷ ἐγκεφάλῳ λυμαίνεται μάλιστα τουτὶ τὸ πάθος [sc. ἡ μέθη], ἐν ᾧ τὸ λογικὸν ἐνεργεῖ, καὶ τῇ προνοίᾳ πολεμεῖ τῆς φύσεως, ἣ τὸ εὐπαθές τε καὶ καίριον τοῦ ἐγκεφάλου καλῶς ἠσφαλίσατο, λόγοι μὲν σοφῶν φανεροῦσι πολλοί, φανερώτερος δὲ ἡ πεῖρα τοῦ πάθους διδάσκαλος. Ὁρῶμεν γάρ, ἕως ἂν μὲν ὁ ἐγκέφαλος ἀπέριττος ᾖ καὶ μὴ πολλοῖς καὶ δυσεκφορήτοις τοῖς ἐκ τῆς γαστρὸς ἀτμοῖς καταπνέηται, συνετὸν ἔστιν ἰδεῖν τὸν ἔχοντα καὶ νηφάλιον, ἐπειδὰν δὲ κατακλυσθῇ τοῖς παχυτέροις καὶ ὑγροῖς καὶ δριμυτέροις τῶν ἁβροδιαίτων περιττώμασι, νωθρὸν ποιεῖ καὶ ἀμβλὺν καὶ ὑπνώδη (“ξηροτέρη” γὰρ “ψυχὴ σοφωτέρη,” φησὶν Ἡράκλειτος103)· διὸ καὶ τῆς τῶν ἀνδρῶν εὐφυΐας ἐξ ἡμισείας ἀπολείπεσθαι τὰς γυναῖκας, ὡς ὑγρότερον τὸν ἐγκέφαλον κεκτημένας. Ἐπεὶ δὲ καὶ ξηρότερος τοῦ δέοντος γεγενημένος παραπαίειν ποιεῖ τὸν ἄνθρωπον (αἱ γὰρ μεγάλαι δυσκρασίαι τὰς τῶν μορίων ἐνεργείας ἀμβλύνουσιν), οὐ μόνον τὸν ἐκ τῆς πλησμονῆς, ἀλλὰ δὴ καὶ τὸν ἐκ τῆς ἐνδείας κίνδυνον φυλακτέον. Οὔκουν οὕτω νηστευτέον σφοδρῶς, ὥστε λήθῃ καὶ μωρώσει104 περιπεσεῖν, ἀλλ’ οὕτως ἐγκρατευτέον, ὥστε μὴ συμπνίγειν τῶν αἰσθήσεων τὴν πηγὴν τοῖς ὑγροῖς περιττώμασιν.105 That this affection [viz. inebriation] is particularly harmful to the brain, in which the operations of our rational capacity take place, and is in conflict with the providence of nature,  See Jugie et al. (I: XLV); cf. Tinnefeld (2002, 508).  In Jugie et al. (I: 84.2–3). Cf. Galen, De locis affectis III: “… μόνη μὲν ὑγρότης πλεονάσασα μακροὺς καὶ βαθεῖς ὕπνους ἐργάζεται …” (in Kühn VIII: 162); Paulus Aegineta, Epitoma medica III, 11,1: “… εἰ μὲν ὑγρὰ μόνον εἴη, … οἴσει … ὕπνους μακροὺς καὶ βαθεῖς …” (in Heiberg 1921, IX/1: 150.22–24); Aetius Amidenus, Iatrica VI, 23: “… μόνη μὲν ὑγρότης πλεονάσασα βαθεῖς καὶ μακροὺς ὕπνους ἐργάζεται …” (in Olivieri 1950, VIII/2: 160.26–27). 103  Heraclitus, DK B118. Cf. Aristotle, De anima I 2, 405a25. 104  Ex editionis πωρώσει correxi. On λήθη and μώρωσις cf. Paulus Aegineta, Epitomae medicae III, 11, 2 (in Heiberg 1921, IX/1: 151.19); Galen, De symptomatum causis II (in Kühn VII: 200.15– 201.2). The latter passage is very close to Michael Glycas’ Annales I (in Bekker 1836, XVIII: 220.8–10) (on the symptoms of the diseases caused by the excessive freezing of the brain). 105  In Jugie et al. I: 89.35–90.14. 101 102

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which has firmly safeguarded the brain, this vulnerable and vital organ, is made clear by many writings of learned men, but an even clearer teacher is our experience of the affection. For we can observe that so long as the brain is unencumbered and free from an abundance of vapours exhaled from the stomach and not easily rejectable, its possessor will be found to be intelligent and sober, but any time it is inundated with secretions of the excessively coarse, moist and acrid secretions of dainty eaters, it makes him sluggish, dull and sleepy (for, as Heraclitus says, “a drier soul is wiser”). Which is also why women are inferior by half to the natural endowment of men, on account of having moister brains. But since a brain which is drier than it should be also puts a human being out of his wits (for major imbalances of temperament blunt the operations of the members), one must beware not only of the dangers arising from surfeit, but also of those arising from deficiency. It is therefore not advisable to fast so intensely as to fall prey to forgetfulness and stupidity, but it is advisable to exercise self-control in such a way that the fountainhead of one’s senses is not bogged down in moist secretions.

This passage is a paraphrase of the following passage from Michael Glycas’ (fl. mid-twelfth cent.) Annales: Ὅρα τὴν τοῦ Θεοῦ σοφίαν …. Ἵνα γὰρ μὴ τὰ καιριώτατα τοῦ σώματος ἡμῶν μόρια καὶ ταῖς τυχούσαις προφάσεσι καταβλάπτωνται, πολυτρόπως, ὡς προείπομεν, καὶ πολυειδῶς ἠσφαλίσατο. Αὐτίκα γὰρ τὴν κεφαλὴν ἡμῶν, ἅτε δὴ τὸν ἐγκέφαλον αὐτὸν περιέχουσαν, ἐν ᾧ τὰ τῆς ζωῆς ἡμῶν περιείληπται …, κατωχύρωσε ….106 Περὶ δὲ τῶν τῆς κεφαλῆς περιττωμάτων …, ἵνα τὸ βλαβερὸν ἐκφορῆται. …Ψυχρός ἐστιν ὁ ἐγκέφαλος φύσει …. Τὴν γὰρ ἐν τῇ καρδίᾳ θερμότητά τε καὶ ζέσιν χωρεῖν ἐπὶ τὸ εὔκρατον ἐντεῦθεν ὁ Ἀριστοτέλης107 φησίν …. Ἐπειδὴ γὰρ ἡ τοιαύτη θερμότης μείζων ἐστί,108 μείζων ἄρα καὶ ἡ ἐξ ἐγκεφάλου ψυχρότης τε ὁμοῦ καὶ ὑγρότης ἀντίκειται … Καὶ ξηρὸς μὲν ὁ τοιοῦτος καὶ ἀπέριττος ὢν συνετόν τινα ποιεῖ καὶ νηφάλιον, κάθυγρος δὲ ὢν τἀναντία ποιεῖ, νωθρὸν δηλονότι καὶ ὑπνώδη καὶ ῥᾴθυμον. Καὶ πρόσσχες, εἰ βούλει, τῷ σοφῷ Ἡρακλείτῳ· “ξηροτέρη ψυχὴ σοφωτέρη.”109 Ἐπὶ γὰρ τῶν ὑγρῶν κατακλυζόμενον οἱονεὶ τὸ ψυχικὸν πνεῦμα, καθάπερ καὶ ἐπὶ τῶν γυναικῶν ἔστιν ἰδεῖν, ἐνεργεῖν ἀρίστως οὐ δύναται. Κατὰ γὰρ τοῦτο καὶ τῆς τῶν ἀνδρῶν εὐφυΐας “καὶ ἐξ ἡμισείας” ἀπολείπεσθαι “τὸ θῆλυ” φησὶν ὁ θειότατος Κύριλλος.110 Καὶ οὕτω μὲν ὁ λόγος περὶ τῶν κατὰ φύσιν ἐχόντων διέξεισιν. Ἡνίκα δὲ ξηρότερος ἑαυτοῦ καὶ πλέον τοῦ δέοντος ὁ ἐγκέφαλος γένηται, παραπαίειν ἐξ ἀνάγκης ποιεῖ τὸν ἄνθρωπον. Αἱ μεγάλαι γὰρ δυσκρασίαι τὰς ἐνεργείας τῶν μορίων ἀμβλύνειν εἰώθασιν. Ὅθεν ἡ ἀσιτία πολλάκις, ναὶ μὴν καὶ ἡ ἀγρυπνία, τὴν κατὰ φύσιν ἐπεκτείνουσα τοῦ ἐγκεφάλου

 This is a direct borrowing from John Chrysostom’s Ad populum Antiochenum XI, 3 (PG 49: 123–4). 107  Aristotle, De sensu et sensibilibus 439a2–4; De juventute et senectute 478a28–30 et al. 108  Cf. Michael Glycas, Quaestiones in sacram Scripturam 37, in Eustratiades (1906, 439.13–18). 109  None of the fourteen authors listed in Diels-Kranz’s collection (vol. I, ad 177.4; see also Michael Psellos, Opuscula logica et alia XL, 34, in Duffy 1992, 145) preserves the fragment in the form in which it occurs in Glycas. Besides, only two of them, i.e. Philo of Alexandria and Galen, explicitly explain its meaning—like Glycas and Scholarios—in terms of σύνεσις, whereas Plutarch, Musonius Rufus, and Eustathios of Thessalonike explain it in terms of the contrast of λεπτοὶ τὸν νοῦν (or ὀξεῖς) to βραδύτεροι τὴν διάνοιαν (or παχεῖς or ἀναίσθητοι or ἠλίθιοι or suffering from ἀμβλύτης). 110  Cyril of Alexandria, De “adoratione et cultu in spiritu et veritate” 16 (PG 68: 1037C): “Κατόπιν δὲ πανταχοῦ τὸ θῆλυ τοῦ ἄρσενος, καὶ ἐν ἡμίσει πολλάκις. Ὅτι γὰρ τὸ σκεῦος ἀσθενές, μεμαρτύρηκε σαφῶς ὁ θεσπέσιος Παῦλος. Λείπεται δὲ τῆς ἀνδρῶν εὐφυΐας, καὶ ‘σιωπᾷ’ … ἐν ‘ἐκκλησίαις’ (I Cor. 14:34) ….” 106

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ξηρότητα, ποιεῖν εἴωθε τὰ τοιαῦτα συμπτώματα. … Ψυχρότερος δὲ πάλιν ἑαυτοῦ διά τινα νόσον γεγονὼς ὁ ἐγκέφαλος καὶ λήθην ἐπάγει καὶ μώρωσιν ….111 Behold the wisdom of God …. In order that the most vital parts of our bodies should not be damaged by whatever random causes, he has safeguarded them, as we have already said, in many ways and many manners. For, to begin with, he fortified our head, containing as it does the brain itself, in which the functions of our life are encompassed. Concerning the secretions of the head … in order that what is harmful should be disposed of. … The brain is cold in nature …. For Aristotle says that the heat and effervescence in the heart reaches a temperate state …. For since this kind of heat is greater, the combined coldness and moistness from the brain, which counteracts it, is also greater …. And when the brain is dry and unencumbered, it makes a person intelligent and sober, but when it is full of moisture it makes him the opposite, namely, sluggish, sleepy and lazy. Pay heed, if you please, to the wise Heraclitus: “A drier soul is wiser.” For, in the case of moist souls, the animal spirit is inundated, so to speak, as can be observed in the case of women, which results in its being unable to operate in an optimal way. In accordance with this, it is also said by the most divine Cyril that “the female” is inferior “by half” to the natural endowment and intelligence of men. And this is how the account of things that conform to nature runs. But when the brain gets drier than normal and than it should be, it necessarily puts a human being out of his wits, for major imbalances of temperament usually blunt the operations of the members. Which is why abstinence from food, and indeed also abstinence from sleep, which stretch the natural dryness of the brain, usually produce these kinds of symptoms. … In addition, a brain which has become colder than normal on account of some illness induces forgetfulness and stupidity ….

Glycas refers explicitly to Aristotle as his source. Scholarios, for his part, as he was addressing Christians in order to exhibit the qualities of fasting, abstained from doing so. Still, he certainly was well aware of the fact that what he was reproducing was Aristotle, and presumably this is what his phrase “λόγοι σοφῶν” alludes to. This is evidenced by the fact that Aristotle himself says that “… ἡ τροφὴ ποιεῖ κατάψυξιν εἰσιοῦσα, καθάπερ καὶ τοῖς ἀνθρώποις τὸ πρῶτον προσενεγκαμένοις· αἱ δὲ νηστεῖαι θερμαίνουσι καὶ δίψας ποιοῦσιν …” (De juventute et senectute 470a20– 27). Thus, by going back to Aristotle’s Parva naturalia, one reaches the very title of Scholarios’ work.112 Nos. 3 and 4 explain life preservation in terms of keeping a balanced state of humidity and heat in one’s body.  Michael Glycas, Annales I (in Bekker 1836, XVIII: 217.6–12; 218.10–220.8). Cf. Meletius Monachus’ De natura hominis 1 (PG 64: 1153A–1157A), where the smart design of the skull, which allows exhalation and purification, is connected (as it is by Glycas) to the healthy state of the brain. See also Michael Glycas, Annales I: “Ἐὰν δὲ τὸ ξηρὸν ὑπερτερήσῃ στοιχεῖον, νηφάλιόν τινα καὶ γρήγορον ἀποτίκτει ἄνθρωπον. Ἐφ’ ᾧ καί τις σοφός, ᾧ ὄνομα Ἡράκλειτος, ἔλεγε ‘ψυχὴ ξηροτέρη σοφωτέρη,’ ‘ψυχὴν’ ἐνταῦθα τὴν τοῦ ἐγκεφάλου καλέσας οὐσίαν. Ἐὰν δὲ τὸ ὑγρὸν πλεονάσῃ στοιχεῖον, νωθρόν τινα ποιεῖ καὶ δυσκίνητον” (in Bekker 1836, XVIII: 141.11–16). The idea of fasting in measure occurs also in the revised version of Gregory of Nyssa’s De virginitate 22, where measure is justified in a similar way, i.e. by appealing to the equilibrium of the natural qualities (in Aubineau 1966, 510–20). Many thanks to Serge Mouraviev (Moscow) for our helpful discussion on the Überlieferung of this Heraclitean fragment. 112  Both this Sermon and the Sermon on Almsgiving are directly and almost exclusively based on the respective quaestiones from Aquinas’ Summa theologiae, IIa IIae (see Demetracopoulos 2018). So, one can say that the source of Scholarios’ title is the title of the relevant quaestio from the Summa theologiae. Still, the connection with Aristotle is equally evident. 111

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(3) Περὶ νηστείας 7: … τῆς ἐκ τῶν τροφῶν δυνάμεως καὶ τῆς θέρμης συμμέτρως ἀμβλυομένης καὶ συμμέτρως αὖ ἀναπληρουμένης.113 On Fast 7: … as the power and the heat deriving from food is proportionally blunted and again proportionally restored. (4) Περὶ τοῦ μυστηριώδους σώματος τοῦ Κυρίου ἡμῶν Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ 4: … ἡ φυσικὴ τοῦ σώματος θέρμη ἀναλώσειεν ἂν τὴν ἔμφυτον ὑγρότητα τούτου μὴ ταῖς ἀπὸ τῶν τροφῶν προσθήκαις βοηθουμένην, καὶ διὰ τοῦτο τῇ τροφῇ καὶ τῷ πώματι φυλάττεται μὲν τὰ συνιστῶντα τὴν φύσιν ἔνδον καλῶς, ἀναπληροῦται δὲ τὰ φθαρέντα τῇ θέρμῃ καὶ ἀνασῴζεται, καὶ ἀδύνατόν ἐστιν ἄλλως τὴν ἀνθρωπίνην ζωὴν οὐδ’ ἐφ’ ὁσονοῦν διαρκέσαι.114 On the mysterious body of our Lord Jesus Christ 4: … The body’s natural heat would consume its innate moistness unless it [sc. the moistness] were aided by the reinforcements deriving from food, and for this reason those things that consolidate the nature internally are well preserved by food and drink, whereas those things that are destroyed by the heat are restored and saved; otherwise it is impossible for a human life to endure for any period of time.

This seems to be an allusion to Aristotle’s De juventute et senectute 469b21– 470a24.115 The context is Scholarios’ theological analogy that the purpose of the sacrament of the Holy Communion is that the body of Christ consumed by the believer diminishes the “inner heat” of the sinfulness of the human soul, which otherwise would render her dry and thereby sick to death.116 (5) Περὶ τοῦ μυστηριώδους σώματος τοῦ Κυρίου ἡμῶν Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ (On the mysterious body of our Lord Jesus Christ) 9: … τῶν ἐντόμων ζῴων διαιρουμένων ὅλη ἡ αἰσθητικὴ ψυχὴ παραμένει τοῖς τμήμασιν, ὡς τῷ φιλοσόφῳ δοκεῖ.117 … when insects are divided the perceptive soul remains as a whole in the segments, as the Philosopher thinks.

This is an allusion to Aristotle’s De juventute et senectute 468a23–b5: Πολλὰ γὰρ τῶν ζῴων ἀφαιρουμένου ἑκατέρου τῶν μορίων … ζῇ …. Δῆλον δ’ ἐπὶ τῶν ἐντόμων … τοῦτο συμβαῖνον· καὶ τῶν μὴ ἐντόμων δὲ πολλὰ διαιρούμενα δύναται ζῆν ….  In Jugie et al. I: 87.18–19.  Op. cit., 125. 22–27. 115  Cf. Scholarios’ abridgment of this passage on the basis of Metochites’ Paraphrasis (in Jugie et al. VII: 467.28–468.8). 116  In Jugie et al. I: 125.27–36. In this piece of writing, Scholarios has recourse to Aristotle’s natural philosophy once more: “‘Πᾶσα’ γὰρ μεταβολὴ φυσική, ἄν τε γέννησις ᾖ, ἄν τε αὔξησις, ἄν τε ἀλλοίωσις, ‘ἢ κατὰ φύσιν’ ἐστὶν ‘ἢ παρὰ φύσιν,’ ὡς τῷ φιλοσόφῳ δοκεῖ (Aristotle, De caelo 269a32–33; cf. Simplicius, In Aristotelis quattuor libros De caelo commentaria, in Heiberg 1894, 50.10–11: “Πᾶσα κίνησις φυσικὴ ἁπλῆ ἢ κατὰ φύσιν ἐστὶ τῷ κινουμένῳ αὐτὴν ἁπλῷ σώματι ἢ παρὰ φύσιν”), ὡς ἔχει τὰ κατὰ καιρὸν ἀδρυνόμενα ἢ ἀώρως καὶ ὡς τὰ ἐν ταῖς κρισίμαις ἡμέραις ὑγιαζόμενα τῶν νοσημάτων ἢ καὶ πρὸ τούτων καὶ μετὰ ταῦτα (see Aristotle, Physics 237b7; cf. Scholarios’ paraphrase of this passage in Jugie et  al. VII: 387.25–33)· ὧν τὰ μὲν κατὰ φύσιν γινόμενα οὐδὲν ἐν ἡμῖν θαῦμα κινεῖ, τὰ δὲ παρὰ φύσιν μόνα θαυμάζεται” (in Jugie et  al. I: 126.29–35). 117  In Jugie et al. I: 131.14–15. 113 114

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Ὁμοίως δὲ καὶ τὴν αἰσθητικὴν ἀρχήν· φαίνεται γὰρ ἔχοντα αἴσθησιν τὰ διαιρούμενα αὐτῶν.118

It is possible that Scholarios mixed Aristotle’s passage with Michael of Ephesus’ paraphrase of it: Ὥσπερ δὲ ἡ θρεπτικὴ ψυχὴ μία μέν ἐστιν ἐνέργεια, δυνάμει δὲ πλείους, οὕτω καὶ ἡ αἰσθητική. Τῶν γὰρ ἐντόμων τμηθέντων εἰς πλείω τμήματα, καὶ ἕκαστον τῶν τμημάτων αἴσθησιν ἔχον (αἰσθάνονται γὰρ τῶν προσπιπτόντων αὐτοῖς), δηλονότι τότε πλείους εἰσὶν ἐνεργείᾳ αἱ αἰσθήσεις.119 Just as the nutritive soul is actually one, but potentially many, so it is with the perceptive soul. For when insects are cut into several segments, and each of the segments has perception (for they perceive things that impinge upon them), it is obvious that at that time the faculties of perception are actually many.

The context of Scholarios’ reproduction of this Aristotelian remark is the purely theological argument that “each part of the body of Christ [i.e. each particular piece of bread in this or that Christian altar] is the entirety of his body”120 and that one should not be shocked by this statement, unless one is prepared to be shocked by the full immanence of the sensitive soul in each part of the body of some animals, even in a disjected member. The Περὶ τοῦ μυστηριώδους σώματος was most probably written between 1437 and 1448.121 (6) I shall now focus on an intriguing case, which regards the very first Scholarian work included in Jugie’s edition and probably helps us, I think, to date Scholarios’ abridgment of Metochites’ paraphrasis of the Parva naturalia. On 24/25 March 1437,122 or on 25 March 1439,123 or around 1440, namely shortly after the Ferrara Cf. Aristotle, De longitudine et brevitate vitae 467a18–19: “Τὰ δὲ φυτὰ ἔοικε τοῖς ἐντόμοις …. Διαιρούμενα γὰρ ζῇ …”; De juventute et senectute 479a3: “Kαὶ τῶν ἐντόμων ἔνια διαιρούμενα ζῶσι.” 119  Michael of Ephesus, In Parva naturalia, in Wendland (1903a, 102.16–18). Scholarios’ lines do not resemble Metochites’ and Pachymeres’ paraphrases more than they resemble Michael’s. 120  In Jugie et al. I: 131.19–20. 121  On this dating, see Jugie (1930, 432: this Sermon belongs to the “sermons qu’il prêcha à la cour entre les années 1437 et 1448, alors qu’il était encore laïc”). Tinnefeld (2002, 509, No 90), based on the similarity of the topic of this Sermon to a unit (“Πόσα ζητοῦνται πρὸς τὸ μυστήριον τῆς Εὐχαριστίας,” in Jugie et al. IV: 309.1–28) of Scholarios’ Ἀναγκαῖα ζητήματα, which in turn seems related to Aquinas’ Summa theologiae, some part(-s) of which Scholarios, according to M. Jugie, abridged in 1464 or later, places the Sermon post 1464. Yet, Aquinas discusses Eucharist in Qu. 73–83 of IIIa, whereas Scholarios abridged only the Ia and the Ia IIae and copied (partly in an abridged form) the IIa IIae (see supra, pp. 253–4, Table 1, No 33a-b), avowing (most probably in 1456) that he never had access to the IIIa and its Supplementum (Demetracopoulos 2018, 161–2). Besides, no concrete similarities between Scholarios’ and Thomas’ texts have so far been detected. Finally, even Jugie’s dating of Scholarios’ Thomistic Compendia is not justifiable (see Demetracopoulos 2018, 154–61). 122  On this dating, see Jugie et al. (I: XLII–XLIII). Cf. Tinnefeld (2002, 507). 123  On this dating, see Kappes (2014, 164–6). Kappes argues for this date by connecting Scholarios’ view of the pre-purification of Mary to the discussion of this theologoumenon “between Thomists and immaculists in Basel” (1431–45) and Florence (1439) and thinks it probable that the Sermon was delivered in Florence “to the imperial Byzantine entourage.” 118

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Florence Council,124 Scholarios produced a feast Sermon on the Annunciation of the Virgin Mary. Probably drawing on Nicholas Kabasilas’ and Demetrios Kydones’ sermons on the same feast,125 he places the Annunciation of the Virgin Mary in a much wider context—in fact, in the widest possible: the story of the creation of the world and man, the Fall, and the divine Dispensation, which culminated in the Incarnation. In the penultimate paragraph of this Sermon, Scholarios makes the ultra-unionist remark that there is only “one certain thing” (“… ἑνός τινος …”) that separates the Church of Constantinople from the Church of Rome (presumably the question of the Filioque) and that it would be a sign of quarrelsome spirit for the two sides not to reach an agreement on this that would render the long- and fervently-­ desired union at last possible.126 In this context, Scholarios produces an additional argument for the necessity of the union of the Churches. Addressing the Virgin Mary, he declares127 that his compatriots and he himself do want to honour her salutary cooperation with God in the divine Dispensation and save their souls. Still, in order to do so, they have to win not only the attacks launched by the bodily passions, which is what every human being has to cope with, but also the war waged by the internal and external difficulties caused by the pressing and anxious situation of their nation (“ἄγχουσιν … αἱ περιστάσεις”). The external difficulties are two: the persisting ecclesiastical schism and the ferocious and impious Muslims. This is how Scholarios depicts the Muslim evil:

 Blanchet (2008, 320–1; 483). Blanchet argues that, in this Sermon, Scholarios exhorts his compatriots to act for an “economic” (not doctrinal) union with the Church of Rome, which, as she rightly points out, was not Scholarios’ policy during the acts of the council. In my view, Scholarios’ sentence “τὸ τῆς Οἰκονομίας ἐπιδιδότω καλόν” does not mean that the union of the Churches would be profitable for the menaced Greeks, but that “it would be highly desirable that the globally profitable divine Dispensation [which was carried out thanks to the prompt collaboration of the Virgin Mary upon the Annunciation] be rendered even more profitable [thanks to an ecclesiastical union, by helping the Greek part of Christianity reach salvation].” In either case, Scholarios’ latent quotation of De insomniis 461a21–23 is early; following Jugie’s dating (1437), I would place this quotation in the core time of Scholarios’ career as professor of philosophy. 125  See Jugie et al. (I: XLIII). 126  Scholarios, Sermon on the Annunciation of the Virgin Mary 61 (in Jugie et al. I: 59.15–19). This corroborates Jugie’s dating of the Sermon to 1437 (see p. 282, n122), which is based on Scholarios’ allusion to the Byzantines’ preparations for the forthcoming council in Ferrara and their clearly pro-unionist spirit. Cf. supra, p. 282, n123. Further, the fact that Scholarios quoted literally from Demetrios Kydones’ translation of Riccoldo da Monte Croce’s Contra legem Sarracenorum as well as from Aristotle’s De insomniis and drew a lot from Demetrios Kydones’ and Nicholas Kabasilas’ sermons on the same feast makes it implausible that he produced his long and highly elaborated literary piece while being abroad. Implausible, of course, does not mean impossible. Still, there is a via media: Scholarios wrote the Sermon when being at home and then put it in circulation both at home and abroad. Let me also remark that this Sermon is too long (sixty pages or around 25,000 words) to have ever actually been delivered before any audience (unless the speaker be, e.g., Nero or Fidel Castro). This means that the Sermon was intended to affect the Greek-speaking scholars not just for a moment as an oral text but more permanently as a pamphlet circulating among intellectuals. 127  Scholarios, Sermon on the Annunciation of the Virgin Mary 61 (in Jugie et al. I: 59.8–15). 124

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… τῆς πολυθεΐας οὔπω τῇ τοῦ Λόγου τμηθείσης κενώσει, τοῦ παλαιοῦ καὶ πρώτου τῶν ἀνθρώπων νοσήματος, ἄλλας κεφαλὰς τὸ ψεῦδος [1] ἐξέφυσε τοσούτῳ χείρους, ὅσῳ καὶ λίαν ἀτόπους καὶ πρὸς τῷ ψεύδει [1] τὴν ἀλογίαν ἐχούσας ὥσπερ ἐπίσημα. Καὶ προφήτης {2} –φεῦ!– ἔδοξεν ὁ μιαρός {3}, καὶ νόμος [4] ἡ φλυαρία [5], καὶ συνέστη τὰ πανταχόθεν ἀσύστατα καὶ οἷς ὀνειράτων {i} οὐδέν ἐστι πλέον, καὶ τούτων τεταραγμένων [ii] καὶ ἃ τοὺς ἐξήχους {iii} βλέπειν {iv} εἰκός. Καὶ νῦν {6} ἐξ ἐκείνου τὸ πλεῖστον τῆς γῆς {7} τὰ τῶν ἀσεβῶν ἐπενείματο γένη ….128 … when polytheism, that old and primeval disease of humankind, had not yet been cut off by the self-emptying of the Word, Falsehood grew other heads, so much the more evil as they were also exceedingly absurd, displaying, in addition to the falsehood, unreason as an ensign. And a villain appeared to be — alas! — a prophet, empty babble to be law, and a system was concocted of elements incoherent in every respect, which cannot surpass a dream, not even a distorted one, normally to be dreamt by madmen. And now the tribes of the infidels have spread from that man over the greater part of the earth.

Scholarios’ placement of Islam in the history of errors on earth echoes Riccoldo da Monte Croce’s description of Islam as a continuation of the ancient pagan resistance to the truth of Christianity: … ἐπανέστη τῇ ἀληθείᾳ [1 e contrario] καὶ τῇ τοῦ Θεοῦ ἐκκλησίᾳ … ἄνθρωπός τις … ἀσελγὴς {3}… ὀνόματι Μαχούμετ {2}, ὃς … ἀνόσιον καὶ ψεύδους [1] γέμοντα ὡσὰν ἐκ τοῦ θείου στόματος ὑπηγορευμένον συνέθηκε νόμον [4] …, ὥστ’ ἤδη {6} τὸ ἥμισυ τῆς οἰκουμένης {7} ὑποπεσεῖν τῇ ἀπάτῃ …. Τοσούτους εὗρον μύθους τε ἅμα καὶ ψεύδη [1] … καὶ συνεχῆ διὰ πάντων φλυαρίαν [5] τε καὶ παλιλλογίαν ….129 … A reckless man rebelled against the truth and the church of God … by the name of Muhammad …, who concocted an impious law, teeming with falsehood, under the pretence that it was dictated by the divine mouth …, so that by now half the inhabited world has fallen victim to the hoax …, So many fables and falsehoods did I find … and continuous empty babble and repetition on every page ….

Quid haec ad nos? Scholarios, to denigrate Muhammad’s alleged revelation from Allah, compares it to the dreams of men who suffer, temporarily or permanently, from partial loss of consciousness. Scholarios seems to allude to Muhammad’s celebrated travel to the heavens and vision of God, which is disgraced in Riccoldo’s anti-Muslim work.130 Scholarios’ wording is very (and exclusively) close to these lines from Aristotle’s De insomniis 3 (461a21–23): … Ὁτὲ δὲ τεταραγμέναι [ii] φαίνονται {iv} αἱ ὄψεις {i} καὶ τερατώδεις καὶ οὐκ ἐρρωμένα τὰ ἐνύπνια, οἷον τοῖς μελαγχολικοῖς καὶ πυρέττουσι καὶ οἰνωμένοις {iii}.131

 Ibid. (in Jugie et al. I: 59.20–26).  Riccoldo da Monte Croce (translation by Demetrios Kydones), Ἀνασκευὴ τῆς παρὰ τοῦ καταράτου Μαχουμὲθ τοῖς Σαρρακηνοῖς τεθείσης νομοθεσίας, Prol. (PG 154: 1040B10–D14). Scholarios, writing a century later than Riccoldo, updates the Dominican polemicist’s account of the Muslims’ achievements in propagating their religion. On Scholarios’ utilization of Riccoldo’s writing, see Demetracopoulos (2014a, 193–5; 198). 130  Riccoldo da Monte Croce (translation by Demetrios Kydones), Ἀνασκευὴ τῆς παρὰ τοῦ καταράτου Μαχουμὲθ τοῖς Σαρρακηνοῖς τεθείσης νομοθεσίας 14 (PG 154: 1120C–1124D). 131  Cf. Scholarios’ own (abridgment of Metochites’) Paraphrasis of the De divinatione per somnum: “… Ἡ τῶν ἐν ὕδασι τεταραγμένων εἰδώλων διάκρισις …” (ll. 80–81; Appendix I, p. 301). 128 129

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Apparently, Scholarios’ “ἔξηχος” (mentally dysfunctional, insane) is a nomen collectivum for Aristotle’s categories of “melancholic,” “fevered” and “drunk.” If, as Jugie argues, this Sermon was written and disseminated shortly before the Council of Ferrara (see supra, p. 283, n126), this rather unexpected utilization of Aristotle’s lines shows that Scholarios had the De insomniis very fresh in his mind. This is in principle plausible, since it was at that period of his life that he taught philosophy (from 1428 or the early 1430s until 1448).132 If so, then his elaboration of the abridgment of Metochites’ paraphrasis of the Parva naturalia should probably be dated to the same time. By coincidence or not, both the Περὶ νηστείας and the Περὶ τοῦ μυστηριώδους σώματος τοῦ Κυρίου ἡμῶν Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ and the Sermon on the Annunciation of the Virgin Mary can be plausibly dated to late 1430s and/or early 1440s (see supra, pp. 278; 282–3), that is, around the end of or immediately after Scholarios’ career as professor of philosophy, during which his abridgment of Metochites’ paraphrasis of Aristotle’s natural works was presumably produced and used.

3.2  T  wo Possible Cases of Mediated Use of the Parva naturalia and an Episode of Scholarios’ Divine Inspiration Scholarios, in a set of personal notes which he called Κεφάλαια πάνυ ὠφέλιμα, picked up two ideas expounded in the Parva naturalia via two writings of Basil of Caesarea: (i) Ὥσπερ γὰρ οὐ πληττομένου τοῦ ἀέρος λαμβάνομέν τινα ἐν ταῖς καθ’ ὕπνον133 φαντασίαις ῥημάτων τινῶν καὶ φθόγγων μνήμην, οὐ διὰ τῆς ἀκοῆς δεξάμενοι τὴν φωνήν, ἀλλ’ αὐτῆς τῆς καρδίας ἡμῶν τυπωθείσης, τοιαύτην τινὰ χρὴ νομίζειν καὶ παρὰ τοῦ Θεοῦ φωνὴν ἐγγίνεσθαι τοῖς προφήταις.134 For just as we, without any strike of the air, recall some words and sounds in our dreams when sleeping, not by receiving the voice through our hearing, but by a previous impression in our heart, that is the kind of voice that we must consider also to have been instilled into the prophets by God. (ii) Πεφύκασι γάρ πως αἱ καθ’ ὕπνον135 φαντασίαι ὡς τὰ πολλὰ ἀπηχήματα136 εἶναι τῶν ἡμερινῶν φροντίδων· ὁποῖα γὰρ ἂν ᾖ τὰ κατὰ τὸν βίον ἐπιτηδεύματα ἡμῶν, τοιαῦτα ἀνάγκη εἶναι καὶ τὰ ἐνύπνια.137  See Jugie et al. (VIII: 22*–24*); Jugie (1939, 483); Blanchet (2008, 15).  Ex editionis ὕπνου correxi. 134  In Jugie et  al. (IV: 301.12–16) (= Basil of Caesarea, Homiliae super Psalmos 28, PG 29: 289A–B). 135  Ex editionis ὕπνου correxi. 136  Ex editionis ἀπὸ τοῦ σχήματα correxi. 137  In Jugie et al. (IV: 306.21–23) (= Basil of Caesarea, In martyrem Julittam, PG 31: 244D; cf. Homiliae super Psalmos 33, PG 29: 353C; Epistle II 2, 19–21 in Courtonne 1957, 6; Homiliae in Hexaemeron IV, 1.15–16 and VII, 6.18–20 in de Mendieta and Rudberg 1997, 57; 125). 132 133

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For it is somehow the nature of appearances in sleep to be for the most part reverberations of our concerns during the day. For whatever the character of our daily business, that is necessarily what our dreams are also like.

The point in the second excerpt is a locus communis, which occurs not only in Aristotle’s De insomniis (459a24–b23) but also in Herodotus, Plato, Artemidorus, Lucretius, Galen,138 Aristophanes,139 Plutarch,140 Iamblichus,141 and Gregory of Nyssa.142 The point in the first excerpt is more intriguing. In cod. Par. gr. 1273, Scholarios’ abridgment of the Summa contra Gentiles and the Summa theologiae, Ia is preceded by an anti-Latin Note on the distinction of the divine persons, which is probably dated to 1464 (i.e. to the third and last of Scholarios’ returns to Constantinople)143 and accompanied by the following note: Ὁ Κύριος οἶδεν· ταῦτα πάντα ἐν ὕπνοις ἤκουσα λεγόμενά μοι ἐκεῖ ἐν τῇ ἀθλίᾳ πόλει, καὶ ἐγερθεὶς ἔγραψα, καὶ διηγησάμην τότε πολλοῖς, καὶ ταῦτα ἀνέγνων.144 The Lord knows: I heard all these things being spoken to me in my sleep, there in the wretched city, and when I woke up I wrote them down, and I then reported them to many people, and I read these things.

If this regards the Note on the distinction of the divine persons, as the editors imply by putting this note at the end of the Note, then Scholarios believed that he received a (theological in content) divine revelation during sleep, which falls under the inferior grade of prophecy (see supra, p. 266). “Hearing” a (divine) voice is exactly how Basil describes in the above passage (p.  285) the way in which “the prophets” received revelations from God. Still, all the arguments contained in the Note look traceable back to the Orthodox anti-Latin arsenal from the time of Barlaam the Calabrian’s seminal Contra Latinos through Scholarios’ time; so, one wonders what the extra thing supernaturally bestowed upon Scholarios consisted in. If—who knows?—this note is not to be connected with the above anti-Latin Note, then one can think about other possibilities. In this respect, the depiction of Scholarios as a “divine man” and “holy man” during the late 15th and early 16th century145 may not be irrelevant. Still, entering into such a discussion here would distract us from the issue of Scholarios’ reception of the Parva naturalia.

 See MacAlister (1990, 198–9).  Aristophanes, Nubes 14–27 (in Dover 1968, 7–8). 140  Plutarch, Dio IX, 7 (in Ziegler 1964, 99.21–23). 141  Iamblichus, De mysteriis Aegyptiorum III, 2 (in des Places 1996, 99). 142  Gregory of Nyssa, De opificio hominis 13 (PG 44: 172C); Contra usurarios (in Gebhardt 1967, 200.9–10). Of course, this list is not exhaustive. 143  See Jugie et al. (III: 430); Tinnefeld (2002, 491; 500). 144  In Jugie et al. (III: 433.26–28). 145  See Blanchet (2008, 31–36). 138 139

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3.3  R  etroversion of Passages from the Parva naturalia in Scholarios’ Translations and Abridgments of Latin Works Scholarios translated Thomas’ Commentary on the De anima, abridged Thomas’ Ia IIae, produced a partly abridged and partly unabridged copy of the Summa theologiae, IIa IIae, and confected two Florilegia Thomistica based on the Summa contra Gentiles and the Summa theologiae, Ia.146 These texts include a number of explicit quotations from the Parva naturalia. A comparison of the form of these quotations in their retroversion by Scholarios shows that Scholarios, when rendering them back into Greek, did not have recourse to the “Aristoteles Graecus” or any Greek paraphrasis of them. This is typical of Demetrios Kydones’, Prochoros Kydones’, and Manuel Kalekas’ way of producing retroversions in the process of their translating from Latin into Greek.147 As will be seen, in the case of the Summa theologiae, Scholarios quoted from Aristotle on the basis of Demetrios Kydones’ translation. More work must be done in this direction, because, in Aquinas’ writings, there are several implicit quotations from the Parva naturalia, which do not figure in the apparatus fontium of the editions. We have seen (supra, pp. 262–3; 271–2) two such cases from the Summa theologiae, IIa IIae. Nevertheless, it seems that Scholarios worked throughout in the same way as his above-mentioned Byzantine predecessors. There follows a more or less full list of explicit and quasi-explicit references to the Parva naturalia in the “Thomas Graecus” produced by Scholarios. The two cases from the Summa theologiae are literal quotations, whereas the three cases from Aquinas’ Commentary on the De anima are accurate references ad sensum (probably mediated by Albert the Great). Given that the references ad sensum are very usual in Aquinas’ writings, Demetrios Kydones’ and Scholarios’ translation policy not to take the “Aristoteles Graecus” into account was not just practical or wise; it was imperative, if their Greek translations were to accurately render Aquinas’ writings. Both Kydones and Scholarios follow Aquinas so closely that they preserve in their translations, abridgments and excerpts even Aquinas’ ‘mistaken’ reference to the De insomniis as a reference to the De somno et vigilia (see infra, pp. 289–90, case D1). Apparently, Aquinas was referring to Albert the Great’s Book II of the De somno et vigilia, which includes the De insomniis.148

 For a list of Scholarios’ Thomistic translations, abridgments and florileges, see Tinnefeld (2002, 517–20); Demetracopoulos (2014b); Demetracopoulos (2018, 165–9); Demetracopoulos (­forthcoming-a). Cf. supra, Table 1, pp. 241–2; 244–6; 251–4. 147  On Demetrios Kydones, see Demetracopoulos (2004, 172–3 nn503–4). On Prochoros Kydones, see Konstantinou-Rizos 2017, 925–35; 2018, 266–69; 271. On Kalekas, see Demetracopoulos (2005, 94–96). 148  Albert the Great, De somno et vigilia, Lib. II, tract. I, cap. 6, in Borgnet (1890b, IX: 165b). 146

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(A) Sentencia “De anima” (1) II, 22, 2: … sed caro quidem et illud quod proportionabiliter ei respondet, est medium in sensu tactus, sed “primum organum sensus tactus est aliquid intrinsecum circa cor,” ut dicitur in libro De sensu et sensato. Scholarios’ translation: Ἀλλ’ ἡ μὲν σὰρξ καὶ τὸ ἀνάλογόν ἐστι μέσον ἐν τῇ αἰσθήσει τῆς ἁφῆς, “τὸ δὲ πρῶτον ὄργανον τῆς κατὰ τὴν ἁφὴν αἰσθήσεως ἄλλο τί ἐστιν ἐντὸς περὶ τὴν καρδίαν,” ὡς λέγεται ἐν τῷ Περὶ αἰσθήσεως καὶ αἰσθητοῦ (VI: 486.2–4). Aristotle, De sensu et sensibilibus 438b3–439a2: … τὸ δ’ ἁπτικὸν γῆς. Τὸ δὲ γευστικὸν εἶδός τι ἁφῆς ἐστίν. Καὶ διὰ τοῦτο πρὸς τῇ καρδίᾳ τὸ αἰσθητήριον αὐτῶν, τῆς τε γεύσεως καὶ τῆς ἁφῆς. (2) II, 23, 15: … Perceptio autem soni et odoris, cum successione aliqua, ut in libro De sensu et sensato dicitur. Scholarios’ translation: … ἡ δὲ κατάληψις τοῦ ψόφου μετὰ διαδοχῆς τινος, ὡς ἐν τῷ Περὶ αἰσθήσεως καὶ αἰσθητοῦ λέγεται (VI: 492.25–26). Aristotle, De sensu et sensibilibus 446a23–24: … οἷον ἥ τε ὀσμὴ φαίνεται ποιοῦσα καὶ ὁ ψόφος· πρότερον γὰρ ὁ ἐγγὺς αἰσθάνεται τῆς ὀσμῆς, καὶ ὁ ψόφος ὕστερον ἀφικνεῖται τῆς πληγῆς. … Ὥσπερ ὁ ψόφος ἤδη γεγενημένης τῆς πληγῆς οὔπω πρὸς τῇ ἀκοῇ. (3) III, 18, 9: …“per odoratum attrahuntur animalia ad alimentum a remotis; licet etiam in hominibus sit alia species et alia utilitas odoratus,” ut in libro De sensu et sensato dicitur. Scholarios’ translation: … δι’ αὐτῆς τῆς ὀσμῆς ἕλκονται πόρρωθεν τὰ ζῷα πρὸς τὴν τροφήν, ἐν τοῖς ἀνθρώποις ἄλλο μέν ἐστι τὸ εἶδος, ἑτέρα δὲ ἡ ὠφέλεια τῆς ὀσμῆς, ὡς ἐν τῷ Περὶ αἰσθήσεως καὶ αἰσθητοῦ λέγεται (VI: 581.24–27). Aristotle, De sensu et sensibilibus 443b27–28 and 445a8–19: Αἱ δὲ καθ’ αὑτὰς ἡδεῖαι τῶν ὀσμῶν … οὐδὲν … μᾶλλον οὐδ’ ἧττον πρὸς τὴν τροφὴν παρακαλοῦσιν …. Ἴδιον εἶναι ἀνθρώπου τὴν τοιαύτην ὀσμήν …. Τοῖς ἀνθρώποις πρὸς βοήθειαν ὑγιείας γέγονε τὸ τοιοῦτον εἶδος τῆς ὀσμῆς …. Ἡ δ’ ἀπὸ τῆς ὀσμῆς τῆς καθ΄ αὑτὴν ἡδείας εὐωδία ὁπωσοῦν ἔχουσιν ὠφέλιμος … αἰεί. (B) Abridgment of the Summa theologiae, Ia IIae (1) Qu. 51, art. 3 Resp.: Unde philosophus, in libro De memoria et reminiscentia, dicit quod “meditatio confirmat memoriam.” Demetrios Kydones’ translation: Ὅθεν καὶ ὁ φιλόσοφος ἐν τῷ Περὶ μνήμης καὶ ἀναμνήσεως κεφαλαίῳ φησὶν ὅτι “ἡ μελέτη βεβαιοῖ τὴν μνήμην.”149 Scholarios: Ὅθεν καὶ ὁ φιλόσοφος ἐν τῷ Περὶ μνήμης καὶ ἀναμνήσεως κεφαλαίῳ150 φησὶν ὅτι “ἡ μελέτη βεβαιοῖ τὴν μνήμην” (VI: 56.32–33).  Cod. Marc. gr. 147, fol. 179v.  In Jugie’s edition, one reads εἰκοστῷ. Presumably, Jugie mistook the first letter as a number and misread the following letters accordingly (see cod. Vat. gr. 433, fol. 117r18). The Latin text reads “in libro.”

149 150

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Aristotle, De memoria et reminiscentia 451a12–13: Αἱ δὲ μελέται τὴν μνήμην σῴζουσι …. (2) Qu. 53, art. 3 s.c.: Sed contra est quod philosophus dicit, in libro De longitudine et brevitate vitae, quod “scientiae corruptio est oblivio et deceptio.” Demetrios Kydones’ translation: Ἀλλὰ τοὐναντίον φησὶν ὁ φιλόσοφος ἐν τῷ Περὶ μακροβιότητος καὶ βραχυβιότητος βιβλίῳ, ὅτι “φθορὰ ἐπιστήμης ἐστὶν οὐχ ἡ ἀπάτη μόνον, ἀλλὰ καὶ ἡ λήθη.”151 Scholarios’ abridgment: … ὥς φησιν ὁ φιλόσοφος ἐν τῷ Περὶ μακροβιότητος, ὅτι “φθορὰ ἐπιστήμης οὐκ ἀπάτη μόνον, ἀλλὰ καὶ λήθη” (VI: 58.13–14). Aristotle, De longitudine et brevitate vitae 465a22–23: Ἀγνοίας μὲν φθορὰ ἀνάμνησις καὶ μάθησις, ἐπιστήμης δὲ λήθη καὶ ἀπάτη.152 (C) Ars vetus, In Porphyrii “Isagogen” (a) “… Tὸ … ὄργανον τῆς διαλεκτικῆς ἐστιν ὁ σημαντικὸς λόγος,” ὡς ἐν τῷ Περὶ αἰσθήσεως βιβλίῳ λέγεται… (VII: 13.20–21) (b) “… τὸ ὄργανον τῆς διδασκαλίας ἐστὶν ὁ εὐσύνετος λόγος,” ὡς ἐν τῷ Περὶ αἰσθήσεως καὶ αἰσθητοῦ λέγεται… (VII: 13.33–34) (c) … ὁ λόγος ἐστὶν τὸ ὄργανον τῆς διδασκαλίας,” ὥς φησιν ὁ Φιλόσοφος ἐν τῷ Περὶ αἰσθήσεως καὶ αἰσθητοῦ (VII: 26.25–26). Aristotle, De sensu et sensibilibus 437a12–13: ὁ … λόγος αἴτιός ἐστι τῆς μαθήσεως …. Radulphus Brito, Proem to Quaestiones super “Sophisticos elenchos”: … “Instrumentum doctrinae [other MSS: dialecticae] est sermo bene audibilis” secundum Philosophum in libro De sensu et sensato …. ­ “Instrumentum disciplinae est sermo significativus,” ut dicitur libro De sensu.153 (D) Florilegia Thomistica (1) Summa theologiae, Ia, qu. 117, art. 3 ad 2um: … ex forti imaginatione animae immutantur spiritus corporis conjuncti. Quae quidem immutatio spirituum maxime fit in oculis, ad quos subtiliores spiritus perveniunt. Oculi autem inficiunt aerem continuum usque ad determinatum spatium, per quem modum specula, si fuerint nova et pura, contrahunt quandam impuritatem ex aspectu mulieris menstruatae,