Aristotle: Ethics and politicsRoger CrispETHICSBACKGROUND AND METHODAristotle wrote no books on ethics. Rather, he gave lectures, the notes forwhich subsequently were turned by others into two books, the
Nicomachean Ethics (NE) and the
Eudemian Ethics (EE). There is muchdispute over the relative dating and merit of these works, but the traditionalview is that the
Nicomachean Ethics represents Aristotle’s philosophicalviews on ethics in their more developed form, perhaps at around 330 BC,the
Eudemian Ethics probably having been composed earlier for a morepopular audience (though see Kenny [4.12]). There is a third ethical worksometimes attributed to Aristotle, the
Magna Moralia, but this is probablypost-Aristotelian.
NE contains ten ‘books’, while
EE contains eight. Oddly, they havebooks in common: books 4–6 of
EE are the same as books 5–7 of
NE.Scholarly disagreement has focused particularly on which work thesebooks properly belong to. Controversy continues, but the more widely heldview, based on study of Aristotle’s discussion of pleasure in the commonbooks, is that they belong to the
EE.It is
NE which has traditionally been studied, along with the commonbooks, so it is on that work that we shall concentrate. But
EE should notbe ignored by serious readers of Aristotle. Its differences from
NE aresubtle and interesting, and even if
EE is earlier, it illuminates howAristotle’s ethical thought developed. Whatever the relation between theworks, it cannot be denied that
NE is one of the most important works inethics ever composed, both from the historical point of view and that ofcontemporary moral philosophy.Aristotle lectured in a room containing a three-legged table, woodensofas, a whiteboard, and a bronze statue and globe.On the walls were,among other things, lists of virtues and vices, and depictions of Socrates.His audience would have consisted primarily of young men, of more thanhumble origin, who might hope to make their way in a career that was atleast partly political. As Aristotle spoke from his notes, it is almost certainthat he would have expanded upon or clarified certain points, perhaps inresponse to questions from his audience. The style in which we have NE hashad the result that much Aristotelian scholarship has been, and continuesto be, pure interpretation of what he says. But in the last few decades inparticular, his views have been seen as the foundation for a modern ethics,based on virtue.Aristotle’s audience would have been able to make a difference to fourthcenturyAthens, and
NE is explicitly practical in intent. This is most certainlynot an anthropological work, attempting dispassionate study of thecommon morality of the day. Aristotle, like Socrates and Plato before him,believed that certain aspects of that common morality were deeplymistaken. He wished to persuade his readers of this, intellectually andpractically: ‘Our present study is not, like the others, for intellectualpurposes. For we are inquiring into what virtue is not so that we mayknow, but to become good men, since otherwise it would be pointless’(1103b26–9).What, for Aristotle, is ethics? A modern work on ethics will concernduties, obligations, responsibilities, rights. Those notions do haveanalogues in Aristotle’s ethical treatises, but he is primarily concerned withthe question of the good life for human beings. The central ethical questionfor Greek philosophers was not, ‘What morally ought I to do or not todo?’, but, ‘What is
eudaimonia?’
Eudaimonia. is usually translated as‘happiness’, and we shall conform to that usage (see Kraut [4.22]). But someprefer to use notions such as ‘well-being’ or ‘flourishing’, in order toremove any implication that
eudaimonia is a matter of contentment orshort-term pleasure. It should not be forgotten, either, that
daimon isGreek for ‘luck’, and that
eu means ‘well’. In
NE 1.9, indeed, Aristotlediscusses the question of whether happiness is merely a matter of goodfortune.Greek culture was a culture of excellence, in the sense that young menwere widely encouraged to compete with one another in many areas of life,including, of course, athletic, intellectual and aesthetic activity. (The Greekword for excellence,
aretê, has its root in
anêr, ‘man’, as opposed to‘woman’.) One of the central questions asked by Socrates, who provided theinspiration for Plato and hence the whole of Western philosophy, was,‘What is
aretê?’
Aretê has traditionally been translated ‘virtue’, and weshall again conform to tradition. But it should be remembered that,according to ancient Greek usage, a horse that ran fast or a knife that cutwell could be said to have an
aretê, as could a person who told good jokes,as we shall see below.Greek philosophers, then, were concerned to map the relations ofhappiness and virtue. Most of what we know of Socrates is through thedepiction of him in Plato’s dialogues, but from these it appears thatSocrates held that virtue is knowledge. This has the implication, as radicalthen as now, that the person who performs a vicious action does so out ofignorance. Socrates held also that knowledge, virtue and happiness werevery closely related, and, indeed, put his view dramatically into practice.Given the chance to escape the death penalty imposed upon him by the cityof Athens, he chose to remain, believing virtue to be ‘the most preciouspossession a man can have’ (Plato,
Crito, 53c7).Plato continued the Socratic tradition, identifying
dikaiosunê (usuallytranslated ‘justice’, though the term covers morality more broadly) with anordering of the parts of the soul in which reason governs desire and theemotions. For both Socrates and Plato, then, virtue was an extremelyimportant component in human happiness, just how important being acentral issue in modern discussions. Aristotle is most plausibly seen asworking within the same tradition, asking the same sorts of questions andemploying the same sorts of concepts, though his account is of courseinformed by the philosophical apparatus he developed in other areas of hisown thought. Two things set him apart from Socrates and Plato. First, andhere again we meet Aristotle’s emphasis on practicality, virtue itself is of novalue; what matters is actually performing virtuous actions. Secondly, forAristotle virtuous activity is the only component of happiness. Again, thishas some very radical philosophical implications.The methods of the three philosophers were, however, quite different.Socrates proceeded by asking questions of those around him, and thensubjecting the answers he received to searching scrutiny. Plato wrote hisphilosophy down, in the form of dialogues between Socrates and others.But in his later work, the dialogue form is merely a way to express his ownradical metaphysical and moral views. Aristotle was quite reflective aboutmethod in ethics, and
NE 1145b2–7 is one of his clearest statements. Herehe says that, when considering an ethical issue, one should first set out
(tithenai) the
phainomena (which here means the views long accepted bymost people, and the views of philosophers), then formulate the
aporiai orpuzzles that emerge, and finally do one’s best to resolve these puzzles in thelight of the original
phainomena.The way Aristotle goes on to treat the problem of
akrasia just after thisstatement is a good example of this method at work. (For our purposes, wecan translate
akrasia as ‘weakness of will’, though we should not forgetthat there is some dispute about whether the Greeks had a concept of thewill.) On the one hand, nearly everyone accepts that reason can come intoconflict with desire, and lose. I know that this large cream cake will makeme feel sick, but my desire for it is such that I cannot resist. On the otherhand, because virtue is knowledge, Socrates refused to allow that peopleknowingly took what they knew to be the worse course of action. Aristotleseeks to resolve the puzzle by suggesting that people do indeed do whatthey know to be worse, but that they ‘know’ only in an attenuated sense.When I say, ‘I know this cake is going to make me sick’, I am merelyspouting the words, like a drunk or an actor on stage, without a full gripon their content.Aristotle faces the problem all philosophers face, that he can set out theviews of others and the philosophical problems that arise only from hisown perspective. It can be questioned whether he really keeps to hismethodological principles, and, if so, whether he is not heading in thedirection of conservatism. There is no doubt that the
tithenai method isoften quite far from his mind, when he is engaging in straightforwardphilosophical argument, based either on premises from elsewhere in hisphilosophy or on what is generally believed. But even here, as we shall seein the case of his discussion of happiness, he is keen to show that his viewchimes with the views of the many and the wise. That is somethingSocrates and Plato in their ethics never tried to do. They have more incommon with those moral philosophers known as ‘intuitionists’, whosuggest that there are certain fundamental truths about ethics which manypeople cannot see. Aristotle’s moral epistemology has some similarity tothe forms of ‘coherentism’ which dominate contemporary philosophy, suchas the ‘reflective equilibrium’ of John Rawls, which attempts to bringphilosophical principles into harmony with our reactions to particularcases (see Rawls [4.52]). But, as already suggested, some of Aristotle’s viewsin ethics, and indeed in politics (see below), were far from conservative.Aristotle’s audience, as we saw, would have consisted primarily of well-offyoung men. They also had to be well brought-up. There is no point,Aristotle suggests, in those who are too young to understand ethics comingto lectures on the subject. In that respect, ethics is unlike mathematics,where prodigies are possible. The reason is that ethical understandingcomes not only through philosophy, but first through ethical activity itself.We learn by doing. So to benefit from Aristotle’s lectures—to become better—you will need what he calls
to hoti, ‘the that’, a basic grasp of thenotions of virtue, happiness, and all that they entail. After reflection, aidedby the lectures, will come
to dihoti, ‘the because’, an understanding of theprinciples that lie behind ethics (
NE 1095b6–7).Because of the importance of practical experience, ethics is unlikemathematics in its capacity for precision (and the same goes for politics: seepp.127, 133). This is something that Aristotle stresses several times early in
NE (1.3; 1098a20–b8). A mathematics lecture can tell you exactly how tocarry out a particular differential calculus, but an ethics lecture can giveyou only rough guidance on how to act in a particular case. Thecircumstances of human life are indefinitely complex and unpredictable, tothe point that often experience is the only guide. As we shall see below,cultivating the intellectual virtue of
phronêsis (‘practical wisdom’) willconsist partly in developing a sensitivity to the salient features of particularcases that does not consist in mechanically subsuming the case under anexplicit rule one has learned.This aspect of Aristotle’s understanding of ethics also explains somethingthat some of his readers find peculiar. The core of
NE, rather than offeringus sets of principles or rules, consists in a set of portraits of the virtuousman. The point of these portraits, however, is to enable us to ‘latch on’tothe nature of the virtue in question, and what it requires, so as better to beable to develop and to practise that virtue ourselves.
HAPPINESSAristotle is keen to point out to the potential politicians in his audiencethat ethics is a preliminary to politics (
NE 1.2). He places the fields ofhuman understanding in a hierarchy, those above in the hierarchygoverning those below. At the top is politics, which governs the otherdisciplines in that it legislates when they are to be studied. Now the point ofstudying ethics is to understand the nature of individual human happiness;this is the ‘end’ of studying ethics. Politics will include that end, in the sensethat it will decide how the human good is to be pursued within a city, andhow the good of one person is to be balanced against that of another.Just as now, there was no shortage of views in fourth-century Athensconcerning the human good. Aristotle splits the most common of theseviews into three (
NE 1.5). First, he suggests, most people identifyhappiness with pleasure (this is the view known as hedonism). Aristotledismisses the life of pleasure as the life of an animal, leaving it to laterphilosophers such as Epicurus and John Stuart Mill to draw attention toconceptions of happiness that stressed the non-bodily pleasures. Politiciansare more sophisticated, he claims, seeing happiness as consisting in honour,the second view. This, however, is to be rejected because it depends on theopinions of others. We tend to believe that the basis of happiness is not asfragile as this. And, anyway, people pursue honour only to assurethemselves of their own goodness, so that virtue is prior to honour. Butvirtue cannot be happiness either, since one could be in a coma or sufferingthe worst evils and be virtuous, and no one would count a person in such aposition as happy. The third type of life Aristotle mentions is thecontemplative life, and this receives substantial discussion at the end of
NE(10.7–8).We can already see how Aristotle allows commonly accepted viewsabout happiness—such as that the person in a coma cannot be happy—toshape the argument alongside his own philosophical arguments—such asthat virtue is prior to honour. The two methodologies come togethershortly afterwards in his putting certain conceptual constraints on thenotion of happiness, which are intended to be uncontroversial (1097a15–1097b21). Again, the notion of a hierarchy of goods or ends is central.Some goods or ends are clearly subordinate, or less ‘final’
(teleios), thanothers. When I go to town to buy a flute, my goal—the flute—is merelysubordinate to some other goal, such as enjoying music. The highest good,Aristotle suggests, is thought to be unconditionally final, in the sense that itis never sought for anything else, while other things are sought for it.Happiness is unconditionally final, since we choose it for itself and not forother things, while we choose other things—flutes, honour, pleasure, the lot—for the sake of being happy.The notion of ‘self-sufficiency’
(autarkeia) was important in thephilosophical world at the time
NE was composed, and Aristotle pointsout how reflection upon this notion shows us something about the natureof happiness: ‘We take a self-sufficient thing to be what, on its own, makeslife worthy of choice and lacking in nothing; and this is what we thinkhappiness does’ (1097b14–16). Again, then, happiness is final. Nor shouldhappiness be counted as one good among others, since then it would not beself-sufficient or the most worthy of choice of all goods. For it wouldalways be improvable.Quite what Aristotle means here has been subject to a great deal ofphilosophical discussion (see, for example, Ackrill [4.18]; Crisp [4.20]; Keyt[4.24]; Kenny [4.23]; Kraut [4.22]). On one view, ascribing to Aristotlewhat is called the dominant view of happiness, he is arguing that happinessmust be the most worthy of choice of all goods, and so superior to othergoods. As we shall see below, there are strong reasons for identifying sucha good with ‘contemplation’
(theôria). On another view, Aristotle holds aninclusive view of happiness, believing it to be the most final good in the sensethat it includes all others. Flutes, honour, pleasure, and so on, are all, insome sense, parts of happiness.The inclusive view, on the face of it, seems to fit better with Aristotle’sstress on a hierarchy of ends the higher items of which ‘include’ (
periechoi,NE 1094b6) those below. His famous ‘function’ argument, which we shalldiscuss below, does throw up a serious problem for the inclusivistinterpretation, but we should first attempt to be clearer about just whatnotion of inclusion is in play.Help is at hand in the form of Aristotle’s discussion of Eudoxus at
NE1172b23–34. Eudoxus had argued that pleasure was the good (that is, thehighest good), since pleasure, when added to any other good, makes itmore worthy of choice, and the good is increased by the addition of itself.This is a poor argument, of course, but what matters here is Aristotle’scomment upon it. He says that all Eudoxus proves is that pleasure is one ofthe goods, and goes on to note that Plato uses the same sort of argument toshow that pleasure is not the good. The pleasant life, Plato argued, is moreworthy of choice when combined with wisdom, so it is not the good. Forthe good is such that nothing can be added to it to make it morechoiceworthy.Aristotle does not mean in his claims about finality either that a happylife has to contain all the goods or that a happy life cannot be improvedupon. The discussion of Eudoxus and Plato shows that he is primarilythinking of conceptions of happiness when he speaks of inclusion. Aconception of happiness—that is, a list of the things that happiness consistsin—must be complete. If I can add some good (such as wisdom) to aproposed list, then that list is, to that extent, faulty. So the correctconception of happiness must include all the goods there are. As we shallnow see, this poses a serious problem of interpretation of Aristotle’s ownview.Having set out the conceptual requirements on any conception ofhappiness, Aristotle suggests that we may be able to identify exactly whathappiness consists in if we can discover the
ergon, or ‘function’, of ahuman being (
NE 1097b24–1098a20). Again, though there are problemswith it, ‘function’ is the traditional translation here, so we shall continue touse it. The
ergon of X is X’s characteristic activity, the sort of thingengaging in which makes X what it is. Thus, the
ergon of a knife is to cut.That is also its function, of course, but the notion of function introducesthe notion of some external purpose which is not present in the Greek.What, then, is the function, the characteristic activity, of a human being?It cannot be nutrition or growth, since these are common to humans andplants. Nor can it be sense-perception, since that is common to humans andother animals. All that is left is rationality or reason. Now the function of alyre-player is to play the lyre, and the function of a good lyre-player to playthe lyre well. So if we assume that the human function is that activity of thesoul that expresses reason, then the good man’s function is to do this well.Doing anything well is doing it while expressing a virtue, so the humangood turns out to be that activity of the soul that expresses virtue.Happiness, then, is virtuous action. This explains why Aristotle spendsmost of
NE, a work concerning happiness, offering accounts of the natureof virtuous action. Before going on to consider the conclusion of thefunction argument in the light of the conceptual requirements that precedeit, let us first consider the function argument itself. Aristotle’s argumenthere is a form of perfectionism, that is, a view which holds that the humangood consists in the perfection of human nature. An old objection to hisargument is its proceeding by elimination. Why should the human functionnot include, say, sense-perception? And how can excelling in rationalactivity be characteristic of human beings when the gods engage in justsuch activity?This objection, however, fails to take into account an obviousassumption lying behind the function argument, namely that plants andanimals are not the sort of beings to which we ascribe happiness. So, giventhat humans are happy, it makes sense to seek the characteristic thatdistinguishes humans from plants and animals. True, this characteristicmay be, indeed is, shared with the gods, but that does not matter for thepurposes of the argument here.Another objection is more serious. Aristotle, it is said, forgets thedistinction between ‘the good man’ and ‘the good for man’ (Glassen [4.21]). I may well accept that the good or paradigm example of a humanbeing is one whose life exemplifies the virtues. But it does not follow thatsuch a life is the best life for the person who lives it. For it could be that bygoing against one’s nature one can obtain a life that is better for oneself.Finally, there is a general concern about perfectionist arguments as awhole, that they come too late. Most perfectionists imply that they arecarrying out an independent inquiry into human nature, and then allowingtheir conception of the human good to be shaped in the light of theirunderstanding of human nature. But all too often it can be suggested thatthe perfectionist is allowing his already-formed views of what happinessconsists in to guide his conception of human nature itself. So the notion ofhuman nature is left as a wheel spinning idly. In our conclusion below, weshall discuss the important role the notion of human nature plays inAristotle’s politics, and raise a similar concern.There are, then, problems with the function argument. But the functionargument is not Aristotle’s only way of arguing for his conception ofhappiness as virtuous activity. As we suggested, the portraits he paints ofthe attractions of the virtuous life, and the bad features of the vicious life,particularly in the middle books of
NE, can be seen as speaking in favour ofthe virtuous life.Two further problems concerning Aristotle’s conception of happinessremain. The first concerns the relation between the conceptual requirementof inclusiveness and the idea that happiness consists in virtuous activity.Recall how the argument of Plato referred to in the Eudoxus discussionworked. If I suggest that happiness consists in pleasure, my claim can berefuted by showing that a life that contains wisdom as well as pleasure isbetter than a life which contains (the same amount of) pleasure. My list isincomplete, and I must add wisdom to it. The conclusion of the functionargument leaves Aristotle with one item on his list: virtuous activity. Whyshould we not criticize him in the same way, by insisting that he add othergoods, such as pleasure, wisdom or friendship, to his list?Arisotle’s response here would be that virtuous activity itself includesthese goods (
NE 1.8). The virtuous man will find true pleasure in virtuousactions, the exercise of virtue essentially involves wisdom, and friendship isone of the virtues. Aristotle even has a response to those who suggest thathappiness requires ‘external goods’, such as money. For virtuous actionwill itself require such goods. You cannot, for example, be generous unlessyou have something to be generous with.Aristotle’s view of happiness, however, does have a very radicalimplication, so radical that it throws some doubt on the plausibility of theview. According to Aristotle’s account of happiness, there is nothing goodin the life of the vicious person, since happiness consists in virtuous activity.This is a brave and interesting claim, and solidly within the Socratic-Platonic tradition, but it is too strong. Aristotle’s response to the objectionjust discussed above fails properly to individuate goods. For him todemonstrate that pleasure need not be added to the list, he has to show notonly that virtuous activity involves pleasure, but that there is no pleasureindependent of virtuous activity. This, however, would seem very hard tosupport. Can the vicious man not enjoy a good meal as much as thevirtuous man? Some pleasures, and some other goods, are independent ofvirtuous activity, and will provide some rationale for the vicious life.Aristotle would then have to retreat to the less exciting, but moreplausible, view that virtuous action offers the best prospects of happiness.This, however, would be enough for his view to be of practical import forhis audience.The other problem of interpretation concerns the relation between thevirtues ‘of character’—courage, generosity, and so on—and the activity ofcontemplation. Aristotle begins
NE 10.7 as follows: ‘If happiness is activityexpressing virtue, it is reasonable that it express the highest. This will bethe virtue of the best thing.’ He goes on to suggest that the ‘best thing’ isunderstanding
(nous), the activity expressing which is contemplation
(theôria), and to defend the claim at length that contemplation is ‘final’
(teleios) happiness.There are many interpretations available of these claims of Aristotle,from the idea that he is straightforwardly inconsistent in his viewsconcerning happiness to the notion that these chapters are an ‘end-of-termjoke’, at the expense of Plato (Ackrill [4.18]; Moline [4.26]). One of themost common views has been that contemplation is indeed what Aristotlehas meant all along by virtuous activity: the function argument does, afterall, conclude that, if there are more virtues than one, happiness will be thatwhich expresses the best and ‘most final’ (
NE 1098a17–18).Aristotle throws dust in our eyes by attempting in
NE to answer severalquestions at once. One is the question of what goes on the list of goodsthat constitute happiness, and his answer there is virtuous activity. Suchactivity can involve either contemplation or the virtues of character, andhappiness can be found in either (1178a9). Another question, however, is,given this conception of happiness, which activity is the most conducive tohappiness. And here his answer is, in the ordinary way of things,contemplation.It may have been that some in Aristotle’s audience were disappointed bythe conclusion of
NE. For Aristotle gives no explicit guidance on whichkind of life to go for, that of the philosopher or of the politician. But hewould have argued that which life is likely to be the happiest for any oneindividual depends on the particular circumstances of the case. His generaladvice is that contemplation is peculiarly valuable, so if one is capable of itin any reasonable degree, the life of the philosopher is probably the one toaim for. But if one is not a talented thinker but an excellent politician, oneshould probably choose the life of action. And there is nothing to preventone, in the manner perhaps of Plato’s ‘philosopher kings’, attempting tocombine both activities within the same life.To sum up our discussion so far. Aristotle’s enquiry is essentially apolitical one, concerning the running of a city. Political arrangements willbe concerned with the promotion of human happiness, and this turns outto be virtuous activity. So from happiness, we are, like Aristotle, led intodiscussing virtue. And virtue, Aristotle points out (
NE 1102a7–13), is againanyway a central topic of politics, since the ‘true politician’ spends moretime on attempting to instantiate virtue in his citizenry than on anythingelse.
VIRTUEHappiness is virtuous activity, and virtuous activity is activity of the soul.So it is important, Aristotle says, for the politician to have someunderstanding of the soul itself (
NE 1.13). The soul can be divided intorational and nonrational parts. The rational part, with which, for example,we contemplate, is correlated with the ‘intellectual virtues’, the mostimportant of which in connection with ethics is
phronesis, or ‘practicalwisdom’. The nonrational part can be subdivided, one of its subdivisionsbeing concerned with nutrition and growth. The other part, however, hasmore in common with reason. We know that it exists, as Plato pointed outin the
Republic, because there is something in us that struggles with reasonin certain circumstances, such as when we are weak-willed. This part is alsocapable of obeying reason, as in the case of the continent man. Its virtues,the ‘virtues of character’, are courage, generosity, temperance, and so on.
NE is concerned primarily with the virtues of character, though, as weshall see below, intellectual virtues have an important role to play in fullvirtue.Virtue of thought comes mostly from teaching, and there are some casesin which it is acquired very early. Think, for example, of a mathematicalprodigy. But the virtues of character arise through habit
(ethos) (
NE 2.1).Teaching, of course, is important in steering people into the correct habits,but there is nothing in acquiring virtue analogous to the ‘flash ofinspiration’ one finds in learning mathematics. Becoming virtuous is morelike learning a skill, such as building. One learns to build a wall by doing it,and if one does it well, one will become a good builder. So performing justactions or courageous actions will result in one’s becoming just orcourageous. Since the habits we get into are very much a result of theguidance we receive, it is essential for the moral educator—a parent at theindividual level, a politician at the social level—to understand the role ofhabit.Someone might here raise a puzzle (
NE 2.4). Surely, a person who isbuilding is already a builder, and similarly someone who is performing justor generous actions is already virtuous? Aristotle points out that someonelearning to build may just be following instructions, and notes that, foran agent to be virtuous, he must not only perform virtuous actions, butperform them in the right way: knowing what he is doing, choosing themfor their own sake, and doing them out of a well-grounded disposition.The second of these three conditions provides a possible link betweenAristotle’s ethics and the later ethics of Immanuel Kant (1724–1804).According to Kant, moral worth attaches to an action only in so far as it ismotivated by respect for the moral law. This has seemed objectionable tosome philosophers, who believe, for example, that an action motivated bya loving concern for another person is morally praiseworthy. Here we findAristotle telling us that a virtuous action is chosen for its own sake, not,for example, so that another person can be helped. Elsewhere he says thatthe virtuous man chooses virtuous actions for the sake of
to kalon, ‘thefine’ or ‘the noble’ (
NE 1115b12–13), and it is plausible to see this as, forhim, equivalent to choosing them for their own sake. Again, however, thereis no reference to concern for others: the focus is on oneself and on thequality of one’s actions.Virtues, then, are dispositions
(hexeis), engendered in us throughpractice. Aristotle characterizes the nature of virtue using his famous‘doctrine of the mean’ (
NE 2.6). The idea of the mean had developed inGreek medicine, the basic thought being that the different bodily elementsshould be neither excessive nor deficient, but in harmony. Aristotle wasprobably influenced also by Plato’s conception in the
Republic of theharmony of the elements in the best soul. Virtue of character aims at themean in the following way:We can, for example, be afraid or be confident, or desire, or feel angeror pity, or in general feel pleasure and pain both too much and toolittle, and in both ways not well; but at the right times, about the rightthings, towards the right people, for the right end, and in the rightway, is what is intermediate and best, and this is proper to virtue.Likewise, there is an excess, a deficiency and a mean in the case ofactions as well.(
NE 1106b18–24)It is important to be clear that Aristotle is not advocating here a doctrine ofmoderation. In the case of anger, for example, one should be moderateonly if moderate anger is required in the circumstances. In some cases, suchas a mild slight, mere crossness will be called for, in others, absolute fury.It all depends on the case.In the case of anger, then, the person with the virtue of even temper willfeel angry at the right times, about the right things, in the right degree andso on. Imagine that something happens to me at three o’clock, thereasonable and virtuous response to which is anger. How is this ‘in amean’? For Aristotle cannot intend us to think that it is in a mean betweengetting angry at two o’clock and getting angry at four o’clock!In the case of anger, you can err in two ways regarding when you getangry. You can get angry when you should not, or you can fail to get angrywhen you should. Both will be vicious, and if you have a disposition toeither, you have a vice. The same goes for the other conditions: you can getangry with the wrong people, or fail to get angry with the right people, getangry for the wrong reasons, or fail to get angry for the right reasons, andso on. So, as Aristotle says, there is only one way to get it right, but manyways to go wrong (
NE 1106b28–35).The passage quoted above primarily concerns feelings, and some authorshave written as if there is a feeling underlying each of Aristotle’s virtues ofcharacter. But this is not so, for example, in the case of a central virtue,generosity (
NE 4.1). In fact, more to the fore in Aristotle’s discussions ofthe individual virtues are the actions that exemplify them. And our accountabove shows how to understand the notion of an action’s being in a mean.Generosity is concerned with the giving away of money. The generous manis the one who gives it away, for example, at the right times, whereas theprodigal man will give it away at the wrong times, and the ungenerous manwill fail to give it away when he should.It is sometimes suggested that there is something almost tautologousabout the doctrine of the mean: you should do what is right, and what isright is what is not wrong (see Barnes [4.15]). But in fact the doctrine ofthe mean represents an important ethical discovery by Aristotle. He divideshuman life into certain central ‘spheres’, concerning the control of money,social life, sexual desire, common emotions such as anger or fear, and soon, and notices that there is a right way to act or to feel in each of thesespheres, depending on the circumstances. And unlike an ethics ofconstraint (a list of ‘don’ts’), Aristotle sees that ethics requires positiveaction or feeling, not mere avoidance. Each sphere is, as it were, neutrallycharacterized: if I know that you have given away money, I cannot yet tellwhether that is vicious. The virtuous man is the one who acts and feelswell, and the vicious are those who perform the same actions and feel thesame feelings at the wrong time or in the wrong way, or fail to do so whenthey should.What, then, are the virtues of character, according to Aristotle, and whatare their spheres? Consider the following table:
Virtue Sphere Discussion in NECourage Fear and confidence 3.6–9Temperance Bodily pleasure and pain 3.10–12Generosity Giving and taking money 4.1Magnificence Giving and taking money on a largescale4.2Magnanimity Honour on a large scale 4.3(Nameless) Honour on a small scale 4.4Even temper Anger 4.5Friendliness Social relations 4.6Truthfulness Honesty about oneself 4.7Wit Conversation 4.8Aristotle also briefly discusses shame, which he says is not really a virtue,and righteous indignation (
NE 1108a30–b6; 4.9). He devotes the whole ofbook 5 to justice, and his notorious attempts to force this virtue into hisframework fail (1133b29–1134a13). The reason for this should be clearfrom our discussion above: in the case of justice there is no neutrallycharacterizable action or feeling which the virtuous man can do or feel atthe right time. Books 8 and 9 of
NE concern another virtue,
philia, usuallytranslated as ‘friendship’, though it is in fact wider than this.Justice, then, is a problem with the doctrine, and there are moretechnical difficulties with particular virtues such as courage. But thedoctrine of the mean on the whole provides Aristotle with a soundframework in which to discuss and systematize the virtues and vices. Thelist is interesting, in that it contains nothing corresponding to what wemight call benevolence or kindness, a general concern for others at large.Some have said that this demonstrates the size of the cultural gap betweenpre- and post-Judaeo-Christian societies. But one might suggest that thecore of the virtue of benevolence is located elsewhere by Aristotle,primarily in the virtue of friendship. The Aristotelian virtuous man mayperhaps be excessively concerned with ‘the fine’, but this does not makehim heartless. It has to be admitted that the notion of general benevolentconcern for humanity at large does not play any significant role inAristotle’s ethics. But it must also be admitted that general benevolentconcern, as opposed to concern for those with whom the agent has somepersonal connection, plays a smaller part in modern ethical life than manyof us like to admit.What is the relation of the intellectual virtues to the mean and to thevirtues of character in general? Aristotle begins his discussion of theintellectual virtues in such a way that it sounds as if he is agreeing withthose who find the doctrine of the mean to be empty (
NE 6.1). Tellingsomeone that the right action is in a mean between two extremes, he says,is rather like telling an ill person to take the drug the doctor wouldprescribe. But we should remember here Aristotle’s insistence that thelistener to his lectures should have a basic grasp of the elements of ethics.Someone who has that can then use it as a starting-point for reflection onthe nature of the virtues, and consequent character change. I might, forexample, reflect upon the large number of times I have been angry withstudents over the last few weeks, and follow Aristotle’s advice to steermyself in the opposite direction in future.But really getting it right on every occasion, Aristotle says, will requirethat one’s feelings and actions are in accordance with ‘correct reason’
(orthos logos). This is not a matter of habituation, but something moreintellectual, and will require the possession of the intellectual virtue ofpractical wisdom.Practical wisdom is broad, and includes an ability not only to find theright means to certain ends, but the ability to deliberate properly aboutwhich ends are worthy of pursuit (
NE 6.8–9; 6.12). The person withpractical wisdom, then, will have the correct understanding of happiness,and the role of virtue in constituting happiness, and be able to apply hisunderstanding in everyday life.But practical wisdom is not like, say, mathematical ability, which can beacquired early and operates according to the application of certain explicitrules. Practical wisdom, like the virtues of character, develops withexperience, and has as much to do with seeing the salient features of certainsituations, and acting and responding appropriately in the light of them, aswith any ability for explicit deliberation. Some have seen Aristotle’sdiscussion of practical wisdom as disappointing, perhaps because they hopefor some explicit and detailed ethical rules by which to live. Aristotle doesoffer some pretty specific rules—such as that you should ransom yourfather from pirates rather than repay a debt to someone (
NE 1164b33–1165a2)—and the general rules ‘be virtuous’ and ‘aim at the mean’ are ofcourse always in the background. But Aristotle is insistent, and surelycorrect, that one cannot learn virtue solely from philosophical books orlectures.Practical wisdom, since it involves seeing in the right way, is a necessarycondition for possessing any virtue. And if in any particular case you havethe general capacity to see what is right and do it, you will have it in allcases. So, though Aristotle is prepared to distinguish one virtue fromanother, he is not ready to allow that one can possess one virtue and lackanother (
NE 6.13). One cannot, for example, be generous and cowardly.One important reason for Aristotle’s holding this view is his thought thatvirtue requires getting it right. For vices can distort the deliverances of anydisposition, however close it may be to being a full-blooded virtue. In asituation where generosity required conquering fear, the person might notdo the generous thing, and that would mean that he lacked the virtue.Good intentions are not enough.
ARISTOTLE AND CONTEMPORARY ETHICSAristotle’s ethics were immensely influential. They were the focus ofHellenistic ethics, and were also extremely important in the Christiantradition, most strikingly in the work of Thomas Aquinas (
c.1225–1274).Of course, it was not only the Aristotelian ethics which were significantduring this period, but the whole Aristotelian world view. With thescientific revolution of the seventeenth century, however, Aristotelianscience began to decline in importance, and the ethics met with the samefate. In the place of Aristotelian ethics developed modern systems of ethics,many of them employing notions alien to Aristotelian thought. The twomain developments were Kantian ethics, according to which morality is auniversal law of reason and individual rights are sovereign, and utilitarianethics, according to which one should act so as to produce the greatestamount of happiness.In science, the move away from Aristotle was not complete. In his famouswork on the circulation of the blood, for example, William Harvey refersto Aristotle more than to any other thinker. And the same is true in ethics:the Kantian emphasis on reason in ethics cannot help but remind us of thefunction argument (see p. 115) and practical wisdom, while utilitarianconcern for happiness has its roots in Greek eudaimonism. But over thesecond half of the twentieth century, there has been a self-conscious attemptby certain philosophers to return to a more explicitly Aristotelian ethics.This movement began in 1958, with the publication of ElizabethAnscombe’s article ‘Modern Moral Philosophy’ [4.46]. Anscombe,following Schopenhauer, argued that modern ethics revolved aroundnotions of legalistic obligation which made little sense in the absence of adivine lawgiver. She suggested that philosophers desist from moralphilosophy, and turn to psychology. ‘Eventually’, she claimed, ‘it might bepossible to advance to considering the concept “virtue”; with which, Isuppose, we should be beginning some sort of a study of ethics’ (Anscombe[4.46] 15).This was the beginning of what has come to be known as ‘neo-Aristotelian virtue ethics’. The ‘neo-’ here is, however, rather important.For certainly these writers have not sought to revive Aristotelian ethics.Indeed it might be argued that the differences between their views andthose of Aristotle are such that the link between them is only as strong asthe link between Aristotle and Kant or Aristotle and the utilitarians.Virtue ethicists, like Aristotle, begin with the notion of
eudaimonia, orhuman flourishing, considering the agent and his life as a whole, ratherthan concentrating on individual and isolated right and wrong actions. Butthis is not a difference in substance between them and the Kantians andutilitarians, for these latter theorists can also offer an account of the goodlife and moral character. It is just that often they have not bothered.No modern writer has adopted the strong Aristotelian view thathappiness consists only in virtuous activity. Indeed many modern virtueethicists, such as Philippa Foot [4.48] or Alasdair MacIntyre [4.50], aresceptical about objective accounts of the human good. Even those who areless sceptical, such as Rosalind Hursthouse [4.49], tend to see the virtues asinstrumental to human flourishing, understood independently from thevirtues themselves, thus taking the ‘best bet’ strategy we mentioned above.Another important difference between Aristotle’s eudaimonism and thatof most modern writers is his apparent acceptance of egoism, the view thatreasons justifying action must ultimately rest on the agent’s own self-interest. There is nothing in the Aristotelian corpus to suggest other thanthat Aristotle’s aim was to offer to his listeners an account of the best lifefor a human being in order that they might pursue it for themselves. Theidea of reasonable self-sacrifice for others is quite absent, since there is nogap between self-interest and the virtues (
NE 9.8).Perhaps the most direct Aristotelian influence can be seen in the writingsof John McDowell [4.51], David Wiggins [4.54], and others who stress thenotion of a sensitivity to the morally salient features of situations asconstituting the heart of virtue and morality itself. But even here theimportance of ‘mother wit’ in Kant, or the role of perception in thedeontological intuitionism of W.D.Ross (1877–1971), himself a greatAristotelian scholar, should not be forgotten. The utilitarian tradition, it istrue, has tended to place more emphasis on calculation than moralperception, but again this is a matter of contingency. Utilitarians need someaccount of practical wisdom or moral judgement as much as any othermoral theorist.The above discussion is intended to suggest that the distinctions drawnbetween different schools in modern ethics are not as precise or useful asmany believe them to be. Ultimately, the real difference between one moralphilosopher and another lies in how they tell us to live, and the reasonsthey give for living in that way. No one now speaks ordinarily of
megalopsuchia (usually translated as ‘magnanimity’, but not meaning whatis now meant by that term), which for Aristotle was the crown of thevirtues (
NE 4.3). The magnanimous man thinks himself worthy of greatthings, and has one concern above all others: honour. He stirs himself onlywhen some great achievement is at stake. There is indeed much to belearned from Aristotle’s account of the virtues, but his moral ideal is a longway from ‘neo-Aristotelian’ modern writers, particularly those whoemphasize the virtue of care for the vulnerable.Most importantly, perhaps, we should remember the political context inwhich Aristotle was writing (see below). His virtues are intended for fourthcenturyAthenian noblemen, inhabiting a city-state with a population oftens of thousands rather than of millions. This is not to say that Aristotle isany kind of relativist, grounding his account of virtues in whatever socialcontext they were to appear in. Rather, he believed that the Greek poliswas, universally, the best form of human society, and that the virtues thatit made possible were largely the reason for this. For this reason, it isdangerous to draw conclusions about what Aristotle would have thoughtabout how individuals should live in modern societies entirely different intheir details and general nature from the Greek polis. Perhaps the correctway to approach Aristotelian ethics is not to claim him as an ally in orauthority for one’s own views about modernity. Rather, he should be readcarefully and sensitively, with an understanding of historical, social andpolitical context, as one of the best sources of insight into the humanethical condition available to us.
THE POLITICSTrevor J.Saunders
INTRODUCTIONIt is a fair test of a political philosopher to ask him to describe what in hisview is the best form of communal human life. Aristotle would give youthis reply: ‘It is to live as a citizen in that special kind of aristocracy which Idescribe in my
Politics, in what you moderns call “books” 7 and 8. Youand your fellow-aristocrats would not be numerous: you would be able toaddress them all in a single gathering. The territory of your state would becorrespondingly modest. Your citizenship would be granted you on thestrength of your high moral and political virtue, which you would haveacquired as a result of systematic exposure to a carefully contrivedprogramme of private and state education. The other members of yourhousehold would be your wife, children, servants, and slaves. Yourresources, ample but not great, would come from your land; but you wouldnot need to bother your head much about that, as your slaves would do thework. Trade and handicrafts would be confined to free men who are notcitizens; for such people, though necessary to the state, would not be
partsof it. You would spend much of your time on leisure activities—not justplay, but rather the serious intellectual and cultural pursuits of what youwould now call a gentleman. Why do I think this the ideal life? Pray readthe rest of my
Politics.’<sup>1</sup>Taking the Master’s advice calls for effort. Though of the highestimportance and influence, the
Politics, unlike the
Nicomachean Ethics, is arather ragged work. Aristotle employs his usual elegantly plain style, whichcan at times be spare to the point of sketchiness and even obscurity. Butthat is not the real bother. Though substantial stretches of the text arestructured and beautifully written wholes, there are frequent puzzles in thedetail: unclear references back and forth, enquiries left incomplete, andsudden changes of subject-matter and standpoint. To reconstructAristotle’s full thought on a given subject, it is usually necessary to thumbthrough the entire work and collect the relevant passages—which are notalways consistent with each other. The abundant references given beloware designed to speed the reader’s thumb. (Unless otherwise stated, allreferences are to the
Politics.)On the global scale too, the structure and sequence of the eight booksseem strange, and have prompted many commentators into reordering themin accordance with
a priori views about the natural disposition oftheir contents, or with theories about Aristotle’s philosophicaldevelopment. The debate was substantially enriched by Jaeger in 1923 ([4.84] 259–92), who argued powerfully for an Aristotle gradually freeinghimself from Platonic political assumptions and methods, an emancipationtraceable in various strata of the text. But this controversy, though inky,has proved inconclusive, and ‘genetic’ analyses are not now in vogue. It isperfectly reasonable to do what most interpreters now do in practice, thatis take the
Politics as it comes, and to assume that however Aristotlecomposed the parts, he intended to present the ensemble as we have it,failing only to tighten the nuts and bolts.<sup>2</sup>Nevertheless, a brief survey of three of the more conspicuous difficultiesof structure will serve to provide some idea of the contents of the work asit has come down to us. (1) Book 2, on certain theoretical utopias (notablyPlato’s
Republic and
Laws), and on three historical states (including Sparta)in fine repute, looks as if it may have been written first, as the standardAristotelian review, at the start of a work, of his predecessors’ contributionsto the subject in hand. Why then does book 1, a strongly sociological analysisof the state and its parts, and philosophically the richest book of all,precede it? Does it contain theoretical groundwork of which Aristotlerealized the need only when composing the rest of the
Politics? (2) Why isthe closing sentence of 3, a book devoted to questions of political power inthe various constitutions, similar to the opening one of 7, on the idealstate? Both speak of the need to examine the ‘best’ constitution. But books4–6 are full of historical analysis, and advice on the reform of existing and
imperfect states. So have they been inserted between 3 and 7 by someclumsy editor? Even if they have been, the implications for ourunderstanding of the
Politics as a whole are mysterious. (3) Why does book8, the last, break off in mid-discussion? It is unlikely that Aristotle simplybecame bored with political theory, since on his own showing knowledgeabout the working of the state,
politikê epistêmê, is the supreme, allembracingknowledge, that is of how to achieve the highest human good(
NE 1.2,
Politics 1.1 ad init.). Perhaps he died pen in hand. If that is so, itsuggests that books 7 and 8 are not his early thoughts, inspired by Platostyleidealism, but the genuine conclusion and practical aspiration of theentire work.Perhaps the best advice to give a reader of the
Politics, particularly a newreader, is to be aware of such specialized academic problems, for they canaffect interpretation, but not to become obsessed by them. For in spite ofvariations in detail, Aristotle’s political philosophy is clearly afundamentally consistent whole, underpinned by firm and constantphilosophical foundations.
NATUREIn 1.2, utilizing a long-established optimistic and progressivist tradition inGreek historical anthropology, Aristotle tells the following story.Civilization ‘has advanced sequentially, through three ‘associations’,
koinôniai:1 household
(oikos), formed of the two primitive ‘associations’ of manwoman,master-slave;2 village
(kômê), formed of several households;3 state
(polis), formed of several villages.The naturalness of each association is stressed heavily. Man-woman: theyhave a natural urge to breed; master-slave: natural ruler and natural ruled;household: formed by nature for everyday purposes; village: ‘by nature toan especial degree, as a colony of a household—children and grandchildren’;state: it exists by nature, for all men have a natural impulse towards suchan association.Each stage incorporates its predecessors, and brings an increase inmaterial resources, presumably because of increasing specialization offunction and opportunities for exchange of goods and services. In part,material comfort and security are what all these associations are for. But atstage 2 Aristotle’s ulterior preoccupation begins to emerge: the village isformed for ‘other than daily purposes’; and at stage 3 the state, which is a‘complete’ association and totally self-sufficient, ‘came into being for thesake of life, zên, but exists for the sake of the good life,
eu zên’. By ‘selfsufficiency’Aristotle means here not merely an assured supply of allnecessary material goods from domestic or foreign sources, but theopportunities afforded by the complex demands of life in a polis for thefull exercise of a man’s natural potentialities for rational conduct inconformity with the moral virtues (on these, see pp. 118–22 above). Suchconduct both leads to, and is, human ‘happiness’,
eudaimonia; it is the‘good’ life for which the state exists (cf. 7.1, 13,
NE 1097b1 ff.). Hence, inAristotle’s celebrated formulation, man is a
phusei politikon zôion, ‘ananimal (fit) by nature for (life in) a polis’ (cf. 1278b15 ff.). For this animalis unique in possessing reason and speech, and a capacity for shared moralvalues (1253a7–18). Hence again, a man who does not live and act in astate is a man indeed, but no more a full man, i.e. a fully functional man,than a hand made of stone is a functional hand. He is functionally stunted,and the measure of happiness he attains is limited.This latter point is worth developing. To Aristotle, it is no more a matterfor surprise or indignation that one man should by nature be betterequipped than another for acquiring virtue and thereby achievinghappiness than that he should be by nature stronger physically, with agreater potential for (say) weight-lifting. ‘Happiness’ is on a sliding scale:one can have more or less of it (1328a37–40, 1331b39–1332a7). Hence hehas an immediate answer to the objection that vast numbers of people(‘barbarians’, i.e. non-Greeks) live and apparently flourish in societiesother than
Greek poleis. That they are happy up to a point, he wouldconcede; that they are fully so, he would deny. In a Greek polis, did theybut know it, they would be happier (cf. 7.7). Happiness is not, or not only,a subjective feeling of satisfaction in achievement (see p. 110): it is anobjective and definable state of affairs, of human flourishing, that is to sayrational activity in accordance with the virtues; for this is man’s naturalfunction (see p. 115).Further objections spring up, as many as the heads of the Hydra.Several, centring on the notion of ‘function’ in human behaviour, have beenexplored already (pp. 115–16). In addition: (1) Even in terms of Aristotle’sown natural philosophy, in which the paradigm of the ‘natural’ is biologicalgrowth (see
Physics 2.1), the state is hardly natural. It is much more like anartefact, full as it is of elaborate constitutional and social contrivances thatcertainly do not develop naturally, as an embryo develops naturally into anadult member of its species, of its own accord, given all facilitatingconditions (see Keyt [4.86]. (2) But even if we grant that the developmentfrom primitive pairings through household and village to state mayproperly be conceived on a biological model, in virtue of natural urges todevelop such associations, difficult questions confront us: for example, canthe same analysis be applied to a process involving many individuals inmany changing relationships as is applied to a single individual’s physicalgrowth into an adult? (3) More generally, how far ought we to privilegecertain human characteristics, or certain patterns of human socialbehaviour, on the strength of either parallels to them or differences fromthem in the characteristics or behaviour of animals?<sup>3</sup>Perhaps the best we can do for Aristotle is to extend the notion of‘natural’ to embrace anything which is the product of man’s naturalfaculties, conspicuously reason, and which conduces to his happiness; andindeed Aristotle himself at times speaks in this way (for example 1279a8–13, 1287b36–41; on his ‘political naturalism’, see Miller ([4.91], 27–66).But as we shall see, he is prepared to be very specific indeed about‘anything’; for human institutions are, he believes, capable of normativeassessment. Some things conduce to happiness, some do not. Human skillshould follow and supplement nature (cf. 1337a1–3). Consequently,relativism in social and political values and institutions is to be firmlyrejected. No doubt all sorts of theoretical and practical controversies arepossible; but in the end they are capable of definitive solution by referenceto the fulfilment of men’s natural capacities, to the
sort of being a mannaturally and peculiarly is.Aristotle’s natural teleology has three important consequences forpolitical theory and practice. (1) A man in a state of nature is not someoneliving in simple primitive ‘happiness’ in a nudist camp; nor is heHobbes’ natural man, naked and shivering in the wind before achievingsuch protection and comfort as society affords him. Rather, to be in anatural condition is to be a functionally fulfilled member of a polis: onegoes not back to nature, but forward to it. (2) Though the state is indeed adevice to ensure peace and protection, its role is not simply to hold the ringin a minimalist or merely contractualist manner, between socially orcommercially contesting individuals or groups (3.9). It should takecomprehensive care of every department of life, economic, social, political,military, private, public, secular, religious; in particular, it should takeextreme pains to ensure the proper moral formation of its members (8.1).(3) Despite that, the state is not a super-entity, with interests and purposesindependent of, or superior to, those members’ happiness; for happiness isultimate: men can have no higher aim (see p. 114); and that aim is the‘common task’,
koinon ergon, of the association,
koinônia, which is thestate. The polis is therefore essentially a communal and co-operativeenterprise, depending heavily on reciprocal services and mutual benefits.These benefits are to be won not by men conditioned or brainwashed intobeing social and political robots, but by men with discretion founded on
phronêsis, practical wisdom (on which see pp. 121–2).Hence, although Aristotle has much to say about the ways in which onesection of a polis may pursue its own interests at the expense of otherparts, or of the whole, he never confronts directly the issue so vital to us inthis century, of ‘totalitarianism’, the subjugation of the interests of theindividual and of subordinate organizations to the interests of the stateitself, as a superentity. The point of the thesis at 1253a18 ff., which soundsso alarming, that the state is ‘prior by nature’ to household and individual,is that while the state can flourish without any particular individual, noindividual can attain ‘happiness’ without
it, i.e. when he is not fullyfunctional as one of its citizens. Aristotle drives no wedge between theinterest of the individual and those of the state: to him, a totalitarian poliswould not be a polis at all.<sup>4</sup>
AIMS AND METHODSHow then does Aristotle tackle the political theory and practice of his day?Four strands in his text are readily discernible:1 Theoretical fixed points: a technique of analysis based on a cluster ofsuch concepts as nature, function, virtue, and happiness, deployedteleologically.2 Practical fixed points: the institutions of the ‘best’ state, in which theconcepts of 1 are instantiated in as feasible a form as possible(1328b35–9).But the best state does not exist (though it could). So the great bulk ofAristotle’s discussion is taken up with:3 Description and analysis of the (mistaken) theoretical underpinningand actual practices of less-than-ideal constitutions or states existing ormerely proposed, with comment which at times becomes exceedinglycensorious. Aristotle is nevertheless prepared to judge a state orconstitution in the light of its success or failure in achieving its‘hypothesis’, i.e. its own political aims and standards, as in book 2
passim; for such standards can have some limited merit. In general, hehas considerable respect for
endoxa, common reputable opinions (cf.pp. 111–12, and his handling of the controversies about slaves andabout justice in constitutions, pp. 137 and 131–2).4 Implicit in (3), recommendations for correcting existing theory, and forimproving existing practice in order to make it approximate moreclosely to the ideal; for the ‘statesman’ (citizen active in state affairs,see p. 132 and n. 11 below) has a ‘duty of care’ even to inferiorconstitutions (4.1).<sup>5</sup>These four strands mesh in complex ways; and the abundant historicaldetail which Aristotle cites (sometimes with impressive induction) asevidence for his arguments lends his text both colour and authenticity.<sup>6</sup> Inshort, he is at once philosopher, don, critic, data-processor, and politicalreformer.
APPLICATIONSAdmittedly, Aristotle as a political reformer is not a familiar figure. Thereis a common idea that it was Plato who was the reformer
par excellence(consider only the Philosopher-Kings of his
Republic), whereas Aristotlestuck more closely to the realities of Greek life—so closely, in fact, as makehis political philosophy a mere rationalization of the status quo. This is ahalf-truth at best. Aristotle’s conceptual apparatus, in which nature iscentral, is capable of yielding the most radical political ideals, very muchaskew to the standard assumptions of his day. I take four examples.
1Constitutions and citizenshipAristotle defines a ‘constitution’,
politeia, in terms of a power-structurewhich embodies and promotes the state’s social aims and moral values. It is‘an ordering
(taxis) which states have concerning their offices
(archai)—themanner in which they have been distributed, what the sovereign
(kurion)element of the constitution is, and the purpose
(telos) of each association(
koinônia, i.e. state)’ (1289a15–18, cf. 1.1, 1295a34–b1). His typology ofconstitutions contains therefore both a formal element and a moralelement: the identity, number, and economic status of the sovereign rulers,and the character of their rule. It is also interlarded with lengthy analysesof the social, economic, and psychological factors which make for thepreservation and destruction of the various constitutions. The texts arelavish but scattered, mainly in 3.6–18 and books 4–6. For a new reader, 3.6–8 and 4.2 form the best introduction, followed by the ‘chief texts’ listedbelow.
Straight or correct constitutions, operating in the common7 interest:Kingship,
basileia: a species of ‘rule by one’
monarchia.Aristotle considers this to be ideally the best constitution,provided that a monarch of supreme virtue and political wisdomis available; but he never is. Chief texts: 3.13–18; 5.10, 11.Aristocracy,
aristokratia: ‘power of the best’,
aristoi. Rule byfew, typically of noble breed, wealthy, cultured, and virtuous.Chief texts: 3.18; 1289a30–3; 4.7–8; 5.7.Polity,
politeia (awkwardly: this is also the general word for‘constitution’): rule by many, specified variously. For thereappear to be three forms: (i) rule by heavy-arms bearers; (ii) a‘mixed’ system, judiciously combining elements of oligarchy anddemocracy; (iii) rule by a large middle class, i.e. persons whoare neither rich nor poor, and who have only moderateappetites for wealth and power; this composition of a state is‘by nature’ (1295b27–8).<sup>8</sup> Chieftexts: 1265b26–9; 3.7; 4.7–9,11, 13; 1307a5–33.
Bent or deviated constitutions, operating in the interests of therulers only:Tyranny,
turannis: a species of ‘rule by one’
monarchia. Chieftexts: 4.10; 5.11, 12.Oligarchy,
oligarchia: ‘rule by few’;
oligoi, typically wealthy.Chief texts: 4.4, 6; 5, 1, 6, 9, 12; 6.6, 7.Democracy,
dêmokratia: ‘power of the people’,
dêmos. Ruleby many, typically poor. Chief texts: 1284a17 ff.; 4.4, 6, 9, 12;5.1, 5; 1310a22 ff.; 6.2, 4. On restricted democracies, see1274a11 ff., 1281b21 ff., 1297b1 ff.This schema, which has antecedents in Plato and elsewhere, is fundamentalto the entire
Politics; and it is subject to numerous and at times bewilderingrefinements and elaborations, which reflect the extraordinary variety ofGreek political practice. But Aristotle gives us more than static descriptionof complex constitutional facts: he provides a dynamic, psychologicalanalysis of how they come about. The root cause, he claims, is varyingperceptions of ‘the equal’
(to ison), and ‘the just’ (
to dikaion 5.1 ff.).Democrats argue that since they are equal in one respect, free birth, theyought in justice to be equal in all, i.e. political power; oligarchs believe thatsince they are unequal, i.e. superior, in one thing, wealth, they ought injustice to be unequal in all, i.e. they ought to have greater political power.When political facts collide too sharply with these political beliefs, civilstrife,
stasis, can break out; hence the frequent modifications to, and indeedcomplete changes of, constitutions. Aristotle, by contrast, thinks that thesole proper claim to political power is political virtue, that is the practicalability to further the purposes for which the polis naturally exists (3.9, 12,13); and in this endeavour political power ought to be distributeddifferentially to different degrees of political virtue, more to more, less toless,<sup>9</sup> though both wealth and numbers have some contribution to make (3.11; 1283a16–22, b27–34, 1293b34 ff., 1309a4–7). By ensuring thatconstitutions are not extreme, and by cultivating the political beliefs andhabits of the population in the spirit of the existing constitution, a measureof stability can be won (1260b8 ff., 1310a12 ff.). Finally, the rule ofimpartial law is essential to the very existence of a constitution (1291b39–1292a38).Aristotle’s functional analysis of entitlements to rule dovetails with hisfunctional definition of a citizen (3.1–2): ‘he who shares in deliberative andjudicial office’.<sup>10</sup> That is, a
citizen, politês, is one who is active in ‘runningthe affairs of the polis’,
politeuomenos, in accordance with its constitution,
politeia, as a
‘statesman’, politikos.<sup>11</sup>From all this it follows, in Aristotle’s view:i that across the entire range of constitutions, the number of citizensstrictly conceived varies sharply: few or very few in oligarchies andaristocracies, many or very many in democracies;<sup>12</sup>ii that in all oligarchies and in some democracies (those with someproperty-qualification for citizenship) there will be variable numbers ofnative free adult males who are not citizens in the full sense, but onlyequivocally (like women and children, cf. 1278a4–5); slaves andforeigners, of course, qualify in no sense;iii that in devisted constitutions, although the citizen-body,
politeuma,operates in its own interests, it may, and prudentially should, pay someattention to the interests of others. The few rich, if sovereign, shouldnot ‘grind the faces of the poor’, and the numerous poor, if sovereign,ought not to ‘soak the rich’ beyond endurance; for either excess maylead to
stasis (1295b13 ff.; 4.12; 1308a3 ff., 1309a14–32, b14–1310a12;
also 5.11, on tyrannies);iv that there is a distinction to be
made between the good citizen and thegood man. The former is befitted by his personal sympathies, virtues,and attainments to be a citizen under a particular imperfectconstitution; the latter is befitted by his to be a citizen under the ‘best’constitution (cf. 8.1). The virtue of the former is pluriform, for thereare many imperfect constitutions; the virtue of the latter is not onlyperfect but single, for there is in principle only one best constitution (3.4; 1310a12 ff., cf.
NE 1135a3–5);v that both good citizens and good men exercise their virtue, i.e. that ofpractical
wisdom, phronêsis, most fully when ruling; but since they areall equal, and since obviously not all may rule simultaneously, theymust take it in turns to rule and be ruled, in some principled manner laiddown in the constitution (1279a8 ff., 1332b12 ff.). Their virtue istherefore twofold: to know how to rule and be ruled well; indeed, byengaging in the latter they learn to do the former (1277a25 ff.).<sup>13</sup>Given, then, that the ideal single ruler does not exist and is never likely to,and that the natural capacity of men for developing virtue and therebyachieving ‘happiness’ varies widely, it is scarcely surprising that Aristotle,in seeking the ‘best’ state, should look to some form of aristocracy. Foronly in an aristocracy are good man and good citizen one and the sameperson, because the criterion for office-holding is not only wealth butvirtue (3.18; 4.7, 8). Aristotle’s fundamental intentions are plain: what hewants to see above all in his citizens is education and virtue; for these areat once the conditions of ‘happiness’ (7.1, esp. 1323b21 ff.; 8.1), and thecriteria for the holding of office (cf. 1326b15, ‘merit’); and in anaristocracy, by definition, the best
(aristoi) men exercise power.<sup>14</sup>Nevertheless, Aristotle never calls his ‘best’ state an aristocracy, perhapsbecause as aristocracies go it is highly unusual.<sup>15</sup>i The members of an aristocracy, i.e. its citizens, are typically wealthy.But the members of Aristotle’s aristocracy do not value wealth: theyare to possess only moderate resources, which are all that is necessaryfor life; what matters to them is the ‘goods of/concerning the soul’ (7.1, cf. 1. 8–10).ii The members of an aristocracy are normally few, in relation to thetotal free adult male population of the state (aristocracy is a kind ofoligarchy, 1290a16–17). Yet it is possible, though Aristotle gives nofigures, that the restricted level of private resources in his ownaristocracy would permit it to be more widely diffused: a few dozen oreven a few hundred members look rather too few for his purposes.<sup>16</sup>But it is clear that he would not wish to see any approximation toPlato’s diffused aristocracy (Magnesia) in his
Laws, where the adultmale citizens number 5040; such a total, he believes, is outrageouslylarge (1265a10 ff., cf. 7.4). (In many other respects, however, there aremarked similarities between Magnesia and Aristotle’s best state(Barker [4.71] 380–2).)iii According to Aristotle’s typology of constitutions, aristocracy is therule of a few virtuous persons over many non-virtuous, but in thecommon interest. In his own best state the position seems to be subtlydifferent: the aristocrats’ interests
are the common interests—simplybecause there are no other citizens: the aristocrats
are the state.<sup>17</sup> Thatis, there is no body of persons other than themselves with a claim ontheir strictly
political attention. At any rate, Aristotle is quite explicit,indeed emphatic, that all other adult males—agricultural workers (whoare preferably to be slaves, 1330a25 ff., cf. 1255b30–40), artisans, andtraders (and of course their dependants)—are not ‘parts’ of the state:<sup>18</sup>they are merely its essential conditions. How far this would matter inpractice is hard to judge: Aristotle’s aristocrats presumably cannotignore such people, and have to make some arrangements for theiractivities and welfare (for example 1331b1–4); and a poor person is notnecessarily worse off materially just because he lacks the formal butambiguous status of ‘citizen’ without the citizen rights of officeholding,etc., except perhaps that Aristotle’s aristocrats can afford tobe generous to him less well than historical aristocrats. But there canbe no doubt that Aristotle has sharpened the political distinctionbetween citizens and others.iv The cultural and artistic activities Aristotle recommends as pursuits forhis citizen aristocrats (book 8) look very different from the huntin’-shootin’-fishin’ engaged in by historical landed aristocrats.v Aristotle allocates the civic functions of his best state by age-groups: asa young man, one’s function is to be a soldier, not to hold politicaloffice; later, at some unspecified mature age, one exchanges being ruled(exclusively) for the alternation of being ruled and ruling, anddeliberates and judges; in old age one assumes a priesthood (7.9;1332b25–7). This three-fold division is more systematic than commonhistorical practice; for to deprive arms-bearers of office is remarkable,and Aristotle is at pains to justify it (1329a2 ff., 1332b32 ff.); see furtherMulgan ([4.74], 95–6).Aristotle’s best state is therefore both like and unlike historical states. It issomething of a hot-house plant, nurtured in the rich soil of naturalteleology; for all the above conditions are justified, immediately orimplicitly, by an appeal to nature.i In one way or another, nature provides for most of our needs, insufficient but not excessive quantities; agriculture is an especiallynatural source of supply (1.8). To seek to acquire endless wealth is amisuse of our faculties, and so unnatural (1258a8–10).ii A small aristocracy is justified on a variety of pragmatic grounds, butnotably the danger of a large population making the natural aims ofthe state hard to achieve because of its sheer size and complexity (7.4–5).iii Many free men perform only the lowly tasks of manual work, crafts,and trade, which preclude them from virtuous activity and thereforehappiness (1323b21–2), and approximate them to slaves (1260a36 ff.,1278a9–11, 20–1, 1328a37–9); and indeed some men are slaves bynature (1.6).iv Cultural pursuits promote virtue (1341b11), which is necessary tohappiness, our natural aim.v This sequence follows the dictates of nature: the human body and souljust naturally develop like that—bodily strength when one is young,wisdom when older (cf. 1336b40–1337a3;
NE 1094b27 ff.).
2TradeOne prominent category among the non-citizens of the best state is traders.They are recognized as essential to its economic self-sufficiency, but theiractivities are kept at arm’s length in an area separate from the leisuredpursuits of the citizens (1321b12 ff; 7.6, 12). Yet there is a paradox here;for in 1.9–10 (taken with
NE 5.5) Aristotle pronounces trade to beunnatural.<sup>19</sup> How then can it be both unnatural and essential?Briefly, Aristotle believes that trade tends to undermine civic order. Thekey terms in his analysis are acquisition, exchange, proportionality,equality and justice. The natural forms of
acquisition are (a) from nature(farming, etc.), (b) by exchange, which beneficially irons out unevennessesin supply: I breed many pigs, you make many shoes; let us therefore
exchange pigs for shoes in a certain proportion (
6 pairs of shoes for 1 pig,
vel sim.); or (c) let me purchase shoes from you using money which I havereceived in the past from someone else for my pigs, and which I have foundit useful to keep, as a mere substitute for goods, until I need your shoes. Theproportion in which the pigs and shoes are exchanged between us leaves usequal: each of us is in the same economic position after the transaction asbefore (each of us ‘has his own’, 1132b11–20), and neither can feelaggrieved. So far, so natural: exchange facilitates the economic life of thepolis; ‘by proportionate reciprocity the state endures’.<sup>20</sup>Trade befouls the purity of this model, and not only or primarily becausetraders are commonly small-minded persons obsessed with maximizingtheir monetary profit, since they assume (Aristotle claims) that just as theaim of the art of medicine is unlimited health, the aim of the art ofacquisition is unlimited wealth; whereas in truth wealth is not an end but ameans to life, and life does not require a vast amount of it (1257b25 ff.). Hisreal point is sharper, and is apparently contained in the cryptic statementthat the skill of acquisition from trade ‘is justly censured, since it is not inaccordance with nature, but is
from each other’ (1258b1–2). That is,presumably, the trader’s profit is to the disadvantage of the buyer, whopays more that the ‘proportionate’ value;<sup>21</sup> he comes off worse, and resentsit as an injustice; and injustice in general is, according to Aristotle, preciselythe deprivation of that which would enable a person to live a virtuous life,in accordance with his natural potentialities; for such a life demands acertain level of material goods.<sup>22</sup> This resentment of injustice can becorrosive of the social and political structure; for it does not make forharmony,
homonoia, and friendship,
philia (
NE 9.6).<sup>23</sup> Usury, Aristotleclaims, attracts even greater odium than trade; of all modes of acquisition,it is the most contrary to nature: it is ‘money born of money’. Trade atleast achieves that for which money was invented: the exchange of realgoods.If this reconstruction of Aristotle’s admittedly problematical texts iscorrect, his assessment of trade, like his economic theory as a whole, isdriven philosophically, by reference to first principles, the natural purposesof the polis; and it draws support from (what he takes to be) commonperceptions about equality and justice. Nevertheless, pioneering andradical though he may be in point of theory, he nowhere recommendsradicalism in practice; for clearly the suppression of trade would bring anyexisting state to a stop, and the remedy for the ills generated by traderswould be worse than the disease. In his ‘best’ state, trade simply slots intoplace as the imperfect activity of imperfect persons, who are not fullycapable of
eudaimonia, but who are essential to the state even if not ‘parts’of it.How the estates of the aristocrats are to be insulated from trade Aristotledoes not say. Presumably their managers would traffic with traders(1255b30–7, 1331a30–b13), and they themselves would not feel resentmentconcerning profit; they are after all not in a relationship of ‘politicaljustice’ with persons who are not parts of the polis (cf.
NE 1134a25 ff.)
3Slaves<sup>24</sup>From a modern point of view, perhaps the most surprising thing Aristotlesays about slavery is that it is a benefit to the slave,
doulos. This is becausehis relationship with his master is symbiotic (cf. 1252a24–34). The masterhas powers of reason, the slave has them only minimally: ‘he participates inreason so far as to apprehend it but not so far as to possess it’; he whollylacks deliberative capacity (and therefore
eudaimonia, 1280a32;
NE1177a8–9). Presumably this means he can understand the orders hereceives, but could not have worked out independently in advance what heshould do. His function is manual work, and the performance of essentialroutine tasks is his benefit to his master, who possesses him as a ‘livingtool’ (
NE 1161b4), and who benefits him in turn by controlling his life byreason. In a similarly minimal way the slave possesses enough virtue<sup>25</sup> tocarry out orders in a willing spirit. Nevertheless, the master who can affordit has little to do with his slaves, and employs an overseer of their work; buthe himself should be responsible for inculcating their virtue.Aristotle’s statements about slavery are not always consistent, partlybecause the several different models (for example master is to slave as soulis to body, or whole to part) by which he attempts to express the essence ofslavery and the master-slave relationship seem to haveconflicting implications (cf. Smith ([4.95]). More crucially, the relationshipof mutual benefit sketched above is undercut elsewhere (1333a3–5;
NE1160b30) by a grimly instrumental one, in which apparently the onlybenefit is to the master; 1278b32–7 tries to marry the two positions. Onthe other hand, Aristotle frankly admits that the slave’s ability (presumablythanks to his minimum rationality and virtue) ‘to participate in law andcontract’ creates the possibility of friendship between him and his master(1255b12–14;
NE 1161b4–6); but even here there is a heavy qualification,that the friendship is ‘not with slave
qua slave, but
qua man’.Aristotle never questions the justice of the institution itself; but in onecomplex chapter (1.6), in which he arbitrates in a contemporarycontroversy about it, he subjects it to sharp restriction. Some people, hereports, assert that slavery is just, on the grounds that what is captured inwar belongs to the conqueror; others attack it as unjust, since it is imposedby force. Aristotle thinks both sides are right, and both wrong. Only
natural slaves—i.e. persons whose natural mental and physical capacitiesbefit them to be slaves—should be
actual slaves; for that is expedient andjust. Hence the defenders of slavery are correct up to a point: natural slavesmay be forcibly enslaved (cf. 1255b37–39, 1256b23). Conversely, theattackers are also right in part: those who are not slaves by nature oughtnot to be enslaved. Aristotle in effect admits that some men are slaves whoought not to be, and vice versa. In his own best state, presumably, onlynatural slaves will be actual slaves (1324b36–41); but how this is to becontrived he does not say. He apparently assumes that natural slaves willbreed natural slaves. Nor does he face the obvious possibility that anaturally ‘free’ man,
eleutheros, may become slavish by habituation.The point is this. By a clear application of natural teleology Aristotlearrived at a view of slavery which, if anyone had ever tried to put it intoeffect, would have caused uproar; for at least some slaves—those with highnatural potential—would have had to be freed, and some free men—thoseof low natural talent—would have had to be enslaved. Aristotle lacks suchpractical reforming zeal; but his ideas are dynamite to the basis ofcontemporary practice.<sup>26</sup>
4WomenAristotle’s view of women is in one fundamental and obvious respect thesame as his view of slaves; for both are ruled by their natural superiors inpoint of reason and virtue (1252a31–4, 1254b12–15). Like a slave, awoman needs specific virtues in a form which equips her to fulfil herfunction (1259b40–1260a24). But the slave needs ‘little’ virtue, whereasthe woman (i.e. the free woman, typically the wife of the free male) needsmore: she has to be ‘good’ (
spoudaia, ‘sound’, 1260b14–19). Unlike theslave, she possesses deliberative capacity—but it is ‘without authority’(1260a13). The precise nature of the deficiency is unclear; but presumablythe man possesses deliberative capacity in some stronger or more synopticform, which entitles him to overrule her choices (cf. Fortenbaugh [4.80]).There is nothing here to disturb the view of women commonly held bythe Athenian male, unless he makes the mistake of treating his wife like aslave (see 1252b4–7). Perhaps more radical in its implications is the remarkin 1.12 that a man rules over his wife
politikôs, ‘in the manner of astatesman’, ‘as one statesman rules another’. Yet it is important not toover-estimate the significance of this. ‘Political’ rule is over free and equalpersons by turns (see pp. 133–4); but, as Aristotle hastens to explain, awoman is not the equal of a man: she is inferior, and therefore never rules,either in state or in household (except presumably over children andslaves). By
politikôs Aristotle probably means not merely that a man ruleshis wife with a concern for her welfare, but accepts that in so doing he isone rational agent dealing with another, who needs persuasion, not orders.This is a considerable corrective to any view of women as essentiallyemotional and witless things (there is plenty of such prejudice on display inGreek literature). At any rate, Aristotle sees an important continuitybetween a man’s treatment of his fellow-citizens in the public arena and histreatment of his wife in the private.
CONCLUSIONNatural teleology, then, makes Aristotle a far more potent challenger tocontemporary ethical values and political practices than he may appear to areader who merely notices that often enough the teleology endorses them.But even then, it is not intrinsic to natural teleology that it should conferapproval on the status quo unquestioningly. For instance, so far fromchallenging the institutions of the private household and of privateproperty, he vigorously condemns Plato’s proposal to abolish them for hisPhilosopher-Guardians of the
Republic (
Politics 2.1–5). He subjects both tocritical examination, and pronounces both conducive to happiness.<sup>27</sup>But Aristotle faces three linked problems: (1) He assumes that, in somesense pertinent to the achievement of happiness in activity, the nature ofeach individual man is the same, variations being deficiencies in the ideal.He cannot accept that someone with (say) a natural bent towards manualwork has a nature as effective for achieving happiness as the nature ofsomeone with a natural bent towards politics or philosophy. (2) Even if wegrant his assumption, however, deciding precisely what humancharacteristics or activities are natural can seem arbitrary; and some of hisattempts to distinguish them are to say the least more plausible than others(cf. p. 116). (3) Why has nature a special status? Can we not seek to riseabove it? Why do we assume that nature is best for us? If we need notassume that, then as Keyt ([4.70], 147) has neatly put it, ‘The bedrockupon which Aristotle’s theory comes to rest is also the rock on which itfounders.’ Nevertheless, nature as a standard of conduct has a seductiveallure: it seems to be sure and fixed, and to offer an unchallengeablealternative to ethical and political relativism, liberalism, and individualism,and in fact to any creed that in principle not merely tolerates butencourages a plurality of values and practices in an ‘open’ society.It is for this reason that some modern communitarians, for exampleMacIntyre [4.89], have looked to Aristotle for inspiration and support (cf.p. 123). Now communitarians are a rather various school, but their corebelief is that it is essential to the mental health of the individual and to thecohesion of society that the latter should espouse some single moral, socialand political tenet, or coherent set of tenets, with a range of reciprocalrights and duties derivable therefrom. For a single tenet (or set) can beshared across a whole society; conflicting tenets cannot (cf. 1253a15–18).For these purposes Aristotle’s natural teleology is ready-made. For one hasonly to assume a single human nature, and lay out a set of social andpolitical structures and relationships based (allegedly) on what manessentially is. But obviously that singleness does not have to be either‘natural’ or specifically Aristotelian.
NOTES1 Good discussions of Aristotle’s ‘best’ state are Mulgan [4.74] 78–101, andHuxley [4.82].2 For accessible overviews of the problems of structure see Keyt and Miller [4.70] and Rowe [4.93].3 On the biological dimension in Aristotle’s political thought, see Mulgan [4.92], Kullmann [4.87]; on Aristotle and Darwinian biology, Arnhart [4.75].4 Some crucial texts: 1280b29 ff., 1323b21 ff., 1325a7–10, b23–32, 1332a3–7;8.1. The whole issue, too large for consideration here, is debated by Barnesand Sorabji [4.77], and by Miller ([4.91] 191–251). For related questions ofpolitical rights and duties in Aristotle, see in general Everson [4.79], Miller [4.91]; on the resolution of conflict, Yack [4.96].5 1289a1–7. One has to say ‘implicit’ recommendations, because although thepurpose of political knowledge is action (
NE 1094b27 ff.), Aristotle does noton the whole give direct advice to statesmen ‘in the field’ on how to set abouttactically the amelioration of an imperfect state or constitution. He setstargets, or approximations to them (cf. pp. 112–13), and shows that policyor practice or situation
a will achieve them, and
b will not; and he thenassumes that statesmen, after reading the
Politics, will choose
a not
b. But the‘true’ statesman needs more than empirical rules of thumb: he needs to graspthe first principles of ‘political knowledge’, notably of how politics embracesethics (
NE 1.1–2; 1102a5 ff., 10.9; cf. pp. 113, 118). 8).6 For most of his historical evidence he presumably relied on the researchreports, compiled in the Lyceum, of the constitutions of Greek states (see
NE1181b17). There were 158 ‘Constitutions’, but only one survives, and only inpart:
The Constitution of the Athenians.7 For an analysis of Aristotle’s application of this slippery adjective, see Miller([4.91] 191–213).8 The tangled (and controversial) relationships between these three areinvestigated by Robinson ([4.66b] 99–103), Mulgan ([4.74] 76–7), andJohnson ([4.85] 143–54)9 That is, by ‘geometrical’ equality (equality for equals, inequality forunequals, cf. 1325b7–10), not ‘arithmetical’ equality (for example one manone vote): see Harvey [4.81].10 ‘Executive’ office seems assumed. Aristotle discusses various difficulties in thedefinitions, which may be passed over here. ‘Judging’ refers to courts, with orwithout popular juries; what we would now call ‘civil’ and ‘criminal’ casesoften had political importance.11 ‘Statesman’ is obviously a bad translation, but it is sanctioned by usage.‘Politician’ is misleading, since it suggests professionalism.12 Strictly, a tyrant or king would be the sole citizen; persons delegated toparticular duties of ruling would not have authority in their own right.13 There are some problems here, for example (a) What is one to do with one’s
phronêsis when being ruled? (b) Is the reciprocity of ruling and being ruledconsistent with Aristotle’s preference for an ideal monarchy? (c) What is therelationship between the ‘contemplative’ life and the ‘active’ life of a
politikos? See 7.2–3 and pp. 117–18 above.14 1279a35–7, where the alternative etymology, ‘because [it looks to] the bestfor the state’, seems improbable.15 Indeed, Johnson ([4.85] 15 5–69) argues that the ‘best state’ is in fact the‘middle’ constitution of 4.11. Cf. Huxley [4.81], Kraut [4.66d] 52.16 At any rate, to judge from 1295a25 ff., 1324a23–5,
NE 1099b18–20.Aristotle is also aware of the practical dangers of a ‘shortage of men’:1278a26–34, 1299a31-b13, 1326b2–3; cf. 1297b26; but contrast
NE1171a6–8. (Greek poleis were in size much more like our towns or evenvillages than like our cities; Athens, which had
c.30,000 adult male citizens inthe fourth century, was ‘off the scale’.)17 1332a34–5: ‘for us/for our purposes’ (i.e. the best state) ‘all the citizens sharein the constitution.’ But artisans etc. do not so share; therefore they are notcitizens, even in a technical attenuated sense—or so it seems.18 7.9. It is this point that formally exempts Aristotle’s constitution from thecharge of being itself a ‘deviated’ constitution, as pursuing its members’interests only; for there are no other interests embraced by the state for it topursue.19 I assume what I argue in Saunders ([4.66a] 88–90), that these three chaptersessentially cohere, though they are different in immediate preoccupation. Thefollowing two paragraphs are a bald summary of my extended discussionthere. For a complete analysis of Aristotle’s economics see Meikle [4.90].20 Aristotle assumes, and in
NE 5.5 tries to identify, a fixed basis ofcommensurability; but he fails. As a sighting shot, he suggests ‘need’.21 Hence, in modern terms, while Aristotle recognizes in a commodity both usevalueand exchange-value, and possibly labour-value (1258b25), he fails toacknowledge the value of distribution as a legitimate charge on the buyer.22
NE 1099a31 ff., 1129b17–19; on justice, see Miller [4.91], esp. chs 3 and 4.23 On ‘political’ friendship, i.e. as between one
politês or
politikos and another,co-operating in the purposes of the polis, see Cooper and Annas [4.78].24 Except where otherwise indicated, this section is based on material in 1.3–7and 13.25 That is, the virtue of being ruled, not of ruling; master and slave possessdifferent virtues, which are not on the same scale; see Saunders ([4.66a] 98–100).26 Schofield ([4.94] 11) puts the same point more gently, in an excellentdiscussion of the relationship between Aristotle’s ‘ideology’ (in a ‘broadlyMarxist’ sense of the word) of slavery and his philosophical analysis of it.27 Private property he defends by an intriguing combination of economic,social, and psychological reasons: Irwin ([4.83] 200–25), Miller ([4.91] 321–5), Saunders ([4.66a] 118–20). But he imposes certain conditions, notably aconsiderable degree of common use: 1263a21 ff., 1329b39–1330a2.
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A Theory of Justice, Cambridge, Mass., Harvard University Press,1971.4.53 Wallace, J.,
Virtues and Vices, Ithaca, NY, Cornell University Press, 1978.4.54 Wiggins, D., ‘Deliberation and Practical Reason’, in his
Needs, Values,Truth, 2nd edn, Oxford, Blackwell, 1991, 215–37.4.55 Williams, B.,
Ethics and the Limits of Philosophy, London, Fontana, 1985.
POLITICSGreek text4.60 Ross, W.D.,
Aristotelis Politica, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1957.
Translations4.61 Saunders, T.J.,
Aristotle, The Politics (trans. T.A.Sinclair, rev. T.J.S.),Harmondsworth, Penguin Classics, 1981.4.62 Stalley, R.F.,
Aristotle, The Politics (trans. E.Barker, rev. R.F.S.), Oxford,World’s Classics, 1995.4.63 Reeve, C.D.C.,
Aristotle, Politics, Indianopolis/Cambridge, HackettPublishing Company, 1998.
Commentary with Greek text4.64 Newman, W.L.,
The Politics of Aristotle, 4 vols, Oxford, Clarendon Press,1887–1902.
Commentary with German translation4.65 Schütrumpf, E.,
Aristoteles: Politik, vol. 1 (containing book 1), Berlin,Akademie Verlag, 1991; vol. 2 (containing books 2 and 3), Darmstadt,Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1991; vol. 3 (containing books 4–6) withH.-J.Gehrke, Berlin, Academie Verlag, 1996.
Commentaries with English translation4.66a Saunders, T.J.,
Aristotle, Politics, Books 1 and 2, Oxford, ClarendonAristotle Series, 1995 [1.36].4.66b Robinson, R.,
Aristotle, Politics, Books 3 and 4, Oxford, Clarendon AristotleSeries, 1962 (repr. with supplementary essay by D.Keyt, 1995) [1.36].4.66c Keyt, D.,
Aristotle, Politics, Books 5 and 6, Oxford, Clarendon AristotleSeries, 1999 [1.36].4.66d Kraut, R.,
Aristotle, Politics, Books 7 and 8, Oxford, Clarendon AristotleSeries, 1997 [1.36].
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Greek Political Theory: Plato and his Predecessors, 4th edn,London, Methuen, 1951.4.77 Barnes, J., ‘Aristotle and political liberty’, in Patzig [1.51], 249–63, withcomments by R. Sorabji: ‘State power: Aristotle and fourth centuryphilosophy’, 264–76.4.78 Cooper, J.M., ‘Political animals and civic friendship’, in Patzig [1.51], 220–41, with comments by J. Annas, 242–8.4.79 Everson, S., ‘Aristotle on the foundations of the state’,
Political Studies 36(1988), 89–101.4.80 Fortenbaugh, W.W., ‘Aristotle on slaves and women’, in Barnes, Schofieldand Sorabji [1.53] vol. 2, 135–9.4.81 Harvey, F.D., ‘Two kinds of equality’,
Classica et Mediaevalia 26 (1965),101–46; 27 (1965), 99–100.4.82 Huxley, G., ‘On Aristotle’s best state’, in Cartledge, P. and Harvey, F.D.(eds),
Crux: Essays presented to G.E.M. de Ste. Croix on his 75th birthday,Exeter, Imprint Academic, 1985, 139–49.4.83 Irwin, T.H., ‘Aristotle’s defence of private property’, in Keyt and Miller [4.70] 200–25. Original version in
Social Philosophy and Policy, 4 (1987), 37–54.4.84 Jaeger, W.,
Aristotle: Fundamentals of the History of his Development, 2ndedn, Oxford, Oxford University Press, 1948.4.85 Johnson, C.,
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Phronesis 32 (1987), 54–79.4.87 Kullmann, W., ‘Man as a political animal in Aristotle’, in Keyt and Miller [4.70] 94–117.4.88a Lloyd, G.E.R., ‘The idea of nature in the
Politics’, in his
AristotelianExplorations, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1996, 184–204.Original version (in French) in Aubenque, P. and Tordessillas, A. (eds),
Aristotle, Politique, Paris, Presses Universitaires de France, 1993, 135–59.4.88b Lord, C.,
Education and Culture in the Political Thought of Aristotle, Ithaca,NY, Cornell University Press, 1982.4.89 MacIntyre, A.,
After Virtue, London, Duckworth, 1981.4.90 Meikle, S.,
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Hermes102 (1974), 438–45.4.93 Rowe, C.J., ‘Aims and methods in Aristotle’s
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Phoenix 37 (1983), 109–22.4.96 Yack, B.,
The Problems of a Political Animal: Community, Justice andConflict in Aristotelian Political Thought, Berkeley, University of CaliforniaPress, 1993.