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PARTE PRIMA

: TEMPO E SPAZIO-TEMPO55

se necessarie al superamento dei dualismi sinora apparsi nella disamina

ricoeuriana.

Nella sua “ripetizione”, dunque, Heidegger riprende le analisi precedentemente

svolte evidenziandone per così dire il “senso”: se l’Esserci

è essenzialmente e originariamente poter-essere, sarà il “verso-dove”

(intendendo qui il “dove” senza riferimenti allo spazio) a garantirne il

dispiegamento, cioè il “rispetto-a-cui” del progetto stesso. Il

Sein

dimensione orizzontale del

E il futuro non può non inerire ad un

della propria gettatezza (

stesso non coincida con il semplice passato, configurabile come una

sequela di enti semplicemente-presenti, ma implichi l’assunzione della

propria gettatezza, il progettar-si partendo dal proprio essere-nelmondo,

da una pre-comprensione e pre-determinazione che ci sono

state “già” assegnate. Il presente, invece, si caratterizza come un “rendere

presente” in vista della decisione: “solo come presente nel senso

di ‘presentare’ la decisione può essere ciò che essa è: il genuino lasciar

venire incontro ciò che essa, agendo, coglie” (

In questo modo la temporalità mette assieme l’esistenza, l’effettività

e la deiezione, che sono i tre fattori costituenti del -ci (

In quanto tale essa

non essendo un ente semplicemente-presente, esso costituisce

l’

rende possibile ogni trascendimento dell’Esser-ci in quanto quell’ente

che comprende l’essere in generale. L’estaticità di presente, passato e

futuro, d’altra parte, garantisce la loro unità e, allo stesso modo, la loro

diversificazione: è proprio da questa piattaforma originaria, infatti,

che Heidegger tenta di derivare le dimensioni della storicità, del tempo

pubblico e dell’intratemporalità, ricollegandoli alla temporalità originaria

stessa in quanto sue forme proprie di deiezione. Le dimensioni

inautentiche del tempo sono già iscritte nella costituzione autentica ed

estatica della temporalità originaria dell’Esserci in quanto modalità

necessarie di esteriorizzazione: sia la gettatezza che l’esser-presso gli

enti intramondani comportano una declinazione esistenzialmente

involutiva che li conduce a una fissazione metafisica della storia nel

passato e all’idea inautentica di enti che esistono come “oggetti” all’interno

di “qualcosa” come il tempo. Tutto ciò implica per Heidegger un

processo ben preciso, che è quello di rendere ogni cosa semplicemente-

presente e “alla portata di mano”: il tempo medesimo è così una

quantità misurabile e controllabile, un

zu del zu-, attraverso la mediazione del Sein-zum-Tode ci riporta così allaZu-kunft, il futuro (Ricoeur, 1985, p. 107).essente-stato, cioè all’assunzioneGeworfenheit), sebbene l’essere-stato in seivi, pp. 392).da) dell’Esserci.non-è, non è un ente ma semplicemente temporalizza:ek-statikón puro e semplice (ivi, p. 395), il fuori-di-sé originario chequantum che diviene un ogget-Logica e tempo imp.:Impaginato 145×230 15/01/09 18:04 Pagina 55

z-r

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Being and Time , Heidegger treats human beings, or more properly

Dasein , as essentially characterised in terms of their ‘being-in’ the world.

This leads Heidegger to distinguish the sense of ‘being-in’ that is proper

to human being from the ‘being-in’ that is associated with the sense of

physical containment that is part of the modern conception of space

identified by Einstein and Jammer and which Heidegger himself char-

acterises as ‘Cartesian’.



Failure to make such a distinction would, it

seems, commit Heidegger to understanding the relation between the

world and Dasein as essentially no different from the relation between,

for instance, a box and, say, the apples ‘physically contained’ within it; it

would also seem to entail a view of Dasein as existing in a way essentially

no different from the way in which the box, the apples or any other

physical objects exist.



Such a view Heidegger rejects as inadequate to

any proper understanding of Dasein as such – it is inadequate, in

Heidegger’s view, because it makes problematic the very possibility of a

relation between Dasein and the world or the things within that world

and that this is so is clearly evident, according to Heidegger,in the rise of

relativistic and sceptical modes of thought.

In this respect, the ‘objectivism’ Heidegger associates with the Car-

tesian view of spatiality is seen as necessarily tied to ’subjectivism’



and e

this would seem to mirror the connection already noted between the

view of space as primarily a feature of the physical universe, and of

place, or ‘meaningful space’, as a human, and, in this respect, a subjec-

tive, construct. In distinguishing the spatiality of Dasein from the spatial-

ity of objects Heidegger thus asserts the impossibility of any purely

‘objective’ treatment of Dasein that would treat Dasein as no more than

an object among other objects while also rejecting any ’subjectivist’

understanding of Dasein in its relation to the world. Indeed, as Dasein is

36 36

In The Fate of Place , Casey titles the chapter that deals with the Heideggerian appropriation of

place ‘Proceeding to Place by Indirection’ – see The Fate of Place , p.  and more generally, pp.

–.

37 37

See Martin Heidegger, Being and Time , ; also Heidegger’s Topology of Being , chapter .

38 38

Although, as we shall see later, the notion of containment is more complex than just that

associated with physical containment – a point that Heidegger seems, in Being and Time at least,

not properly to have appreciated.

39 39

See Charles Guignon, Heidegger and the Problem of Knowledge (Indianapolis, Indiana: Hackett

Publishing, ) for a detailed analysis of Heidegger’s position in relation to the traditional

problems of epistemology.



Place and experience

Page 23 Pagina 23

properly understood as already inclusive of the world, so one can see

how Heidegger could later comment that: ‘ Dasein names that which

should first be experienced, and then properly thought of, as Place

[ Ort ].’



Heidegger provides an important example of the way in which the

concept of place may be seen as having a central significance in the

understanding of human being and so of human thought and experi-

ence. mento. Indeed, something like the Heideggerian thinking of Dasein as

place is what motivates the inquiry in this book. Of course, one need

not, as I indicated in the introduction, look only to Heidegger to find

evidence of the way in which place might figure as a central focus for

questions concerning human existence – externalist theories of mental

content, for instance, provide an obvious example of one way in which

environment and location can be understood to be directly implicated

in the determination of the very contents of the mind, and I will draw on

such ideas in the discussion in later chapters. For the moment, however,

I simply want to establish the idea of place in such a way that it can begin

to be seen, neither in terms merely of some narrow sense of spatio-

temporal location, nor as some sort of subjective construct, but rather as

that wherein the sort of being that is characteristically human has its

ground. terreno. So far as the idea of experience is concerned (an idea that also

appears in the work of many of those writers who advance the sort of

’subjectivist’ or ‘psychological’ approach to place criticised above), I

shall argue that understanding the structure and possibility of experi-

ence – experience being understood in the quite general and non-

empiricist fashion indicated in the introduction – is inseparable from an

understanding and appreciation of the concept of place. Of course, the

exact nature of the concept of place that is at stake here remains to be

clarified. And, while providing such clarification will be the main task of

succeeding chapters (it will, moreover, be a task that involves clarifica-

tion of the concept of space as well as of place), still the discussion so far

has indicated some crucial features that attach to the concept at issue.

Fundamental to the idea of place would seem to be the idea of an

open and yet bounded realm within which the things of the world can

appear and within which events can ‘take place’. Such a notion of place

is, of course, broader than just the idea of place as a narrowly defined

point of location, but this latter idea of place as merely a ‘point’ would

seem to be a very limited and perhaps even derivative use of the

40 40

Heidegger, ‘Einleitung Zu: ”Was ist Metaphysik”’ (), in Wegmarken , Gesamtausgabe , vol. 

(Frankfurt: Klostermann, ), p. .



The obscurity of place

Page 24 Pagina 24

concept. Even when we think of a place in very basic terms as just a

particularposition – the positionin which I am now located, here on this

spot – that idea typically carries with it some idea of the place, the spot,

as nevertheless possessed of enough breadth and space so as to allow us

to conceive of ourselves, our very bodies, as located in that place, and as

permitting us to view the world from it and so, within it, to move

ourselves in order to obtain such views. We can, of course, grasp places

(even from within the very place so grasped) as having a character and

identity of their own. And this is so not only in virtue of the way a

particular place allows things to appear within it, but also in terms of the

way in which any such place is always itself positioned in relation to

other places and provides a certain ‘view’ of such places. Places are thus

internally differentiated and interconnected in terms of the elements

that appear within them, while they also interconnect with other places

– thus places are juxtaposed and intersect with one another; places also

contain places so that one can move inwards to find other places nested

within a place as well as move outwards to a more encompassing locale.

Some of these features of place and places will become quite important

ideas in the ensuing discussion. The ‘nesting’ of places, for instance, is a

significant point of connection between place and memory.

Just as Heidegger resists the idea that the ‘being-in’ of Dasein cannot

be reduced to the physical containment of Dasein ‘within’ space, so the

idea of place cannot be reduced to the concept merely of location within

physical space nor can place be viewed simply in relation to a system of

interchangeable locations associated with objects. This is not to sever

place entirely from physical space – in some sense place must ’super-

vene’ upon physical space, and upon the physical world in general, such

that the structure of a particular place will reflect, in part, the structure

of the physical region in relation to which that place emerges. The Il

relation between place and physical space will, however, be no less

complicated, and no more amenable to a reductive analysis, than is the

relation between the realm of our everyday talk about our world and

physical theory.



Moreover, if place is not to be viewed as a purely

‘objective’concept in this sense – a concept to be explicatedby reference

41 41

The rejection of reductive accounts – whether of ordinary language into some ‘purer’ language

of physics, of the richness of place into the mere ordering of spatial location, or of the realm of

mental life into the terms of neuropsychology – is a central feature of my account here. Various Varie

arguments in favour of the rejection of such reductionism are, in fact, developed in the course of

the analysis over the following chapters, although, for the most part, the central focus is on the

development of the positive account of place, rather than taking issue, in any detailed fashion,

with the full range of alternative accounts.



Place and experience

Page 25 Pagina 25

to objects existing in a purely physical space – neither should it be

viewed as purely ’subjective’. That place is treated as a largely subjective

concept is, as I noted earlier, common to many discussions of place –

both those that seek to rehabilitate the concept and those that, even if

only implicitly, dismiss it. Yet, although it is certainly the case that place

is not constituted independently of subjectivity – just as it is not con-

stituted independently of the physical world – neither is it dependent on

the existence of an independent subject or subjects. Place is instead that

within and with respect to which subjectivity is itself established – place

is not founded on subjectivity, but is rather that on which subjectivity is

founded. Thus one does not first have a subject that apprehends certain

features of the world in terms of the idea of place; instead, the structure

of subjectivity is given in and through the structure of place. The Il

connection of subjectivity with place indicates, as shall be more clearly

evident in succeeding chapters, the need to view subjectivity as tied to

agency and embodied spatiality, and therefore as constituted in relation

to a structure that extends beyond the subject to encompass a world of

objects, events and persons. This structure is determinative, in various

ways, of the nature of the subject; it is only within such a place that

subjectivity – or, more generally, the structure in which subject and

object both appear – is possible. There is no ‘appearance’ at all within

the space of pure extension, but only within the differentiated and

unitary structure of place.

This latter point applies no less to concepts of the social, or the

intersubjective, than to the notions of subjectivity or objectivity – place

is the frame within which all three must be located. There is, of course, a

common tendency to talk of place, and of space and time, as ’social

constructs’ (a tendency that derives from the more general use of the

idea of ’social construction’ within social and cultural theory),



and, e,

while such talk often remains obscure whether or not it is place that is at

issue, in the present context it is particularly inappropriate. The idea of

place encompasses both the idea of the social activities and institutions

that are expressed in and through the structure of a particularplace (and

which can be seen as partially determinative of that place) and the idea

of the physical objects and events in the world (along with the associated

causal processes) that constrain, and are sometimes constrained by,

those social activities and institutions. There is no doubt that the

ordering of a particular place – and the specific way in which a society

42 42

See, for instance, David Harvey, Justice, Nature and the Geography of Difference (Cambridge, Mass.:

Blackwell, ), p. .



The obscurity of place

Page 26 Pagina 26

orders space and time – is not independent of social ordering (inasmuch

as it encompasses the social, so place is partially elaborated by means of

the social, just as place is also elaborated in relation to orderings deriving

from individual subjects and from underlying physical structures). How- How -

ever this does not legitimate the claim that place, space or time are merely

social constructions.Indeed, the social does not exist prior to place nor is

it given expression except in and through place – and through spa-

tialised, temporalised ordering – and so it cannot be that out of which,

or solely by means of which, place is ‘constructed’.



It is within the

structure of place that the very possibility of the social arises.

In grasping the structure of place that is at issue here what is grasped

is an open and interconnected region within which other persons,

things, spaces and abstract locations, and even one’s self, can appear, be

recognised, identified and interacted with.



But in ‘grasping’ such a

region, it is not a matter of the subject grasping something of which the

acting, experiencing creature is independent – such a region or place

does not simply stand ready for the gaze of some observing subject.

Rather, as I have emphasised already, the structure at issue en-

compassesthe experiencing creature itself and so the structure of subjec-

tivity is given in and through the structure of place. Something similar

might be said of the idea of objectivity also – at least inasmuch as the

idea of objectivityis understood as referring to that which can be present

to a subject, rather than to mere physical existence.



In this respect, the A questo proposito, il

idea of the object is itself something established only within a place and

thereby in relation to a subject, although, in saying this it must be

43 43

In this respect, neither can the ’social’ be seen as having any clear priority over the ‘individual’ –

both arise within the same encompassing structure.

44 44

There are obvious affinities between this idea and the idea of ‘the world’ that Merleau-Ponty

articulates in the Phenomenology of Perception (see especially pp. –) and of which he writes at one

point that ‘the world is the field of our experience, and . . . . . we are nothing but a view of the world’

(ibid., p. ) – the very idea of the world as Merleau-Ponty employs it is, in fact, the idea of just

such a topographical structure (a field or region) as that which I have set out here. This should

also indicate the extent to which the task undertaken here has a certain ‘transcendental’

character – it is a matter of undertaking an analysis of the structure in which the very possibility

of subjectivity and of objectivity, of experience and self, are grounded.

45 45

Objectivity and subjectivity are, on this account, correlative concepts. And while, generally

speaking, one can characterise the ’subjective’ as that which derives from the subject or is

dependent on features of the subject’s position in or experience of the world, and the ‘objective’

as that which derives from the object alone, this need not imply that either of these terms has a

sense that is completely independent of the other. What counts as pertaining to the object and

what to the subject is, in fact, dependent on the frame within which a particular inquiry or

practice is established. We can thus speak of the ‘objective’ features of social, or mental life, as

well as of the ‘objective’ features of the physical world. ‘Objective’ should not, in this respect, be

taken to designate exclusively those features of the world as given within a purely physicalist

analysis. analisi.



Place and experience

Page 27 Pagina 27

remembered that both subject and object are thereby ‘placed’ within the

same structure, rather than one or the other being the underlying

ground for that structure. Of course, the existence of some particular

place – of some set of objects or of some subject – will be causally

dependenton a set of physical processes and structures, but this does not

mean that place can be simply reduced to such processes or structures.

The language of place, of self and other, of subject and object, describes

the world in a way that is tied to the possibility of agency and attitude,

and not in terms of physical process alone. And, while the existence of a

place may be causally dependent on the existence of certain physical

processes, the capacity to describe, experience and understand those

processes – for those processes to be grasped through notions of objec-

tivity and regularity and even through ideas of process as such – is, in

turn, possible only within the framework of place.

One might, nevertheless, claim that the account of space and place

given within physical theory is more ‘objective’ than other accounts,

and in this respect preferable, in the sense that it treats space and place

as existing independently of any subject, whereas on other accounts,

including the account already presaged here, in the absence of subjects

there can be neither place nor perhaps, in a certain sense, space. Yet

the use of ‘objective’ here is itself one that is already oriented towards a

certain priority being accorded to physical accounts over others,

whereas whether this is the primary or most important use of ‘objec-

tive’ is, at the very least, contestable. There is, moreover, a signifi-

cant difference between an account such as mine that insists on an

interdependence between subjectivity and place (inasmuch as the

establishment and articulation of place is tied, as will be evident in later

chapters, to agency and activity) and accounts that treat place as simply

a product of the subjective apprehension of location (and according to

which place is essentially a feature of the mental life of subjects). The Il

relation between place and the existence of the subject in my account is

analogous to that which obtains between truth and the existence of

speakers. diffusori. One can say that only if there are speakers can there be such

a thing as truth and yet this is not because truth is somehow a ’subjec-

tive’ notion nor does this demand that we seek a more ‘objective’

analysis that would do away with this dependence. The dependence of

truth on speakers is simply a consequence of the way in which the

possibility of truth depends on the existence of language, and, since

language and speaking arise together, so there is language only where

there are speakers.



The obscurity of place

Page 28 Pagina 28

These considerations notwithstanding, one might, however, accept

the idea that experience and thought are to be understood as dependent

upon the sort of complex structure that I have addressed in terms of the

idea of place, and yet query the appropriatenessof such talk of ‘place’(or

of any related terms) on the grounds that such talk is really nothing more

than analogy or metaphor and, as such, is just a stylistic affectation that

obscures rather than illuminates. Of course, whether metaphor and

analogy are to be treated as mere ‘affectations’ or whatever, rather than

contributing additional content of their own, is a moot point and one

that has been much argued in the philosophical literature. There is,

moreover, a tendency to assume a clearer distinction between metaphor

or analogy and ‘literal’ uses of language than is actually warranted,

especially, as I noted earlier, where spatial and topographical terms are

concerned. interessati. Yet, this aside, to assume that space and place are used

literally only when employed in relation to the ‘objective’ language of

physics is, once again, already to assume the priority of certain quite

particular ways of understanding these terms (including, as I noted

above, the notion of objectivity) – whereas not only is such priority

questionable, but it can also serve to obscure the conceptual complexity

of the terms themselves. The claim that ‘place’ can remain only a

metaphor in this context is simply a reassertion of a particular and fairly

narrow view of the nature of place – a reassertion that seems to

ill-accord with the complex character of the concept.

The insistence on the idea of separating off a metaphorical from

literal usage here, and giving priority to the literal over the metaphoric,

is also indicative, moreover, of a particular style of philosophical ap-

proach – one that sees philosophical inquiry as a search that is generally

engaged in reducing complex structures to concatenations of more

simple components and in which understanding is primarily a matter of

understanding such elementary components in separation from one

another rather than from the point of view of the larger structure of

which they are part. On this approach, one is right to be suspicious of

possible metaphorical usages, since such usages may conceal complex

structures better analysed in terms of their simpler and more basic

components. componenti. Now I have already noted that it seems to me questionable

whetherthe concept of place as I have deployed it here is to be viewed as

involving a literal or metaphorical usage – that seems, in fact, to be a

fairly fruitless question to pursue. But it does seem that the concept of

place that I have begun to set out is one that is already predisposed

towards a mode of analysis (if that is the right word) that insists on



Place and experience

Page 29 Pagina 29

exploringstructures in their interconnectionrather than by reduction or

simplification. Indeed, a characteristic feature of any ‘place’ of the sort

described here is that the elements within it are both evident only within

the structure of the place, while that place is itself dependent upon the

interconnectedness of the elements within it – as it is also dependent on

its interconnection with other places – and, consequently, the idea of

place is itself the idea of a structure that must resist any analysis that

reduces it to a set of autonomous components.

In the introduction, I referred to Marcia Cavell’s insistence that the

onlyplace inwhich philosophycan beginis ‘ here ,in themidstof things’.



And, as place itself provides the starting-point for the present inquiry, so

the approach adopted is one that looks neither to a subject abstracted

from its world nor to a world abstracted from the subject as the ‘place’

fromwhichtobegin,butrathertothatplaceorlocaleinwhichwealready

find ourselves. This place is one in which both subject and object, both

self and world, are presentedtogether. Moreover,this place of departure

remains determinative of the entire inquiry, since the investigation

pursued in these pages is one that aims, not to move us away from this

place – as is so often the case in philosophical inquiry – but rather to

exploreit and delineate its structure.As I noted earlier, not only does the

idea of place provide an important focus for the inquiry into experience,

but the idea of place also provides a model for both the style of approach

adopted here and the structure of the account that is advanced.

Just as the various elements within a place, taken together, give that

place its character and identity, and as each of those elements is

dependent for its own identity on the structure of the place as such, so

the structural elements on which the possibility of experience rests

cannot be given any account of independently of the overall structure of

which they are a part. The way of approach to the question of the

structure and possibility of experience is thus one that cannot seek to

reduce the structure to a single underlying element or principle. What Cosa

must be done is to exhibit the structure as a whole that is constituted

through the interplay of a number of elements. The structure that is at

issue here is exemplified – in a form that is especially appropriate given

the focus on place – in the relation between topographical features in a

landscape or as delineated on a topographical survey map. Indeed, the Infatti, il

practice of topographical surveying thus provides a neat analogy and

model for the inquiry undertaken in these pages.

46 46

Marcia Cavell, The Psychoanalytic Mind , p. .



The obscurity of place

Page 30 Pagina 30

Topographical surveying is, according to an old British Government

textbook on the subject, ‘the science, artfully executed, of measuring the

physical features of the earth and the art, scientifically controlled, of

delineating them’.



While the advent of aerial surveying and, more

recently, satellite mapping techniques, have wrought great changes in

the actual practice of surveying, not only over the last one hundred

years, but even over the last forty, the basic principles for the surveyor

on the ground have nevertheless remained much the same. In the Nel

centuries prior to the twentieth, surveyors relied principally on theodo-

lite and chain, on a good eye and hand, and a strong pair of legs. For the Per la

surveyor equipped only with such basic equipment, then or now, and

faced with a hitherto unmapped region, the task is to map out that

region from within the region itself. Only by measurement of distance

and angle, by repeated triangulation and traverse, can a picture of the

topography of the region be built up. For such a surveyor, there is

nowhere outside of the region itself from which an accurate topographi-

cal picture can be obtained. It is thus precisely through the surveyor’s

active involvement with the landscape that an accurate mapping is

made. fatto. A purely topographical understanding of a landscape does not,

furthermore, look to some deeper topography that underlies the top-

ography made evident through our active engagement within it. There Là

is no such ‘deeper’ topography to be found. The lie of the land is given –

almost literally – on its surface rather than being hidden beneath it. If we Se noi

take this topographical metaphor seriously as a guide to our analysis

here, then we will similarly look to understand the various elements at

issue, not in terms of an underlying structure to which they can be

reduced, but rather in terms of their own interrelation. (Here it is

important to recognise that the metaphor is one whose significance is

primarily methodological in that it establishes a framework within

whichanalysis can proceed, rather than alone providing any substantive

analysis of place as such – for this reason it cannot be construed as

prejudicing us towards, for instance, an account of place as just that

which is mappable.) When it comes to understanding the structure by

which thought, experience, and knowledge are possible, the implication

of such a ‘topographic’ mode of analysis is that the concepts at issue

must be understood through their interconnection rather than their

reduction, through their interdependence rather than their simplifica-

tion. zione. In this respect, Wittgenstein’s comments in his lectures on the

47 47

Textbook of Topographical Surveying (London: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, , th edn), p. .



Place and experience

Page 31 Pagina 31

philosophy of mathematics have a special resonance with my project

here: ‘I am trying to conduct you on tours in a certain country. I will try

to show that the philosophical difficulties . . . . . arise because we find

ourselves in a strange town and do not know our way about. So we must

learn the topography by going from one place in the town to another,

and from there to another, and so on. And one must do this so often that

one knows one’s way, either immediately or pretty soon after looking

around a bit, wherever one may be set down.’



The conception of

philosophy that is suggested here, and that is given more explicit

formulation in my own use of the idea of topography, is something to

which I shall return briefly in the concluding section of this book.

The complexity of place is mirrored in the complex process of

triangulation and traverse by which the topographical surveyor builds

up her map of the region being surveyed. No single sighting is sufficient

to gain a view of the entire region; multiple sightings are required, and

every sighting overlaps, to some extent, with some other sighting. Thus Così

the process of topographical surveying is one in which the complex

structure of the region is arrived at through crossing and recrossing the

surface of the land and through sighting and resighting from one

landmark to another. In that process, it may seem as if the region itself is

lost sight of – as if it is forgotten in the emphasis on particular views and

measurements.In fact, it is only at the end of the process that the view of

the region as a whole can emerge in the form of the survey map itself.

Both the complexity of process and the apparent disappearance of the

region as such in the focus on specific sightings and measurements have

their analogues in the project undertaken here. The delineation of place

can only be undertaken by a process that encompasses a variety of

sightings from a number of conceptual ‘landmarks’ and that also under-

takes a wide-ranging, criss-crossing set of journeys over the landscape at

issue – it is only through such journeying, sighting and resighting that

place can be understood.

In taking place as the crucial notion here – as a structure that

encompasses both subjective and objective – it should not be thought

48 48

Wittgenstein, Wittgenstein’s Lectures on the Philosophy of Mathematics: Cambridge  , ed. Cora Cora

Diamond (Hassocks: Harvester, ), p. . In Analysis and Metaphysics (Oxford University Press,

), pp. –, PF Strawson also refers to the idea, which he attributes to Ryle, of philosophy as

a form of ‘conceptual geography or conceptual mapping or charting’. The idea is not given

much development, however, and while Strawson acknowledges that the picture ‘has merits’, he

nevertheless finds it to be ‘uncomfortably metaphorical’. Perhaps I am less worried by the threat

of metaphor than Strawson, but certainly I think the topographical conception of philosophy I

outline here is significant and methodologically instructive.



The obscurity of place

Page 32 Pagina 32

that the concept of space is thereby neglected or abandoned. In the Nel

Heideggerian analysis that appears in Being and Time , Heidegger’s own

refusal to countenance the necessary role of spatiality in the structure of

Dasein gives rise to insuperable problems in his account. Heidegger’s

insistence on the separation of the spatiality proper to Dasein from the

spatiality of objects is part of what leads Heidegger, in Being and Time at

least, to treat spatiality as always secondary to, and derivative of,

temporality. Even the ‘existential spatiality’ that is proper to Dasein is

held to be derivative in this way – so much so that, in Being and Time ,

Heidegger seems almost to reduce existential spatiality to a form of

temporality.



Yet, if ‘objective’ spatiality alone is inadequate to the

understanding of human being-in-the-world so too must any purely

temporal conception fall short;



and, indeed, the difficulties to which

the Heideggerian analysis of spatiality gives rise undoubtedly contribute

to the unfinished character of Being and Time itself.

In fact, as has already been made clear, the concept of place cannot

be divorced from space, just as space cannotbe divorced from time.



Of Di

course, this does not mean that the concept of space can simply be

assumed either: unless the re-evaluation and recognition of the signifi-

cance of place encompasses a recognition of the connection between

space and place, and so includes a re-evaluation of the concept of space

itself, all that will result is the replacement of one set of problems with

another. un altro. A closer analysis of the concept of space, as well as of the

concepts of subjectivity and objectivity, is a central focus for the next

chapter. capitolo. Rather than being treated as a simple concept analysable only

in terms of some notion of objective physical extension or location,

spatiality is shown to be a complex notion involving both subjective and

objective aspects. Indeed, the relation between space and place in

49 49

See Being and Time , section , –; see also Heidegger’s Topology of Being . The attempt to

treat spatiality as secondary in this way is something that Heidegger later rejects (as he makes

clear in ‘Time and Being’, On Time and Being , trans. Joan Stambaugh (New York: Harper & Row,

), p. ) – in fact, as early as  he already seems to have modified his position (see What is a

Thing? , p. ; see also Stuart Elden’s discussion of the shift in Heidegger’s thinking about space

and place in the early Hölderlin in ‘Heidegger’s Hölderlin and the Importance of Place’, Journal

of the British Society for Phenomenology , forthcoming.

50 50

For criticisms of Heidegger’s prioritising of temporality, see Heidegger’s Topology of Being and also

Maria Villela-Petit, ‘Heidegger’s Conception of Space’, in Christopher Macann (ed.), Critical

Heidegger (London: Routledge, ), pp. –.

51 51

In fact, as will be evident in the ensuing discussion, although much of my focus will be on place

and spatiality, place itself must be understood as encompassing time and space. On this point see

Don Parkes and Nigel Thrift, ‘Putting Time in its Place’, in Tommy Carlstein, Don Parkes and

Nigel Thrift, Timing Space and Spacing Time , vol. , Making Sense of Time (London: Edward Arnold,

), p. –.



Place and experience

Page 33 Pagina 33

standard treatments of these notions – according to which place, under-

stood as a matter of simple location, is seen as based on space as physical

extension – will, to some extent, turn out to be reversed when these

notions are understood in any richer sense. If we are to take account of

the complexity of spatiality as it arises in relation to a creature’s involve-

ment in the world, then we must look to a way of thinking about

spatiality that sees it as embedded within the larger structure, not of a

single space, but of a unitary and encompassing place. Moreover, the Inoltre, la

exploration of that larger structure will require an elaboration, not

merely of spatiality, but of the interconnection between notions of

subjectivity, objectivity and intersubjectivity, as well as of notions of

agency and causality.



The obscurity of place

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Hölderlin: „Andenken“

(I)

Der Nordost wehet,

Der liebste unter den Winden

Mir, weil er feurigen Geist

Und gute Fahrt verheißet den Schiffern.

Geh aber nun und grüße

Die schöne Garonne,

Und die Gärten von Bordeaux

Dort, wo am scharfen Ufer

Hingehet der Steg und in den Strom

Tief fällt der Bach, darüber aber

Hinschauet ein edel Paar

Von Eichen und Silberpappeln;

(II)

Noch denket das mir wohl und wie

Die breiten Gipfel neiget

Der Ulmwald, über die Mühl’,

Im Hofe aber wächset ein Feigenbaum.

An Feiertagen gehn

Die braunen Frauen daselbst

Auf seidnen Boden,

Zur Märzenzeit,

Wenn gleich ist Nacht und Tag,

Und über langsamen Stegen,

Von goldenen Träumen schwer,

Einwiegende Lüfte ziehen.

(III)

Es reiche aber,

Des dunkeln Lichtes voll,

Mir einer den duftenden Becher,

Damit ich ruhen möge; denn süß

Wär’ unter Schatten der Schlummer.

Nicht ist es gut,

Seellos von sterblichen

Gedanken zu seyn. Doch gut

Ist ein Gespräch und zu sagen

Des Herzens Meinung, zu hören viel

Von Tagen der Lieb’,

Und Thaten, welche geschehen.

(IV)

Wo aber sind die Freunde? Bellarmin

Mit dem Gefährten? Mancher

Trägt Scheue, an die Quelle zu gehn;

Page 3

100

Peter Hühn

Es beginnet nemlich der Reichtum

Im Meere. Sie,

Wie Mahler, bringen zusammen

Das Schöne der Erd’ und verschmähn

Den geflügelten Krieg nicht, und

Zu wohnen einsam, jahrlang, unter

Dem entlaubten Mast, wo nicht die Nacht durchglänzen

Die Feiertage der Stadt,

Und Saitenspiel und eingeborener Tanz nicht.

(V)

Nun aber sind zu Indiern

Die Männer gegangen,

Dort an der luftigen Spiz’

An Traubenbergen, wo herab

Die Dordogne kommt,

Und zusammen mit der prächt’gen

Garonne meerbreit

Ausgehet der Strom. Es nehmet aber

Und giebt Gedächtniß die See,

Und die Lieb’ auch heftet fleißig die Augen,

Was bleibet aber, stiften die Dichter.

Friedrich Hölderlin: „Andenken“, in: Friedrich Hölderlin: Sämtliche Werke. Bd. 2, hg. von

Friedrich Beißner. Stuttgart 1951, S. 188f.

„Andenken“, Hölderlins vermutlich letztes vollendetes Gedicht,1 ist ein

außerordentlich komplexer, viel interpretierter und kontrovers gedeuteter

Text, der bisher mit Bezug auf unterschiedliche Problemkomplexe und

Fragestellungen erörtert worden ist – beispielsweise unter (kunst-)philo-

sophischen oder metaphysischen Perspektiven verschiedener Art (Heideg-

ger [1981], Henrich [1986], Homann [1986], Gethmann-Siefert [1987],

Henrich [1990]), unter geographisch-biographischen Aspekten (Henrich

[1986], Lefebvre [1989]), im zeitgenössischen politischen Kontext (Gaier

[1989]), als Rekonstitution des Mythos (Böschenstein [1984]) oder im

poetologischen Rahmen (Hamlin [1987], Valk [2003], Martel [2004]).

Diese thematischen Aspekte sind vielfach von sehr großer Abstraktheit

und Allgemeinheit, und entsprechend herrscht eine Neigung vor, das Ge-

dicht als poetologischen oder philosophischen Entwurf zu lesen. Die fol-

genden Ausführungen konzentrieren sich demgegenüber (aber mit An-

schließbarkeit an einige bisherige Interpretationsansätze, wie etwa den

von Martel [2004]) gemäß dem narratologischen Analysekonzept auf das

1 Entstanden 1803, Erstdruck 1808.

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Hölderlin: „Andenken“

101

Gedicht als Reflexionsprozess (und der schließlich damit verbundenen

Reflexion von Dichtung) im Rahmen der Imaginations- und Erinnerungs-

thematik, die bereits mit der Überschrift „Andenken“ angesprochen wird.

Auf eine ausführliche Auseinandersetzung mit anderen (insbesondere

primär philosophisch-metaphysischen) Deutungsansätzen wird verzichtet.

1. Zwei gegenläufige Sequenzen als Grundstruktur

Der Gesamtaufbau des Gedichtes ist durch das Prinzip von einander ge-

genläufigen Strukturen bestimmt. In formaler Hinsicht ist der Text in fünf

(reimlose, rhythmisch variable) Strophen gegliedert, von denen die ersten

vier jeweils 12 Verse umfassen, abweichend dazu die fünfte Strophe je-

doch nur 11 Verse. Aber in der Thematik und der Perspektivierung der

Rede ist eine (nahezu symmetrische) Zweiteilung zu beobachten. In den

ersten 29 Versen sind die Aussagen persönlich formuliert, die beschrie-

benen Vorgänge pronominal auf den Sprecher bezogen („mir“, „ich“) und

im Präsens-Indikativ oder im Imperativ, ohne Fragen oder Verneinungen

abgefasst, das heißt die Vorgänge werden als sich unter Beteiligung des

Sprechers vollziehend oder zu vollziehen gedacht. Die folgenden 29

Verse (V.30-58) präsentieren dagegen allgemein formulierte gnomische

Sätze in Verbindung mit Aussagen über andere Personen ohne jeden pro-

nominalen Bezug auf den Sprecher, mit Fragen, Verneinungen und auch

im Präteritum, das heißt die beschriebenen Sachverhalte werden aus ko-

gnitiver Distanz und ohne Verbindung zum Sprecher thematisiert und

reflektiert. Während also die erste Hälfte des Gedichtes die Welt stets auf

das Ich bezieht, erscheint diese in der zweiten losgelöst und unabhängig

von ihm.

Der Vers 59 in der letzten elf- statt zwölfzeiligen Strophe (in der also

eigentlich ein Vers ‚fehlt‘) ist paradoxerweise bei der Zweiteilung (in

zweimal 29 Zeilen) numerisch überzählig (als die 30. Zeile), und diese

Zeile ist auch als explizite Aussage über Dichtung thematisch im ge-

samten Gedicht, nicht nur in seiner zweiten Hälfte (V.30ff.), isoliert und

wird auf diese Weise besonders herausgehoben (s.u.).

Die beiden Teile des Gedichtes (V.1-29 u. 30-58) − unter Absehung

von der Schlusszeile − lassen sich aufgrund der Aussageformen, die ihnen

jeweils eine tendenziell einheitliche, aber einander kontrastierende Wahr-

nehmungsweise und Sprechhaltung verleihen, in zwei mentale Sequenzen

gliedern. Sie lassen sich als zwei Abfolgen von je unterschiedlichen Be-

wusstseinszuständen, Wahrnehmungen von Sachverhalten und Artikulati-

Page 5

102

Peter Hühn

on von Lebenseinstellungen (als Geschehenselemente) rekonstruieren.2

Die stellenweise inkohärent wirkende Aufeinanderfolge dieser Bewusst-

seinszustände kann durch die Beschreibung von Isotopien in ihren seman-

tischen Zusammenhängen und Bewegungsrichtungen deutlich gemacht

werden. Es handelt sich, kurz zusammengefasst, um zwei gegenläufige

imaginative Bewegungen in der Konstellation von Ich und Welt, die Be-

wegung nach Innen und die nach Außen, wie im Folgenden im Einzelnen

nachgezeichnet werden soll.

2. Die erste Sequenz: Rückzug auf das Ich

Die erste Sequenz bietet eine Reihe von Bildern aus der Hafenstadt

Bordeaux und ihrer Umgebung, die offenbar Erinnerungen repräsentieren.

Mit ihrer Hilfe versetzt sich der Sprecher aus der Ferne – aus dem nord-

östlich hiervon gelegenen Deutschland, wie die Windrichtung (vgl. V.1)

sowie die Biographie des Autors nahelegen − an diesen Ort (V.8: „dort“)

imaginativ wieder zurück (V.13: „noch denket das mir wohl“). Diese ge-

dankliche (Rück-)Versetzung wird über die Wahrnehmung des Nord-

ostwindes inszeniert (V.11f.: „Der Nordost wehet / […] / Geh aber nun

und grüße / [...]“);3 sie löst einen imaginativen (Wieder-)Vergegenwärti-

gungsprozess aus, wie die durchgängige Verwendung des Präsens betont.

Dementsprechend ist der (thematische) Frame dieser Sequenz zunächst

als – sehnsuchtsvolle – persönliche Erinnerung zu bestimmen, allgemei-

ner dann als Lebenseinstellung in der Relation von Ich und Welt. Der per-

sönliche Bezug auf den Sprecher wird durch die wiederholte Verwendung

des Pronomens der 1. Person (V.3 u. 13 sowie V.27f.) nachdrücklich und

durchgängig herausgestellt. Dieser erinnernde (Rück-)Versetzungs- und

2 Zur Doppelperspektive vgl. grundsätzlich Martel (2004). Sein Ansatz, die Analyse von

vornherein in einen (wie er es nennt) ‚poesiologischen‘ Rahmen zu stellen, scheint mir

die Signifikanz der plötzlichen Schlusswendung zum Dichter-Thema abzuschwächen

und der Prozessstruktur des Gedichtes nicht gerecht zu werden. Die von Valk (2003)

postulierte Grundopposition von Liebe und Tat, die in der Dichtung aufgehoben werde

und dort ihre Dauer erhalte, basiert auf einer sehr forcierten Zuschreibung von Erotik

für den Bedeutungszusammenhang der ersten Strophen. Sie ignoriert zudem den unter-

schiedlichen Rededuktus und den Unterschied in der Position des Ich und seiner Invol-

viertheit in den thematisierten Sachverhalten.

3 Wie Jamme (1988) vorschlägt, kann man in der Anrufung des Windes eine Anspielung

auf das Konzept der Inspiration erblicken – eine Anspielung, so lässt sich hinzufügen,

die den imaginativen Charakter der folgenden Bilder unterstreicht (S. 648).

Page 6

Hölderlin: „Andenken“

103

Imaginationsprozess unterliegt einem spezifischen Ablauf und einer

Tendenz zur Veränderung, die sich isotopisch vor allem in den räumli-

chen und visuellen Komponenten der vermittelten Bilder, also in den Se-

men der dafür verwendeten Wörter manifestiert, nämlich als Bewegung

von oben nach unten sowie als Verschiebung von Dynamik und Aktivität

zu Langsamkeit, Ruhe und harmonischer Balance.4 Besonders klar tritt

eine derartige Entwicklungstendenz in Erscheinung beim Umschlag von

dem (mit dem Nordostwind assoziierten) „feurigen Geist“ und der „gu-

te[n] Fahrt“ (V.3f.) am Anfang zu den von „goldenen Träumen schwe-

re[n]“ „über langsamen Stegen“ ziehenden „einwiegende[n] Lüfte[n]“

(V.22-24) sowie zu dem am Schluss dieser Sequenz ausgesprochenen

Verlangen nach Herbeiführung von Ruhe und süßem „Schlummer“ mit

Hilfe von Weingenuss (vgl. V.25-29).

Dieselbe Bewegung drückt sich subtiler aus im Fallen des Bachs nach

unten in den Strom (V.9f.) verbunden mit dem ruhigen ‚Darüber-Hin-

schauen‘ der Bäume, augenscheinlich ebenfalls nach unten („darüber [...]

hinschauet ein edel Paar / [...]“ – V.10-12), sowie im Neigen des Ulmen-

waldes „über die Mühl“ (V.14f.). In anderer Weise setzt sich diese Ten-

denz fort in den Implikationen von feiertäglicher Geruhsamkeit (V.17:

„an Feiertagen“), von Gedämpftheit (V.19: „auf seidenen Boden“) und

Ausgleich der Gegensätze im Frühlingsäquinoktium („wenn gleich ist

Nacht und Tag“ – V.21), aber auch im Betonen wachsender Dunkelheit

als visuellem Äquivalent von Ruhe und Abschirmung (V.27: „des

dunklen Lichtes voll“, V.29: „Schatten“).

Die sich hier vollziehende Bewegung stellt einen imaginierten Rück-

zug aus Weite, Geschäftigkeit und Aktivität zu Ruhe, Abgeschlossensein,

Schlaf und Vergessen dar als Wandel in der psychischen Einstellung und

als mentalen Veränderungsprozess beim Sprecher. Dass eine Verän-

derung eintritt, zeigt sich besonders prägnant in der Differenz bei gleich-

bleibender Subjektbezogenheit zwischen Anfang und Ende der Sequenz,

nämlich zwischen einerseits den persönlichen Assoziationen von Wind

und Dynamik (V.2-4: „Der liebste unten den Winden / Mir, weil er feu-

rigen Geist / Und gute Fahrt verheißet [...]“) und den Aufforderungen

zum Aufbruch in die Weite (V.5: „Geh aber nun und grüße / [...]“) und

andererseits der abschließenden Äußerung des Wunsches nach Ruhe

(V.25ff.: „Es reiche aber / […] / Damit ich ruhen möge“), dessen Inten-

sität durch die unmittelbare Koppelung von „ich“ als Subjekt und dem

Verb „ruhen“, der einzigen Verwendung des Personalpronomens der

4 Vgl. Martel (2004), S. 387ff.

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Peter Hühn

1. Person im Nominativ, eine besondere Emphase erhält. In dieser Ver-

schiebung vom Wahrnehmen der Umwelt hin zur Wunschvorstellung für

den künftigen Zustand des Sprechers ist die rudimentäre Form eines

Skripts zu sehen, das in der Literatur um 1800 vielfach ausgearbeitet

wurde (‚Weg nach innen‘). Die erste Sequenz setzt somit ein mit dem

imaginativen Gang in die Ferne, nach Außen, um dann das Dämpfen und

Auslöschen dieser Bilder und den Rückzug, die Regression ins Ich zu

vollziehen und zum Abschluss zu bringen.

Die Kohärenz dieser Sequenz wird durch interne – mit der Adversativ-

partikel „aber“ markierte – Steigerungsschritte gegliedert und in ihrer Be-

wegungsrichtung akzentuiert. Mit „aber“ wird jeweils (insgesamt vier-

mal) eine vorher beschriebene Tendenz mit einem anderen, gesteigerten

Bild kontrastiert und graduell übertroffen – in Richtung auf größere Ruhe

und stärkere Abgeschlossenheit. Dieser Kontrast nimmt folgende Formen

der Verschiebung an: in Vers 5 von der dynamischen Ausfahrt über das

weite Meer zu dem imaginativen Gang zu Fluss und Stadt mit (begrenzen-

dem) Ufer und (umfriedeten) Gärten, in Vers 10 vom heftigen Fall des

Baches zum stillen Schauen der Bäume, in Vers 16 von der Neigebewe-

gung einer Vielzahl von Bäumen zum unmerklich-ruhigen fruchttragen-

den Wachstum eines Einzelbaums5 und von der (implizierten) Arbeits-

aktivität einer Mühle zum (abgeschirmten, geschützten) Bezirk eines Ho-

fes und in Vers 25 von diesen impliziten Bildern der Ruhe und Dämpfung

zu der expliziten Artikulation der Sehnsucht nach Schlaf und Auslö-

schung.

Die narrative Qualität dieser ersten Sequenz liegt somit nicht auf der

Ebene des Geschehens, sondern in der Verknüpfung der subjektbezo-

genen Wahrnehmung der Außenwelt und der Wunschvorstellungen zum

Zustand des Sprechers. Dadurch entsteht der Eindruck einer Bewusst-

seinsveränderung im Sprecher: die regressive Veränderung wird quasi-

dramatisch inszeniert und in der Aneinanderreihung sich qualitativ wan-

delnder Erinnerungsbilder und Wunschvorstellungen vollzogen.

5 Die Bedeutung des Feigenbaums ist in diesem Sinne weiter spezifizierbar, wenn man

hier eine Anspielung auf seine Symbolfunktion im Alten Testament für das erfüllte

glückselige Leben im Reich Gottes sieht (1 Kön 4, 5; Mi 4, 4; Sach 3, 10; Joel 2, 21f.)

– übrigens stets in Verbindung mit dem Weinstock, siehe Martel (2004), S. 388. Dar-

über hinaus scheint der Feigenbaum für Hölderlin mit Dionysos assoziiert zu sein – vgl.

Gaier (1989), S. 180f. – und antizipiert somit den diese Sequenz abschließenden

Verweis auf den Becher Wein (vgl. V.27).

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Hölderlin: „Andenken“

105

3. Die zweite Sequenz: Aufbruch in die Welt

Mit einer abrupten Abkehr von der Tendenz zum Rückzug und zur Kon-

zentration auf das eigene Ich und zu dessen schließlicher Auslöschung als

Ergebnis dieser ersten Sequenz wird dann innerhalb der dritten Strophe

(also konträr zum formalen Aufbau) unvermittelt eine genau gleichlange

zweite Sequenz (V.30-58) eingeführt, die eine gegenläufige Bewegung

hin zu Progress, Aufbruch in die Weite, Öffnung nach Außen und

Wachheit umfasst. Der Gegensatz der beiden Sequenzen wird durch ver-

schiedene direkte Bezugnahmen und durch Umkehrung der wieder aufge-

griffenen Motive zusätzlich betont. Endet die erste Sequenz im Verlangen

nach Auslöschung des Bewusstseins im Schlaf, so setzt die zweite ein mit

der ausdrücklichen Abwertung des Wunsches nach Rückzug aus ‚der

Welt‘ und der menschlichen Gemeinschaft auf das eigene Ich, „seellos

von sterblichen / Gedanken zu seyn“ (V.31f.),6 und fährt mit der positiven

Bestimmung der Alternative fort: „Doch gut / Ist ein Gespräch und zu

sagen / Des Herzens Meinung, zu hören viel / Von Tagen der Lieb, / Und

Thaten, welche geschehen“ (V.32-36). Die Richtung kehrt sich um: Aus-

druck und Austausch (statt Regression und Vergessen), Wahrnehmung

der Welt in der Vielheit ihres Geschehens.

Die Gegensätzlichkeit der beiden Sequenzen zeigt sich vornehmlich in

dem Kontrast zwischen der Ichbezogenheit (dem Rückzug auf das Ich)

der ersten und dem Absehen vom Ich in der zweiten, zwischen Regress

und Progress, zwischen Individualität und Isolation auf der einen Seite

und Gemeinschaftlichkeit und Kommunikation auf der anderen:7 Die Per-

spektive richtet sich jetzt auf die Welt außerhalb der Selbstwahrnehmung

des Ich. Zugleich impliziert dieser Kontrast auch, dass der Sprecher mit

der ersten Sequenz sich selbst identifiziert, die zweite jedoch prononciert

mit anderen Personen verbindet – als Beispiele werden „die Freunde“8,

6 Diese Wendung ist sehr unterschiedlich und tiefsinnig gedeutet worden; vgl. z.B. den

Überblick bei Jamme (1988), S. 650; siehe auch Reuß (1990), S. 240ff. Aber durch die

direkt antithetische Position zu dem unmittelbar zuvor formulierten Ziel der ersten Se-

quenz, dem Verlangen nach Vergessen, wird primär die Bedeutung der Bewusst- und

Fühllosigkeit, der Auslöschung von Erinnerungen und Gedanken an das Vergängliche

(das „Sterbliche“) nahegelegt. Der Ausdruck „seellos“ charakterisiert ein solches Ver-

langen sogleich als negativ. In dieser Abwertung schwingt die schwäbische Bedeutung

des Wortes (im Sinne von „ruchlos“) mit, auf die Binder (1986), hinweist (S. 16).

7 Vgl. grundsätzlich Martel (2004), der allerdings den Analogien beider Einstellungen

gegenüber den Differenzen zu viel Gewicht gibt (S. 386ff.).

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Peter Hühn

„Bellarmin mit dem Gefährten“ (V.37f.)9 genannt, auf die anschließend

offenbar mit „sie“ (V.41) Bezug genommen wird und die später mit den

„Männer[n]“ (V.50) assoziiert werden. Während das Ich in der ersten Se-

quenz anwesend ist und das Geschehen ausschließlich auf sich bezieht,

sind die Bezugspersonen der zweiten Sequenz bezeichnenderweise

abwesend, das heißt vom Sprecher entfernt – sie sind in die Welt (vgl.

V.41ff.), zum Beispiel nach Indien (vgl. V.49ff.), gegangen, und zwar

schon in der Vergangenheit, so dass die Distanz zum Sprecher (und zu

seiner Haltung in der ersten Sequenz) sich sowohl auf der räumlichen als

auch zeitlichen Ebene manifestiert.

Die Bewegung nach außen wird in der vierten und fünften Strophe

durch Wiederaufnahme des Meeres-Motivs aus der ersten Sequenz weiter

profiliert. Löst sich der Sprecher in der ersten Sequenz schließlich vom

Nordostwind ab, der sich vom Festland zum Meer hin bewegt, und hält in

Bordeaux und an der Garonne inne, so geht die Bewegung der zweiten

Sequenz nun explizit und entschieden in die Weite über die (Land-)

„Spitze“ (V.51) hinaus, bei der sich Garonne und Dordogne zur meerbrei-

ten Gironde vereinigen und in den Ozean münden. Das prononciert wie-

derholte Ortsadverb „dort“ im Zusammenhang mit Bordeaux macht die-

sen Gegensatz der räumlichen Orientierung (Innehalten vs. Aufbruch)

besonders sinnfällig (V.8 vs. V.51). Während die Bewegung der ersten

Sequenz durch Konzentration, Reduktion, Kontraktion und Rückzug cha-

rakterisiert ist, verläuft die Linie in der zweiten nicht zurück an die Quelle

(diese scheint vielmehr mit den Erfahrungen von Kontraktion und Kon-

zentration verbunden zu sein),10 sondern entgegengesetzt auf das Meer

hinaus, in das die Flüsse münden: Gerade das Meer ist mit Reichtum und

Vielfalt (V.40f.) assoziiert (und nicht die Quelle), daher „die Scheue“

8 Mit den Freunden mögen die des Sprechers gemeint sein, aber der Bezug auf ihn wird

gerade gekappt − durch das fehlende Possessivpronomen und durch ihre Entfernung.

9 Dies ist eine deutliche Anspielung auf Hölderlins Roman Hyperion oder der Eremit in

Griechenland (1797/99). Mit diesem Bezug sowie mit der Nennung Indiens als dem

Reiseziel der Männer erhält der Gang nach Außen und in die Welt eine implizit poli-

tische Dimension, im Sinne des Freiheitskampfes (zu den politischen Anspielungen im

Zusammenhang mit Indien siehe unten S. 107); vgl. dazu Gaier (1989), S. 188ff.

10 Auch dieser Begriff ist sehr unterschiedlich interpretiert worden; z.B. sieht Reuß (1990)

keinen Gegensatz zwischen Quelle und Meer, sondern eine paradoxale Einheit

(S. 264ff.). Die Syntax signalisiert jedoch einen Kontrast zweier Verhaltensweisen (‚an

die Quelle zu gehen‘ vs. ‚auf das Meer hinauszufahren‘) und nennt die Begründung für

die Bevorzugung der zweiten Alternative (Reichtum, sinnliche Fülle ist allererst im

Meer zu finden); vgl. hierzu Henrich (1986), S. 100ff.; auch Gaier (1989), S. 180f.

Page 10

Hölderlin: „Andenken“

107

(V.39), die mangelnde Bereitschaft, an die Quelle11 (zurück) zu gehen.

Dieser Reichtum, der durch ‚Aktion‘ zu erlangen ist, wird im Folgenden

(V.41ff.) beispielhaft konkretisiert – als Schönheit der Erde und als

„geflügelter“ (also dynamischer, belebender) Krieg (V.44). Das aktive

Leben ist aber auch mit Entbehrungen und Gefahren verbunden. Diese

Ambivalenz wird beispielhaft im Verweis auf die „Indier“ (V.49) ange-

sprochen: Zum einen galt Indien (damit wäre gleichermaßen Ost- wie

Westindien gemeint) allgemein als legendäres Land reicher Schätze, zum

anderen lässt sich in Indien (als Westindien) eine spezielle Anspielung

auf Amerika und seinen Freiheitskampf sehen (zu dessen Unterstützung

der Marquis de Lafayette 1776 von Bordeaux aus nach Südwesten, also in

der Richtung des Nordostwindes, aufgebrochen war).12 Die mit der Öff-

nung in die Welt verbundene Aktivität wird dann – wiederum im kontras-

tierenden Rückgriff auf ein Motiv der ersten Sequenz, nämlich die „Feier-

tage der Stadt“ (V.47 vs. V.17) − eigens hervorgehoben: Für diese Le-

bensorientierung gibt es keine Feiertage als Zeit der festlichen Muße und

des Ausruhens vom Handeln. Einen Kontrast zur Reife und ruhigen Erfül-

lung markiert auch der „entlaubte Mast“ (V.46) – im Gegensatz zu den

blättertragenden Bäumen der ersten Sequenz. Die Seefahrer werden zu-

dem mit Malern verglichen (vgl. V.42), wobei als ‚tertium comparationis‘

das Sammeln, Einbringen und Festhalten der konkreten Schönheiten der

Welt benannt und die Sinnlichkeit solcher Erfahrungen unterstrichen wird

(vgl. V.42ff.). Gerade mit Bezug auf die Motivik der Seefahrt trägt diese

Lebenseinstellung Züge des Heroischen, im Gegensatz zur Idyllik, die den

in der ersten Sequenz beschriebenen Schauplatz charakterisiert.

Die die Sequenz abschließende erste gnomische Aussage (V.56-58) −

vor dem letzten Vers! − stellt eine Art generalisierender Zusammen-

fassung über das der zweiten Sequenz zugrundeliegende Prinzip dar. Zum

Einen wird auf die See, die Welt außerhalb des Ich, in ihrer umfassenden

Ambivalenz des Gebens und Nehmens, also in ihrer riskanten, nicht kon-

trollierbaren Eigendynamik, verwiesen, und zwar mit Bezug auf das

‚kollektive‘ Gedächtnis, das gedankliche Festhalten, das nicht in der

11 Der Gang zur Quelle und die Fahrt aufs Meer sind offenbar als gegensätzliche Lebens-

einstellungen etwa im Sinne von ‚vita contemplativa‘ und ‚vita actica‘ zu verstehen.

Aber die Quelle dient hier vor allem als Kontrastbegriff zum Meer und nicht der

Charakterisierung der Lebensform des Sprechers − denn dessen Regress und Wunsch

nach Auslöschung ist keineswegs die Entscheidung für die Kontemplation.

12 Vgl. Gaier (1989), S. 178f. u. 189ff. In dem Verweis auf die Indier werden Assozia-

tionen von Kolumbus und Lafayette, von Reichtum und Freiheit miteinander verknüpft.

Page 11

108

Peter Hühn

Macht des Einzelnen liegt – im Gegensatz zur ersten Sequenz, wo der

Sprecher durch Imperative und konstative Aussagen die Erinnerung zu

steuern vermochte. Einen eklatanten Kontrast zur ersten Sequenz stellt

ebenfalls die folgende Wendung her: „die Lieb auch heftet fleißig die

Augen“ (V.58). Im Gegensatz zum ersehnten Schlummer (vgl. V.29), bei

dem die Augen naturgemäß geschlossen sind, wird jetzt die intensive

(„fleißig[e]“) Wachheit und Aufmerksamkeit der Sinne auf das Andere,

auf die außerhalb des Bewußtseins existente Welt, hervorgehoben. Die

„Lieb’“ öffnet das Ich für das Andere, setzt ‚Ich‘ und ‚Welt‘ miteinander

in Beziehung.13

In zwei Passagen auch dieser zweiten Sequenz markiert die Adversa-

tivpartikel „aber“ wiederum den Steigerungsprozess innerhalb des Ab-

laufs an besonders signifikanten Stellen und verdeutlicht so die Kohärenz.

In Vers 49 wird die Frage nach dem Verbleib der Freunde (V.37ff.) be-

antwortet: Wie der Strom sich in die Wasserfülle des Meeres ergießt, so

sind die Freunde hinaus ‚in die Welt‘ aufgebrochen. In Vers 56 wird aus

den vorausgegangenen konkreten Beispielen der Bewegung nach Außen

das abstrakte Fazit gezogen: Für das Erinnern, das Bewahren von ‚Anden-

ken‘ an die aktive Existenz in der Welt, lässt sich keine sichere Prognose

stellen.

Allgemeiner Frame der zweiten Sequenz ist – ähnlich wie bei der

ersten – das Thema der Lebenseinstellung hinsichtlich des Verhältnisses

von Ich und Welt, und als abstraktes Verlaufsmuster, als rudimentäres

Skript läßt sich hier der Prozess der Öffnung gegenüber der Welt, des

Sammelns von Erfahrungen jenseits des eigenen Ich benennen, jedoch

verbunden mit dem Verlangen nach Festhalten und Bewahren. In dieser

Lebenseinstellung begibt sich das Ich in die Welt, um sie sich anzueignen

und so seine Existenz zu erweitern. Das dafür notwendige bewahrende

„Gedächtniß“, das Dauer verleihende ‚Andenken‘, ist jedoch ein prekärer

Vorgang, weil es nicht der Kontrolle des Einzelnen unterliegt, sondern

dem Willen und der Macht der „See“‚ der sich entziehenden oder dar-

bietenden Welt, dem Leben.

Der narrative Status der zweiten Sequenz ist anders angelegt als der

der ersten. Vollzieht sich dort die narrative Veränderung auf der Darbie-

tungsebene, also in der Bewusstseinsdimension, als ein Einstellungs-

wandel des Sprechers, so hier auf der Geschehensebene als ein Handeln

anderer Figuren, der Freunde des Sprechers. Während ferner die erste Se-

13 Hierin zeigt sich eine Ähnlichkeit mit den vorher genannten Malern als ‚Augen-

menschen‘.

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Hölderlin: „Andenken“

109

quenz den narrativen Prozess weitgehend kontinuierlich in den imagi-

nierten Bildern präsentiert, koppelt die zweite nicht-narrative, gnomische

Passagen (V.30-32, 38-41 u. 56-58) mit kurzen, komprimierenden narra-

tiven Abschnitten (dem gesprächsweisen Austausch von Meinungen und

Erfahrungen in den Versen 33 bis 36, der Aktivität der Seefahrer und Ma-

ler im Sammeln von Erfahrungen und Bildern in der Welt in den Versen

41 bis 48, dem Aufbruch der „Männer“ zur Reise von Bordeaux nach In-

dien in den Versen 49 bis 56).

4. Die Schlusszeile: ereignishafter Umbruch

in die Dichtungsthematik

Das Verhältnis von Ich und Welt ist somit als genereller Frame beiden

Sequenzen gemeinsam, aber für das Gestalten dieser Relation werden

polar gegensätzliche Skripts gewählt: im (narrativen) Ausarbeiten des Ich-

Bezugs bzw. des Welt-Bezugs, in der Sehnsucht nach Abschließung ge-

genüber dem Verlangen nach Öffnung, in der Konzentration auf sich

selbst gegenüber der Kommunikation und Kooperation in der Gemein-

schaft, im Streben nach Ruhe und Auslöschen des Bewusstseins gegen-

über dem Streben nach Aktivität und Erfahrungserweiterung. Beide Se-

quenzen sind zusätzlich in einen übergreifenden Frame eingefügt: Sie ver-

bindet das Thema der Erinnerung – genauer des Bewahrens im Gedächt-

nis. Diese Konstellation wird zum Einen mit dem Titel „Andenken“ auf-

gerufen, zum Andern ist sie gleichermaßen in den beiden Sequenzen the-

matisiert. Während die erste Sequenz die Erinnerung (als bewusst ge-

schaffene Imagination im performativen Sprechakt) inszeniert, das heißt

in ihrer Entstehung und in ihrem Ablauf konkret vorführt, spricht die

zweite Sequenz von Erinnerung begrifflich abstrakt und zusammenfas-

send: „zu hören viel / Von Tagen der Lieb, / Und Thaten, welche ge-

schehen“ (V.34-36), „Sie [die Freunde / Schiffer] / Wie Mahler, bringen

zusammen / Das Schöne der Erd’ [...]“ (V.41ff.) und das „Gedächtniß“,

das die See nimmt und gibt (V.56f.). Gemeinsam ist beiden Sequenzen in

dieser Hinsicht, dass die Erinnerung nicht dauerhaft bewahrt werden

kann. Während die erste Sequenz am Ende mit der Bewusstseinsaufgabe

(im Schlaf) auch das Erinnerte auslöscht (vgl. V.28f.), endet die zweite

Sequenz mit der Aussage, dass die See das Gedächtnis sowohl gebe als

auch nehme (vgl. V.56-58). ‚Nehmen‘ erscheint hier zwar weniger defini-

tiv als der Regress, der in der ersten Sequenz gewünscht wird (zumal das

Page 13

110

Peter Hühn

Geben und nicht das Nehmen die zweigliedrige Wendung abschließt),

aber dennoch ist das Unsichere der erinnernden Bewahrung betont.

Hiergegen wird nun unvermutet in der Schlusszeile des Gedichts das

Vertrauen in das bleibende Bewahren von Erfahrungen des Lebens durch

die Dichter gestellt: „Was bleibet aber, stiften die Dichter“ (V.59). Diese

Behauptung ist wie die gnomische Rede in Vers 56 durch die Adversativ-

partikel „aber“ abgesetzt, jedoch nicht im Sinne der Steigerung wie zuvor,

sondern des klaren Gegensatzes. Sie bildet den Kontrapunkt zu den Ten-

denzen in beiden Sequenzen, indem sie die bewusstseinsmäßige Entwick-

lungslinie der ersten Sequenz (das Auflösen von Erinnerung) und die sich

an Aktionen anschließende Ungewissheit für das Erinnern der „Thaten“

(V.36) auf der übergeordneten Ebene negiert – im Verweis auf die Er-

innerungskompetenz „der Dichter“. Indem hierin ein Bruch der in beiden

Sequenzen am Schluss aufgerufenen Erwartung liegt, handelt es sich um

ein Ereignis.

Schärfer formuliert: Da beide Sequenzen abgeschlossen schienen und

so keine Fortsetzung zu erwarten war, wirkt die Replik der antithetischen

Schlusszeile umso überraschender. Das „Stiften“ von Dauer durch Dich-

tung (oder genauer: die Behauptung eines derartigen Vermögens) ist er-

eignishaft als überraschende ‚Erweiterung‘ (‚Fortsetzung‘) der beiden ge-

genläufigen, aber in den Aussagen zum möglichen Verlust von ‚Anden-

ken‘ übereinstimmenden Sequenzen. Der Grad der Ereignishaftigkeit wird

noch durch den Umstand weiter verstärkt, dass ‚Dichter‘ vorher nicht

erwähnt worden waren und mit ihnen also ein neues Element – auch in

Absetzung von den im Vergleich genannten anderen Künstlern, den Ma-

lern (vgl. V.42) – unvorbereitet eingeführt wird.14

Zuordnung und Status dieses Ereignisses sind komplex und mehr-

schichtig. Auf der einen Seite schließt die Behauptung gewissermaßen in-

sofern an die zweite Sequenz an, als sie den Dichtern das Ermöglichen

von Dauer in der Welt – im Gegensatz zur wechselvollen Existenz der

Seefahrer (und der See) – zuschreibt. In diesem Sinne liegt ein Gesche-

hensereignis vor. Auf der anderen Seite setzt die Schlusszeile semantisch

14 Jamme (1988) konstruiert einen wesentlichen Zusammenhang aller drei Schlusssätze

(V.56-59) als eine dreifache Entfaltung des Andenkens und übersieht damit die inter-

nen Differenzen, die das Gedicht durch den oben beschriebenen Perspektivwechsel in

der Konstellation Ich-Welt in den beiden Sequenzen strukturieren (S. 652). Auch Hen-

rich (1986) betont den grundsätzlichen Zusammenhang der Schlusssätze als Formu-

lierung der Ganzheit des bewussten Lebens und Entfaltung des modernen Bewusstseins

(z.B. S. 118f., 135 u. 182).

Page 14

Hölderlin: „Andenken“

111

nicht den Darstellungsgang der zweiten Sequenz fort, sondern fügt unver-

mittelt ein neues, andersartiges Element an, was einen Anschluss damit

nicht auf der Geschehens-, sondern auf der Darbietungsebene konstituiert.

So betrachtet handelt es sich um ein Darbietungsereignis, denn die Dau-

erhaftigkeit wird nicht erzählt, sondern durch die gnomische Formulie-

rung in der Komposition des Gedichtes postuliert und durch die Existenz

des Textes als Gedicht realisiert. Ein Darbietungsereignis konstituiert die

Schlusszeile demgemäß in der Hinsicht, dass sich ihre Aussage auch auf

das vorliegende Gedicht und die Aktivität des Autors beziehen läßt. Für

das Gedicht „Andenken“ wird seine abschließende Behauptung durch sei-

ne bloße Existenz eingelöst:15 Sowohl die Vergänglichkeit der Erinne-

rungsprozesse der ersten als auch die prekären Erfahrungsprozesse der

zweiten Sequenz werden durch diesen Text dauerhaft festgehalten. Ein

derartiger Rückbezug der innertextlichen Aussage auf die Textgestalt im

Sinne eines Darbietungsereignisses ist – in unterschiedlichen Ausprä-

gungsformen – typisch für poetologische Gedichte, für Gedichte, die den

Dichtungsvorgang thematisieren.16

katautò

{ febbraio 7, 2010 @ 3:20 pm } · { ontology }
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“abstraction.

(

Principle (Material Principle) of “pure possibility” (

“united” in the Unmoved Mover since the Unmoved Mover seen “in its entirety is generalization

and undeveloped.

although the “purest” is inseparable from the whole series.

Whereas our modern post-Lockean philosophical understanding is concerned with the

contrast between “thing” and “mere abstraction,

not caught in this opposition between “thing” and “abstraction” because his focus is not on the

ontic but on the event of the Being-of-beings. The Being-of-beings for Heidegger is an echo of

the ontological moment in Aristotle that stresses matter (

condition for any and all experience in the world. Heidegger’s shift of focus away from the

subject-object split, away from consciousness “in” or “next to” a world, and away from inner

spirit and external extension, is accomplished precisely by a turn to the concealed dynamic of

possibility in every and all actual Being-in-the-world. The shift of focus to possibility in all

actuality enables a retrieval of truth as

from the perspective of possibility, time or history for Heidegger is an ecstatic horizon of past,

future, present. Hence, possibility, inseparable from the actual, is radically historical since we

already are the possibilities that we are yet to become, and we cannot become without a world.

52” In the case of the Form-series, the top of the series is # or “pure actuality” ).53 In the case of the Material-series, the top of the series is the - or -
)!$% This fundamental dualism55 is56” Hence, in the case of both series the “purest” instantiation is at the “top”57” what is radical about Heidegger is that he is) as possibility to be the necessary
(
” )$&as un-covering. Furthermore,———————————

52. See Happ,

53. See Happ,

54. See Happ,

können (und müssen) … diese Proportionen [Hyle] ist ‘der Möglichkeit nach’ (

Wirklichkeit nach’ ist (

Möglichkeit) :

55. See Happ,

56. Happy,

Substanz bzw. Sein überhaupt Allgemeinheit und Unentfaltenheit. Dieses Ineinander von Bestimmtheit und

Unbestimmtheit finden wir beim platonischen

bezeichnend für jedes ideale Sein, für welches das

57. See Happ,

650-651) and is only concerned with “empty” concepts.

58. The etymological analysis of truth as “un-covering” is not by any means unique to Heidegger. See Otto

Willmann,

Scientia Verlag, 1973 <1894>), 188-189.

Hyle, 349-350.Hyle, 26, 57-58, 197, 287, 294, 301, 306, 391-392, 431, 790.Hyle, 197, 287, 710, 639-640, 645-646, 687, 778, 790. See especially ibid., 790: “Wir
) das, was die Form ‘der ’)] sämtlich auf eine Ur-Proportion gründen: ‘… wie (
(= reine (
(= reine Wirklichkeit)’.”Hyle, 625, n. 225; 721; 723, n. 213, 737, 761.Hyle, 646: “Der Beweger ist als reine Aktualität vollbestimmt, zugleich als Prototyp vonwieder, danach z.B. noch deutlicher beim Plotins; es ist dies
” ‘ [generalization is prior] gilt.”Hyle, 321. The notion of mere abstraction comes from Locke (See Happ, Hyle, 586, 588,Geschichte des Idealismus. Band 1. Vorgeschichte und Geschichte des antiken Idealismus (Aalen:

any

{ febbraio 6, 2010 @ 9:18 pm } · { ikona }
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ft

{ febbraio 6, 2010 @ 8:47 pm } · { ontology }
{ } · { Lascia un commento }

Le evoluzioni filosofiche di una sfera plasticosa Un amaro dribbling «Il pallone è talmente mobile che ci si stupisce quasi che dalla sua continua danza possa nascere un gioco come quello del calcio che è sìmovimento ma anche ordine, perfezione, limite». Un richiamo all’antico Panta rei di greca memoria Tutto è simbolo, tutto è analogia, diceva Pessoa; e naturalmente anche il calcio è simbolo, è analogia. Ma non tanto della vita (senz’altro anche della vita, ma è fin troppo ovvio), quanto dei tempi che viviamo, qualunque sia il tempo vissuto. Vale infatti il multiforme principio «chi si somiglia si piglia», uno dei più incontrovertibilmente veri del mondo. E non è bello lo sport di questi tempi, tempi di “senzabaggio”. Dobbiamo accontentarci di campionati che nascono morti, di soldi che sommergono la competizione, di campioni indaffarati a cercare nuovi abbigliamenti e capigliature sempre più improbabili. Non ci rimane che consolarci con il ricordo e con la speranza, cioè con le due facce della stessa medaglia dentro la quale adesso siamo semplicemente schiacciati, come soffocati. Ripensiamo ai tempi passati, lontani, lontanissimi o quasi vicini: tutto sommato Baggio è appena due minuti che ha smesso, eppure sembra passato un secolo. Oppure confidiamo nel futuro e nel frattempo filosofeggiamo. Forse è questa la ragione per la quale il calcio e lo sport appaiono ora sempre più presenti nella letteratura, italiana e straniera, perché ogni vuoto ha da essere colmato: non sono più solo Cela o Soriano e Galeano, adesso leggiamo bellissime pagine anche da Vladimir Dimitrievic a Javier Marìas. Addirittura il grande Carlo Sini ha scritto di calcio e filosofia, dicendo: “C’è qualcosa di più teoretico, cioè di più filosofico, del gioco del calcio? Riflettete. È un gioco di squadra e, come tutti i giochi di squadra, esige una politica intersoggettiva: bisogna assegnare i compiti e i ruoli secondo giustizia, come diceva Platone; cioè tenendo conto delle disposizioni naturali di ogni giocatore e poi della sua buona volontà di apprendere e di collaborare; e ci vuole un leader, un capitanofilosofo che metta la sua intelligenza ed esperienza al servizio dell’interesse collettivo, cioè della vittoria finale. Ma per far questo occorre una straordinaria capacità di visione, un peculiare theorein che certo si affina col tempo, ma che è in gran parte una virtù innata, qualcosa che non si impara e che è piuttosto un dono divino o più che naturale. Si tratta della mai abbastanza lodata capacità di vedere il gioco”. Ora su calcio e filosofia compare anche questo bel libro di Giancristiano Desiderio (“Platone e il calcio”, Limina, 2005, pp. 106, euro 13,50), trentottenne vicedirettore del quotidiano L’indipendente, già autore di molti altri libri anche su altri temi della vita e della politica. Il libro non è riducibile ad unum, in quanto ricco “saggio sul pallone e la condizione umana” (questo è il sottotitolo): spazia dall’applicazione delle teorie platoniche a quelle di Heidegger, dalla descrizione dell’ineffabile (la grazia di una finta di Garrincha o dell’incedere di Beckenbauer) ad aneddoti letterari (Camus giocava a calcio, era portiere; Heidegger andava matto per Beckenbauer). E soprattutto contiene il riconoscimento di molte verità, come quella d’apertura: “il gioco del calcio è il proprio tempo appreso con i piedi o preso a calci … se i tempi sono brutti, il calcio sarà brutto, se i tempi sono belli, si giocherà un bel calcio … il calcio siamo noi”. O come quest’altra: è sempre il gioco il vero protagonista in campo, anche quando è giocato dai più grandi giocatori, anche quando a fare gol sono Di Stefano, o Puskas, o Eusebio, o Pelè, o Maradona o Van Basten. Fra gioco e giocatori esiste lo stesso rapporto che eterna l’artista attraverso l’opera d’arte: l’opera d’arte trascende l’artista – il quale infatti non è tenuto neppure a spiegarla, anzi forse neppure sa o saprebbe spiegarla, e non importa, perché ciò che doveva essere detto è già detto lì, e ciascuno di noi vi presterà l’ascolto che vorrà, o che potrà – e così il gioco trascende i giocatori, nel senso che ciò che conta è il gol, il dribbling, l’assist, non chi li fa. O meglio, chi li fa è grande proprio in quanto ha lasciato che fossero. E’ stato forse una persona, un mezzo, un tramite per far accadere il bello, l’imponderabile, la giocata fantasiosa o il colpo d’ala che lasciano invariabilmente a boca aperta. Per spiegare l’una o l’altra o l’altra ancora di queste verità, Desiderio prende le mosse da domande maieutiche, come Socrate; e poi attinge alla dialettica di Hegel (la verità secondo cui il gioco del calcio è il proprio tempo appreso con i piedi è la trasposizione della massima secondo cui la filosofia è il proprio tempo appreso con il pensiero) o alla metodologia di Gadamer (cui appartiene l’intuizione che il soggetto del gioco è il gioco stesso, che si produce attraverso i giocatori). Ma a questo punto verrebbe da chiedere: la tesi di questo libro, insomma, dov’è? Ma è proprio detto poi che ogni libro debba avere per forza una tesi? No, non è necessario, naturalmente. I libri sul calcio sono belli anche così e, quando sono belli, sono belli anche per questo, anche senza una tesi; sono come una palla che rotola e va di qua e di là e tocca e suscita emozioni e ricordi e riflessioni e poi prosegue ancora. Panta rei, diceva Eraclito e dice infatti anche Desiderio: “il pallone è talmente mobile che ci si stupisce quasi che dalla sua continua danza possa nascere un gioco come quello del calcio che è sì movimento, ma anche ordine, perfezione, limite” e nella palla che scorre non c’è solo la continua mobilità delle cose “ma anche un interno logos che le ordina attraverso il contrasto”. La tesi di Desiderio non è allora che in questa volontà di esprimere il proprio punto di vista, in questo tentativo riuscito di dire l’ineffabile bellezza del calcio attraverso l’astrazione del pensiero, applicata sì a giocatori in carne e ossa ma molto, molto più in alto dell’ora e del qui che stiamo attraversando. di Niccolò Nisivoccia La filosofia e il calcio hanno qualcosa in comune: Platone. Si può fare filosofia parlando di calcio e, d’altra parte, il gioco del calcio si fa ben comprendere solo dalla filosofia. Martin Heidegger, che da ragazzo giocò nel ruolo di ala sinistra, diceva di Franz Beckenbauer: «è un giocatore geniale». Il giudizio del mago di Messkirk dipende dalla sua gioventù calcistica, ma anche dalla sua ontologia nella quale se troviamo la questione dell’essere possiamo ritrovare anche la questione dell’essere del calcio. Platone e il calcio gioca con la dialettica dell’essere del calcio e dell’essere della filosofia fino a trasformare la congiunzione in copula e giungere alla conclusione che Platone è il calcio. Il gol di Pelé all’Italia nella finale mondiale del 1970 non è solo un gol ma l’apparire di un’idea platonica. Il dribbling di Garrincha e la punizione di Platini possono essere pensati come modelli ontologici. E come l’inventiva di Maradona si può capire con la “logica poetica” di Giambattista Vico, così la visione di gioco del “divino Falcao” si intende al meglio con la visione dell’essere del “divino Platone”. Non bisogna stupirsi dell’affinità tra il calcio e la filosofia. Epitteto nelle Diatribe ci dice che il primo a giocare bene a palla era, guarda caso, Socrate, e il suo pallone era la vita. La condizione del giocatore è come quella del filosofo, cioè di Eros: non possiede la sapienza calcistica, ma la ama e la ricerca. E, come dice l’Apologia, la vita senza ricerche non vale la pena di essere vissuta. Giancristiano Desiderio (Pompei 1968) È vicedirettore de “L’indipendente”. Collabora con il settimanale “Corriere della Sera Magazine”. Nel 2003 ha pubblicato Morte (senza nostalgia) dell’Intellettuale e Le uova e la frittata. Filosofia e libertà in Benedetto Croce, Hannah Arendt, Isaiah Berlin. Vive tra Roma e Sant’Agata dei Goti.

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Platone Teeteto

26

TEETETO: Anche questo.

SOCRATE: E chi opina una cosa non opina una cosa che è?

TEETETO: Lo ammetto.

SOCRATE: E chi opina una cosa che non è, non opina nulla.

TEETETO: No, non pare.

SOCRATE: Ma veramente chi nulla opina, non opina affatto.

TEETETO: è chiaro, come pare.

SOCRATE: Non è dunque possibile opinare su ciò che non è, né su cose che sono, né la stessa cosa di per se stessa.

TEETETO: No pare proprio.

SOCRATE: Opinare il falso è qualcosa d’altro, rispetto a opinare ciò che non è?

TEETETO: Qualcosa d’altro, pare.

SOCRATE: Dunque, né in questo modo, né come conducevamo l’indagine poco fa, è in noi falsa opinione.

TEETETO: No, non c’è proprio.

SOCRATE: Ma sorge dunque, in questo, quel che denominiamo falsa opinione?

TEETETO: E come?

SOCRATE: Diciamo che è falsa opinione una sorta di parere su un’altra cosa, come quando uno sostiene che una

cosa di quelle che sono è un’altra cosa ancora tra quelle che sono, scambiandole nel pensiero. Infatti, in tal maniera,

opina sempre una cosa che è, una al posto di un’altra, e sbagliando l’oggetto di quel che ricercava, si potrebbe dire

giustamente che opina il falso.

TEETETO: Mi pare che ora tu parli nella maniera più esatta possibile: quando uno infatti opina il brutto invece del

bello, e il bello invece del brutto, allora si può dire veramente che opina il falso.

SOCRATE: è chiaro, Teeteto, che mi tieni in un conto relativo, e non hai paura. (68) TEETETO: Per qual ragione in

particolare?

SOCRATE: Io non ti sembro, credo, uno da attaccarmi a questo «veramente falso» chiedendoti se è possibile che

una cosa veloce abbia origine lentamente, o una leggera pesantemente, o qualunque altro contrario non secondo la sua

natura, ma secondo quella del suo contrario, contrariamente a se stessa.(69) Ma lascio perdere questo perché tu non

abbia a scoraggiarti invano. Ti appaga, come dici, che opinare il falso è come opinare altra cosa?

TEETETO: Sì .

SOCRATE: Dunque secondo la tua opinione è possibile porsi in mente una cosa come un’altra e non come quella

che è.

TEETETO: è possibile certo.

SOCRATE: E dunque quando il pensiero compie questa operazione, non è necessario anche che pensi ad ambedue

le cose o a una delle due?

TEETETO: è necessario, sì ; o insieme o in parte.

SOCRATE: Molto bene. Ma chiami tu pensare quello che dico io?

TEETETO: Cosa dici tu?

SOCRATE: è un ragionamento che l’anima compie con se stessa intorno a ciò che prende in esame. Io cerco di

renderti chiara la cosa come uno che non sa. Infatti questo a me appare l’anima quando pensa e nessun’altra cosa se non

dialogare con se stessa, interrogandosi e rispondendosi, facendo affermazioni e anche il loro contrario. E quando essa

fissa un concetto sia alquanto lentamente, sia alquanto velocemente, come facendo un salto e ormai afferma una cosa e

non è più in dubbio, noi stabiliamo che questa è la sua opinione. Tanto che io dico che l’opinare è un discutere e

l’opinione è un ragionamento, non verso un altro e con la voce, ma in silenzio a se stesso. E tu che ne pensi?

TEETETO: Anch’io in questo modo.

SOCRATE: Dunque quando uno opina una cosa invece di un’altra, come pare, afferma a se stesso che una cosa è

invece di un’altra.

TEETETO: Ebbene?

SOCRATE: Cerca di ricordare se mai hai detto a te stesso che più di ogni altra cosa il bello è brutto o l’ingiusto è

giusto, o anche, la cosa più importante di tutte, considera se hai tentato mai di convincere te stesso che più di ogni altra

cosa la tal cosa è un’altra, o, tutto al contrario, neppure durante un sogno hai osato mai affermare con te stesso che

assolutamente il dispari è pari o qualche altra cosa simile.

TEETETO: Tu dici il vero: mai.

SOCRATE: E pensi tu che qualcun altro, sano o pazzo che sia, osi dire seriamente a se stesso, per poi

convincersene, che necessariamente il bene è un cavallo, o il due uno?

TEETETO: Per Zeus! Io certamente no.

SOCRATE: Dunque se il parlare con se stessi è opinare, nessuno che parli e opini di due cose, abbracciandole con

anima tutte e due, potrebbe dire e opinare che l’una cosa è l’altra. E occorre da parte tua lasciare andare questo detto

circa l’altro. Infatti io sostengo la cosa in questo modo: nessuno opina che il brutto è bello, né alcuna altra di simili cose.

TEETETO: Sì , Socrate; lo lascio andare e pare anche a me come dici.

SOCRATE: Dunque chi opina due cose a un tempo non è possibile che opini che l’una cosa sia l’altra.

TEETETO: Pare così .

SOCRATE: Certamente chi opina una sola cosa tra due, e l’altra assolutamente no, mai opinerà che l’una cosa sia

l’altra.

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viaTypePad – Home page:.CHOROLOGY of Timaeus.CHOROLOGY space of their resonance. Even Timaeus Plotinus, Proclus, ChalcidiusFicinoKepler mathematical Schelling the Timaeus of Schelling’ Timaeus even in Schelling’ is the chorologyCHOROLOGY chorology chorology chorology chorology chorology chorology—chorology. CHOROLOGY chorology: Proclus, have seldom ceased to provoke Plato’s interpreters? Proclus marked their appropriateness, marked it with a word that could be taken to signal from afar the very heart of the matter to be put in question in the dialogue: image image its paradigm. Proclus, In Platonis CHOROLOGY χ»ρα.CHOROLOGY chorology ProclusProclusProclusProclusProclus Timaeus. Even Socrates, who was notorious for his incessant interruptions and interrogations, remains silent throughout most of the Timaeus. This moment of silence is embodied in Hermocrates. Thereby the sense of his name is inverted, though it is, in a sense, also exempli¤ed by the single quasi-speech he gives in the Timaeus: in what he says he is a mere messenger, mediating between the discourses of others.

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THE ARCHAIC CITY The feast is ready to begin. A feast of discourses. Also of reception and of remembrance. Critias remembers another city, a different city: ancient, archaic Athens. Or rather, he remembers—and is to repeat—a discourse about this city. It is not a discourse that occurred only yesterday or the day before, but, like the ancient city of which it tells, it belongs to the remote past. Critias introduces this discourse by saying something about it in advance, beginning with a discourse on this ancient discourse: “Listen, then, Socrates, to a discourse [lígoV] that is very strange but entirely true, as Solon, wisest of the seven, once declared” (20d–e). It should be noted that Critias does not call what he is about to present a story or myth (m”qoV) but a lígoV, indeed a true lígoV. He says also that it is very strange, using the word êtopoV, which means, more literally: without place, out of place. This is the ¤rst of several references to place (típoV) that will occur as Critias speaks. As guarantor of the truth of the discourse, Critias appeals to Solon, the Athenian statesman who in the early sixth century, as chief archon, introduced sweeping reforms that promoted economic development, established a more humane code of justice, and secured the rights of citizens to some share in government. It is generally believed that after introducing his reforms Solon traveled for some ten years, visiting Egypt along the way, but returned ¤nally to ¤nd Athens riddled with strife and intrigue. In commenting on the present passage of the Timaeus, Proclus mentions Solon’s political activities, especially his establishment of laws. Proclus continues with a story: “And a story [¤storÖa] is told of a tripod that was dragged up in a net by certain young men . . . ; the oracle [of Apollo] was consulted on this occasion, and the god answered that it should be given to the wisest one. Thus it was offered ¤rst to Thales, but he sent it to another of the seven wise men, and this one again to another, until ¤nally it came to Solon, all of them yielding to him. Solon, however, sent it to the god, saying that he was the wisest of beings.”39 Proclus’ point in telling the story is to explain why Critias calls Solon the wisest of the seven. But also, though Proclus does not draw the parallel, one can be drawn between this story and the one that Socrates tells about himself in the Apology, about his involvement with Apollo’s oracle regarding who is wisest of all.40 Critias proceeds to tell how the ancient discourse came to be handed down. Its origin is Solon himself—or rather, it is, in the beginning, traced back only to Solon, though soon it will be mentioned that Solon brought it from Egypt. At that point there will be a demand to recount it from the

39. Proclus, In Platonis Timaeum Commentaria, 1:81. 40. See Apol. 21a–24b, together with my discussion in Being and Logos, 46–54.

Remembrance of the City

beginning (ìx årcôV) (21d), to recount from the beginning the discourse about how the ancient discourse got handed down, to give from the beginning the account of how the account of the beginning was transmitted. But, for now, Critias takes Solon as the origin of the discourse. Solon is said to have told it to his relative and dear friend Dropides. In turn, Dropides told his son Critias, who then, when ninety years of age, told it to his grandson, another Critias, who at the time was only ten years old but who now, in the Timaeus, is telling Socrates of the lineage of speech, not just freely but in exchange, in repayment, for the discourse offered yesterday by Socrates. Thus, the discourse that Critias would offer in exchange to Socrates is a legacy, something handed down to him from previous generations, a kind of discursive inheritance. What is the discourse about? Initially Critias identi¤es its content as: the ancient deeds of the city, which were great and wonderful (megâla kaÜ qaumastâ) but which have been effaced (öjanismèna: have disappeared, have been made unseen, made not to appear) by time and the destruction of the people (20e). Socrates compliments Critias and then, in encouraging Critias to tell about these deeds, refers to them as something not said, not told of (o‹ legímenon) (21a). This reference gives a hint that, even if verbally handed down from Solon on, there will somewhere have been a discontinuity, a break in the chain of verbal transmission; there will have been some point where they were not transmitted by being told of, not handed down by word of mouth. Critias tells of the setting and circumstances in which the other Critias, his grandfather, passed along the legacy of discourse. This occurred during the Apaturia, a three-day festival of the sons of the same ancestor, celebrated in Athens in the month of Pyanopsion. On the ¤rst day there was feasting, and on the second day sacri¤ces; then on the third day, called kureotis (koureõtiV), the youth were enrolled in the phratry (jrâtrh), the kinship group descended from the same ancestor.41 It was on the third day, kureotis, that the aged Critias passed along the discourse that, as grandson Critias now reveals, Solon had brought from Egypt hoping to apply to it his poetic talents. By marking this day as the day of transmission from his grandfather, Critias underlines the character of the discourse as legacy, its link to family, parentage and birth, the succession of generations, lineage. It is not a discourse fabricated only yesterday or the day before; it is not a discourse constructed in the recoil from a vision of presence and separated from that presence only by the interval setting the

41. According to the Oxford Classical Dictionary (s.v. “Apaturia”), those enrolled in the phratry on kureotis consisted of three groups: children, young adult men, and newly married wives. Taylor takes them to be only the children born in the preceding twelve months (Commentary on Plato’s Timaeus, 51). Martin takes them to be young boys and girls of three to four years of age (Études sur le Timée, 1:248–51). Following Proclus (In Platonis Timaeum Commentaria, 1:88), Martin takes the Apaturia to be a festival in honor of Bacchus.

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image apart from the paradigm. Rather, it is a legacy handed down to Critias from those to whom he is linked by bonds forged in and through the ¤re of ÅrwV, by the lineage remaining as trace of ÅrwV. But now, as he speaks in the Timaeus, Critias is quite old. After he has recounted what he heard from the older Critias, the previously younger but now quite old Critias remarks at how wondrous (qaumastín) it is that something learned in childhood can be remembered in every single detail, even when one can no longer remember what one heard yesterday. What Critias heard yesterday was of course Socrates’ discourse on the city, the discourse of which he had, today, to be reminded. Indeed, he notes that when, hearing Socrates’ discourse on the previous day, his wonder was aroused as he began to remember the other discourse on the city, he was nonetheless hesitant to speak of it immediately, since, owing to lapse of time, his remembrance of it was not suf¤cient. He goes on then—in the present—to tell Socrates how he went about recovering his memory of his inherited discourse, reclaiming, as it were, his discursive inheritance. He tells how, as soon as he, Timaeus, and Hermocrates left Socrates on the previous day, he began telling it to the others as he remembered it, ¤xing it thus in discourse, by repetition. He continued alone through the night— one wonders: could it have been in a dream?—until ¤nally he recovered the entire discourse, which he then told to Timaeus and Hermocrates immediately after daybreak, thus repeating it a third time. And so, says he, it would be most wondrous if any part of the discourse whatsoever had escaped him. And yet, Critias’ ostensible success in closing the circle of memory so quickly, in bringing his remembrance back to that discourse handed down memorially from Solon, in doing so, it seems, from one day to the next— this only serves by contrast to underline the radical character of the further withdrawal that Solon’s discourse on the city undergoes. For one might almost regard Critias’ recovery of his memory as a simulacrum of the turn to the e†doV, in which those gathering wholes that were—and had to be—dimly present to one’s vision are brought to full presence, indeed as a kind of ideal legacy reclaimed. And yet, there can be no question but that Critias’ discourse on the city is anything but a turn to the e†doV; nor can one suppose even that it is a discourse generated in and through the recoil from the e†doV to the image. For the city that Critias remembers, the city that had already to be remembered when Solon ¤rst told of it in Greece—that city is ancient Athens, the original Athens, an årcæ distinct from the eidetic årcæ and from its mere image, another kind of beginning, a kind beyond kind, a third kind. And yet, granted the distinction, the city that Critias remembers must be declared the same city as that presented in the Socratic remembrance. For several reasons. The ¤rst is that Critias sets about recovering his mem-

Remembrance of the City

ory of the discourse on the ancient city precisely in order to satisfy Socrates’ desire to behold in motion, at war, that city of which he spoke on the previous day. Second, when Critias tells how, on hearing Socrates tell of this city yesterday, his wonder was aroused as he began remembering the other discourse on the city, he suggests that precisely what aroused his wonder was that the two accounts coincided so exactly in most respects (25e). And, third, when, after the preliminary version, Critias sets forth his proposal to give the full version, he says explicitly that the city spoken of by Socrates will be taken to be that ancient city of which he, Critias, has just spoken (26c–d). It is, then, the same city, and yet, in the discourse handed down from Solon and to be repeated by Critias, this city is to be told of differently. One difference is alluded to in the word Critias uses when he refers to the short account he has given in contrast to the full account he promises for later. For the short account he does not use the word kejâlaion (of the head), as did Socrates, but rather suntímwV (concisely) (25e). The word kejâlaion occurs in this context only in the negative, namely, when, referring to the full account promised, he says that he will not tell merely of what pertains to the head (mÆ mínon Än kejalaÖoiV) (26c). This suggests that even in the short account, Critias is telling of more than just the head of the city, that he is telling of a city that is vital and embodied. But there is another, more conspicuous difference between the ways in which Socrates and Critias tell of this same city. Critias formulates this difference by declaring that he will tell of the city, not in m”qoV (ìn m¿q‚), as was done yesterday, but in truth (ìpÜ tålhqèV) (26c–d). Accepting Critias’ proposal, Socrates reformulates the distinction as that between an invented m”qoV and a true λíγος (26e). Thus, it is the same city, but, in the transition from Socrates’ discourse on it to Critias’, in the transition from the ¤rst to the second remembrance of it, a transition is to be made from µ”θος to true lígoV. Indeed, one could regard this transition from one political discourse to another as the locus of a reconstitution of the very opposition between m”qoV and lígoV, its reconstitution beyond the traditional form that is recalled within Critias’ discourse as the difference between the story of Phaethon’s fateful voyage across the sky, burning up all that was on earth, and the truth that a shifting of bodies in the heavens once caused destruction of things on earth by ¤re (22c–d). Against this background, the reconstitution in play here can only appear paradoxical: what is now to be called m”qoV is precisely a discourse that turns to the e†doV, whereas what is called true lígoV is an old story about some largely forgotten ancestors. But what, then, is the precise character of the transition from the Socratic city to ancient Athens, from the eidetic city to the archaic city? An indication is given at that point in Critias’ discourse where the constitution of ancient Athens is described by comparison with the Egyptian

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city Sais visited by Solon (24a ff.). The description mentions the various kinds, artisans, hunters, farmers, the military, each of which is to pursue its own occupation without mixing in that of the others—thus forming an ordered city, one ordered to this extent by reference to tècnh. But what is not mentioned at all in the description are the regulations by which mating and so-called child-production were to be technically controlled, the very feature that was most obtrusive in Socrates’ recapitulation of yesterday’s discourse and to which he explicitly called attention as something easily remembered. In the description given in Critias’ discourse, what one ¤nds in place of the comic exclusion of ÅrwV is reference to the goddess Athena, who established archaic Athens and provided its soldiers with shields and spears, equipping them for warfare, enabling the city to go to war. Furthermore, in place of the technical rulers of the Socratic city, the ancient city has a class of priests, presumably in service to the founding goddess Athena. Critias declares—and then immediately repeats the declaration, underlining it—that the goddess was careful to choose a fruitful place (típoV), one with a temperate climate, one that would bring forth the wisest men, one that would produce men who, like Athena herself, would be lovers of war and of wisdom (24c–d).42 Thus, the transition from the eidetic city to archaic Athens is a transition to a city that would be somewhere, in some singular place. Whereas the eidetic city is “nowhere on earth” but rather is “a paradigm laid up in heaven [ìn o‹ran…]” (Rep. 592b), archaic Athens is in that singular, fruitful place chosen for it by the goddess, a city with “the ¤nest constitution of any under heaven [›p¬ t¬n o‹ranín]” (23c).43 Considering the af¤nity of place (típoV) with the c»ra, it is thus appropriate that in Critias’ discourse on the city in place the word c»ra occurs. Indeed, it occurs twice, ¤rst in reference to Sais
42. Thucydides also stresses how decisive the place of a city is. In his opening description of the situation in Greece before the Peloponnesian War, he mentions several regions such as Boeotia and Thessaly where the land is very fertile. Such places were not entirely favorable to the development of the cities: “The goodness of the land favored the aggrandizement of particular individuals, and thus created faction which proved a fertile source of ruin. It also invited invasion. Accordingly, Attica, from the poverty of its soil [diä t¬ leptígewn] enjoying from a very remote period freedom from faction, never changed its inhabitants” (Thuc. 1.2). In reference speci¤cally to the comparison drawn between ancient Athens and Egyptian Sais, Proclus declares place (típoV) to be one of the major factors that bring about differences between cities (In Platonis Timaeum Commentaria, 1:99). 43. Proclus marks this contrast: archaic Athens is “the best of those under the heavens; for the paradigm of it is in the heavens” (In Platonis Timaeum Commentaria, 1:129). Proclus also insists that that which is truly place (típoV) is interval (diâsthma), though this word occurs in the Timaeus only much later and in the quite different context of Timaeus’ account of how the god installed proportional intervals in the cosmic soul (36a–b). On the basis of the identi¤cation of true place as interval, Proclus distinguishes place as interval from earth and air: “By place, therefore, we must not understand the earth or this air, but prior to these, the immovable interval, which is always illuminated in the same way by the gods and divided by the allotments of DÖkh” (ibid., 1:162). This gestures in the direction of the distinction that will be drawn in Timaeus’ second discourse between the likes of air and earth, on the one hand, and the c»ra, on the other.

Remembrance of the City

(22e), then in reference to archaic Athens (23b). Its occurrence in reference to Athens is most remarkable, serving to link—even if formally—race, generation (gènoV), procreation to the c»ra. The word is addressed to Solon by an Egyptian: “You do not know that the best and most beautiful race among men were born in the c»ra where you now dwell, and from them both you yourself are sprung and the whole of your city, from a little seed [spèrma] that happened to be left over.” This third kind of city, neither paradigm nor image, has its own singular place; it is a place where humans are born, not fabricated, where a race and a lineage are established. It is a city of the third kind, a choric city. The role of Athena in the Timaeus is not limited to her having founded both Athens and Sais and equipped them for war. Indeed, Critias declares that he will deliver his discourse both as payment of debt to Socrates and as a tribute of praise to the goddess on this her festival day, singing it justly and truly in her honor. If one assumes that the festival is the Panathenaea, then some remarkable connections begin to take shape. The Panathenaea was primarily a celebration of the Athenian victories by land and sea in the Persian wars,44 the wars in which Persia sought to expand into the eastern Mediterranean by subjugating the Greek cities. But the Persians are most certainly not the only ones to have gone to war in hopes of expansion. Any city that is in place is set in a certain opposition to the other cities outside it, and this opposition can always erupt into a war of expansion. If, moreover, the city is swollen by the release of unnecessary desires, it will be most strongly tempted to venture war in order to expand into places occupied by other cities, taking their land so as better to satisfy the desire for luxury. The ¤gure of the expansion of the city in which it comes into polemic relation to other cities outside it is drawn in three different connections engaged by Critias’ discourse. The ¤rst draft is connected with Athena’s festival: the expansion of the Persians into the Greek world, bringing them into con¶ict with Athens. The second is drawn by the account Critias gives of the great and wonderful deeds of the ancient city: the expansion of Atlantis against the cities of the Mediterranean, bringing it into con¶ict with ancient Athens. The third is drawn by the silent presence of Hermocrates, who will lead the Syracusans to victory against the expansionist exploits of Athens. In these various dimensions, then, there are three drafts of the same kind of polemic expansion, or rather, of victory against such expansionist adventures, the victory pre¤gured in deed by the presence of Hermocrates, that told of in the true lígoV delivered by Critias, and that celebrated by all at the festival of the goddess. In Critias’ discourse it is not only the city that proves to be related to externality and alterity but also the discourse itself in which he tells of that city. The discourse remembered by Critias, which he promises to relate
44. Cornford, Plato’s Cosmology, 5. On this point Cornford refers to Proclus’ account.

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later in detail, did not originate with Critias’ ancestors. Rather, this discourse on the great and wonderful deeds of archaic Athens was presented to Solon only when he traveled outside Greece, to another land, a foreign place. In particular, the story was told when he visited the Egyptian city of Sais, a city said also to have been founded by Athena, but by an Athena with another name, the foreign name Neith. Thus, the discourse on ancient Athens was brought from a foreign land, from a kind of foreign double of Athens. The true lígoV that Critias promises to repeat is a foreign lígoV, one preserved in the receptacle of a foreign civilization. But in a foreign place speech is foreign; indeed, speech is what, above all, distinguishes the foreign, differentiates the Egyptian from the Greek. Hence, one cannot but assume that in bringing the lígoV back from a foreign place Solon would have been faced with the question of translation. Indeed, in the Critias Critias tells about the way in which Solon dealt with the question of translating this lígoV. Critias introduces the pertinent discussion in order, as he explains, to forestall his listeners’ surprise at hearing Greek names given to foreigners. Noting that Solon planned to use the lígoV for his own poetry, Critias explains that, through questioning, Solon sought out (diapunqanímenoV) the force (d¿namiV) of the words (ªnoma) and found that the Egyptians who had ¤rst written them down had transferred them, transported them (metenhocítaV—from metajèrw) into their own sounds or voice (jwnæ). Then, taking back, recovering, the thought, intention, sense (diânoia) of each word and bringing it into his people’s jwnæ, he wrote it down. Thus, the lígoV that Solon brought back was a translation, a written-down translation. While in Egypt, Solon was told not only about ancient Athens but also about the Greeks’ lack of memory of it, that is, why neither he nor any other Greek remembered archaic Athens, that is, why the ancient deeds had, in Greece, been effaced. Solon was told this on an occasion when he ventured a discourse on ancient things, repeating the discourses that the Greeks took to be discourses on original things, on beginnings, for example, the story of Phoroneus, the ¤rst man, and his daughter Niobe, and the story of Deucalion and Pyrrha, who survived the ¶ood and generated a new race of men, a new beginning of mankind. As he was relating these stories, Solon was interrupted by a very old Egyptian priest, who told him that all Greeks are children, that there is no such thing as an old Greek, that is, that the Greeks do not possess memory capable of extending to— of bringing back to mind—the truly ancient things. They are oblivious even to their own ancient origin, archaic Athens, of which they know nothing whatsoever. The old priest explains why the Greeks are lacking in such memory: it is because of their repeated loss of writing (as a result of ¶oods, which are survived only by the illiterate herdsmen in the mountains) and because memory of ancient things is linked inseparably to writing. In Sais, on the other hand, the country, the terrain, is different; its

Remembrance of the City

region is such that Sais is not exposed to the destructive natural forces that the Greeks must endure. As a result of this difference, one based precisely on difference of place, it has been possible for the discourses on ancient things to be written down and preserved. In particular, the discourse on Athens as it was in the beginning has been sheltered in this foreign receptacle. Thus it is that the Egyptians can remember this discourse and can repeat it for Solon. Indeed, as the old priest begins to tell Solon something about ancient Athens, he promises (according to Solon’s account, handed down, it seems, by word of mouth) that later they will take the actual writings and go through everything in detail. The Greeks are children. They are capable of remembering only what is recent, only what still has a living connection to the present so that it can be brought back to mind, brought to presence before one’s present vision. Or, at most, the Greeks can remember only what is linked to the present through some direct lineage of speech, so that, as Critias seems to do, one can recover one’s memory of a discourse handed down through the lineage. Where such connections—living connections, even if handed down in speech—are lacking, remembrance requires writing. Remembrance requires the marking of time by writing; without writing, differences would be effaced, different times would be con¶ated, just as Solon, repeating the stories brought from Greece, con¶ated the many diverse destructions by ¤re and water and numerous other means. Because of their repeated loss of writing, the Greeks are incapable of memory of truly ancient things, whereas the Egyptians, because their writing is preserved, have such memory and indeed can pass it on to Solon so as to interrupt, from without, the Greek forgetfulness of the beginning. Where living connections are lacking, where, as with ancient things, what one would remember is withdrawn outside all such connections, there remembrance requires writing, the externality of which—that one does not bear it within oneself, that it can be lost without a trace remaining—corresponds in a sense to the exteriority of those things that can be remembered only through writing, those things that can have disappeared without leaving a trace, as the ancient Athenian warriors were swallowed up by the earth and Atlantis by the sea. More radically, it is a question of remembering something so ancient that it escapes even the Socratic remembrance that turns to the e†doV, the remembrance that would bring back in the presence of the e†doV everything that comes and goes, the remembrance that could even recoil from the e†doV and, from the comedy, unfold an imaginal discourse. It is a question of remembering a beginning whose withdrawal outside presence is hardly less interruptive than that of the third kind, a beginning whose exteriority—marked by the repeated cataclysmic destructions and the resulting loss of writing—cannot but make it dif¤cult to catch, not unlike the very advent of exteriority as such, that is, the c»ra. Such a fugitive

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beginning can be caught and held only by writing, by its marking of time. It is with Critias’ discourse that the Timaeus makes the transition from dialogue to monologue, that is, from a discourse that openly imitates the conversation of living speech to a writing that no longer imitates living speech, a writing that, in its form, is almost just writing, that would be just writing were it not presented as inscribing what Critias says. In this transition there is mirrored in the form of the text the transition effected in what is said, the transition from a city that can be held in living memory to a city whose remoteness is such that its memory requires writing. Critias’ discursive legacy, passed along and repeated in living speech, is thus ¤nally linked to writing, namely, at the point where Solon is instructed by the Egyptian priest, who knows of Athens as it was in the beginning only because the memory of its great and wonderful deeds has been preserved in writing. Yet in the Critias it comes to light that Critias’ discourse is even more entangled with writing than might be supposed on the basis of the Timaeus alone. For there (Crit. 113b) he admits that the written text, which Solon produced by translating the Egyptian writings, was passed along to his grandfather and is now in his own possession. Thus, Critias’ legacy is not only one of living speech passed down through the generations but also includes—and not only as a remote source—a written text, a book, indeed a translation. Critias’ speech and his memory are from the outset invaded by writing, inseparably intricated in a graphic legacy. When Critias has ¤nished, Socrates speaks again brie¶y. It is his thirdfrom-last speech in the entire dialogue, and it announces the silence into which Socrates will soon, even more decisively, withdraw. He applauds Critias’ discourse both for its appropriateness on the festival day of the goddess and for its being a true lígoV rather than an invented m”qoV. Socrates urges Critias to go ahead and deliver his discourse, wishes him good luck, and then, referring again to yesterday’s speech, vows now to keep quiet and to listen (26e–27a). Critias proposes the order (diâqesiV) of the feast of lígoV that is about to commence. He says: since Timaeus is the most astronomical of us and has made it, most of all, his business to know about the nature of the universe (perÜ j¿sewV to” pantíV), let him speak ¤rst, beginning with the generation of the cosmos (årcímenon åp¬ tôV to” kísmou genèsewV) and ending with the nature (j¿siV) of mankind (27a). As the discourse by Timaeus the astronomer is announced, one readily recalls another, a discourse not recapitulated in the Timaeus but not unrelated to what Socrates does recapitulate there: the discourse in the Republic that prescribes the course of studies to be followed by the prospective philosopher-rulers. One recalls especially the position of astronomy in that course: on the one hand, the discussion of astronomy is the site of a double interruption, ¤rst, in order to replace it with solid geometry as third (after arithmetic

Remembrance of the City

and geometry, that is, plane geometry) in the course of studies (Rep. 528a–b), and then, in order to replace visual apprehension of the things above with an astronomy pursued by discourse and thought (diânoia), not by sight (Rep. 529a–d); on the other hand, thus realigned and reordered, astronomy proves to occupy the highest position among those studies that lead up to dialectic, sharing that place only with its aural counterpart, harmonics. Socrates says, speaking to Glaucon: “It may be ventured, I said, that as the eyes are ¤xed on astronomy, so the ears are ¤xed on harmonic movement, and these two kinds of knowledge are in a way akin, as the Pythagoreans say and we, Glaucon, agree” (530d). This could almost serve as a description of where Timaeus’ discourse—or rather, his ¤rst discourse—will end, with eyes and ears attuned to the harmonic circlings in the heaven. Critias continues with his proposal regarding the order of the feast of lígoV: once Timaeus has ¤nished his entire account leading up to the generation of mankind, Critias himself will take over the mankind to which Timaeus’ discourse will have given birth; from Socrates he will take over a select portion who are well-educated. Then, in accordance with the speech and law of Solon, Critias will bring them, as he says, “before us as before a court of judges and make them citizens of this city of ours” (27b), that is, citizens of archaic Athens.45 Once Athens (as it was in the beginning) has thus, in lígoV, acquired its citizens, Critias will deliver his discourse about the ancient deeds great and wonderful. But why only then? Why does Critias, having begun to tell of archaic Athens, not just continue and give the entire account? Why is it necessary to interpose Timaeus’ discourse on the generation of the cosmos and thus to defer the true lígoV on archaic Athens? It is necessary only if one would begin at the beginning. Thus, what determines the order proposed by Critias is the demand to begin at the beginning. Indeed, Timaeus will soon proclaim openly this decisive exigency: “With regard to everything it is most important to begin at the natural beginning” (29b). Here, as repeatedly in the Timaeus, it is a matter of a palintropic move, of a turn through which one beginning (archaic Athens) is referred back to a still earlier beginning (the generation of the cosmos).

45. Regarding this process Proclus explains: “However, the men are introduced by Critias in accordance with the law and speech of Solon, because Solon narrates that the Athenians were once thus governed and established laws concerning the way in which children were to be introduced into the city [e¥V tÆn politeÖan] and into the phratries and concerning the way they were to be registered; and likewise, concerning the kind of judges by which they should be tried. . . . As Critias therefore admits that the men educated by Socrates were Athenians, he follows the speech and law of Solon in accordance with which certain persons are introduced into the city” (In Platonis Timaeum Commentaria, 1:203).

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2
Production of the Cosmos

PRELUDE Socrates’ penultimate speech praises, as from the threshold, the reception he is to be given in return, the feast of discourses with which he is about to be, as he says, perfectly and brilliantly entertained. Addressing Timaeus by name, Socrates declares that it will be his turn to speak as soon as he has invoked the gods as prescribed by custom (katä nímon). As if a discourse on nature required that one ¤rst turn away, that one begin in the opposite direction, in accord with nímoV rather than j¿siV. As if one could only turn back to nature. As if the return to nature, the return of nature, could take place only after one had turned from it, only from out of that turn, that de¿teroV plo”V. As if discourse on nature were necessarily palintropic. Timaeus’ response con¤rms the appeal to custom: everyone with even the slightest prudence (swjros¿nh) invokes the gods, and so too must we, praying that what we say will be approved, above all, by them and, secondly, by us. Timaeus adds: so much, then, for invoking the gods; ourselves we must also invoke. The self-reference hints at a kind of impious piety in which referral to the gods would, even if aporetically, be paired with reliance on one’s own powers rather than precluding such reliance; thus is the bearing exempli¤ed in Socrates’ questioning response to what the god proclaimed, through the Delphic oracle, about his wisdom. The peculiar performative character of this invocation was marked already by Proclus.1 In effect, Timaeus declares the necessity (ånâgkh) of
1. “But why does Timaeus say that it is necessary to pray and magni¤cently proclaim that the gods and goddesses should be invoked, and yet does not pray, though the opportunity is there, but immediately turns to the proposed discussion? We reply that it is because some things have their end comprehended in the very will itself [ìn a‹t‡ t‡ boulæsei]” (Proclus, In Platonis Timaeum Commentaria, 1:221).

Production of the Cosmos

invoking the gods (a necessity of custom, not of nature) and then immediately declares that the gods have been invoked, yet without ever in deed invoking them. As if merely declaring that they must be invoked and then declaring that they have been invoked were suf¤cient. As if these lígoi that might be expected to frame the invocation proper could instead replace it and constitute the invocation in deed. In the midst of this peculiar performative, Timaeus announces his intention: discourses are to be produced (poie¢sqai) about the all, the universe (perÜ to” pantíV), discourses telling how it was generated or else is ungenerated. It will turn out that these discourses on how the universe was made—for its generation proves to have been fabrication—will also analyze making as such (poÖhsiV). Thus, the discourses on making, on production, will recoil upon themselves as produced, as made. Timaeus’ discourses on the universe will also incorporate discourse on discourse. Even when it is a question of the limits of production and of discourse. Even when it is a question of the limits beyond which discourse can no longer be produced, can no longer be something simply made. Timaeus speaks: “In my opinion there is ¤rst to be distinguished the following. What is that which is always being [tÖ t¬ ºn åeÖ], having no genesis, and what is that which is [always]2 generated, but never being? On the one hand, that which is comprehended by intellection with discourse [noæsei metä lígou], being always according to the same [åeÜ katä ta‹tä ªn]; on the other hand, the opinable grasped by opinion with nondiscursive sense [díx„ met4 a¥sqæsewV ålígou], being generated and perishing, never being in the manner appropriate to being [ªntwV d´ o‹dèpote ªn]” (27d–28a). On one side, then, Timaeus sets t¬ ºn åeÖ: that which is always being, that which always is (which does not come to be) and which is always being, which is in the manner appropriate to being (ªntwV ªn). Such always being, perpetual being, is always according to the same (åeÜ katä ta‹tä ªn): it remains in oneness with itself (see 37d), is always one with itself, always the same as itself, selfsame. Timaeus declares that such perpetual being is comprehended by intellection with discourse (noæsei metä lígou). This is to say that one approaches perpetual being only on the de¿teroV plo”V (the second sailing or, more precisely, taking to the oars in the absence of wind) that consists in turning away from things as they are manifest to sense, that is, away from nature, turning toward discourse, having recourse to lígoi in order to behold (skope¢n) in them the truth of
2. In the phrase tÖ t¬ gignímenon m´n åeÖ the word åeÖ is omitted by Proclus and Simplicius as well as by Cicero and Chalcidius in their Latin translations. Whittaker has shown that this omission is even more widespread than earlier commentators had indicated. He maintains “that in later antiquity the accepted reading was tÖ t¬ gignímenon mèn without the åeÖ” More generally, he concludes: “The correct reading is, I believe, tÖ t¬ gignímenon mèn without the åeÖ” (John Whittaker, “Timaeus 27D 5ff.,” Phoenix 23 [1969]: 181–85).

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beings. In telling of this turn in the Phaedo, Socrates describes it as commencing with the posing of a ‹píqesiV; that is, one begins by setting something under sensibly manifest things, under them as their basis, their origin, their original. Thus, one sets under the manifold of sensibly manifest beauties something that would be named the beautiful itself (a‹t¬ t¬ kalín). The naming is not fortuitous but intrinsic to the turn, to its commencement with the posing of a ›píqesiV. For what is posed over against the sensible manifold is a one, and it is posed precisely from lígoV. It is set forth from the sphere of discourse in which it—along with all other such ones—is always already operative, even before being set forth as a ›píqesiV. For as one utters the word beautiful, there comes into play a certain unifying, a gathering, of the manifold of things that can be called by this one name. To open the space of the distinction is to set over against—and yet, under—sensibly manifest things the ones that are always already operative in discourse.3 This is why the intellection, the noetic vision (níhsiV), that would comprehend that which is always one with itself must be metä lígou, with discourse, by way of discourse. Having no genesis, perpetual being is to be distinguished from t¬ gignímenon: that which has been generated, that which has come about through generation, that which has come to be either by being born or by being produced or perhaps by some other way if there be such. But whatever is generated is also—with only one partial exception, to be detailed later by Timaeus—subject to perishing. As perpetually being generated and perishing, as never being in the manner appropriate to being, the generated is always becoming different from itself. The generated is not simply the sensibly manifest; Timaeus designates it, rather, as the opinable (t¬ doxastín), as that which is grasped by opinion with sense devoid of lígoV. The word opinion (as well as such alternatives as belief and judgment) is insuf¤cient, if not misleading, as a translation of díxa. The verb dokèw means, on the one hand, to opine or suppose but, on the other hand, to seem, to appear to be something or other. Thus, one opines as things seem; one supposes them to be that which they appear to be. Nothing could be more alien to Greek thought than to regard díxa as a kind of belief produced and retained within the interiority of a subject without regard for the way things seem. This distinction, set down at what seems the beginning of Timaeus’ speech, has for us today the appearance of utter familiarity: one will readily translate it into a discourse about forms, even into a theory of forms, which Plato is alleged to have held. Yet in the face of such translation, which not only translates Plato’s text but also translates back into— onto—Plato’s text something remote from it, there is need for the utmost caution and reserve. Does one know what the so-called forms are, even if
3. See Phaedo 99d–100b, along with my discussion in Being and Logos, 38–43.

Production of the Cosmos

such Greek words as e†doV and ¥dèa are retained and, through them, the link to vision, to the look of things? Does one know even how to ask the question? As soon as one asks what, one has already broached—that is, assumed—precisely that which is thought as e†doV. The e†doV is what something is. It answers the question: tÖ ìsti . . . ? Thus, if one asks what a form is, one is asking: What is the what? That is, one just doubles the question and risks being ensnared in mere double talk. One would have to ask also what theory means, and yet all three words (what, theory, means) would lead one right back to that which the Platonic text undertakes to think and to determine in the words e†doV and ¥dèa. Here the utmost vigilance is called for. Here one needs, above all, to be on guard against naively projecting back into the Platonic texts a conceptuality and a language that were forged only in and through those texts—or on the basis of what they achieved and at the cost of moving away from them. One needs at least to hold the distinction in a certain suspension rather than taking it to be an established principle set down here at the beginning. Especially considering how Timaeus himself leaves it suspended: for he introduces it both as his opinion (kat4 ìmÆn díxan), that is, as something that to Timaeus seems to hold, and as a question. Whether one takes the immediately following statement as appositional elaboration of the question or as a kind of answer to it (at best, only the beginning of an answer), one cannot but be struck by the apparent displacement of the distinction itself. Even before elaborating the distinction as setting apart that which is comprehended by intellection and that which is grasped by opinion, Timaeus has already placed the distinction itself on the side of the opinable. Rather than simply reasserting an established distinction, the Timaeus reopens the question of the distinction. Thus, a certain suspension is operative here at what seems to be the beginning of Timaeus’ speech, here where he seems to make a beginning, to begin with the beginning. Yet it is questionable whether—with this distinction, by the way he introduces it—he has made a beginning. Indeed, as soon as he has drawn out the general consequences of the initial distinction for the question of the cosmos, he marks the transition and the continuity with these words: to¿twn d´ ›parcíntwn a™ . . . (29b). The clause can mean: “And, moreover, beginning with these things. . . .” But it can also mean: “And, moreover, granted these things. . . .” Thus, in its possible meanings, the clause slides between saying that these things (that is, the distinction and its immediate consequences) constitute the beginning and saying that they are merely granted (merely laid down in the sense of ›pokeÖmenon, with which ›pârcw in this signi¤cation is associated), that is, saying that the distinction is merely granted because it is not established but merely says how things seem. The clause hovers, then, between saying that the distinction is the beginning and saying that it is something merely granted in order then to begin indeed, to make actually a beginning.

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Leaving the distinction suspended at the apparent beginning of his discourse, Timaeus continues: “And, moreover, everything generated is of necessity generated by some cause [›p4 a¥tÖon]” (28a). It goes almost without saying that the sense of cause needs to be determined from the Platonic text itself and not predetermined by post-Aristotelian or even modern conceptions. In the present case this requires only that one adhere to what Timaeus says, for almost immediately he will identify the pertinent cause and describe quite precisely the mode of causality involved. It is most remarkable that Timaeus ascribes necessity to the connection joining the generated to a cause: the generated is of necessity, from necessity, by the force of necessity (ìx ånâgkhV), generated by some cause. Furthermore, when he reiterates this connection in order to set the stage for the appearance (or nonappearance) of the maker who is cause, he again names necessity as securing the bond between the generated and its cause (28c). Indeed the entire passage that serves to introduce Timaeus’ discourse and that is punctuated at its limits by Socrates’ last two speeches (27c–29d) is replete with references to necessity (see also 28a–b, 29b). The role given here to necessity is especially remarkable in view of what will be said of it at the outset of Timaeus’ second discourse: that the ¤rst discourse has, except for a small part, dealt with what is brought about by no”V, whereas the second discourse is to address what comes about through necessity (di4 ånâgkhV) (47e). Yet from its outset the ¤rst discourse too, at least in small part, will have been engaged with necessity: the workings of no”V will already have been contaminated by ånâgkh. Timaeus describes the pertinent mode of causality: “When the maker of something forms its look and capability [while] looking to what is always selfsame [t¬ katä ta‹tâ], using a paradigm of this sort, all that is accomplished in this way is of necessity beautiful” (28a–b). The conditional clause outlines the determination or structure of making or production (poÖhsiV). The word here translated as maker (dhmiourgíV) means primarily a craftsman, an artisan, someone who makes (poie¢n) things by pursuing a tècnh. In Timaeus’ discourses this designation will often be used for the god who makes the cosmos; it is the same word that Socrates uses in the Republic to refer to the artisans who, for instance, make up in its entirety the ¤rst of those cities built in lígoV (see Rep. 370d). The god who makes the cosmos is preeminently an artisan god, a god who pursues a certain cosmic tècnh, though he is also called the god (Ñ qeíV), as well as producer or maker (poihtæV) and builder (Ñ tektainímenoV), which has the appropriateness of referring both to building or making and also to the devising or planning that the god in effect carries out in looking to a paradigm. The maker of something forms its look and capability. He forms it (åpergâzomai) by working on it, by bringing about a work (Årgon). He

Production of the Cosmos

forms its look (¥dèa). Like e†doV, the word ¥dèa is derived from eƒdw, see, and the connection with seeing is of utmost consequence.4 Whatever the layers of sense that later come to enshrine these words, the ¥dèa or e†doV of something signi¤es ¤rst of all—that is, at the point from which philosophical determination begins—the look of that something, how it looks when one looks at it, the look that two things share when they look alike. The maker of something also forms its capability (d¿namiV—from d¿namai: be able or capable), that by which it is capable of performing the functions that belong to such a thing. Timaeus’ description of poÖhsiV (making, fabricating, production) brings to light its mimetic structure. In fabricating something, the maker looks to the model or paradigm (parâdeigma) in order to form the product, to fashion its look and its capability, in such a way that it looks like the paradigm and has the capability for whatever functions belong to something with such a look. Looking in advance to the paradigm, the maker gives the work the same look; he fabricates it in imitation of the paradigm, that is, as an image of the paradigm.5 This is the way a work is to be executed, accomplished, or, more precisely, brought completely to its end (åpotele¢sqai), brought into its tèloV. Indeed when the maker sights in advance the look of the work (how it is to appear, the how of its appearing), such sighting has in view what the work is to come to in the end, when it is ¤nished. In looking to the ¥dèa or e†doV, the maker looks ahead to the tèloV into which the work, by being fully fabricated, is to be brought.6 What the artisan produces is an image (e¥k»n) of the paradigm to which he will always have looked as he comes to shape the image. In the case of the artisan god, the image produced is the cosmos itself. This is to say, conversely, as Timaeus does say, that the cosmos is an image. More precisely, what Timaeus says is: “It is wholly necessary for the cosmos to
4. The word eƒdw is obsolete in the present active, which is supplied by Ñrâw. The importance of this link to seeing for interpreting the philosophical determination that these words undergo beginning with the Platonic texts is stressed by Martin Heidegger (”Platons Lehre von der Wahrheit,” in Wegmarken, vol. 9 of Gesamtausgabe [Frankfurt a.M.: Vittorio Klostermann, 1976], 214). 5. In the Gorgias (503e) Socrates refers to the dhmiourgíV who, “looking to his own work, selects the things he applies to that work of his, not at random, but so as to give a certain e†doV to whatever he is working on.” 6. In his interpretations of Plato and of Aristotle, Heidegger repeatedly and in various speci¤c connections discusses the structure of poÖhsiV and its bearing on such fundamental philosophical determinations as e†doV, morjæ, tèloV, and pèraV. See Die Grundprobleme der Phänomenologie, vol. 24 of Gesamtausgabe, 149–53; Aristoteles, Metaphysik Θ 1–3, vol. 33 of Gesamtausgabe, 136–44; Platon: Sophistes, vol. 19 of Gesamtausgabe, 40–47. According to Heidegger, Plato—and indeed ancient philosophy at large—interprets being as such within the horizon of production (poÖhsiV) (see Grundprobleme der Phänomenologie, 405). The question, addressed by the present study, is whether in the Platonic texts the general orientation to production is not accompanied by a critique of production, that is, a marking of its limits, as noted already in speci¤c reference to the city.

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be an image of something” (29b). Thus, not only is the cosmos an image of something, but also this very bond is a matter of necessity (ånâgkh), that is, in the character of the cosmos as an image and hence as bound to a paradigm, necessity is involved. But what of the god himself? Initially, at least, Timaeus draws back from speaking of him, focusing instead on the structure of poÖhsiV and on the cosmos as a product of divine poÖhsiV. Timaeus says: “To discover the maker and father of this universe would be a task [Årgon], and, having discovered him, to declare [lègein] him to all would be impossible [åd¿naton]” (28c). It would be a task, says Timaeus, to discover (e›re¢n) the artisan god. One could also translate e›re¢n as to devise or even to invent. One wonders whether perhaps the god is so elusive, so dif¤cult to discover, that one must invent him; or whether perhaps when he turns up in the discourse one might never quite be sure whether one has discovered him or invented him. In any case, having thus declared that the capability of discoursing on the god is lacking, Timaeus himself—in his own discourse—then turns away from declaring the god: “Therefore, let us go back to inquiring about the cosmos” (28c). Yet in what Timaeus does say of the god, in the names by which Timaeus calls him, one peculiarity should be noted: Timaeus calls him both maker (poÖhthV) and father (patær) of the universe. In this double naming Timaeus broaches the primary opposition that emerged in the previous discourses: the opposition between the order of poÖhsiV and tècnh and that of ÅrwV (birth, procreation, etc.), or, more generally, between poÖhsiV and j¿siV. For surely to be the maker is not the same as to be the father. Surely it is not the same for the universe to be made as for it to be fathered and born.7 From the outset one can anticipate that the structure of poÖhsiV, speci¤cally, the distinction between paradigm and image, will be submitted to the distinction between perpetual being and that which is generated. Indeed, Timaeus is not long bringing the latter distinction into play; yet initially he brings it to bear in such a way as to distinguish between two kinds of mimetic production. The distinction supplies the
7. Plutarch poses the question provoked by this double naming: “Why did he call the supreme god father and maker of all things?” Though mentioning other explanations, Plutarch regards the following as most correct: “Or is there a difference between father and maker and between birth and genesis? For what has been born has thereby been generated, but, on the other hand, it is not so that he who has begotten has thereby made, for birth is the generation of an animate thing. Also in the case of a maker, such as a builder or a weaver or one who produces a lyre or a statue, his work, when done, is separated from him, whereas the origination and force [årcÆ kaÜ d¿namiV] emanating from the parent is blended in the offspring and remains with its nature, which is a fragment or part of the procreator. Since, then, the cosmos is not like products that have been molded and ¤tted together but has in it a large portion of vitality and divinity, which god sowed from himself in the matter and mixed with it, it is seemly that, since the cosmos has been generated as a living being, god be named, at once, father of it and maker” (Platonic Questions, II, 1).

Production of the Cosmos

two kinds of paradigms to which an artisan can look: if he looks to a paradigm that is selfsame, then the work brought into its end in this regard will be of necessity beautiful (kal¬n èx ånâgkhV), but if he looks to a paradigm belonging to what is generated, the work will not be beautiful. But what is to be understood here by beautiful, and how is it that one kind of poÖhsiV produces a beautiful work while the other does not? In the Phaedrus Socrates declares that what distinguishes the beautiful from all else is that it is the most shining forth (ìkjanèstaton) and the most beloved (ìrasm»taton).8 Leaving the latter determination aside (as expressing the link between the beautiful and ÅrwV), one can say: the beautiful is that which shows itself (jaÖnesqai) forth; it is the being that most shines forth in its self-showing, that shines forth into and in the domain of the visible, the generated. The beautiful names the shiningforth of being in the midst of the visible, and whatever among generated things can be called beautiful are such precisely by their capability for letting such shining forth occur. Because those works made in the image of selfsame being are the ones most capable of letting being shine forth, the paradigm showing itself in their very imaging, such works are to be called beautiful. Timaeus grants a certain latitude regarding the name by which to call that which already he has called t¬ pàn (the all, the universe): he refers to it as “the whole heaven or cosmos or, if there is any other name that it especially prefers, by that let us call it—so be its name what it may” (28b). The old name for sky or heaven, o‹raníV, ¤gures in Hesiod’s genealogy: broad-bosomed earth ¤rst bore starry heaven, equal in size to herself, to cover her on all sides; thereafter she lay with heaven and gave birth to the Titans, the Cyclopes, and other monstrous creatures (Theogony 116–53). Later in his ¤rst discourse when Timaeus recounts the genealogy of the gods, he refers to this mating of earth and heaven as the beginning from which the entire lineage has sprung (40d–41a). Very often, as the present passage suggests, Timaeus will use o‹raníV synonymously with t¬ pan and kísmoV, though there are passages where, for essential reasons, he lets its sense slip back toward the older usage in which heaven is distinguished from earth.9 The tradition is that Pythagoras was the ¤rst to use kísmoV to designate what the earlier Greeks had called o‹raníV. In Homer the word kísmoV is found in a sense designating the ordered battle-array of an army; from this it came to mean any ordered array, hence, in particular, the ordered array of the stars and planets in the heaven.10 Just before and just after (27c, 28c) the names
8. Phaedr. 250d–e. The full context for these remarks is developed in Being and Logos, 153–59. 9. This is noted by Serge Margel, Le Tombeau du Dieu Artisan (Paris: Les Éditions de Minuit, 1995), 96. 10. See Taylor, Commentary on Plato’s Timaeus, 65f.

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o‹raníV and kísmoV are proposed, Timaeus calls what these names would designate by the name t¬ pàn (the all, the universe), and in the proposal stresses this most inclusive sense by referring not just to the heaven but to the whole heaven. Timaeus poses the question of the cosmos (or heaven or whatever it may be called), the question of its beginning. Or rather, he poses the question of the cosmos as a question of beginning. In his formulation of this question, four variations of the word beginning (årcæ) occur. He says: “We must investigate the question that has to be investigated in the beginning [ìn årc‡] in every case—namely, whether it has always been, having no beginning [årcæ] of generation, or whether it has been generated [gègonen], having begun from some beginning [åp4 årcôV tin¬V årxâmenoV]” (28b—emphasis added). Timaeus answers with a single word: gègonen (it has been generated, has come to be). He explains: for it is something visible and tangible, something having body, that is, it is something sensible (a¥sqhtín) apprehended by opinion with sense, and such things are generated. It must, then, have had a cause, a maker. Furthermore, its maker must have fabricated it by looking to the everlasting, to perpetual being; this, says Timaeus, is clear, for the cosmos is the most beautiful of things generated and its maker the best of all causes. That it is beautiful is to say that its maker looked to a selfsame, perpetual paradigm; as indeed he cannot but have done, since he is a good maker, hence one who looks to a genuine paradigm rather than a mere imitation. With these moves Timaeus thus submits the structure of cosmical production, its distinction between paradigm and image, to the distinction between perpetual being and that which is generated. This ontological determination of poÖhsiV is decisive: it inscribes the workings of production within the orbit of what will eventually be called the ¤rst and the second kinds. It is precisely at this point, with the determination of poÖhsiV completed, that Timaeus concludes that the cosmos is, of necessity (ånâgkh), an image of something. And it is here, with the schema of poÖhsiV in place, that he then enunciates the injunction about beginning: “With regard to everything it is most important to begin at the natural beginning” (29b). Is this the point, then, where Timaeus’ discourse properly begins? Is this, ¤nally, the beginning? Not yet. Even here, even with the enunciation of the injunction about beginning, his discourse still does not properly begin but rather is deferred for the sake of a brief yet crucial discourse on discourse, on the discourse still to come, on the character of that discourse. In the interval before beginning, Timaeus begins with the question: What kind of discourse is to be produced? Or rather, he puts in play the re¶ection of the opening distinction back upon the character of discourse, specifying precisely how it determines the kinds of discourse. The pivot on which the re¶ection turns is Timaeus’

Production of the Cosmos

statement that any discourse is akin to that which it is about; literally, it is of the same kind (suggenæV) (29b), so that the character of a kind of discourse, even if not manifest from the discourse itself, can always be determined by reference to that which the discourse is about. Hence, those discourses that tell of what is permanent and stable, of such selfsame paradigms as that to which the artisan god looks in making the cosmos, will themselves be permanent and unchanging; their invincibility will prevent their being forced aside and swept away by other discourses. But discourses about the images of selfsame paradigms will share in their imagecharacter. Such discourses will be of the same kind as the images told of in the discourses: lígoV about an e¥k»n will be an e¥kãV lígoV. One can say likely discourse, but only provided one understands likely by reference, not to some abstract concept of probability, but to the character of that which the likely discourse is about, its character as a likeness, an image. Like the images of which it speaks, such discourse would be removed from the truth itself, set at a distance from it. Such discourse will be just as impermanent, as changing, as the images of which it speaks. One would also expect it to be multiple, one discourse changing into another or coming to sweep another aside, one discourse developing into another or one coming to interrupt another. So then, corresponding to the two sides of the opening distinction, to what will be called the ¤rst and the second kind, there are also two kinds of discourse. The proportion then stated (being [o‹sÖa] is to generation as truth is to belief [pÖstiV]) recalls the elaboration that the central Books of the Republic bring to bear upon the distinction with which Timaeus’ discourse has opened; and though the proportion appears to situate e¥kãV lígoV short of truth, associating it with belief, this does not entail that such discourse is simply to be opposed to truth and correctness11 but only that it is removed from truth in the same way that an image is distanced from its paradigm, but also, therefore, related to it. The very determination of the cosmos as an image prescribes that discourse about it will be e¥kãV lígoV, which one ought, then, to accept without seeking something beyond it, without construing it as merely a prelude to a discourse on truth itself. Timaeus hints that the attachment of human discourse to images, hence, its character as e¥kãV lígoV, may not be as dispensable as his reference to the opening distinction may have sug-

11. This is emphasized by Witte, who cites several passages in support of a certain association of e¥kãV lígoV with truth and correctness. In one passage, for example, having referred explicitly to e¥kãV lígoV, Timaeus then goes on to speak of grasping the truth (ålæqeia) concerning the generation of the earth (53d–e). Another passage suggests even a certain equivalence by means of the formula: katä t¬n ñrq¬n lígon kaÜ katä t¬n e¥kíta (56b). See Bernd Witte, “Der 4EikãV LígoV in Platos Timaios,” Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie 47 (1964): 2. Note also the association, more complex and problematic, posed at the threshold of the chorology when Timaeus tells how a certain result said in what is manifestly e¥kãV lígoV can be said most correctly (ñrqítata) (51b).

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gested: addressing Socrates by name, he recalls the human nature to which discourse is linked (“I who speak and you who judge [what is spoken]”). Then he asks for a certain indulgence: if we prove unable to give discourses that are wholly and in all ways in agreement with themselves, that speak together (like those who speak the same language) (Ñmologèw), discourses that are carefully ¤nished off (åphkribwmènoV), rounded out, as it were—that we are incapable of such utterly coherent discourse should not arouse Socrates’ wonder. Little wonder, then, that the Timaeus proves so discontinuous, so indecisive; little wonder that its discourse turns out to be so often—and decisively—interrupted, this discourse that Timaeus advises be accepted and calls, ¤nally, e¥kãV m”qoV, as he concludes the discourse on discourse. That conclusion is marked as such by Socrates’ statement of acceptance, not only his acceptance of what Timaeus has advised, but also his acceptance wondrously (qaumasÖwV) of the prelude that Timaeus has presented (29d). The expression of wondrous acceptance, alluding to the begining of philosophy (see Theaet. 155d), is the last utterance by Socrates in the dialogue. From this point on, he keeps, as he had promised he would (26e–27a), completely silent: throughout the interval in which the ¤rst discourse is interrupted and a new beginning made and then throughout the chorology and all that surrounds it. ANIMATING THE COSMIC BODY Having given his wonderful prelude, evoking Socrates’ ¤nal words of acceptance, Timaeus is ready to begin. Socrates’ ¤nal words, referring to wonder, have marked the beginning. Yet in this beginning, as, previously, in the opening scene of the dialogue, as, later, in the chorology, it is a matter of reception. Timaeus begins, not by putting something forth, not by proposing a thesis, but rather by accepting something, receiving it (åpodecímenoV). What he receives is a beginning (årcæ): he begins, not by making a beginning, but by receiving a beginning, receiving it, as he declares, from certain wise men. What does this beginning say? What is said in and as the received beginning? What, in particular, does it say in the beginning? How does it begin? It begins: “Good he was [ågaq¬V ©n]” (29e). Hence, the ¤rst word of the beginning, that is, the beginning of the beginning that Timaeus accepts as his way of beginning, is: good. If one puts in play Socrates’ declaration in the Republic that the good is the beginning itself, the beginning of the whole, the beginning of everything (Rep. 511b), then one can trace at this point in the Timaeus a fourfold compounding of beginning: the beginning (the ¤rst word) of the beginning received as Timaeus’ way of beginning is the good, which is the beginning itself. Declaring the maker good, the received beginning continues: because

Production of the Cosmos

he is good, he has no jealousy (envy, ill-will); thus, in making the all, he wanted it to be as much like himself as possible, that is, wanted it to be as good as it could be. In effect, this says: he is a good maker and as such wants to make as good a product as possible. Timaeus tells then of this production. He tells how the god took over all that is visible, or, as may equally well be said (translating paralambânw), how the god received the visible. The double sense is appropriate: the visible was there to be taken up by the god and thus was both taken and received. When the god, receiving it, came to take it up, it was not at rest but in discordant and disorderly motion. By taking up what he had received, the god brought the visible from disorder into order (tâxiV). As would any good artisan in coming to form the look and capability of his work. Yet the god, this best of artisans, fabricated a work that is not only good but also beautiful, indeed most beautiful (t¬ kâlliston). For if the look and capability of a work are properly formed, if the artisan, looking to a selfsame paradigm, fabricates the work in such a way that it looks like the paradigm in imitation of which it was to be made, then the work will be the kind of image that lets its paradigm most shine forth, that is, a beautiful—indeed most beautiful—image. A re¶ection (logismíV) intervenes—is said by Timaeus to intervene— as if interrupting and then mediating the speci¤cation of the artisan god’s work. In re¶ecting, the god found that among visible things none of those lacking no”V will be more beautiful than those possessing no”V. Timaeus does not say how the god’s re¶ection brought him to this ¤nding. One might presume, venturing to reenact such reflection, that the god’s finding derived from reflecting that only a being possessing no”V can look to a selfsame paradigm so as then to produce a good and beautiful image; such a being would, then, embody the very condition for beautiful things being brought forth at all. But, without offering any such conditions, Timaeus moves on to say how the re¶ection continued, how the god prolonged the interval for the sake of another ¤nding: no”V cannot be present in anything without yucæ. The results of the re¶ection are then made to govern the god’s work, to determine it in its speci¤city: on account of this re¶ection, says Timaeus, the god constructed no”V within yucæ and yucæ within sõma as he fashioned the universe to be the best and most beautiful. Venturing, with due reservations, the traditional translations, one can say, translating what Timaeus says: the god set intelligence within soul and soul within body. Explicitly referring to the character of his discourse, marking it as likely discourse, Timaeus declares—or rather, declares that one must declare (de¢ lègein)—that the cosmos was, in truth,12 generated
12. This passage is one of the most straightforward instances of association between e¥kãV lígoV and truth. See also note 11.

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as a living being (zÃon) endowed with soul and intelligence.13 The cosmos is, then, a living being. As such, it is something produced, a work brought forth by means of the cosmic poÖhsiV of the artisan god. And yet, living beings ordinarily do not come about in this way; they are not fabricated by an artisan but rather are born. Here, then, a tension emerges that in the discourse on the cosmos corresponds to that which came into play in Socrates’ discourse on the city: the tension between the order of production and that of birth (and, more broadly, of all that is linked to ÅrwV). This tension will recur throughout Timaeus’ ¤rst discourse and indeed beyond it; again and again it will be reconstituted in various forms as a wavering between a discourse of production and a discourse of procreation and birth.14 But in the discourse of production to which Timaeus now for the moment adheres, the proper order of questioning is determined: what has to be asked about next is the paradigm that would have governed the god’s production of the cosmos. Timaeus pursues this question, though without indicating whether the god too would have pursued it along the course leading to its answer; that is, Timaeus gives no indication whether he is reenacting a re¶ection that the god would have carried out before then letting its result determine the work, or whether he is merely constructing a discourse leading to a result that to the god would have been immediately manifest, indeed at the very moment the god commenced his work. In any case, it is—at least for Timaeus—a question of which living being would
13. Nietzsche’s intent to reverse or invert “Platonism” is brought to bear speci¤cally on this identi¤cation of the cosmos with a living being: “Let us be on guard against thinking that the world is a living being. Where should it expand? On what should it feed? How could it grow and multiply? We know more or less what the organic is; and we should not reinterpret the exceedingly derivative, late, rare, accidental, which we perceive only on the crust of the earth, and make of it something essential, universal, eternal, which is what those do who call the universe an organism. This nauseates me. . . . Let us be on guard against positing generally and everywhere anything as perfect as the cyclical movements of our neighboring stars; even a glance into the Milky Way raises doubts whether there are not far coarser and more contradictory movements there, as well as stars with eternally linear paths, etc. The astral order in which we live is an exception; this order and the considerable duration that depends on it have again made possible the exception of exceptions: the formation of the organic. The total character of the world, however, is in all eternity chaos . . .” (Die fröhliche Wissenschaft, in vol. V/2 of Werke: Kritische Gesamtausgabe, ed. G. Colli and M. Montinari [Berlin: de Gruyter, 1973], 145–46 [§109]). It should not go unremarked that the very questions Nietzsche raises in this passage ¤gure prominently in the Timaeus. The question of expansion comes into play already in Critias’ discourse; later it will return to haunt Timaeus’ discourse on the cosmos. Timaeus will also undertake to show that the cosmos is one and hence incapable of multiplying, to say nothing of the way in which the question of doubling a selfsame one will emerge at the center of the dialogue. In one account Timaeus will tell—though not without releasing a bit of comedy—just what the cosmos feeds on, namely, its own excrement. 14. At the most elementary level the tension often involves pairing a form of gennâw (to beget [of the father], to bear [of the mother]) with other words that refer to production. Some examples: gignímena kaÜ gennhtâ (28c); gègonen . . . gennhqènteV (38b); gènesin . . . gennæsaV . . . dhmiourg¬V patær (41a); åpergâzesqe . . . gennàte (41d).

Production of the Cosmos

have constituted the paradigm according to which the cosmos was made. It can be taken for granted15 that the paradigm belongs to perpetual, selfsame being; it is such being as is comprehended by intellection (noæsiV) and may accordingly be called, as Timaeus now calls it, intelligible (nohtín). The question is, then, which of the intelligible living beings (tä nohtä z…a) constitutes the paradigm to which the god would have looked as he came to produce the cosmos. Timaeus’ answer is determined by the exigency of comprehension, which is linked to the beauty of the cosmos: not only that the paradigm be one comprehended by intellection but also, indeed primarily, that it comprehend, include within itself, all other living beings, that all other living beings be parts of it, individually and generically (kaq4 Én kaÜ katä gènh).16 This paradigmatic living being encompasses all intelligible living beings (nohtä z…a), just as the cosmos contains all other visible living beings.17 Thus, the cosmos resembles its paradigm not only by virtue of
15. Timaeus has just said, almost exactly as before (see 29b): to¿tou d4 ›pârcontoV (30c). The most immediate reference is to the conclusion that the cosmos is a living being; but inasmuch as this conclusion involves the declaration that the cosmos is beautiful, the character of the paradigm as intelligible has in effect been also declared, that is, it is established or, considering the initial hypotheticals, can be taken for granted. 16. By the time of Proclus there was already an extended discussion of just how this phrase should be interpreted in this context. Some (e.g., Atticus) contend that Én refers to the individual in distinction from the genus, whereas others (e.g., Iamblicus) take the Én to refer to the oneness that is proper to every intelligible regardless of the multiplicity of species within a genus (see Proclus’ summary in In Platonis Timaeum Commentaria, 1:425–47). A. E. Taylor proposes that the phrase means “each noht¬n z…on and each group or ‘family’ of nohtä z…a is a member of the a‹tíz‚on”; he insists that “if we attempt any further precision of interpretation, we get into apparently insoluble dif¤culties” (Commentary on Plato’s Timaeus, 82). Although the phrase clearly refers to the intelligible living being (the paradigm), it could perhaps also be taken to allude to the difference between inclusion of individuals (in place) and that of species within a genus. 17. The determination of the cosmos as a living being provides the point of departure for a remarkable and insightful essay by Rémi Brague (“The Body of the Speech: A New Hypothesis on the Compositional Structure of Timaeus’ Monologue,” in Platonic Investigations, ed. Dominic J. O’Meara [Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 1985], 53–83). Citing the passage from the Phaedrus (264c) in which Socrates declares that a discourse should be constructed like a living being (see above, chap. 1, n. 9), Brague proposes that Timaeus’ speech, since it is also about a living being, imitates structurally precisely that of which it speaks. Since the living cosmos turns out to be isomorphic to the human being, Brague puts forth the hypothesis that the structure of Timaeus’ discourse imitates that of the human being. Thus he shows how Timaeus’ ¤rst discourse (up to 47e) corresponds to the human head, since it gives an account of the world as governed by no”V, which has its seat in the human head, the shape of which imitates that of the universe; and though other bodily parts are mentioned in the ¤rst discourse, they are considered solely from the point of view of the head. Brague undertakes to show also that the remainder of Timaeus’ discourse corresponds to the trunk of the human body, though in this regard the ¤t is, as Brague acknowledges, considerably more problematic. He notes that the principal division within this remainder of Timaeus’ speech comes at 69a and regards these two subparts as corresponding to the upper trunk (thorax) and the lower trunk, respectively, the two divided by the midriff. This means, then, that the thorax, where the qumíV has its seat, ought to correspond to the part—or subpart—of the discourse that treats of ånâgkh and that the lower trunk, even below the liver, should correspond to the conjunction of no”V and ånâgkh. Yet much that is xmxmx

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being a living being endowed with soul and intelligence but also by virtue of being all-inclusive. It is on precisely this basis that Timaeus can go on to insist that the cosmos is one, that there is only one heaven. Yet, even though both paradigm and image are distinctively all-inclusive, they are inclusive in decisively different ways. The difference has primarily to do with place; that is, what distinguishes the kind of inclusion characteristic of the visible cosmos is that, unlike intelligible inclusion, it holds together in an extended place beings that with respect to one another are in different places within this comprehensive place. It is as if in the transition from intelligible to visible something like place came into play, letting things be set apart as they are gathered into the comprehensive visible cosmos. As the c»ra, which seems like place, will prove always to have come into play in the very opening of the difference. Timaeus’ narrative shifts toward greater speci¤city, as well as toward a kind of beginning, focusing on the cosmos as it would have been—had it been at all—before being endowed with soul and intelligence. For the moment disregarding these endowments, Timaeus speaks of the cosmos as it would have been—had it been at all—when it was not yet a living being but only a body, only a kind of double, before birth, of the corpse it would become after death, if it were to die. This shift is announced by the ¤rst word that Timaeus, having completed the more general account, then goes on to utter: of bodily form (swmatoeidèV). The generated, he says, must be of bodily form, visible and tangible. Yet without ¤re nothing becomes visible; neither can anything become tangible without solidity, nor solid without earth. Thus was the beginning determined: in beginning to compose the body of the universe, the god was making it of ¤re and earth. But these two could be bound together only by a third. Yet, since it was to be not just a plane surface but solid (and since earth alone was not suf¤cient for the solidity of the whole, now in the sense of depth, not of resistance to
said in these discourses would suggest, if anything, the opposite: if one grants that (in a passage that Brague cites) “all that comes in to give sustenance to the body is necessary” (75e), then the lower trunk rather than the thorax would seem to correspond to necessity; also the qumíV, located in the thorax, would in the well-known ¤gure from the Republic (see 441e) bring about accord between the highest and the lowest (ìpiqumÖa). Brague grants that in the dialogue there are other “logographic necessities” that cannot but interfere with the discourse’s imitation of the human body. One instance would perhaps be put in play if one thematized the capital character of the ¤rst discourse in relation to the way that same character is exhibited in Socrates’ speech, namely, as involving a certain comic disregard for the rest of the body and most notably for all that has to do with ÅrwV. One should note also that Brague’s insistence on dividing Timaeus’ speech into two parts (the second then subdivided) rather than three depends on his hypothesis, so that if one leaves that hypothesis suspended, there will be no reason for not dividing Timaeus’ speech into three parts, as it would seem itself to prescribe. Whatever the extent of its possible con¤rmation, there is no denying that Brague’s hypothesis is a powerful one, which, even at points where it seems not to be borne out by the discourse itself, serves nonetheless to reveal connections that would otherwise go unheeded.

Production of the Cosmos

touch), an additional middle term, a fourth, was required. Thus binding air and water between the other two in the manner of a proportion, the god constructed the body of the cosmos. Timaeus describes quite precisely the bonds by which the four are bound together. They are bonds formed by numbers, bonds that imitate the most thoroughly binding bonds between numbers, namely, those formed by a continued geometrical proportion (ånalogÖa). Timaeus de¤nes such a proportion, indicating especially the exceptional binding power of such proportion: “For whenever, of three numbers, the middle one between any two that are cubes or squares is such that, as the ¤rst is to it, so is it to the last, and conversely as the last is to the middle, so is the middle to the ¤rst, then since the middle becomes ¤rst and last and, again, the last and ¤rst become middle, in that way all will necessarily come to play the same part toward one another, and by so doing they will all make a unity” (31c–32a). Thus a continued geometrical proportion of three terms, a, b, c, will be such that: (1) a : b :: b : c (2) conversely— c : b :: b : a (3) the middle becomes last and ¤rst, and the last and ¤rst become middle— b : c :: a : b Thus, any one of the three terms can stand as ¤rst, last, or middle. In this sense they are interchangeable and thus form a unity, are all one (Én pânta). Yet Timaeus speci¤es that he is referring to the case of square and cubical numbers (or at least to cases where the two extreme terms are squares or cubes). In the case of squares the proportion would take the form: a2 : ab :: ab : b2 But whereas one mean suf¤ces to connect squares, it requires (as Euclid proves) two means to connect two cubes in such a geometrical proportion:18 a3 : a2b :: a2b : ab2 :: ab2 : b3 Since the body of the cosmos is solid, such a proportion was established as far as possible between the four: ¤re : air :: air : water :: water : earth Indeed Timaeus declares that the four were thus bound in such unity as is indissoluble except by the god himself. The word by which Timaeus designates
18. See Cornford, Plato’s Cosmology, 45–52; and Sir Thomas Heath, A History of Greek Mathematics (New York: Dover, 1981), 1: 84–86, 89–90.

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the resulting state of union is jilÖa, which no doubt echoes Empedocles19 but which also may be taken to allude to ÅrwV, as if to provoke some suspicion as to whether the body thus composed is indeed that of an erotic being. This suspicion is borne out in what follows. According to Timaeus’ account, the god intentionally used up all the ¤re, air, water, and earth, so that nothing was left over from which another cosmos could be produced, insuring thus that the cosmos would be one. Also, by leaving nothing outside the body of the cosmos, the god made it immune to aging and illness, which always come upon a body, so Timaeus says, from without (Åxwqen). What Timaeus does not quite say is that this is tantamount to making it immune also to death; even before—so it seems—it is endowed with soul so as to become a living being, it is made immortal, or at least indestructible except by the god himself. Timaeus identi¤es the shape into which the god formed the body of the cosmos: he made it in the shape of a sphere, the shape that is comprehensive of all others and that is similar to itself, selfsame in the sense of having every point equidistant from the center. Thus was the body of the cosmos made in imitation of selfsame being, though as a sphere its selfsameness is a sameness of displacement from one and the same stigmatic locus. Thus will something like place have been operative in the fabrication of the body of the cosmos. Timaeus continues by telling how and why it was made smooth all around. Since there was nothing outside it to see or hear, it had no need of eyes or ears, no need of openings to the outside. Since there was no air surrounding it, it needed no organ of respiration by which an exchange with the outside would otherwise be made possible. It needed no hands, either for grasping or for repelling anyone, as in battle; neither did it need feet with which otherwise it would venture outside. Instead, making it smooth all around, the god spun it around uniformly in the same place, its movement thus imitating the selfsameness of its intelligible paradigm. Thus the god made it self-suf¤cient (a‹târkhV), so much so—and the excess releases now a bit of comedy—that, as he says: nothing went out from it or came into it from anywhere, since there was nothing; it was designed to feed itself on its own waste and to act and be acted upon by itself and within itself. Hence, the body of the cosmos proves to be so self-enclosed that it feeds on its own excrement and affects, feels, only itself. There could hardly be a more perfect cosmic analogue to the Socratic city, most notably, to that self-enclosed, self-suf¤cient city of artisans that the erotic Glaucon declared a city of sows. The word a‹târkhV with which Timaeus
19. Few other passages put into play in such proximity the Pythagorean and the Empedoclean af¤nities of the Timaeus. One recognizes here the four roots ($iz»mata) of Empedocles, as well as that årcæ that he calls jilÖa. At the same time, number (that is, numerical proportion) also comes to bind the roots together in jilÖa. On this double af¤nity, see A. E. Taylor, Commentary on Plato’s Timaeus, 88–93.

Production of the Cosmos

describes the cosmic body makes the analogy unmistakable: a píliV a‹târkhV is a city that supplies its own needs, that wants no imports. Just as the city determined by tècnh proved, even in its development beyond a simple community of artisans, to be oblivious to ÅrwV and to the difference, the incalculable otherness, linked to ÅrwV, so the fabricated body of the cosmos is closed upon itself, constructed in such a way that there remains no other; and in Timaeus’ description of this body there is absolutely no mention of its genitals, not even a declaration—as with eyes, ears, lungs, mouth, hands, feet, etc.—that it had no need of such organs. As if Timaeus had forgotten that living beings mate and procreate. Indeed, what the body of the cosmos most resembles, among living beings and their parts, is the human head.20 As Socrates presented the head of a discourse, so has Timaeus now presented a discourse of the head. But Timaeus calls it a god, a god to be, a god who is to be made by the god who always is. Yet the cosmic body will not have been made a god until it is brought to life, animated, by the god who makes it. Thus, Timaeus tells how the artisan god set soul into body: he stretched soul throughout the whole of the cosmic body and also covered it with soul all around its outside. In this way he made one unique heaven, capable, because of its excellence, of keeping company with itself, needing no other, suf¤cing to itself as acquaintance and friend, generated thus as a blessed (e‹daÖmwn) god. One might have thought that the soul, brought into the body, would stretch the living being beyond itself, opening it to alterity, drawing it toward others to be consumed, loved, or conversed with, delivering it from the solitude of feeding on its own excrement, of feeling only itself, and of speaking only in monologue, as Timaeus himself is now speaking. Yet, as Timaeus tells the story, the soul came, instead, to be wrapped around the body in such a way as to conceal and enclose it, sealing it off all the more decisively in its self-enclosure. But Timaeus’ way of telling the story does not go unremarked: no sooner has Timaeus told of how the soul comes to be in the body than he interrupts the discourse so as to turn it upon itself and declare its errancy. As, at an earlier point, he had taken care to mark distinctly an appropriate transition: in moving from the segment of his discourse in which the cosmos is ¤rst characterized as a living being to that segment in which the paradigm of the cosmos is determined, Timaeus doubles the discourse so as to submit it to a prescription. He says: “This being granted [or established: to¿tou d4 ›pârcontoV], we must declare what comes next in order [ìjexôV]” (30c). Thus Timaeus prescribes that the discourse is to be governed by a certain order, that order is to be observed as the discourse unfolds its story of how the god brought the visible from disorder into order. And yet, as
20. See Brague, “The Body of the Speech,” 58.

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soon as he ¤nishes telling how the god made the body of the cosmos, Timaeus violates the proper order that the discourse ought to observe: he immediately sets about telling how the god set the soul in the body, even though he has said absolutely nothing about how the soul is itself made. Almost as if the soul were ready-made. Or as if it simply came from nowhere. Only after he has told how the soul is set into the body does Timaeus reveal that the soul too, like the body, was fabricated by the god. Only after the discourse has set it into the body does Timaeus go on to tell how the god made the soul; whereas, if the discourse had been properly ordered, he would have told of the fabrication of the soul before venturing his narrative on cosmic embodiment. This is the disorder, the errancy, that Timaeus declares when he interrupts the discourse that has just set the soul in the body. Or rather, instead of simply making this disorder explicit, he indicates that the discourse is even more disordered than it might have seemed. Since the soul is to rule over the body, it is prior in excellence and birth; it is older than the body, that is, it must have been made ¤rst, before the god made the body. Hence, if the discourse were properly ordered, Timaeus would have told ¤rst how the soul was made, before then going on to tell of the fabrication of the body and of the joining of the soul to the body. But, instead, Timaeus has told ¤rst about the fabricating of the body, disordering his discourse from the beginning, from the point at which he began to address the cosmos in its speci¤city and as it would have been in the beginning. Timaeus has not—and indeed now declares that he has not—begun as he should have, has not begun at the beginning, has not made a proper beginning. To be sure, Timaeus ventures some compensatory moves: he launches an account of how the soul was made, detaching the soul, for purposes of this account, from the body to which his disordered discourse has just joined it, and then, once the account of the soul’s fabrication has been completed, he tells, for the second time, how the soul and the body are brought together. Yet even these moves cannot compensate entirely for his not having properly begun; they cannot undo his having begun with the fabrication of the body. Despite the compensatory moves, he will nonetheless have begun otherwise than with the beginning, will have begun with what comes later, disordering the discourse, putting it ahead of itself. Eventually Timaeus will break off this discourse and launch a new beginning; then he will, though in a different sense, begin with the beginning or at least in its proximity, providing even a sort of retrospective vindication for having begun with the body, or rather, with the ¤re, air, water, and earth from which it is composed, even though it will still have been improper, within a discourse on the work of no”V, to have begun in this way. Indeed, in the present discourse (the ¤rst of Timaeus’ three), at the point where it turns upon its own errancy, Timaeus can only appeal to the errancy of human discourse, declaring that it partakes of what is by chance and at random (prostucín-

Production of the Cosmos

toV te kaÜ e¥k‡), just as we ourselves do. Exposed to chance and randomness, discourse is led astray and caused to wander errantly from the order otherwise proper to it. As in Timaeus’ discourse. Yet eventually, at the point where Timaeus breaks off his ¤rst discourse and launches a new beginning, he will address his discourse to this errant cause that will already have led his discourse astray. Now, as if turning back to an earlier beginning, one preceding the installation of the soul in the body, if not also the fabrication of the body, Timaeus tells from what and in what way the god made the soul of the cosmos: “In the middle between the being that is indivisible and is always according to the same and that which is divisible and is generated in connection with bodies, he blended from both a third form of being [trÖton . . . o‹sÖaV e†doV], that is, from the nature of the same and of the different; and in this way he compounded it in the middle between that one of them that is indivisible and that one that is divisible in bodies. And taking these three beings, he blended them all into one form, joining by force the nature of the different with that of the same, despite their being hard to mix [d¿smikton]. And mixing them with the being and having made [poihsâmenoV] one out of three, he next went on to divide the whole into as many parts as was appropriate, each having come to be (mixed) from the same, the different, and the being” (35a–b).21 This account of the mixings by which the soul was made has been called “the most perplexing and dif¤cult passage of the whole dialogue.”22 To be sure, it has been a subject of controversy throughout much of the history of Platonism. Plutarch reports that even in the early Academy there was disagreement and debate about it between Xenocrates and his pupil Crantor, author of the ¤rst commentaries on the Timaeus. The signi¤cance of the passage is indisputable: the entire discourse on the soul ¶ows from it and is determined by it. It constitutes a decisive step in the unfolding of that apparent-yet-questionable distinction that structures the entirety of Timaeus’ ¤rst discourse, the twofold distinction between perpetual being and the generated. In view of the high stakes of the passage and the persistent debate over it, any interpretation to be proposed will require careful preparation and will gain in precision if not in force by differentiation from certain traditional interpretations. Even then, it cannot but be hedged with uncertainties and reservations. Three traditional interpretations bear consideration. The ¤rst, which
21. This translation follows the general lines of the version proposed by A. E. Taylor, though with some variation in the particulars. Following Taylor, the words a™ pèri in 35a4 are omitted. Even Taylor seems less than certain whether in 35a5 one should read katä ta‹tâ or katä ta”ta. From a certain interpretive point of view, the former has the advantage of suggesting, as Taylor notes, that the same and different of 35a4–5 are identical with the indivisible and divisible of 35a5–6, though the other reading would not preclude this conclusion. See Taylor, Commentary on Plato’s Timaeus, 107–109. 22. Ibid., 106.

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can be extracted from Proclus’ extended discussion of the passage, has been more recently proposed by Cornford.23 This interpretation recognizes, as do most others, two major stages in the blending that produces the soul of the cosmos. Then, focusing on the ¤rst stage, the interpretation differentiates between three separate blendings: that of divisible and indivisible forms of being,24 that of divisible and indivisible sameness, and that of divisible and indivisible difference. Cornford construes the distinction between divisible and indivisible as coinciding with that between perpetual being and the generated,25 effectively reproducing in modern guise a move found in the Enneads, speci¤cally in a text in which Plotinus cites from the very passage in question.26 Following Proclus, Cornford also relates these blendings, though only loosely, to the passage in the Sophist (254b–257a) devoted to the greatest kinds, among which are being, sameness, and difference. The ¤rst stage of the blending mixes divisible and indivisible forms of each of these three so as to produce intermediate forms of being, sameness, and difference. At the second stage these three intermediate forms are then blended to form the whole, the one mixture, which will then be cut and shaped into the soul of the cosmos. This interpretation is not without dif¤culties, two of which would seem to be decisive. First, it passes over the way in which the passage in its opening phrase connects the same with the indivisible; both belong together on the side of perpetual being. Thus, to suppose a divisible form of sameness is counter to what the passage says. The second dif¤culty is the complement of the ¤rst: by being connected to the generated and to bodies, the divisible is bound to difference. Indeed, it is the very character of difference to be the difference of something from something else, that is, to be dyadic and thus to involve division. Plutarch’s On the Generation of the Soul in the Timaeus begins by citing the passage in question and then observing that “to recount at present all the dissensions that these words have occasioned their interpreters is . . . an immense task.”27 Though sparing himself this task, Plutarch does mention two ¤gures the explication of whose interpretations will provide something like a keynote (ìndísimoV). The ¤rst is Xenocrates, head of the Academy from 335 to 314 b.c. According to Plutarch’s report, Xenocrates declared that “the being of the
23. Proclus, In Platonis Timaeum Commentaria, especially 2:137–38; Cornford, Plato’s Cosmology, 59–66. 24. Cornford’s translation of o‹sÖa as existence is a misleading anachronism, for the concept of existence in its intrinsic opposition to essence is decidedly post-Platonic. This is a prime instance of imposing back upon the Platonic texts a language and a conceptuality that ¤rst became possible on the basis of what was achieved in and through those texts. 25. In Cornford’s anachronistic terminology, the distinction coincides with that between “the real ‘being’” and “the ‘becoming’ of the things of sense” (Plato’s Cosmology, 62). 26. The words cited are: perÜ tä s»mata (Ennead IV.2). 27. Plutarch, On the Generation of the Soul in the Timaeus, 1012d.

Production of the Cosmos

soul is number itself being moved by itself [tôV yucôV tÆn o‹sÖan åriqm¬n a‹t¬n ›j4 Äauto” kino¿menon åpojhnâmenoV].”28 Thus, in interpreting the passage in question, Xenocrates focused on the distinction between indivisible and divisible, assimilating this distinction to that between one (the indivisible unit of Greek mathematics) and multiplicity (which results from division, from repeatedly dividing in two) or, more precisely, between the one and the indeterminate dyad (Én/åíristoV duâV). What Timaeus is thus taken to be describing in the passage in question is the derivation of numbers, the generation of them by the blending of the one with the indeterminate dyad, each åriqmíV being, according to Greek mathematics, a number of ones. Yet the soul is not taken merely as number but as self-moving number, and this is why a second blending is required: the second blending mixes with number the årcaÖ of rest and motion, namely, sameness and difference. Over against Xenocrates’ interpretation it would seem suf¤cient to cite Plutarch’s own critical remark: “It is not the same, I think, to say that the soul is put together according to number and to say that its very being is number.”29 According to Plutarch, a very different interpretation was put forth by Xenocrates’ pupil, Crantor of Soli. In general, Crantor took the soul to be a mixture of the intelligible and the opinable-sensible nature. More speci¤cally, he supposed the soul’s peculiar function to consist in discriminating or judging (krÖnein) regarding intelligibles and sensibles as well as regarding the samenesses and differences occurring in relation to these. Assuming that like is known by like,30 he concludes that, in order that the soul may know—that is, judge—all, it has been blended together out of all, that is, from the intelligible and bodily and from sameness and difference. In view of this interpretation let it suf¤ce to remark that, though the intelligible is (at least in Plutarch’s report) characterized as being according to the same (katä ta‹tâ), the intelligible and sameness are deployed as though they were simply two distinct moments that subsequently are mixed together in the formation of the blend. As in the other two interpretations, the mutual implication between the various oppositions goes unheeded. If, on the other hand, one acknowledges that the indivisible (one) and perpetual, selfsame being and sameness are bound together in their very sense, as are likewise their symmetrical opposites (the divisible and the generated and difference), then one will conclude that a mixing of one pair of opposites cannot but also mix the other pairs. In other words,

28. Ibid. 29. Ibid., 1013c–d. 30. This assumption is not explicitly stated by Plutarch. See Cherniss’ note e to ibid., 1013a.

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there are not multiple, parallel blendings in this sense (that is, of being, of sameness, and of difference); rather, these are only multiple facets of a single blending, the ¤rst of two stages in the composition of the soul of the cosmos. Another interpretation may, then—with due reservations—be ventured. Its general schema is similar to that proposed by A. E. Taylor and, within a very different interpretive horizon, by Margel,31 though there are differences in emphasis, in some speci¤cs, and especially in the consequences that are drawn out. It is also similar to the interpretive schema proposed by the young Nietzsche in his Basel lectures on Plato.32 There are two stages in the blending that produces what will become the soul of the cosmos; these two stages, these two blendings, correspond to the two parts of the passage (the second part beginning with the words: “And taking these . . .”). In telling of the ¤rst blending, Timaeus in effect repeats the counting (1, 2, 3) with which the dialogue began. But he repeats it now as a counting of being or of kinds: he counts out the two kinds of being from which the god blended a third kind. First, there is perpetual being, which is indivisible and selfsame. Second, there is the generated, which is divisible and, as connected with bodies, incessantly differs from itself. From these two and in the middle between them, the god blended a third form of being (trÖton . . . o‹sÖaV e†doV). In a sense this forming of a third kind violates the twofold that governs the determination of poÖhsiV and that indeed has governed Timaeus’ discourse on the production of the cosmos. And yet, since the third kind—this third kind— is merely blended from the other two and lies in the middle (ìn mès‰), the twofold remains intact.

31. “Thus the operation the Demiurge is pictured as performing is clear enough. He ¤rst takes two ingredients A and B and by blending them produces an ‘intermediate’ C. He then makes a single uniform whole by blending A, B, and C and ¤nally he divides that whole into a number of ‘portions’” (A. E. Taylor, Commentary on Plato’s Timaeus, 109). See Margel, Le Tombeau du Dieu Artisan, 82. 32. In the schematic representation in which Nietzsche casts his interpretation, the major distinction is between the two blendings. The ¤rst he characterizes as a blending of two elements so as to form a trÖton o‹sÖaV e†doV between these two; the second blending he describes as a blending of these two elements with the third that resulted from the ¤rst blending (Friedrich Nietzsche, “Einleitung in das Studium der platonischen Dialoge,” in vol. II/4 of Werke: Kritische Gesamtausgabe, ed. Fritz Bornmann and Mario Carpitella [Colli-Montinari edition] [Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1995], 71). At the very end of his lectures, Nietzsche returns to this theme and presents the schema again in the following simpli¤ed form (ibid., 188): Erste Mischung: ta‹t¬n qâteron trÖton o‹sÖaV e†doV Zweite Mischung: ta‹t¬n ò o‹sÖa qâteron Weltseele

Production of the Cosmos

Then, in telling of the second stage, the second blending, Timaeus again repeats the counting (1, 2, 3). Having told how the god blended the ¤rst and the second so as to form the third, Timaeus now tells of another blending in which these three were blended so as to form the mixture from which the soul of the cosmos is to be made: the god took the ¤rst kind (perpetual being, indivisible and selfsame), the second kind (the generated, divisible and self-differing), and the third kind that has been blended from the other two. “Taking these three beings,” he blended them, mixing the nature of the same (the nature that is selfsame, the ¤rst kind) and the nature of the different (the second kind) with the being yielded by the previous blending (the third kind, in the middle).33 Thus he made one out of three. As, in counting, 1, 2, 3, one gathers the three ones into the counting number (åriqmíV), into the number 3. There is a consequence to be drawn from this double counting of being, these countings by which Timaeus tells of the blendings in a way that reenacts them in discourse while also repeating the counting with which the Timaeus began. The consequence is decisive for the remainder of the dialogue, above all, for the chorology. This consequence can be discerned in regard to each of the blendings but perhaps most readily in the second. In the second blending the god puts selfsame being, along with the other two kinds, into the soul of the cosmos, into the mixture that the god will then cut and shape into the cosmic soul. In this way selfsame being becomes part of the visible cosmos, one of the three components in the mixture. Timaeus is explicit that the soul, though itself invisible, belongs to the visible order, to the order of things generated: it is, he says, “the best of things generated” (37a). Thus it is indisputable: in being mixed into the soul mixture, selfsame being is incorporated into the visible cosmos. And yet, according to the opening distinction, selfsame being is set over against the visible, providing the intelligible paradigm on which the god set his gaze in making the cosmos. But it would seem, on the other hand, that the god’s blending of the mixture has the effect of collapsing the distinction in such a way that nothing would remain outside the visible cosmos, not even the paradigm to which the god was said to look in making the cosmos. This would be the case unless, in being set into the visible cosmos, selfsame being also somehow remained over against it. The possibility of such a remainder would require that selfsame being be capable of duplication, that in being set into
33. For this interpretation of the second blending, two suppositions are essential. The ¤rst has been, to some degree at least, justi¤ed above: it is the supposition of mutual implication between the three pairs of opposites. This supposition allows one to interpret the expression “joining . . . the nature of the different with that of the same” as designating a mixing of the ¤rst kind with the second kind. The second essential supposition determines the reading of the expression “And mixing them with the being [metä tôV o‹sÖaV]”: the supposition is, as A. E. Taylor proposes, that “tôV o‹sÖaV = the o‹sÖa which has already been described as itself a blend of the other two factors” (Commentary on Plato’s Timaeus, 109).

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the cosmos it effectively doubles itself, remaining also over against the visible in such a way as to preserve the distinction. The same consequence can be drawn in reference to the ¤rst blending. In this case selfsame being is blended with the generated so as to form a third kind; it is blended into the third kind. Yet it must also remain distinct from the third kind in order to mark the very distinction with respect to which the third is third, is in the middle; and it must remain distinct in order to be itself at the disposal of the god when he carries out the second blending. In general, then, any blending of selfsame being will require duplication of being if the distinction is not to be collapsed and the very production of the cosmic soul disrupted. For there is no question but that the paradigm is to remain effective in the subsequent phases, for example, when the god comes to produce time in order to make the cosmos more like its paradigm. It must, therefore, be possible for selfsame being both to be set into the blend (indeed twice) and to remain as such outside the blend, outside the visible cosmos. Selfsame being must be capable of duplication, of being doubled within the visible, of having there its double. And yet, though duplication of being must be possible, in another respect it is impossible. If being were doubled, then it would be two and divided rather than one and indivisible; and then it would be other than itself, different from itself, rather than selfsame. A kind of double bind (in a double sense) would seem inevitable: in order to preserve the distinction between selfsame being and the generated, there must be duplication of being; and yet, duplication of being has the effect of violating the very sense of selfsame being, its determination as such, thus eroding the very distinction that was to be preserved. Nonetheless, in Timaeus’ account of the cosmic soul and indeed throughout the remainder of his ¤rst discourse, this consequence remains unformulated and out of play. It will come to exert its force only when, in his second, newly begun discourse, Timaeus introduces another counting of being, a different way of counting 1, 2, 3, a different way of counting to 3. In this other counting of being the third will prove to be, not in the middle between the two terms of the opening, twofold distinction, but rather—in the most decisive sense—outside the twofold in a manner that disrupts it abysmally. Timaeus’ account of what the god did next, after blending the soul of the cosmos, is itself blended into his account of the blending. Between two restatements concerning the blending, Timaeus inserts a general indication of what the god went on to form from the soul mixture that had been blended: “. . . and having made one out of three, he next went on to divide the whole into as many parts as was appropriate, each having come to be (mixed) from the same, the different, and the being” (35b). Timaeus describes with arithmetic precision how the god portioned out the whole, how he took from the mixture various arithmetically determined portions

Production of the Cosmos

and then arranged them linearly in orderly, that is, harmonic, relations. In portioning out the mixture so as to form a long, harmonically articulated band, the god proceeded in what Timaeus articulates as three stages. First, he took portions corresponding to squares and cubes in the odd and the even series of numbers. This double progression has traditionally been represented by a diagram in the form of a lambda:34 1 2 4 8 3 9 27

If arranged linearly, these two series generate the series: 1 2 3 4 8 9 27 At the second stage the god took further portions from the mixture so as to ¤ll in the intervals. Speci¤cally, he placed within each interval (a,b) two means (m): (1) the harmonic mean, which corresponds to the musical interval of the fourth: m–a ———— = b – m ———–a b (2) The arithmetic mean, which corresponds to the musical interval of the ¤fth: m–a = b–m Inserting these means in the two series (odd and even) produces the following two series: 1 4/3 3/2 2 8/3 3 4 16/3 6 8 1 3/2 2 3 9/2 6 9 27/2 18 27 Omitting those that occur in both series and combining the two series: 1 4/3 3/2 2 8/3 3 4 9/2 16/3 6 8 9 27/2 18 27 The third stage involved ¤lling the intervals that resulted from the

34. The tradition reportedly goes back to Crantor, who is said to have used this representation in his commentaries on the Timaeus (see A. E. Taylor, Commentary on Plato’s Timaeus, 137).

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insertion of the means, intervals of 3/2, 4/3, and 9/8. Timaeus explains, speci¤cally, that wherever there was an interval of 4/3 (for example, between 4/3 and 1, between 2 and 3/2, between 4 and 3), the god ¤lled it with 9/8 intervals. Thus, in the interval between 3 and 4 he inserted: 3 × 9/8 = 27/8 and 3 × 9/8 × 9/8 = 243/64 Still another could not have been inserted, since: 243/64 × 9/8 = 2187/512 >4 As Timaeus points out, there was, then, a remainder, since the two intervals of 9/8 did not completely ¤ll the interval between 3 and 4. This remainder is expressed by the ratio: 4/1 : 243/64 = 256/243 Timaeus notes that at this point the god had used up all the mixture from which he had been taking all these portions.35 Timaeus tells how the god took the harmoniously articulated band and formed it into the cosmic soul. First of all, he split it lengthwise. Then, joining the two bands at a point, he bent each of them around to the opposite point so as to form them into two intersecting circles. Each he set revolving uniformly (katä ta‹tä kaÜ ìn ta‹t…); one band he made inner, the other outer. The outer revolution he called that of the same, the inner that of the different. The revolution of the same was made to go toward the right and to be horizontal; that of the different was made to go toward the left and was tilted so as to be at an oblique angle with the outer band. The inner revolution, that of the different, the god split in six places so as to form seven unequal circles, arranging these according to the double and triple intervals. Three of these were made to revolve at equal speeds, the other four at speeds equal neither to the other three nor to each other. The revolution of the same corresponds to the sidereal equator. Thus, it represents the movement of the ¤xed stars, though it is a band or ring and not the sphere as a whole in which the stars are set. Timaeus mentions that to this revolution the god gave supremacy, that is, this revolution is such as to carry around everything in the cosmos. The revolution of the different, split into seven revolutions around the common center
35. See Cornford’s account of the mathematical details of this section of the dialogue. In the course of that account, Cornford insists that “these considerations are concerned with theories about the nature of number and with the functions of the soul as a bond holding the world’s body together; they have nothing to do with music” (Plato’s Cosmology, 68). While he is no doubt correct that the concern here is not solely with musical theory, much less with music in a more practical sense, the enormous signi¤cance that will be ascribed to music at the very end of Timaeus’ ¤rst discourse (47c–d) precludes dissociating the present passage entirely from its manifest reference to music.

Production of the Cosmos

and arranged according to the squares and cubes in the series of odd and of even numbers (thus: 1, 2, 3, 4, 8, 9, 27), represents the movement of the planets, including the sun and the moon, or rather, the second component of such movement (along with that of the same).36 In all cases the circles in the cosmic soul represent only the motion or orbits of the heavenly bodies, not those bodies themselves, which only later will be placed in the orbits. Very shortly after his description of these circular bands that constitute the cosmic soul, Timaeus declares explicitly that, though the soul has been generated, it is invisible (36e). Thus, all the circular bands and their revolutions remain entirely unseen, invisible, until the god takes the decisive step of setting the heavenly bodies in these revolutions, in these orbits. Only then does it become possible to behold the starry heaven. Timaeus marks the completion of the making of the soul: “And when, to the mind of its maker, the making of the soul had been completed, after that he fabricated within it all that is bodily, and, uniting them center to center, he ¤tted them together” (36d–e). Thus, for the second time in the discourse, the god sets soul and body together, center to center, weaving the invisible soul throughout the visible body of the heavens and, as previously, enveloping the heavens by wrapping the soul around its outside. Now it is that the discourse, setting the soul into the body for the second time, can declare the soul’s proper beginning: the soul, “itself turning within itself, began a divine beginning of unceasing and mindful [Åmjrwn] life for all time” (36e). One could say that at this point—where it marks the beginning begun by the soul—Timaeus’ discourse has in a certain respect caught up with itself, even though its arrival at this point cannot entirely compensate for his not having begun at the beginning. For the discussion has come back around to the point that previously was introduced out of order, in advance of its proper occurrence in the process of the god’s fabrications. Now, as the god brings soul and body together for the second time, the discourse thus proves to have circled around to the same point; and, at the very moment when it has come to circle around to the selfsame point, Timaeus speaks of time (crínoV), declaring that the life of the soul, thus properly begun, is a life for all time. In this movement the discourse enacts the very circling around to the same that will constitute the primary ¤gure in the discussion of time that is almost ready to commence. It is to the mind of its maker that the completion of the soul is mani36. According to Cornford, the three that revolve at the same speed are the sun, Venus, and Mercury. He observes too that the distances between these seven bands correspond in an unspeci¤ed way to the series 1, 2, 3, 4, 8, 9, 27. He continues: “The simplest view is that these ¤gures measure the radii of the successive orbits: the radius of the Moon’s orbit = 1, that of the Sun’s = 2, and so on.” Cornford also argues that there must be a third component determining the motion of some of the planets and that it is left unexplained (ibid., 72–93).

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fest. The phrase katä no”n can mean to his mind or in his view, and no doubt this signi¤cation is operative in the present passage; like any able artisan, the artisan god can discern the point at which his artifact is ¤nished and thus is ready to be released from the productive process, beginning thus its subsistence as something produced. Yet the occurrence of this phrase at just this point—as marking this point—suggests, too, that in being brought to its completion the soul has been made in accord with no”V. Near the beginning of his discourse Timaeus declared that the production of the cosmos involves setting no”V into the soul and the soul into the body (29b). Now Timaeus has told—indeed one time too many—how the soul was set into the body. And, though he has stopped short of an explicit declaration, he has also indicated how in effect the god has set no”V into the soul. The god has done so in his very way of making the soul, and not only (as with any able artisan) by fabricating it in the image of an intelligible paradigm. He has also made it katä no”n by portioning and shaping it according to purely noetic measures and relations, speci¤cally, by the proportionality of the portioning and by the orderly arrangement and movement of the circles. Timaeus’ narrative has reached the point where the soul has been completed, embodied, and released into its beginning. At this point Timaeus mentions the proportionalities and circularities by which no”V has effectively been set into the soul. But now he mentions these as two of the three factors that make it possible for the soul to carry on discourse (lígoV). One is presumably to understand that the soul’s being proportionally divided and bound together and its revolving upon itself prepare, respectively, the basis within the soul for the articulation that belongs to discourse and for the circling between saying and that about which something is said. The third factor is mentioned ¤rst by Timaeus, and its role in making discourse possible is the most conspicuous in the immediately following discourse on the beginning of discourse. This other factor lies in the very composition of the soul, that it is compounded from the natures of the same and the different and from being (o‹sÖa), that it includes these three parts. Following the interpretation proposed of the passage on the composition of the soul, these three would consist of the nature of the same and of the different, each taken with all that is implicated in its very sense, and that third form of being (o‹sÖa) blended from them. These are the three that are then, in turn, blended, the god making one out of three, thereby composing the soul, which has then only to be portioned, shaped, and set in motion by the god. Timaeus declares that when the soul touches something, whether it be something whose being is dispersed (skedastíV) or something whose being is indivisible, the soul is moved all through itself. Thus he traces at the very threshold of discourse the circularity that discourse will, from its

Production of the Cosmos

inception, reenact. Being moved throughout itself, the soul says (lègei) in what respect and how and in what sense and when it comes about that anything is either the same or different with respect to something, whether among generated things or among those that are ever selfsame (37a–b).37 In this discourse (lígoV) the soul says the sameness and difference of various beings. Already with Crantor, it seems, this passage comes to be linked to an alleged general principle according to which like knows like.38 And yet, it would be surprising if both this passage and by implication the earlier one on the composition of the soul were such as simply to presuppose such a general principle, even assuming that it is certain what would be meant by generality and principle in the context of the Timaeus, as if gènoV—hence generality—and årcæ—hence principio, principle—were not utterly in question in this dialogue. Indeed, if principle is taken as beginning, then one could say that nothing is more thoroughly put in question in the Timaeus than presupposing a principle, that is, not beginning at the beginning. Having within itself the natures of the same and the different as well as (a third form of) being, the soul can touch and be moved by things so as then to say the sameness and difference of those things. What is decisive in this inception of discourse is not the operation of some abstract cognitive af¤nity between like and like but rather the peculiar circularity that belongs both to discourse itself and to the comportment that, anterior to discourse, is assumed by it. This circularity is not unlike that which the dialogues sometimes address in more or less mythic fashion as recollection or remembrance (ånâmnhsiV). In touching beings that are the same as or different from other beings, the soul can be moved because these beings, in their samenesses and differences, draw out the being, sameness, and difference that lie within the soul; as by seeing two equal sticks one is led to recollect equality itself, which lay already within the soul. In touching things the soul can be moved because it is itself touched in turn, touched in such a way that something is drawn out of it. But what is, in the end, drawn out of the soul is not just being, sameness, and difference but rather a discourse in which these three are woven together, a discourse of which the soul is capable precisely because of the proportionalities and circularities that belong to it. And as the recollection of equality itself allows one to apprehend those things that are truly
37. The constructions in this passage present some dif¤culties, as noted by Cornford, Plato’s Cosmology, 94 n. 4. See also A. E. Taylor, Commentary on Plato’s Timaeus, 177f. 38. According to Plutarch, “Crantor and his followers . . . say that the soul, in order that it may know all, has been blended out of all” (On the Generation of the Soul in the Timaeus, 1013a). Aristotle, too, discussing the Timaeus, says that Plato holds “that like can only be known by like” (On the Soul, 404b). Cornford reaf¤rms this principle. He mentions that Albinus in his Didascalicus starts his account of the soul (of its composition according to the Timaeus) with “the principle ‘Like knows like’” (Cornford, Plato’s Cosmology, 64f. [see especially n. 3]).

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equal, so does discourse, drawn out from the soul, have the power of saying truthfully (ålhqæV), hence disclosing, the samenesses and differences of beings.39 As the soul, though generated, is invisible, so is the discourse of the soul inaudible: it is a saying without voice (jqíggoV), without sound (öcæ). Timaeus gives not the slightest indication that the soul’s speech engages the body of the cosmos, which in any case lacks both the hearing and the respiration that voiced speech would entail (see 33c). The soul’s speech is without body; it is a speech unburdened by somatic production and the audible products thereof, a speech less remote from what it says, less distant from what is said in the speech.40 Or, more precisely, it is a speech that, unburdened by anything somatic, can say what is to be said; it is a speech in which what is said would come as near as possible (within the sphere of the generated) to that which is to be said, namely, the intelligible eƒdh, the noetic as such. Timaeus hints at this proximity in his way of describing how this speech is carried out. When that about which something is said is the sensible (t¬ a¥sqhtín), then for such dispersed being it is the circle of the different that is engaged, that carries out the unvoiced speech, that proclaims it throughout the soul. But when that about which something is said is such that its being is indivisible, then it is the circle of the same that is engaged and that carries out the unvoiced declaration. What hints at the proximity is the word by which Timaeus at this point designates what otherwise is called indivisible or selfsame being: now he calls it the logistikín, thus slyly substituting the designation of what is said for the designation t¬ nohtín, which one would have expected in parallel with t¬ a¥sqhtín.41 Something issues from speech. Timaeus says that when the circle of the different proclaims what it says throughout the entire soul then opinions (d¬xai) and beliefs (pÖsteiV) are generated; more precisely, the circle,
39. Without attempting here to reconstitute the context in which the example of the equal sticks comes under discussion in the Phaedo (74a–75b), let it be noted merely that, as with the discussion of discourse in the Timaeus, the context is that of a discussion of the soul. The relevant circularity is perhaps nowhere more conspicuous than in this discussion of equality. On the one hand, says Socrates (in the interrogative form), it is from seeing such things as equal sticks that we come to a knowledge of equality itself (74b). But, on the other hand, we must have had knowledge of equality before the time when we ¤rst saw equal things and thought, “All these things are aiming to be like equality but fall short”; that is, we can apprehend the sticks as equal only if we possess already a knowledge of equality (75a). How little it is a matter of mere af¤nity between like and like is indicated by Socrates’ remark at the beginning of this discussion: “Thus all these [examples] show that recollection comes from like things and also from unlike things” (74a—emphasis added). 40. Despite the very different contexts, this passage invites comparison with a passage in the Theaetetus in which Socrates describes thinking (dianoe¢sqai) as “discourse [λíγος] that the soul sets forth to itself . . . , not by the voice [jwn‡] but in silence [sig‡] with itself” (189e–190a). 41. Proclus observes that here logistikín means, not the one who thinks or speaks, but that which is said or thought (a‹t¬ t¬ nohtín) (In Platonis Timaeum Commentaria, 2:312).

Production of the Cosmos

moving aright (ñrqíV), generates through its speech opinions and beliefs that are ¤rm and true. On the other hand, when the circle of the same, turning smoothly, declares what it says, then no”V and knowledge (ìpistæmh) result of necessity. Thus, the discourse of the cosmic soul does not express opinions or knowledge anterior to it but rather gives rise to them. First of all, the soul touches and is moved, then it speaks, and then from its speech opinions, knowledge, etc. result. Even no”V is such a result—that is, in and through discourse no”V as set into the soul is drawn out. The discourse of the soul makes manifest the no”V set into the soul. It is as if in its discourse the soul, which has just undergone embodiment, were already unburdened, as if precisely in speech it could escape its entanglement with the body and take up its proper movement of ascent. And yet, in what Timaeus says, there is a hint that this ascent will not be unconditional or untroubled: for even in that proximity to the purely noetic in which the circle of the same would carry out its discourse, the no”V and knowledge that issue from this discourse are said to result from necessity (ìx ånâgkhV). Even in the ascensional draft of no”V, in this work or deed of no”V, necessity will have been covertly implicated. THE STARRY HEAVEN A time of delight ensues. It is a time in which, moreover, a thought comes over the god, the thought of making his already delightful product an even better replica of its model. It is a time in which, too, like any good artisan, he goes on to produce what he has foreseen. In and through this production, time itself comes to be generated. Yet, it is the ¤gure, not of production, but of procreation that—initially at least—governs Timaeus’ discourse on this time: when the father who had begotten it saw it in motion and alive (for it is a living being in whose soul the various circles have been set revolving), he was delighted with it. In particular, he was struck with admiration when he beheld it as a sanctuary (êgalma) generated for the everlasting (åšdioV) gods. The word that comes here to describe the cosmos, the word êgalma, can mean simply a thing of delight, for instance, a gift pleasing to the gods or a statue in honor of a god, hence, by extension, an image, though one of a special sort, an image embodying the god himself, an image in which the god would be present. But other senses resonate even more profoundly with Timaeus’ discourse: that the word can designate the skull of an animal serves as a reminder that this living being, the cosmos, has the shape of a head (without trunk and limbs),42 mirroring thus the heady character of the discourse itself. Most signi¤cantly, the word conveys the sense of sanctuary, of a sanctuary for
42. Rémi Brague, Du Temps chez Platon et Aristote (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1982), 50.

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the gods.43 Precisely in the production that the god is about to initiate, he will bring forth everlasting gods and set them in this sanctuary that he has prepared for them. Only then will it become an image, though not of these gods but of something superior to them. Timaeus continues: And being well-pleased, he thought of making it more like its paradigm. More precisely, the thought came over him, occurred to him (ìpinoèw), in a sort of re¶ection through which a certain design unfolds before him.44 Yet that design cannot but be limited, for the paradigm, the nature of living being, is eternal (a¥»nioV), whereas this character cannot be conferred completely on whatever is generated. It is this limited design, one suited to the cosmos as something generated, that now unfolds, ¤rst as a thought that comes over the god, and then as a productive—or procreative—deed. This unfolding is expressed in a celebrated passage that has almost always seemed so secure as to allow one to detach from it, with complete impunity, a formula de¤nitively stating what Plato took to be the nature of time. Only recently has its aura of self-evidence been disturbed, largely through the work of Rémi Brague, so as again to open the passage to reinterpretation and to put in question the traditional formula that, almost from the beginning, has been extracted from it. The following translation is set within this new opening, which puts in question the allegedly Platonic de¤nition of time as the moving image of eternity: “The thought occurred to him of making a moving image of eternity; and in ordering the heaven he makes the heaven as an image of the eternity that abides in unity, an image moving according to eternal number, that which we call time” (37d). Brague has shown that the traditional formula by which time is the moving image of eternity becomes current much later than might be supposed. In the earlier testimonies, those prior to Middle Platonism, it is not to be found; in particular, it is not cited by any of Plato’s direct or indirect students, nor does it enter at all into the theories put forth by them. On the contrary, one ¤nds time being characterized as the movement of the sun or of the universe as such. Even with Philo and Plutarch the doxographic formula is not yet in place. Only with Plotinus does the traditional de¤nition come to be neatly formulated as expressing the Platonic view of time. Thus, it is only in the epoch of Middle Platonism that the traditional formula comes to be constituted as such.45 Several features of the passage itself make one hesitant to replace it
43. Margel translates êgalma as sanctuaire (Le Tombeau du Dieu Artisan, 92). Cornford translates it as shrine and notes that at this point the everlasting gods “have still to take their place in this vacant shrine” (Plato’s Cosmology, 101). Brague observes: “The universe is the sanctuary [sanctuaire], and not the image, of the eternal gods” (Du Temps chez Platon et Aristote, 50). 44. Margel contrasts ìpinoèw with noèw. Whereas the latter refers to the lucid comprehension that has its object distinctly in view and that, more speci¤cally, is in direct contact with the intelligible content it apprehends, ìpinoèw expresses “ce qui vient à l’esprit; c’est ce qui lui arrive après coup, d’ou la préposition ìpi” (Le Tombeau du Dieu Artisan, 90). 45. Brague, Du Temps chez Platon et Aristote, 11–27.

Production of the Cosmos

with the traditional formula. To be sure, the initial clause invokes a moving image of eternity, though without yet mentioning time, leaving open the question whether this moving image of eternity is to be identi¤ed as time. The moving image of eternity is introduced as the object of the god’s thought, of the thought that comes over him and unfolds a certain design before him. The thought is oriented to production: it is the thought of making a moving image of eternity. What is to be understood here by the word a¥»n? Is one compelled to translate it, without further ado, as eternity? The word can designate one’s age or a lifetime. It can also signify a period of time of inde¤nite length, hence an age or a generation, and from this sense it can be extended to mean something like what one might understand as eternity, though normally these signi¤cations obtain only in cases where the noun is preceded by a preposition.46 There are two adjectival forms corresponding to the noun: the common form åšdioV, which has just been used to characterize the nature of living being, that is, the paradigm, and a¥»nioV, which is used in the celebrated passage and which does not appear prior to Plato. The precise sense of the latter is not suf¤ciently clear as such to necessitate translating it as eternal. The most appropriate way of determining the sense of these words is by adhering rigorously to the indication that the passage itself provides: according to what the passage says, it is a matter of the a¥»n that “abides in unity [mènontoV . . . ìn ÄnÖ].” In other words, a¥»n is determined as an abiding in unity, as remaining within oneness, as something’s remaining one and the same with itself, its being perpetually selfsame. If one agrees to retain the traditional translation of a¥»n as eternity, one will need to insist that the word means—and only means—perpetual selfsameness. It is this sense alone that links the word to the noetic or intelligible. Most emphatically, one will need to keep the sense of a¥»n distinct from that which aeternitas comes to have, for instance, with Augustine, that of a present that never passes, of eternal presence.47 The passage refers to two activities on the part of the artisan god: an ordering, a setting in order (diakosmèw), and a making (poièw). The traditional construal takes these two activities to be distinct and to have distinct objects, even though they occur together, at the same time (ëma): what is set in order is the heaven, and what is made is the image of eternity, that is, time. But recent research has shown that a more natural construal of this portion of the passage would be: in ordering he makes the heaven.48
46. Ibid., 29. 47. Augustine writes: “As for the present, if it were always present and never moved on to become past, it would not be time but eternity” (Confessions XI.14). As he proceeds to determine time as distentio animi, reaf¤rming a transition, already effected in Middle Platonism, from the cosmological to the psychological order, Augustine engages and rejects the view of time that af¤liates it with the heaven: “I once heard a learned man say that time is nothing but the movement of the sun and the moon and the stars, but I did not agree” (ibid. XI.23). 48. “The ancient readers . . . have chosen a construction less natural in order to be able to understand what they already supposed the text ought to contain. This construction sup-

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Not only does this construal tend to break down the mutual distinctness of the two activities, but also it indicates that what the god makes is the heaven and not some image distinct from the heaven, not a distinct image that would then be identi¤ed as time. The word image is not, then, the direct object of the making, but rather it stands in apposition with heaven, that is, it explicates the character of the heaven as made by the god. One can go even further and construe the heaven as the object not only of the making but also of the ordering; the two activities would, then, prove to have the same object.49 Indeed, the adverb ëma (at once, at the same time) suggests that the god’s ordering of the heaven is the very same deed as that by which he makes the heaven as an image of eternity. What, then, is the heaven that, almost as an afterthought, the god orders and makes? In a sense he has already fabricated the entire cosmos, shaping its body, fashioning its soul, and setting soul into body. Is the heaven anything other than the cosmos? To be sure, at the beginning of his discourse Timaeus identi¤es the heaven (o‹raníV) with the cosmos (kísmoV), that is, with the whole of the sensible universe (28b). Yet, earlier, in Critias’ discourse (22d, 23d), the word o‹raníV clearly has its ordinary meaning: the heavenly vault, the sky, the heaven as distinct from the earth, hence not including the earth. It is this restriction that Timaeus removes when he identi¤es the heaven with the cosmos. Nonetheless, there are several passages later in Timaeus’ ¤rst discourse where the word is again used in the restricted sense (39d, 47a–b). Also in the passage on time, if less manifestly, o‹raníV has primarily the restricted sense: it designates the sky considered especially as the region in which the movements of the heavenly bodies occur, the starry heaven. This, then, is what the god makes at this stage: the starry heaven. In this production he takes over what has already been set in place: the body
48. “The ancient readers . . . have chosen a construction less natural in order to be able to understand what they already supposed the text ought to contain. This construction supposes that twice the direct object is placed after the verb that governs it, and separated from it, in the ¤rst case, by one word: diakosmõn ëma o‹ranín, and by eight words in the second case: poie¢ mènontoV a¥õnoV ìn ÄnÜ kat4 åriqm¬n ¥o”san a¥»nion e¥kína (37d6). It is known that in the epoch of Plato the normal order of a Greek sentence is: subject-objectpredicate (verb). . . . And it is known that in Plato and the orators the order object-predicate has a signi¤cant preponderance. . . . On the other hand, the manner in which the beginning of the sentence is always articulated supposes the construction diakosmõn ëma o‹ranín (present participle/adverb/object). This construction does exist, but it is rare. . . . In Plato, at least as far as we know, it is never found. On the other hand, there exists another construction, more frequent (we know of eight examples of it), in which the adverb ‘at the same time’ follows a present participle used absolutely. . . . Nothing forbids, then, thinking that this is the construction used in our sentence. Then it would have to be understood, for example, in this way: ‘And, in carrying out his ordering activity, he made. . . .’ Such a construction, besides the fact that it exists elsewhere in Plato, has the advantage of freeing the word ‘heaven’ and of allowing it to be attached no longer to the verb that precedes it, but, as is natural, to that which follows it. What the demiurge makes is the heaven and no longer the image that we call time” (Brague, Du Temps chez Platon et Aristote, 44–46). 49. Ibid., 47.

Production of the Cosmos

of the cosmos, especially its ¤ery part, which belongs to the upper region, and the soul of the cosmos with its still invisible circles that have been set revolving. To make the starry heaven, the god has then only to form the heavenly bodies, to set them in the orbits already determined by the circles in the cosmic soul, and to set them moving in these orderly movements. Thus it is that in one and the same act the god both makes the heaven and sets it in order. It is the ordered movement that is decisive: that Timaeus also lets the sense of o‹raníV expand so as to coincide with that of kísmoV is precisely a way of saying what the very word kísmoV already says: what makes the cosmos a cosmos is that its movements are ordered. The moving image that the god makes is nothing other than the starry heaven, the stars (including also the sun, the moon, and the planets) in their ordered movement. By setting the stars in the various orbits determined by the revolutions in the cosmic soul, the god makes a visible image of the ordered revolutions in the soul; by making those revolutions visible, he, in turn, makes a moving, visible image of the noetic order that has been set into the soul. But, as noetic, as intelligible, that order is itself perpetually selfsame. In making the starry heaven, the god makes a moving image of eternity, of the eternity that abides in unity. The movement of this moving image is ordered, and as such it is a movement according to number. In the traditional translation the passage also characterizes the image, which moves according to number, as an eternal image (using the adjectival form a¥»nioV, corresponding to a¥»n). This characterization by which there would be an eternal image of eternity, by which, therefore, eternity would not be restricted to the side of the noetic, has troubled commentators and translators.50 One might attempt to resolve the dif¤culty by noting that the stars are soon to be identi¤ed as heavenly gods and characterized as everlasting, their perpetuity being assured by the artisan god. But in this characterization the adjective used is åšdio@ (40b), not a¥»nioV as in the passage on time, whereas one would expect the explicit difference between the noetic and the heavenly gods to be expressed by a consistent distinction between the two adjectival forms, in which case a¥»nioV would be restricted to the noetic. Since this is not the case, granted the traditional construal of the sentence, the better approach is, it seems, that proposed—as a hypothesis—by Brague: one could construe the sentence in such a way as to attach the adjective eternal (a¥»nioV), not to image (e¥k»n), but to number (åriqmíV). Then one would translate (as above):
50. Cornford, for example, calls attention to this feature and in his translation relies upon a distinction that the text alone does not warrant: introducing a distinction between everlasting and eternal, a distinction that does not exist in the Greek text, he construes the sentence in such a way that image is an “everlasting image,” whereas that of which it is an image is “eternity” (Plato’s Cosmology, 98 [especially n. 1]).

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“an image moving according to eternal number”—thus taking as eternal, not the image, but the number by which this image (the starry heaven) is governed in its movement.51 Unlike the perpetuity of the starry heaven, of the heavenly gods, which must be guaranteed by the artisan god, the eternality of number is intrinsic and noetic in its constitution. Regardless of how one deals with this dif¤culty, the sense of the passage remains intact. It says initially: the artisan god makes/orders the starry heaven by fashioning the stars and setting them in motion in the orbits already determined for them by the revolving circles in the cosmic soul. The passage continues with an appositive, the ¤rst appositive: thus he makes the heaven as an image of the eternity that abides in unity, an image moving according to number. Then it concludes by naming, ¤nally, time, introducing it as a second appositive: that which we call time. But what, then, is time? Granted the appositional structure of the passage, one can say: time is the same as the image, which is the same as the starry heaven. Thus, one can say, as does the traditional formula, that time is a moving image of eternity—but only on the condition that one also say that time is the same as the starry heaven. As the image of eternity, time is nothing other than the starry heaven. In the de¤nition that Brague proposes: time “is the movement of the heaven as governed by number.” Or, echoing Timaeus himself: the starry heaven is “that which we call time.” Nothing would prevent accentuating the we, the we call, so as to regard time as the name that mortals give to that which in a more proper speech, a language of the gods, would be named heaven-moving-accordingto-number.52 Yet how, more precisely, is the apposition to be understood? How is it that time—at least what we call by the name time—is the same as the starry heaven? For, even as one af¤rms their sameness, a differentiation— marked by the two names—will have been at work. Timaeus says that time was generated along with the heaven (met4 o‹rano”), that time and the heaven were generated simultaneously, at the same time (ëma), so that if ever they were to undergo dissolution, they would be dissolved at the same time (38b). Yet this togetherness cannot be a simple simultaneity: the ëma must designate a togetherness irreducible to temporal simultaneity, since what is here marked, the very generation of time, is the event with which simultaneity ¤rst becomes possible. It is like the before (prí) that Timaeus will use later in speaking of the state of things “before the generation of the heaven” (48b); since this state would also precede the generation of time itself, its precedence is irreducible to mere temporal antecedence. Yet, even before Timaeus speaks so explicitly of this togetherness as such, indeed immediately following the celebrated passage, he tells how
51. Brague, Du Temps chez Platon et Aristote, 65f. 52. Ibid., 61–63.

Production of the Cosmos

the god made time along with the heaven. In his account of this double fabrication, too, the word ëma marks the togetherness, the sameness: “For there were no days and nights and months and years before the generation of the heaven; but he contrived that they should come to be at the same time [ëma] that the heaven was composed. All these are parts of time [mèrh crínou]” (37d–e). Thus, in making the heaven, the god made, at the same time, the parts of time, that is, days, nights, months, years. But, as Timaeus goes on to explain, in order to make these parts of time—and hence, presumably, the whole of time—the god had to make the heavenly bodies whose movements measure out and make visible these parts of time: “In order that time be generated, the sun and moon and ¤ve other stars—wanderers [planhtâ], as they are called—were generated for the determination and guarding of the numbers of time. And when the god had made the bodies of each of them, he placed them in the orbits along which the revolution of the different was moving, seven orbits for the seven bodies” (38c–d). The revolutions of these seven bodies together with that of the ¤xed stars turning in the circle of the same measure out the parts of time. This is why Timaeus calls the stars the instruments of times (ªrgana crínwn) (41e) and the instruments of time (ªrgana crínou) (42d). The revolution of the ¤xed stars generates day and night, the revolution of the moon measures out months, and that of the sun determines year. Timaeus notes that the revolutions of the other heavenly bodies also measure out parts of time, though men have not discovered them and thus have no names for them. Timaeus mentions a kind of whole of time, the complete number of time (Ñ tèleoV åriqm¬V crínou) or complete year, which would have elapsed when all the heavenly bodies come back to the same position, when all the revolutions ¤nish together. Yet, still, what is time? Timaeus answers this question directly in the passage in which he refers to those revolutions of which men are unaware, those parts of time for which they have no names. He says: “They do not know that the wanderings [plânai] of these bodies is time” (39d). What decisively determines time—these wanderings—as the moving image of eternity is not just that the measuring out of time exempli¤es certain arithmetic orders that are themselves noetic. Rather, what is decisive is, as Timaeus openly declares, that time “imitates eternity and circles around according to number” (38a). Time involves circling around to the same, as the sun circles around the earth each day but also, more decisively, as it returns annually, in its circling, to identically the same circle (so that what the sun preeminently measures out is the year). Whereas the eternal is perpetually the same and eternity (a¥»n) is precisely this remaining always selfsame, the heavenly bodies always circle back to the same, and time is precisely these circlings, these wanderings. This is what time is. Or this is the closest the Timaeus comes to an answer to the question: What is time? If this answer seems still insuf¤cient, merely identifying time with the stellar wanderings from which, nonethe-

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less, one would also somehow have to distinguish it, this insuf¤ciency may be taken to indicate the insuf¤ciency, even the inappropriateness, of the question. For in asking “What is time?” one asks about the proper of time without asking also whether time is such as to have a proper, an itself. Or, translating back into Greek, the question “What is time?” presupposes that time is such as to have a what, an e†doV. Does time have an e†doV, as a stone may be said to have an ε†dος , a look, that shines through it, in it, from it, when, for instance, it shows itself protruding from the earth into brilliant sunlight? Or does the name time not serve to say how the starry heaven is an image, not just of some e†doV or other, but of the eternity, the perpetual selfsameness, that belongs to every e†doV as such? Does the name time not then say how the starry heaven is, in precisely this sense, the image of all images: that it is such by means of the visible circlings that measure out the parts of time, even if never time itself? Like the name c»ra, the name time (crínoV) would say something about the possibility of images rather than designating an e†doV of which certain things would be images. Timaeus continues: in order that there be a bright, brilliant measure (mètron ìnargèV), in order that the heavenly measure, the measuring out of the parts of time, be visible, the god kindled a light in the second orbit from the earth, that which we now call the sun, to shine throughout the entire heaven. Thus, the god not only sets no”V into the cosmos, fashioning there exempli¤cations and imitations of the noetic, but also, as it is set there in the midst of visible things, it is lighted up, made bright, so that it can be beheld by those living beings within the cosmos who themselves possess no”V. Timaeus says: the god kindled a light “that all living beings to whom it was ¤t might partake of number, learning it from the revolution of the same and like” (39b). Within the cosmos there is not only the noetic (as, most notably, intelligible order) but also, through its manifestness, an evocation of the exercise of no”V. In order for the cosmos to be like its paradigm, it must, as a living being, contain the full range of living beings that no”V can discern in the paradigm of living being; it must be made to contain all four kinds to be discerned in the noetic model, not only the heavenly kind of gods, but also those beings that traverse the air, those that inhabit the water, and those that go about and live on dry land (corresponding thus to ¤re, air, water, and earth). The ¤rst kind, the divine kind, the artisan god made for the most part from ¤re, so that they might be as bright as possible. He made them spherical, that is, determined by sameness and, hence, in the image of selfsame being; and he made them revolve uniformly while circling in one of the great circles. These “divine and everlasting [åšdioV] living beings” are the stars and planets (40b). Timaeus says that the god also made the earth as the guardian and crafter (dhmiourgíV) of day and night, also as the ¤rst and eldest of the

Production of the Cosmos

gods generated in the heaven. At this point the sense of heaven (o‹raníV) clearly expands: now it designates not only the starry heaven above but also the earth below. But it is not evident how the earth can be said to be older than the other heavenly gods such as the sun, moon, and planets, which are also required for guarding and crafting time. It would seem that all these guardians and crafters of time would have been made at the same time, at the same time as time. If, on the other hand, the earth is somehow older, then the discourse will again have proved (as with the body and soul of the cosmos) to be disordered: if the earth is older, it should have been told of ¤rst, at least if one is to adhere to the injunction that one is to begin at the beginning. If the earth is older, then it must precede the making of the starry heaven (with a precedence irreducible to temporal antecedence); it must have been before the generation of the heaven, and it will have turned out that Timaeus’ discourse on the starry heaven comes to an end by turning back to an earlier beginning. This palintropic turn would thus anticipate the turn of the same kind that will be made in the transition from Timaeus’ ¤rst to his second discourse, which begins—and says that it begins—with a turn back to the state of things “before the generation of the heaven” (48b). Thus it would seem not entirely fortuitous that the earth is called the nurse (trojíV) (40b), a name that, much later in the Timaeus (88d), will be brought to bear on the c»ra. On the other hand, there is indeed a discourse in which the earth is said to be the oldest, preceded only by câoV, namely, Hesiod’s Theogony: “First of all chaos came into being, but next wide-bosomed earth, the ever-sure foundation of all. . . . And earth ¤rst bore starry heaven, equal to herself, to cover her on every side and to be an ever-sure abiding place for the blessed gods” (116–17, 124–26). In effect, then, Timaeus’ discourse, in its insistence on the precedence of the earth, links up with the traditional m”qoV. And just at this point where it touches on the traditional stories of the gods, Timaeus marks a certain conclusion: “But let this suf¤ce for us, and let our talk [e¥rhmèna—thus he avoids both lígoV and m”qoV] about the nature of the visible and generated gods have an end” (40d). GODS AND MORTALS Yet there are other gods, other than the visible and generated gods who perform their choral dance (coreÖa) in the starry heaven. It is of these other gods that the poets sing. It is of these other gods that Hesiod tells, of their parentage and their birth. And it is of these gods that Timaeus now begins to speak, now that his discourse on the earth has touched on the traditional m”qoi. Indeed he calls them “the other gods,” marking the difference by using the name daÖmwn instead of qeíV. With apparent irony he says that discovering their genesis is too great a task, that we must trust those who have made declarations about these

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other gods. Timaeus observes that those who have made such declarations are, as they themselves af¤rm, the descendants (Åkgonoi), the children, of the gods. The irony becomes unmistakable as he continues: even though what these descendants say lacks demonstration (åpídeixiV), we must believe them because they are telling of family matters, of things that are o¥ke¢oV, that have to do with the home, the household, one’s own family. The difference is evident: these other gods and their descendants who tell of them have to do with the order of the household, of family, of descent, of lineage, whereas the heavenly kind of gods are made by the divine artisan, hence arise from the order of production. Following—or pretending to follow—what their descendants declare, Timaeus proceeds to recite a genealogy of these other gods. He offers a kind of imitation of the Hesiodic theogony: it begins with Earth and Heaven and traces the generations up through Zeus and Hera, referring then also in general to their descendants, including, by implication, those who declare such genealogies. What is most curious is that in this story of the seemingly continuous succession of generations there is an error, a discontinuity. It is said that from Oceanus and Tethys were born Phorcus, Cronos, and Rhea, among others. However, according to Hesiod, Phorcus was not born of Oceanus and Tethys but rather was the offspring of the sea-god Nereus and Earth.53 Furthermore, he mated with his sister Ceto (whose name suggests sea-monster [kôtoV]) and fathered monsters such as the Gorgons and, in particular, Medusa.54 In general, Phorcus was regarded as the father or leader of sea-monsters.55 Thus, in the genealogy that Timaeus presents, something strange, indeed monstrous, turns up: in the otherwise continuous succession of generations, there is an unannounced moment of monstrosity. The genealogy has the effect of reinscribing the question of procreation, birth, ÅrwV, of reinscribing it in the form—or in the deformation—in which it broke out in and around the Socratic discourse on the city. Over against the traditional stories alleged to be the proper legacies of the descendants, over against the stories of a continuous and predictable succession of generations, Timaeus’ genealogy is one in which the order of generation and birth is burdened with discontinuity and unpredictability. This entire portion of the Timaeus is manifestly woven between the poles of the opposition between the order of production and that of ÅrwV, of procreation, birth, generation, most generally, of j¿siV. Thus there are the heavenly kind of gods, who are produced by the divine artisan, and the other gods, who are told of in stories of their parentage and birth. Curiously, in the speech that the artisan god himself is about to address to all the gods, he names himself in a way that is indicative of both orders: he
53. Hesiod, Theogony, 237–39. 54. Ibid., 270ff. 55. Oxford Classical Dictionary, s.v. “Phorcys.”

Production of the Cosmos

calls himself both artisan (dhmiourgíV) and father (patær) (41a). And a little later, at the very threshold of birth, just before the heavenly gods form the mortal bodies and bind in them the souls of the other kinds of living beings, Timaeus refers to the artisan god as father and to the heavenly kind of gods (the stars) as his children (42e). The implication is that, even though the god is preeminently an artisan who makes the cosmos, he cannot carry out this production without also coming into relation with the other order, that of procreation and birth, which is also the order of the generations and the disorder of monstrosity. Immediately following the genealogy, the discourse doubles up into a discourse on a discourse, a speech within the speech: Timaeus tells about what the artisan god told all the gods in an address delivered to them. It is as if, once all had come to be born, they were assembled before the divine artisan. He speaks to them of birth and death. He makes a promise to them and refers to his will as surety that the promise will be kept. Speci¤cally, he tells the gods—both kinds are there, listening—that because they are born or generated, their bonds are not indissoluble; they are not immortal. This declaration, were it to go unquali¤ed, would border on outrage, at least for the traditional gods, who share the principal epithet immortal (åqânatoV). But the artisan god goes on to offer his promise, the promise that, by his will (bo¿lhsiV), he will separate birth from death, divide natality from mortality, shelter them from having to die by virtue of having been born. Although their natality exposes them to death, he assures them that they will not incur the doom (mo¢ra) of death; for, he says, his will will bind each of them together indissolubly, more securely than the bonds by which they were bound together at birth.56 Such is the promise he gives—before then instructing the gods that they are to receive from him the immortal souls of the other kinds of living beings, which they are then to bind into mortal bodies that they will fabricate, imitating the god’s fabrication of themselves. Here his speech ends— that is, it gives way to the deed of attending to birth, to the birth of the other kinds of living beings. Timaeus describes the manner in which the god set about this deed: from the mixing bowl used previously he took the residue of the soul mixture and divided it into souls equal in number to the stars; then he assigned each to a star and, setting each of them in a chariot, he showed

56. For Margel’s interpretation of the Timaeus as a whole, this promise has enormous signi¤cance. A brief excerpt: “Lacking the power to assure to the world a genetic autonomy of conservation, the demiurge will now engage his speech; he will promise the world that he will never break the bonds that order it mimetically with reference to the ideality of the model. This last gesture, this gesture of promise developed from 41b, will constitute both a salutary act and the most radical idleness [désoeuvrement] of the demiurge” (Le Tombeau du Dieu Artisan, 56). On the other hand, one might suppose that an even more radical idleness comes over the god at the beginning of the second discourse, an idleness so radical that the god is completely absent from the scene.

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them the nature of the universe (tÆn to” pant¬V j¿sin) (41d–e).57 Then, again, the discourse doubles up, though now indirectly: Timaeus reports what the god said to the new souls in declaring to them the laws of destiny, the laws concerning what is allotted, what one receives as one’s portion. The god declares—Timaeus says that he declared—that what they receive depends entirely on whether they master the violent affections, the disorder, to which they will be exposed when, of necessity (ìx ånâgkhV), they are set into their bodies, that is, born. Then, once again, the discourse shifts: whereas Timaeus has just been telling what the god foretells about birth, now Timaeus tells directly of that birth. He tells how the children of the artisan god put together bodies from portions of ¤re, air, water, and earth borrowed from the cosmos and how they then bound the revolutions of the soul within these bodies, as within a “mighty river” (43b), in the midst of disorder. In these discourses on the disorder to which mortals are exposed at birth, there seems to be a certain disorder. Having told of the disorderly movements in the newly born, Timaeus then draws a contrast between those whose inner revolutions come to be correctly ordered and those in whose souls the movements remain disorderly. The disorder in the discourse has to do with these disorderly ones, with those whose souls remain disorderly. Timaeus says of them: they “return unperfected and unmindful [åníhtoV] to Hades” (44c). Yet, as soon as he says this, he interrupts the discourse and says: “These things, however, come about later.” He does not say why. Yet, by drawing attention to this apparent disorder, he hints at another, prompts one to notice it: for there is a disorder between this account (by which the disorderly souls return to Hades) and another account, a bit earlier. In the earlier account (42a–b) reference is made to sexual difference, to the superiority of the male sex, and then, among the laws of destiny being shown to the new souls, the following is mentioned: that those who fail to master their disorder “will be changed into woman’s nature at the second birth” (42b; see also 91a). What, then, is the fate of those who remain disorderly? Do they return (unperfected and unknowing) to Hades or do they get reborn as women? Or do they return to Hades and then get reborn in female bodies? In this case would it not have been more in order for Timaeus to tell ¤rst of the return to Hades and then of rebirth in the body of a woman—even granting the difference of level between the two discourses, the ¤rst reporting the laws of destiny declared to the new souls, the other narrating the course of that destiny and getting
57. The passage invites comparison with the passage in the Phaedrus where Socrates introduces the image of a chariot, likening the soul“to the union of powers in a team of winged steeds and their charioteer” (246a). Especially pertinent is the description that Socrates gives of the banquet in which the chariots pass in procession up through the heaven until they come to feast on the vision of being itself (246e–247e). See my extended discussion of this passage in Being and Logos, 140–53.

Production of the Cosmos

to that extent ahead of itself, provoking, so it seems, the interruption in the discourse? In any case, the discourse does not, as a well-ordered discourse presumably should, express the relation between these two destinies. Are they simply to be conjoined extrinsically? Or is there some intrinsic connection between returning in a disorderly condition to Hades and being reborn into the body of a woman? What do female bodies have to do with the shades of Hades? After a brief discussion of the human body, including the comedy of the head trying to make its way over the heights and out of the hollows, including also a discussion of vision, Timaeus concludes by speaking of the greatest good of vision and of hearing. He says that it is the vision of the heaven, of day and night and months and circling years, that has endowed us with number and with the thought of time, as well as furnishing us the means of inquiring about the nature of the universe. From these has come philosophy itself. As Timaeus remarks, man has been enabled thus to give such accounts as he himself has just been giving; hence, at this point the discourse comes to expose its own precondition. But what is the good of attending to things in the heaven rather than, for instance, human actions in the city? The good, the greatest good, of vision is that by beholding the noetic revolutions in the heaven we might then make the revolutions within ourselves imitate those celestial revolutions. It is a matter of mimesis between the human soul and the cosmos, of imitating within oneself the order beheld in the heaven above, of making the order within be like that of the starry heaven above. Timaeus adds that hearing serves the same good in relation to speech (lígoV) and in relation to music the harmony of which can serve to restore the harmony in the soul. Thus Timaeus comes around to speaking of music in what is virtually a song in celebration of celestial mimesis. His ¤rst discourse concludes with this song, celebrating the mimesis in which one would look to the heavens and produce in one’s soul an image of the orderly revolutions seen above. In such mimesis one would also be imitating the artisan god: just as he looks to the noetic paradigm so as to produce in the cosmos an image of it, imaging it preeminently by the orderly movement of the starry heaven, so through the vision of that orderly movement above one would produce an image of it in one’s soul. As this song is heard, there is only the slightest dissonance. The dissonance comes from the brief mention, just before the song broke out, of something else that is involved in the divine and human production oriented to the intelligible paradigm, something very different, something scarcely noticed. Timaeus has just been discussing vision. His discourse pictures the eyelids closing in sleep and evokes the images (jantâsmata) formed in dreams. Thus he is led to speak more generally about images. And though he observes that it is not dif¤cult (calepín) to understand the making or formation of images (e¥dwlopoiÖa) in mirrors and other

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surfaces (46a), the discussion into which Timaeus is led through the question of image-making will prove to have imaged from afar the problem of image-making as it will arise in the second discourse, the problem of the very possibility of images, a problem that, to say the least, will prove dif¤cult. In discussing the formation of images in mirrors and other surfaces, Timaeus begins to speak of another kind of cause, causes that are auxiliary, accessory, secondary (xunaitÖa), causes that operate along with the primary, paradigmatic causes. He mentions cooling and heating, solidifying and dissolving; and in his account of vision he has just described how the ¤re of vision coalesces with the ¤re arising from the visible thing. Such causes, he says, are incapable of having no”V: only a soul can have no”V, not such visible bodies as “¤re and water and earth and air” (46d). Thus, on the one hand, the primary causality has set no”V into the soul and the soul into the body, thus embodying no”V in the cosmos as intelligible order and as the time that images the eternity of the noetic. But there is also operative an auxiliary causality that has no connection with no”V. And even the greatest good made possible by the embodiment of no”V, namely, the vision of the orderly movement of the starry heaven—even this requires the operation of this other kind of cause, this anoetic causality. This dissonance of the anoetic, resounding in the very moment of the upward vision with which Timaeus’ ¤rst discourse ends, announces that this end is more properly an interruption. It announces also, in the names ¤re, water, earth, and air, that to which Timaeus will of necessity turn back in launching his second discourse. Yet even before he turns to what these names would—but in the end cannot—name, he calls the other causality, the anoetic causality, by a name that has by no means been absent in the ¤rst discourse but that comes into its own only at the moment when Timaeus launches another, a second discourse: the name necessity (ånâgkh).

3
The C»ra

ANOTHER BEGINNING Interruption appears doubly at this juncture. It enters doubly into the discourse, dividing the discourse at the very moment that it becomes the theme of the discourse. For the discourse is interrupted in order to be redirected toward that which can and indeed does interrupt the very workings of no”V to which Timaeus’ discourse has in large part been addressed up to this point of interruption. Timaeus marks the interruption, the juncture: whereas the foregoing speech, except for a small part, has set forth the works crafted by no”V, now a discourse is to be furnished on what is generated by necessity (ånâgkh). For, he continues, the generation of the cosmos came about as a mixture from the combination (s¿stasiV) of no”V and ånâgkh. It was for the most part a matter of no”V ruling over, governing, ånâgkh, persuading it. Thus it was that the universe (t¬ pàn) was made in the beginning (kat4 årcâV), namely, in such a way that the greatest part of the things generated were led toward what is best. Timaeus concludes that if it is to be told how the universe was thus generated, then the errant form of cause (t¬ tôV planwmènhV e†doV a¥tÖaV) must also be brought in (47e–48a). In referring to what was produced, crafted, by no”V, Timaeus uses a form of dhmiourgèw: to make, craft, produce by way of tècnh, through poÖhsiV. The word makes it explicit that Timaeus is speaking of the cosmic poÖhsiV carried out by the artisan god, who has repeatedly been called dhmiourgíV. But why does Timaeus describe the products as works crafted by no”V? Again it is the structure of poÖhsiV that is being adumbrated: poÖhsiV depends on looking to an intelligible paradigm, which is accessible only to intellectual or noetic vision, that is, to no”V. Indeed, what forms the very center of the structure of poÖhsiV is this noetic vision of the paradigm,

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as an image of which the product is then brought forth. Moreover, as overseen by no”V, the crafting of the cosmos not only produces an image of the paradigm but also, in a distinctive way, installs no”V in the cosmic soul and thus in the cosmos as such. By his reference to such production as a crafting by no”V, Timaeus emphasizes the centeredness of the making in noetic vision while also alluding to the installation of no”V in the cosmos. But what is this other kind of cause that Timaeus now ¤nds it necessary to introduce? At the end of the ¤rst discourse its sense was determined almost entirely by its opposition to the noetic kind of cause, and it entered as hardly more than a dissonance haunting Timaeus’ song in celebration of celestial mimesis. But what is this necessity that it is necessary to introduce, this necessity that compels its very entrance into the discourse? What is this errant form of cause—assuming for the moment something that will eventually prove highly questionable, namely, that ånâgkh can be made to submit to the question “tÖ ìsti . . . ?”, that one can ¤ttingly interrogate ånâgkh by asking about its what? Contrasting ånâgkh with the operation of no”V that forms the central structure of cosmic poÖhsiV, Timaeus speaks, not of what is produced by ånâgkh, but rather of what is generated. A clue to the appropriate sense is provided by a passage in the Laws in which ånâgkh is linked with chance: as the Athenian is discussing ¤re, water, earth, and air (precisely that which Timaeus is about to discuss), he observes that the way they move and interact is according to chance from necessity (katä t¿chn ìx ånâgkhV), as opposed to things that are determined by tècnh (Laws 889c).1 Thus, if one is to translate ånâgkh as necessity, it must be insisted that this necessity is not the necessity of law, that it is not that form of necessity to which one would refer in describing something as bound by law. It is rather a necessity that would operate outside the law, that would even determine this very outside; this necessity would be an outlaw eluding the noetic supervision that determines the lawfulness of poÖhsiV, resisting the rule of no”V even if responsive to its persuasion.2 This necessity is also called the errant form of cause. The verb planâw means: to lead astray, mislead, lead into error. In the passive and middle forms it means: to wander, roam about,
1. In this passage chance is conjoined not only with necessity but also with nature (j¿siV). Indeed the Athenian declares, ¤rst of all, that ¤re, water, earth, and air are said to be by nature and chance, and not by tècnh. Then he adds, as if in apposition, the description of them as moving and interacting according to chance from necessity. 2. A. E. Taylor stresses that ånâgkh is not “scienti¤c necessity” or “the reign of law,” since it is “the planwmènh a¥tÖa, the ‘rambling’ or ‘aimless’ or ‘irresponsible’ cause.” He says: “Thus it is not the ‘necessary’ but the ‘contingent,’ the things for which we do not see any suf¤cient reason.” However, he regards this contingency as resulting only from the limitation of human knowledge: “If we could ever have complete knowledge, we should ¤nd that ånâgkh had vanished from our account of the world” (Commentary on Plato’s Timaeus, 300f.). While agreeing with Taylor that ånâgkh is to be distinguished from law, Cornford recognizes how far the Timaeus is from declaring ånâgkh to be merely a residuum of unexplained facts to be reduced to nothing once complete knowledge is attained. Cornford cites a

The C»ra

stray. It can mean even: to err—a plânh can be an erring or an error. The plânhteV are wanderers, especially those that wander in the heaven, the planets. In translating the participial form (planwmènh) as errant, the word is to be heard in the double sense of wandering (hence, as involving indeterminacy, as outside—or at least resistant to—the supervisory governance by a paradigm) and of erring (in the sense not so much of committing an error but rather of that which makes error in the usual sense possible, as, for instance, being deceived about something can lead one to make an error in dealing with it).3 Thus was the cosmos generated in the beginning: from the combination of no”V and ånâgkh—or rather, giving the word s¿stasiV its full force, from a standing together of no”V and ånâgkh, not only in the sense of their meeting, their being joined together in a kind of union, but also in a sense involving hostility, as when two soldiers stand together face to face in battle, in close combat with one another. Timaeus continues: “Thus going back to this and taking up another beginning (Ätèran årcæn) that is suitable to these same matters, now again we must begin from the beginning regarding these things, as we did formerly regarding those” (48a–b). Thus, another beginning is to be made, an other beginning, a different beginning, different from the beginning with which Timaeus began his ¤rst discourse. Now the beginning will not be made by posing—even if as a question and an opinion—the distinction between that which perpetually is and that which is generated. Nor will Timaeus begin now by telling how the god took over the chaotic whole of the visible so as to set it in order. For merely to tell about how this was taken over is not yet to begin at the beginning. A different beginning is now required, was indeed already required from the beginning if the injunction to begin at the beginning was to be heeded. Now Timaeus gestures in the direction of the palintropic move required: “We must bring into view the nature itself of ¤re, water, air, and earth before the generation of the heaven and what befell them. For as of

formulation by Grote: “This word (necessity) . . . is now usually understood as denoting what is ¤xed, permanent, unalterable, knowable beforehand. In the Platonic Timaeus it means the very reverse: the indeterminate, the inconstant, the anomalous, that which can be neither understood nor predicted.” Against Taylor, Cornford insists “that the body of the universe is not reduced by Plato to mere extension, but contains motions and active powers which are not instituted by the divine Reason [thus Cornford ventures to translate no”V] and are perpetually producing undesirable effects” (Plato’s Cosmology, 171–76). 3. In the Laws a certain semantic af¤nity is posed between errancy (as wandering) and the word (if it be a word) c»ra, which will ¤nally name that to which the discourse on ånâgkh will lead. But in the Laws this af¤nity is posed at a level that, in relation to that of the Timaeus and especially of Timaeus’ second discourse, can hardly be more than prephilosophical. The subject is the krupteia (“secret service”), which is said to afford wonderfully severe training in endurance, as those involved go barefoot in winter and “wander [planwmènwn] throughout the whole countryside [c»ra] both by night and by day” (Laws 633c).

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now no one has ever disclosed their generation, but we speak as if men knew what ¤re is and each of these and take them as beginnings, as elements of the universe [stoice¢a to” pantíV]” (48b). Yet, having thus spoken of ¤re, air, water, and earth as elements, Timaeus immediately withdraws the designation: these are not to be likened to syllables, that is, they are not to be regarded as constituting within j¿siV something like the units that syllables constitute within lígoV. In play here is the original sense of stoice¢on as syllable (as unit or “element” of discourse) and the question of the appropriateness of extending that sense from the sphere of lígoV to that of j¿siV, an extension ¤rst ventured in Plato’s Theaetetus.4 One suspects that Timaeus’ reservation, his declaration of the inappropriateness of the extension, has to do with what Timaeus is to say about the relation between lígoV and j¿siV, speci¤cally, about what happens when, in lígoV, the attempt is made to grasp the nature of ¤re, air, water, and earth, to grasp these as originary “elements” of j¿siV. To say nothing—yet—about the inappropriateness even of the designations ¤re, air, water, earth. In this passage Timaeus identi¤es that small part of his ¤rst discourse that, as he said, did not pertain to the work of no”V. This part occurred at the point where Timaeus began describing the god’s production of the body of the cosmos, speci¤cally, at the point where the god is said to have taken ¤re, air, water, and earth and to have bound them together to form the body of the cosmos. It is precisely in reference to this small part of his ¤rst discourse that Timaeus now observes that we speak as if it were known what ¤re is, as well as the others, taking these four as beginnings. But they are themselves generated, and their generation, even if never yet disclosed, will certainly have deprived them of the status of beginnings. Timaeus’ ¤rst discourse proves, then, not to have begun at the beginning: by beginning at that point where the god took ¤re and the others and set about making the cosmic body, the discourse got ahead of itself; it proves to have been ahead of itself from the beginning. Now it is incumbent upon Timaeus to make a different beginning, one that would begin at the beginning. Now what is required is a palintropic move: Timaeus must let the alleged beginning collapse into an earlier beginning, that is, he must turn back to what was passed over by the ¤rst discourse. By turning back to the prior generation of ¤re and the others, his discourse will attempt now to catch up with itself. Such a turn—indeed, even its mere prospect—cannot but seem so extremely archaic as to threaten the very discourse in which it would be announced. For Timaeus has declared unequivocally that it was in making the heaven that the god made time, that time and the heaven were made at the same time (ëma). Thus, in turning back to consider ¤re and the others
4. Theaet. 201e. See Cornford, Plato’s Cosmology, 161 n. 1.

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as they were “before the birth of the heaven [pr¬ tôV o‹rano” genèsewV],” Timaeus is turning back to a kind of time before time as such, to a kind of time when there was not yet time itself. Even to announce the move as a turn back to the nature of ¤re and the others before the generation of the heaven requires displacing the before (prí) to an order of precedence that is not simply that of time, reinscribing it in an order like that in which the at the same time (ëma) must operate in the declaration that time and the heaven were made at the same time. The discourse cannot but be twisted and made to sound in different registers as soon as it is directed to a kind of time before time, to a time when there is not yet time. And yet, to the extent that one rigorously adheres to the identi¤cation of time with the starry heaven, there will have been no time, no kind of time, before the god set the heavenly bodies moving in their orbits so as to produce the starry heaven as a moving image of eternity. The turn back will thus be a turn out of time, not from time to eternity, but to the cosmos in a condition in which neither time nor eternity has any pertinence.5 Whether it is regarded as belonging to a time before time or to no time at all, this other beginning, this more archaic beginning, must be addressed in the new beginning that Timaeus now makes, the new beginning in which now he would—as the injunction requires—begin at the beginning. Yet, even if he succeeds, even if his discourse now begins at the beginning, it may turn out not simply to begin with that beginning, as if the beginning were a point at which the discourse could arrive and from which it would then proceed. The otherness of this beginning, in particular, its character as errant and its prospect as being like a soldier face to face in battle with no”V, can hardly not provoke suspicion that nothing here will be simple or linear, that the discourse will be compelled—by necessity itself—to engage in a more complex, if not aporetic, movement with respect to the beginning. In broader perspective the break in the discourse can be regarded as provoked by something falling completely outside the scope of the discourse up to this point, namely, what Timaeus provisionally identi¤es as
5. Brague calls the cosmos in this condition the sensible: “In the Timaeus the sensible is not as such in time. . . . It is in time only to the extent that it is ordered into a universe (ouranos). . . . As to the sensible, if it is not as such in time, it is important to note that neither is it in eternity. It is totally outside the domain within which the difference between time and eternity is pertinent” (Du Temps chez Platon et Aristoteles, 54). On the other hand, it should be observed that this pretemporal condition would occur in several different phases, not all of which can with equal appropriateness be designated as the sensible. Thus, there is the cosmos in that phase in which its body and soul have been produced and joined center to center; this phase, in which perpetual being and its order have already been mixed into the cosmos (so that it is not just sensible), immediately precedes the making of the starry heaven and hence time. From this phase one could distinguish another in which there is (as at the beginning of Timaeus’ discourse on the body of the cosmos) only ¤re, air, water, and earth. But what is decisive for the second discourse is that even these four have come to be from a condition in which, as Timaeus will eventually say (53b), they were only traces of themselves.

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the generation of ¤re, air, water, and earth. The break is made precisely in order to launch another discourse, a different one capable of being extended to that which remained outside Timaeus’ ¤rst discourse. The break thus serves in effect to mark a limit, speci¤cally, a limit of the ¤rst discourse and a limit of the cosmic poÖhsiV to which that discourse is rigorously oriented. The limit has to do with material: whatever is made is made from something. Whatever is produced by tècnh presupposes, either directly or indirectly, something that is by nature. This is the same limit that was marked in Socrates’ discourse on the city: in the city material is needed for the practice of the various tècnai, material that must come eventually from outside the order of tècnh. Indeed this need for material is what leads to the polemic expansion of the city once the unnecessary desires are released within it; it is precisely such expansion that brings about the disruption of the simplest city, of the arcadian union of artisans. Marking this limit with regard to the artisan god’s cosmic poÖhsiV will also prove disruptive. In marking this limit, Timaeus marks the limit of the twofold distinction that from the outset determined the structure of poÖhsiV and thus governed the entire discourse on the production of the cosmos. In marking the limit of this twofold, Timaeus disrupts the framework that has rigorously controlled his entire ¤rst discourse from the moment that discourse began by posing this twofold. He disrupts the operation of that twofold framework, demonstrates its insuf¤ciency, and thereby he prepares the way for the most decisive move of the entire dialogue: in place of the twofold of paradigm and image, Timaeus is about to declare that there are three kinds. The initial part of the second discourse (up to 53c) revolves around several countings of these three kinds. The discourse ordered and punctuated by these countings is the deepest, most archaic, most abysmal part of the entire dialogue. It is a kind of beginning of the entire discourse delivered by Timaeus, a beginning for that discourse, indeed for the entire dialogue, since the order established by Critias sets the Timaean cosmology at the beginning. This most archaic phase of Timaeus’ discourse is a kind of beginning set into the dialogue, not far from the center, as though it were both a withdrawing or selfeffacing beginning and a slightly displaced center, a beginning in which the dialogue would almost be centered. But, in turn, all that proves troublesome in this discourse is compounded almost without measure in the passage in which the entire discourse on the three kinds is gathered up, the passage in which the third kind comes to be called c»ra, the passage, the discourse, that I shall call the chorology. Before Timaeus begins, before he begins again, though differently, now from the beginning, at the beginning, he inserts—before beginning— a brief discourse on discourse, just as he did prior to the beginning of the ¤rst discourse proper. Now he declares: “We will not now speak about the beginning of all things—or their beginnings, or whatever else might seem

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appropriate” (48c). Posing thus a possible pluralizing of beginning, Timaeus underlines his very indecisiveness regarding the mode of discourse appropriate to the beginning: even in declaring that he will not— for now at least—speak about it, he is indecisive about what name to call it, about the appropriate form of the name (singular or plural or . . .). But why is he not now going to speak about it? Why not begin at the beginning by saying that beginning? “Because,” says Timaeus, “there is dif¤culty [t¬ calepín] in setting forth [dhlõsai: showing, making manifest] how things seem by the present mode of passage [dièxodoV]” (48c). Thus, at this point there is a certain detaching of the discourse from the beginning to which nonetheless it now turns. Hence, along with the indecisiveness about the name and number of the beginning, there is a certain distancing of the discourse from it in advance. This detachment, this distancing, serves to indicate—in advance—that the beginning to which the discourse will now be, in some sense, addressed will not yield readily to being said. On the contrary, it will prove dif¤cult, troublesome, perhaps even dangerous, to say—or to try to say—this beginning. It will turn out that Timaeus’ withdrawal from saying the beginning corresponds precisely to the withdrawal of the beginning from being said, its withdrawal from (the) discourse. But what is “the present mode of passage,” this kind of discourse for which it would be dif¤cult to set forth how things seem in the domain of beginning? Timaeus answers: “Keeping to what was declared at the beginning, the capability of likely discourse [tÆn tõn e¥kítwn lígwn d¿namin], I will attempt, as earlier, to present from the beginning a discourse not less likely, indeed more so, concerning each thing and the sum-total of things” (48c–d). It is, then, in a likely discourse that Timaeus will speak of ¤re, air, water, and earth as they were before the generation of the heaven, even if it will be dif¤cult, even in likely discourse, to speak of these beginnings, to say nothing of whatever might claim precedence even over them.6 One thing that Timaeus will indeed venture to say is the dif¤culty, how it is that ¤re and the others elude discourse to such an extent that beyond a point one can only renounce the attempt to say them. If such renunciation is inevitable, if the withdrawal of the beginning or beginnings is ¤nally to reduce likely discourse to mere stammering, then one cannot but wonder whether still another
6. At this point Timaeus speaks only of e¥kãV lígoV, not of e¥kãV m”qoV, whereas at the beginning of his ¤rst discourse he vacillated between the two expressions (see 29c, 29d, 30b). The question is whether the restriction that occurs at this point marks this portion of the dialogue as effecting the transition from invented m”qoV to true lígoV, the transition ¤rst mentioned by Critias and af¤rmed by Socrates (see 26c–e). If the restriction were taken to have such a textual function, one would still need to consider what comes to be marked when, having repeatedly referred to e¥kãV lígoV (53d, 55d, 56a, 56b, 57d), Timaeus reintroduces e¥kãV m”qoV in a very remarkable passage, in the second discourse, on play (59c).

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kind of discourse might come into play, a third kind of discourse capable of becoming somehow a discourse on the third kind. Timaeus declares: as before, so now, at the beginning of the discourse, we call on god the protector to bring us safe—in the sense of granting safe passage to port across dif¤cult waters (dias»zein),7 thus passage across the depths, passage over the abyss—through a narration that is strange, out of the way, out of place, displaced—the word is êtopoV—as well as unusual or, literally, without ©qoV (åæqhV), a narration without any accustomed place. I M A G E S O F T H E C»ra Timaeus declares the new beginning, marks this other, dif¤cult beginning: “Thus we begin the discourse anew” (48e). He begins by returning to the beginning, to the beginning of his ¤rst discourse, to the distinction with which that discourse began. Now it is to be a matter of compounding—or undoing (or both)—that distinction, which even the ¤rst discourse, as it began, left suspended, in question. Timaeus declares that now more distinctions must be made than before: whereas then we distinguished two kinds (eƒdh), now there is need to make manifest a third kind (trÖton gènoV). For the former discourse the two were suf¤cient: ¤rst, the paradigmatic e†doV, laid down (set under) as intelligible (nohtín) and perpetually selfsame, and, second, the imitation (mÖmhma) of the paradigm, that which is visible and subject to generation. But now, says Timaeus, the λíγος seems to necessitate attempting to reveal an e†doV that is dif¤cult, troublesome, dangerous (the word is again calepín) as well as dark, dim, faint, obscure (åmudrín). Timaeus asks: What power (d¿namiV) are we to suppose it to have by nature? He answers: “This, most of all, that it is the receptacle [›podocæ], as it were, the nurse [tiqænh] of all generation” (49a). Thus, Timaeus sets at the beginning of his new discourse another counting, a counting of being, one might call it, in any case a counting that echoes the 1, 2, 3 . . . with which the dialogue begins, a counting that returns to—that repeats—that beginning. But now it is no longer, as in the ¤rst discourse, a counting in which a third is blended from the other two nor in which the resulting three are then blended into one. Now the third is other than the other two, and indeed one of the things that will prove dif¤cult and obscure is precisely this otherness of the third; almost nothing will prove more dif¤cult than saying the otherness of this obscure third. One might, for instance, say that it is other in that it is a third kind of being. Yet, strictly speaking, the name being (t¬ ªn) has been reserved for

7. See Taylor, Commentary on Plato’s Timaeus, 311.

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the ¤rst kind; only it can be called being, whereas the second kind is becoming or the generated and the third kind is the receptacle of generation. Even to say that the third is a third kind is to broach dif¤culties and to risk obscurity, for a kind is, strictly speaking, an intelligible e†doV (as, for instance, with the four kinds of living beings), whereas the third is distinguished from the intelligible eƒdh. If, nonetheless, one calls it a third kind, then the discourse will already have begun to get entangled to a degree that cannot but broach dif¤culty and expose the discourse to danger. It will already have begun to do something other than just say the third: for one will have to say also that it is a kind of kind beyond kind, a kind of kind outside of kind. Yet the lígoV—Timaeus’ e¥kãV lígoV—has already begun to reveal the third kind, making it manifest through an image of it, of its power: it is the receptacle of all generation. Timaeus’ lígoV has broached another image too, an image that is even more obtrusively an image, so much so that one could be tempted (yielding to a powerful tradition) to call it a metaphor: the third kind is, as it were, the nurse of all generation. Designating receptacle and nurse as images of the third kind has its justi¤cation in Timaeus’ explicit characterization of the discourse as e¥kãV lígoV, as a discourse oriented to and thus sharing in the character of images. In this connection the word image must, however, be rigorously constrained to the sense it comes to have in the dialogue. As a result a tension, irresolvable as such, is installed in the expression image of the third kind, for it will turn out that images are, as such, images of the ¤rst kind, not of the third kind. In any case, designating receptacle, nurse (as well as some others still to come) as images of the third kind is not to be construed as tranquil recourse to an unquestioned store of traditional rhetorical concepts.8 The word ›podocæ means not only receptacle but also reception, even a hospitable reception such as was proposed at the beginning of the dialogue, the hospitable reception now being accorded Socrates, the entertainment that Socrates, listening silently, is now receiving from his hosts. The word also means support, aid, succor, hence the connection with the image of the nurse, a kind of surrogate mother who holds, aids, and succors the newly born child. Much later in the dialogue Timaeus will, in precisely
8. In this connection Derrida calls attention to the trap that, in his judgment, few interpreters have escaped: “Almost all the interpreters of the Timaeus gamble here [misent à cet endroit] on the resources of rhetoric without asking about them. They speak tranquilly about metaphors, images, similes. They pose no questions about this tradition of rhetoric, which places at their disposal a reserve of concepts that are very useful but that are built upon this distinction between the sensible and the intelligible, which is precisely that to which the thought of the c»ra can no longer be accommodated” (Jacques Derrida, Khôra [Paris: Galilée, 1993], 21). It is precisely for this reason that the sense of image must be redetermined from the Timaeus itself and the word employed only in this sense, even at the cost (if it be an expenditure and not perhaps rather a return) of installing an irresolvable tension in all discourse on the images of the third kind.

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this connection, conjoin the image of the nurse (tiqænh) with that of the nurturer (trojíV) (88d). There is one other sense of ›podocæ that has special pertinence, a sense operative, for example, in a passage in the Laws in which the Athenian says: “If anyone knowingly receive any stolen article, he shall be liable to the same penalty as the thief; and for the crime of receiving [›podocæ] an exile the penalty shall be death” (Laws 955b). The pertinent sense is that of harboring or sheltering something alien, and of doing so in a way that conceals. Timaeus marks a transition: though what has been said is true, one needs to speak of it in a way that is brighter, more shining (ìnargèsteron). It is of the third kind that Timaeus has just been speaking, and so it is now a question of how the third kind is to be spoken of in a brighter, more shining way. One strategy by which to begin doing so would be to speak of that which could light up the third kind and let it shine forth. But that which lights up everything—even, though in a unique way, the third kind—is ¤re. Thus, Timaeus turns to a discourse on ¤re and the others, by this route coming back to a discussion of that for the sake of which the entire second discourse has ostensibly been undertaken. To discuss these is, says Timaeus, necessary (ånagka¢on), the discourse on what belongs to the order of necessity thus being itself necessitated. But immediately he utters again—now twice—the word heard earlier when he forswore saying the beginning: calepín. The dif¤culty lies in saying which of these is to be called, for instance, water rather than ¤re. The dif¤culty lies in saying which is to be called which and in doing so in a saying that is trustworthy (pistíV) and stable, ¤rm, sure (bèbaioV). Timaeus explains by referring to sight and to a kind of circle that can be observed in what we see of ¤re, air, water, and earth: we see what we now call water becoming by condensation stones and earth; we also see water dissolving into breath and air, and these, in turn, through combustion, becoming ¤re; in the other direction we see ¤re becoming air, air condensing into cloud and mist and then into water, and then again water becoming earth and stones. 9 Timaeus concludes: “Thus, in a circle they give generation to one another, as becomes manifest” (49c). It is precisely this circling of generation that constitutes the dif¤culty, that provokes the troublesome question: “Thus, since no one of these ever makes its appearance as the same, which of them can one af¤rm to be this, whatever it is, and not something else without incurring ridicule?” Timaeus answers: “There is none” (49c–d).
9. Taylor notes how common the schema of such cyclical transformation was in early Greek thought and observes, in particular, that at this point the language of the Timaeus echoes that of—or rather, attributed to—Anaximenes by the references to condensation and rarefaction and by the place given to air in the cycle (Commentary on Plato’s Timaeus, 314f.). On the other hand, Cornford stresses the link with Heraclitus, taken as having “taught the complete transformation of every form of body into every other” (Plato’s Cosmology, 178).

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Having thus declared this interruption of a certain discourse on ¤re and the others, Timaeus then proposes another way of speaking of them. But having just begun to tell of this safest, most secure way, he literally interrupts his discourse10 in order to declare, even more directly, that ¤re and the others elude discourse: each of them ¶ees (je¿gei), not waiting to be called that (tíde) or this (to”to), nor any other name that would indict them for being ¤xed (mínimoV).11 What, then, is that safest way of speaking of them? The passage in which—with the interruption just cited—he proceeds to describe it is one of the most disputed in the entire dialogue. According to what has come to be called the traditional interpretation, this safest way requires that one not call ¤re (or any one of the others) this but rather suchlike (in Bury’s translation) or what is such (Gill’s translation) or what is of such and such a quality (as Cornford translates, inserting the word quality, which is highly problematic, not to say simply inappropriate, in this context)—that is, not to”to but t¬ toio”ton.12 Behind this type of translation is the following general interpretation: ¤re is not to be called this, because to do so would be to attribute to it a stability, a ¤xity, that it does not have; since it is always moving within the cycle of transformations, it does not wait to be called this (to”to) or that (tíde) but ¶ees all discourse that would capture it with such words. One can say only that it is suchlike (toio”ton)—that it is ¤relike—with such discourse merely inscribing it inde¤nitely, un¤xedly, within a certain phase of the cycle of transformations. But according to the other way of translating the passage, proposed by Cherniss, the safest way requires that one not say this is ¤re, this is water, etc., but rather say that what on any occasion is such and such is ¤re, and likewise for the others. Behind this translation stands an interpretation of the
10. The declaration interrupts the discourse at least in that it states in full generality what, both before and after it, is stated with regard to particular cases, ¤re, water, etc. If one accepts the interpretation of the passage defended by Lee, then one could refer to his schematizing of it to show that the general declaration actually interrupts a speci¤c phase of the discourse, deferring the third term in the three-part schema and requiring, after the declaration, repetition of the ¤rst two terms. See Edward N. Lee, “On Plato’s Timaeus, 49D4–E7,” American Journal of Philology 88 (1967): 4–5. 11. This sentence has been variously translated depending on the overall interpretation of the passage, depending especially on which of the two different readings of the passage is accepted. Commentators have called attention especially to the fact that the sentence begins in the singular (je¿gei o‹c ›pomènon) and ends in the plural (mínima øV ªnta a‹tâ). Cherniss suggests the following explanation (though not all have accepted it): “Apparently Plato, just because he has said that ‘it,’ the phenomenon, does not abide, immediately and without further explanation refers not to ‘it’ as a single thing but to ‘them,’ the multiple and transient phases of the phenomenal ¶ux that cannot be identi¤ed as distinct objects” (Harold Cherniss, “A Much Misread Passage of the Timaeus (Timaeus 49C7–50B5),” American Journal of Philology 75 [1954]: 118f.; reprinted in Harold Cherniss, Selected Papers, ed. Leonardo Tarán [Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1977]). 12. Margel translates t¬ toio”ton as ce qui a tel aspect (Le Tombeau du Dieu Artisan, 133).

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passage as denying that anything distinct can be said of this, that is, of what Cherniss calls the phenomenal manifestation or the transient moments of ¶ux. Names such as ¤re and water, which we naively and improperly apply to phenomena, properly denominate the suchlike or what on any occasion is such and such (t¬ toio”ton), that is, the distinct and self-identical characteristics that recur in the phenomenal ¶ux. The debate between the respective advocates of these two interpretations has continued ever since Cherniss ¤rst proposed his translation in 1954, and it is by no means certain that it can be ¤nally settled, at least on philological grounds.13 Whichever interpretation is followed, the decisive

13. The debate began with Cherniss’ paper of 1954, “A Much Misread Passage of the Timaeus,” in which he proposed his translation of the passage and vigorously criticized virtually all previous translations of it into English, German, French, and Italian. Cherniss emphasizes how the passage proceeds to more expanded expressions for t¬ toio”ton, calling it, at ¤rst, t¬ toio”ton ìkâstote and t¬ toio”ton åeÖ, and, then, t¬ toio”ton åeÜ perijerímenon Êmoion, and, ¤nally, t¬ diä pant¬V toio”ton. He undertakes to show that these elaborations support his translation and interpretation of the entire passage, as does the use of t¬ toio”ton rather than simply toio”ton. He formulates the general point of debate, as he sees it, in the following statement: “the fundamental mistake made by these and most interpreters, however, is their assumption that Plato must here be saying what name or kind of name the phenomenal ‘phases,’ ‘moments,’ or ‘occurrences’ should be called, whereas he has already said that these transient moments of ¶ux cannot be called anything distinct from anything else” (122). Toward the end of his paper it becomes clearer that the recurrent, distinct, and self-identical characteristics denoted by such words as ¤re and water are to be rigorously distinguished from the phenomenal ¶ux, the this (128–30). Beginning with Cherniss’ paper of 1957, “The Relation of the Timaeus to Plato’s Later Dialogues” (American Journal of Philology 78 [1957], reprinted in Cherniss, Selected Papers), the debate has been complicated by the way it has been connected with other issues such as the dating of the Timaeus and its relation to the Parmenides, the Theaetetus, and the Cratylus. Unfortunately such discussions have almost invariably proceeded by reference to isolated passages extracted without any attention to the context, much less to the whole of the dialogue involved. Cherniss’ translation and interpretation were vigorously challenged by Norman Gulley in a paper published in 1960 (“The Interpretation of Plato, Timaeus 49D–E,” American Journal of Philology 81 [1960]). Gulley gives his own translation of the passage, explaining it as follows: “Translated in this way, the argument of the passage is, brie¶y, that since the visible world is one of perpetual change, it is necessary to distinguish between a right and a wrong way of describing it. ‘This’ or ‘that’ (tíde kaÜ to”to) is always wrong, since these terms suggest a reference to something substantial and permanent, whereas in fact the sensible world is a world of transient, yet recurrent, qualities or groups of qualities (subsequently called ‘copies’ or ‘likenesses’ of the eternal realities—50C, 51A), which are properly described as `of such and such a kind’ (toio”ton). Thus the fact that the visible world is in continual ¶ux does not entail that it is devoid of determinate and recognisable characteristics, but it does entail that there are no substantial and permanent ‘things’ in it” (54). Citing in full Cherniss’ translation of the passage, Gulley marshals a variety of arguments against it. For example: (a) “His ¤rst dif¤culty is the clause ‘the things which we point to with the use of the words “this” or “that,” thinking that we are indicating something.’ A very special emphasis is given here (as it is in the next sentence) to the terms ‘this’ or ‘that’ (tíde kaÜ to”to), and the seemingly obvious implication of the clause is that, since the use of the terms ‘this’ or ‘that’ carries with it the assumption that a de¤nite ‘something’ is thereby being indicated, it is wrong to apply these terms to what is not a de¤nite ‘something.’ If this is Plato’s point here, consistency seemingly demands that his point in the examples in the previous part of the sentence is that it is wrong

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point in the entire passage is clearly the ¶ight of ¤re and the others from discourse, whether, as in the traditional interpretation, that ¶ight still allows a discourse that would inscribe them inde¤nitely within the cycle of transformations or whether, as in the other interpretation, the ¶ight is so unconditional that the names one naively takes as designating what are thus called ¤re, water, etc. end up denominating something quite other than the phenomenal ¶ux they were taken to name. In neither case is discourse capable of catching and holding these errant fugitives.

to apply the terms ‘this’ or ‘that’ to what is not a de¤nite ‘something,’ to ¤re or to water. . . . Thus the sentence D4–E2 is saying that the terms ‘this’ or ‘that’ should not be applied to gignímena” (58). (b) “In fact, . . . Plato has previously made it clear that the ‘elements’ ¤re, water, air, and earth are constantly changing phenomena, and this in itself makes it implausible to read into what follows an injunction not to apply these terms (¤re, water, etc.) to constantly changing phenomena . . .” (59). On the other hand, Gulley does grant that in one portion of the passage (E4–7) “there are ambiguities and dif¤culties, all of which Cherniss clearly brings out,” though still he insists that “what precedes and what follows this sentence make clear that there is no warrant for trying to import into its meaning a distinction between ‘this’ and ‘such’ as references to different objects” (63). In two papers published in the mid-1960s, Edward N. Lee supports Cherniss’ interpretation and makes explicit some of its implications. In “On Plato’s Timaeus, 49D4–E7,” he restates Cherniss’ interpretation as follows: “in order to speak ‘most securely’ of the elements, we must not (as we now do) refer the term ‘¤re’ (or whatever) to phenomenal stuff. Instead, that term should be referred to something else, to something that does not change, to which Plato here refers as t¬ toio”ton ìkâstote (etc.)” (3). Though Lee disagrees with Cherniss regarding some details (cf. 12–15), for the most part he defends him. In particular, he shows how E4–7, which Gulley admitted were ambiguous and dif¤cult, can be made to ¤t into an overall schema in accord with Cherniss’ interpretation, a schema generated by recurrence of the three–part form, mÆ C ållä U prosagore¿ein Z (e.g., not this but suchlike is to be called ¤re) (4f.). He also defends Cherniss directly against Gulley’s criticisms. For example: On Gulley’s “reading of the basic schema, Plato is saying that phenomena can and should be referred to as ‘suchlike’ or ‘of such-and-such a kind.’ But how can this possibly square with what Plato himself says in the ‘digression’ at 49E2–4? Phenomena are ‘fugitive.’ They slip away from any designation that would convict them of being stable. . . . But if they are as fugitive as all that, how can they offer any foothold even to the designation toio”ton?” (17). In a related paper, “On the Metaphysics of the Image in Plato’s Timaeus” (The Monist 50 [1966]), Lee draws out the implication of Cherniss’ distinction between the phenomenal ¶ux (this) and the recurrent, self-identical characteristic (suchlike) denoted by such words as ¤re and water: what emerges is distinction between “four items: (a) the Form itself; (b) the recurring, invariant character we apprehend perceptually in phenomena of the same sort . . . ; (c) an individual occurrence of that recurrent character (an actual appearance of it in the Receptacle); (d) the Receptacle itself” (367). Richard D. Mohr (The Platonic Cosmology [Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1985]) sides with Cherniss and Lee. Essentially he reproduces Lee’s fourfold classi¤cation, though rather than referring to four items as such, he proposes to speak of the “double aspect” of the phenomena: “On the one hand, they are in ¶ux; on the other hand, they are images of Ideas” (88). It is dif¤cult to be satis¤ed with the fourfold classi¤cation entailed by Cherniss’ interpretation, since the entire discourse on ¤re, water, etc. is immediately preceded by a passage (48e) insisting on the distinction between three kinds, a distinction that will be repeated in several additional passages (e.g., 50c–d; 51e–52a) following closely upon the present passage. Mary Louise Gill, among others, points to this problem and undertakes to reinstate the traditional interpretation and translation, though in her judgment it remains uncertain whether the debate between the advocates of the two interpretations can be ¤nally settled, at least on philological grounds (“Matter and Flux in Plato’s Timaeus,” Phronesis 32 [1987]: 36).

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But one interpretation renders Timaeus’ discourse in this passage more dangerous, renders it such that it interrupts itself at the very moment that it prescribes the safest way. For in this passage there are two discourses in play, two levels of discourse. The ¤rst level is that of discourse about ¤re and the others. At this level, according to the traditional interpretation, one may utter in reference to ¤re (itself) such words as this and suchlike. According to Cherniss’ interpretation, one would, at this level, utter the word ¤re, taking it to apply either to a phenomenon seen (or otherwise sensed)—to which one could at most point while uttering this word this—or to a recurrent, self-identical characteristic. Timaeus does not himself engage in this ¤rst-level discourse but rather engages in a discourse that would say which forms of ¤rst-level discourse are safest. Interpreting the passage in the traditional way, Timaeus’ discourse is one that says the following: to that which is denoted by the word ¤re, one cannot appropriately apply the word this but only the word suchlike. If the passage is interpreted in the way proposed by Cherniss, Timaeus’ discourse is one that says: the word ¤re designates the suchlike but it cannot be applied to (the) this. In order, on Cherniss’ interpretation, for Timaeus’ (second-level) discourse to be possible, the word this (or some other word, if the matter were reformulated, e.g., phenomenal ¶ux) must function to designate that to which the word ¤re cannot be appropriately applied. To put it differently, it is—at the ¤rst level, taking Cherniss’ interpretation—a matter of uttering a word (¤re) and taking it (mistakenly) to apply to something that can in fact only be seen (moving in the cycle of transformations) but not said, something that can be, at most, silently pointed out. Then, in the second-level discourse, Timaeus says that the word uttered, the word ¤re, does not apply to that which Timaeus’ discourse must somehow say (for example, calling it this), even though it is unsayable. That which Timaeus’ discourse would say, that something is unsayable, can be said only if that something is, in Timaeus’ discourse, said. What is said in Timaeus’ discourse interrupts the very possibility of saying it. Or rather, if it is merely a matter of the safest and not of the only possible way of speaking of ¤re and the others, then in declaring that safest way, Timaeus’ own discourse cannot but abandon that way. Such is the danger to which the discourse proves to be exposed. If, on the other hand, one construes it within the framework of the traditional interpretation, Timaeus’ discourse is not interrupted by what is said but is constrained only to let the word ¤re erode into something like ¤relike. In this case his discourse must allow a certain slippage, a displacement, which is not without danger, for it does not itself simply coincide with that safest way that it would say. But it is not, as in the other case, interrupted. I have traced these connections, not in order to support one or the other of the two interpretations offered for this passage, but in order to

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make explicit the doubleness of the discourse and the complexity thereby introduced into it. Irrespective of the interpretation, it can be said that the ¤re, air, water, and earth that are seen moving in the cycle of transformations ¶ee from discourse. Since they are always becoming something else, they lack stability, selfsameness, and consequently they retreat from discourse. Indeed, the only way in which these fugitives exhibit—or rather, imitate—selfsameness is by their circling around from one to another. Now it is apparent why, as the new discourse was about to begin, Timaeus forswore saying the beginning. For, insofar as it is a matter of ¤re, air, water, and earth as they were before the generation of the heaven, this beginning cannot be said. Timaeus has forsworn saying this beginning because it cannot be said, because ¤re and the others lack the stability that would allow them to be said, because they are fugitives from lígoV. Thus it is also that Timaeus, in that same connection, refused to extend to ¤re, air, water, and earth the name element (stoice¢on), which up to the time of Plato had nothing to do with such things, referring instead to syllables, that is, to the “elements” of discourse. It is precisely such coincidence of lígoV with ¤re, air, water, and earth that is now being denied: rather than being captured by lígoV and assimilated to it, ¤re and the others ¶ee from it, retreat before it, elude it. Now it is also apparent how, as Timaeus said (49a), the lígoV seems to necessitate attempting to reveal a third kind. One could say even that, for the break with the previous twofold, lígoV is the touchstone. When it touches—or attempts to touch—¤re and the others, they take ¶ight, making manifest their lack of selfsameness and determinacy. Indeed, they take ¶ight in a way that is unthinkable within the framework of the twofold distinction, linked to poÖhsiV, between a paradigm and a product made to look like the paradigm. A couch, however imperfect it may be as compared with the utter selfsameness of its paradigm, does not go untouched by its name and does not turn—is not turning at every moment—into some quite different artifact. And however it may be with the stone of a temple, crumbling into grains of sand that in turn are dissolved and washed away by rainwater,14 the temple will also typically undergo another, quite different kind of transformation, linked, not to the cycle of ¤re, air, water, and earth, but to the schema of poÖhsiV: it will be rebuilt, for instance, as a Christian sanctuary or perhaps as a storage depot for explosives, which, when accidentally detonated, will damage it severely, though not to the point of making it unrecognizable as still a temple, or rather, as the ruins of a temple, now to be preserved as such. Such recon14. This example brings especially to light the peculiar character of ¤re and the others as they were before the generation of the heaven, that is, when—in contrast to the very slowly transformed stone of the temple—they were not yet quite themselves. Once Timaeus’ discourse arrives at the point where these are shaped into ¤re, air, water, and earth themselves, earth will be set outside the cycle of transformations (see 56d).

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struction (and, though differently, destruction) is situated within the schema of poÖhsiV and its twofold distinction. One needs, then, to mark the difference between artifacts, which are fabricated and can be refabricated within the framework of the twofold distinction between a paradigm and things made in the image of the paradigm, and ¤re, air, water, and earth, as they are spoken of in the stammering discourse of the present passage. It is imperative, then, not to generalize the discourse on (the ¶ight of) ¤re and the others into a theory of visible things as such in which one would declare all such things incapable of any more than minimal denomination, including, not insigni¤cantly, all those things of the cosmos that have been named in Timaeus’ ¤rst discourse, operating, as it did, within the schema of poÖhsiV. Indeed, at the threshold of the chorology, Timaeus will say that each thing of this kind (the second kind) not only is like its paradigm but also has the same name as the paradigm (see 52a). Only ¤re, air, water, and earth, as they were before the generation of the heaven, as they were when they were not yet even quite themselves—only they are fugitives from lígoV. And it is precisely their ¶ight that points to a third kind that would harbor them outside the twofold. One could say even that the very ¶ight of ¤re and the others traces a way beyond the twofold, that these traces (as Timaeus will soon call them) mark a passage toward the receptacle in which they would be held, nurtured, sheltered. Timaeus draws a certain contrast between the almost unspeakable fugitives and that which, previously called receptacle and nurse, he now refers to as that in which (ìn Ÿ) each of them appears in being generated and from which (ìke¢qen) again they perish. In a sense, the in which and from which of generation and perishing would be less resistant to lígoV than those fugitives that are generated in it and perish from it. For Timaeus says that it is in reference to that alone (mínon ìke¢no) that one can use the words this (to”to) and that (tíde) (49e–50a). Note that the discourse remains double: Timaeus avoids applying this or that (to the in which and from which) before saying, and in order to say, that these can be applied; he avoids such application (as I have not) by availing himself of the third form of the demonstrative pronoun at his disposal in Greek; but then, it would be necessary, strictly speaking, to turn back and, shifting the demonstratives, to con¤rm that ìke¢no can also be said of it. Instead, Timaeus simply stresses that to”to and tíde are to be used only of the in which and from which, and not of any of those fugitives that are suchlike.15
15. How one translates and interprets the last part of the ¤nal sentence depends on whether one follows the traditional interpretation or Cherniss’ interpretation of the earlier part of the passage (see note 13). In contrast to the traditional translation, which I have paraphrased, Cherniss translates the last part of the sentence as follows: “. . . it is safest to designate it [Cherniss identi¤es the antecedent as: ìn Ÿ . . .] alone when we employ the word ‘this’ or ‘that’ but what is of any kind soever, hot or white or any of the contraries and all that consist of these, not in turn to call it any of these” (“A Much Misread Passage of the Timaeus,” 347). Cherniss insists that the ¤nal occurrence of it also refers to the receptacle (357).

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The in which and from which is, then, less resistant to discourse insofar as it can, unlike ¤re and the others, be called this and that. And yet, even if marking a certain, strange selfsameness on the part of what is thus called, these very designations also mark a withdrawal from e¥kãV lígoV, from the discourse of images—these very designations of it as this and that (these most abstract names, everything—except the ¤re, air, water, and earth that are not yet quite themselves—being a this and a that) as well as, if to a lesser degree, the operative designations in which and from which. Indeed, the additional images that Timaeus is about to bring forth will themselves in some instances prove to be images of the third kind that also, as such, image the very withdrawal of the third kind from presentation in and through images. The third kind will be addressed most directly when Timaeus comes to call it the c»ra. There, in the chorology, it will come closest to being said. As the discourse moves toward the chorology, there is a series of indicators that mark the increasing appropriateness of the discourse, that signal a certain tightening and sharpening of the discourse. One such indicator has already appeared: immediately after Timaeus introduces the third kind as receptacle and nurse, he voices the injunction that, though what has been said is true, one needs to speak of it in a way that is brighter (see 49a). Now, following the discussion of ¤re, air, water, and earth and its concluding differentiation between these and the third kind, another such indicator occurs: “Yet one must desire eagerly to speak of this again more clearly [sajèsteron]” (50a). The deployment of e¥kãV lígoV that then follows brings forth several additional images of the third kind. Timaeus presents the image of gold that is modeled into all possible ¤gures or shapes (scæmata), each ¤gure being immediately remodeled into another. Then he brings discourse to bear on this image: if someone were to point to one of the ¤gures and ask what it is, the safest (åsjalèstaton) answer would be that it is gold; but as for the triangle and other ¤gures formed from the gold, one should avoid speaking of them as being, since they are changing even while one is thus speaking. To the ¶eeting ¤gures—as to ¤re and the others—one could safely apply only such names as suchlike (t¬ toio”ton) (50a–b).16 What Timaeus presents is thus a kind of image of images, at least of such ¶eeting images as ¤re and the others can be said to be. What he presents is an image of images in a kind of arti¤cial cycle of transformations. It is an image drawn from the sphere of tècnh, and yet at the same time it is divergent from tècnh; for an artisan does not make products of all sorts but molds the material in such a way that it becomes an image of the paradigm. The otherwise unceasing cycle of remakings—analogous to the cycle of ¤re,

16. The introduction here of the word t¬ toio”ton not only links this discourse to the previous one on ¤re, water, etc., but raises regarding it the same disputed issues regarding translation and interpretation. For this passage, too, Cherniss offers and defends a translation quite different from the traditional one (“A Much Misread Passage of the Timaeus,” 125).

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air, water, and earth, indeed remodeling the course of tècnh in the image of this cycle—would always be broken by the force that the paradigm exercises in tècnh. As all possible ¤gures come to be modeled in the gold, so do ¤re, air, water, and earth come to be in the third kind and pass away from it. The gold is an image of that which receives all the ¶eeting images, an image of what Timaeus has called receptacle. Timaeus declares that this all-receiving nature is always to be called the same (50b), not in the sense of being called only by a single name, for already it has been called by several, but rather in the sense that it remains always the same throughout the reception of various ¤gures, images, or traces. Timaeus says: never does it depart from its own power (d¿namiV) (50b).17 And yet, it remains the same, not by retaining the same form, but by virtue of taking on no form whatsoever. Timaeus explains: “While it receives all things, nowhere and in no way does it take on any form [morjæ] like any of those things entering it. For it is laid down by nature as a matrix [ìkmage¢on] for all things; being moved and shaped by those things that enter it, through them it appears [jaÖnetai] different at different times” (50b–c). Timaeus thus adds another name, another image, of that which has already been called the third kind, the receptacle, a nurse, etc.: now it is called a matrix (ìkmage¢on) in the sense of a mass of wax or other soft material on which the imprint of a seal can be made.18 The image of molding or modeling, as with gold, is itself now remolded, remodeled, into another image drawn from tècnh, that of impressing or stamping an impress or imprint on a matrix. Timaeus marks the shift, anticipating the discourse to come: “And those that enter and depart are imitations of those that always are [tõn ªntwn åeÜ mimæmata], being stamped from them in a way hard to declare and wondrous, which we shall consider hereafter” (50c). What happens, then, is that—or is as if— perpetual beings are—were—applied like a stamp to a matrix so as to leave in the matrix an impression similar to the stamp itself.

17. Ashbaugh takes gold as here illustrating what she calls the stability of the c»ra. She observes that the reason why gold is chosen for such illustration “appears in the discussion of metals (Tim. 59b–d). That section describes gold as a fusible variety of water that is quite dense because it is composed of ¤ne, uniform particles that give the appearance of something shining (stilbon). The offshoot of gold is adamant (Tim. 59b), a hard material likely to remind us of something stable because it endures through many changes” (Anne Freire Ashbaugh, Plato’s Theory of Explanation: A Study of the Cosmological Account in the “Timaeus” [Albany: State University of New York Press, 1988], 121). Considerable caution (and no doubt some limiting quali¤cations) would be required if one were to sustain the reference to the stability of the c»ra; for, while indeed Timaeus says that it does not depart from its own power, he also will soon declare, for instance, that it is most dif¤cult to catch (51a–b). 18. The same word is used in the passage in the Theaetetus where Socrates proposes the supposition that there is in the soul a block of wax (kærinon ìkmage¢on), memory being possible because perceptions and thoughts are imprinted on it (Theaet. 191c–d). See Taylor, Commentary on Plato’s Timaeus, 321f.

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Timaeus stresses that the third kind, this matrix, takes on no form, indeed has no form. For, in order to be capable of suitably receiving all forms, it must itself be devoid of form, as the base for a fragrant ointment must be as odorless as possible. One could say that in the matrix forms come and go; it comes to have, to receive, forms, and yet it does not have them itself, does not have them as proper to it itself. In other words, forms come to be in it without ever being of it. But, though it itself has no form—and thus, as Timaeus will soon declare, is as such invisible—one cannot conclude that the third kind simply does not appear. On the contrary, it appears by way of those things that enter it, those things that it receives: “through them it appears different at different times.” Immediately following the next indicator (proposing to speak “most correctly [ñrqítata]”), Timaeus speaks again of this appearing of the third kind: “That part of it that is made ¤ery [that has been in¶amed: pepurwmènoV] appears [shows itself, becomes manifest: jaÖnesqai] as ¤re”—and likewise for the others (51b). One might suppose that as it thus appears—not as itself but as, for instance, ¤re—there would come also into operation a certain indexical function, a kind of pointing by way of discourse, an operation in which, by calling the third kind this or that (as indeed one can do appropriately), one would indicate that which appears (even though not as itself) through, for instance, the ¤ery part. Just after his ¤rst mention of the appearing of the third kind, indeed right in the midst of his discussion of the tècnai of modeling and stamping, Timaeus abruptly makes a transition from the order of poÖhsiV to that of procreation and birth. Again he counts the three kinds, but now in an order different from that previously followed: now he begins with the generated, then names that in which (ìn Ÿ) it is generated, and then ¤nally adds that from which (t¬ Êqen) the generated is copied and begotten (j¿etai) (50c–d). The reference to begetting (hence to j¿siV, which recurs frequently in this part of the dialogue) announces the transition that then ensues to the order of procreation and birth. The from which, which has just been described almost as though it were a stamp that comes to make its impression on a block of wax, is now likened to the father, the in which to the mother and the nature (j¿siV) engendered between them to the offspring.19 Curiously the artisan god, occasionally
19. Describing the c»ra as “the dark nocturnal space-matter of the universe” and as “chaos,” Fink stresses its maternal nature: it is “the great mother, the ‘earth’” (Eugen Fink, Zur Ontologischen Frühgeschichte von Raum-Zeit-Bewegung [The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1957], 187f.). Similar connections are to be found in the passage in the Republic in which Socrates describes the story to be told to the citizens of the city, the story according to which all were fashioned and reared under the earth and only then born from it, remaining therefore bound to the land: “When the job had been completely ¤nished, then the earth, which is their mother, sent them up. And now, as though the land [c»ra] they are in were a mother and a nurturer [trojíV], they must plan for and defend it, if anyone attacks, and they must think of the other citizens as brothers and born of the earth” (Rep. 414d–e). Still another connection between the maternal or rather between women’s way of life, on the one hand, and

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called father in the ¤rst discourse, seems now to be completely absent.20 The father is no longer the artisan god who looks to the paradigm but now is the paradigm itself. Viewed in broader perspective, the move effected here is a transition from the order governed by the twofold distinction between paradigm and image (the order of production) to the order governed by the threefold (the order of procreation and birth). The tension or even opposition between these two orders has been in play throughout much of the dialogue up to this point, its discourse vacillating between the terms of tècnh and those of ÅrwV and j¿siV. Already in Socrates’ discourse, recapitulating that of the Republic, the procreative and erotic proved to resist the ordering required of the technical city. Against this background it is evident just how appropriate the emergence of the procreative order is in Timaeus’ second discourse, where it is precisely a matter of addressing what falls outside the work of no”V and outside the supervision by which noetic sight governs poÖhsiV. On the other hand, Timaeus has ventured to express the threefold procreative order precisely by recourse to such modes of tècnh as modeling and stamping. And even when ¤nally he expresses this order as that of father, mother, and offspring, he reverts immediately to the technical images of modeling and stamping, though not without also slipping in another mode, the production of fragrant ointments. It is almost as if the likening of the threefold to father, mother, and offspring had been only a brief aberration, even an interruption. In the discourse there remains—but now even more openly—a hovering between the order of production and that of procreation and birth. Timaeus insists once and for all on the differentiation: the mother and receptacle of all generation is not to be called earth, air, ¤re, or water. He continues in a way that gathers up all he has said about this third kind and that opens beyond to the chorology: “But if we call it an invisible e†doV, formless, all-receiving, and, in a most perplexing way, partaking of the intelligible [metalambânon d´ åpor»tatâ p„ to” nohto”] and most dif¤cult to catch, we will not be speaking falsely” (51a–b). So dif¤cult to catch that not even the net of kinds, of kinds of kinds, can effectively snare it, that which is nonetheless called the third kind is, says Timaeus, formless. It has itself none of those forms (shapes, determinations) that—in terms of the various images—can be received by it or stamped on it or that can impregnate it. Since it is all-receiving—not only a mother but, it seems, utterly promiscuous—it can itself have no form, no
the necessary, the errant, and the c»ra, on the other, is broached in the Laws: “Accustomed as they are to live a retired and private life, women will use every means to resist being led 19.the necessary, the errant, and the c»ra, on the other, is broached in the Laws: “Accusout into the light, and they will prove much too strong for the lawgiver” (Laws 781c). tomed as they are to live a retired and private life, women will use every means to resist being 20. This absence is confirmed at 53b. led out into the light, and they will prove much too strong for the lawgiver” (Laws 781c). 20. This absence is con¤rmed at 53b.

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determinations whatsoever. It can itself receive, be stamped or impregnated by, all those kinds called paradigms or intelligible eƒdh, but it is not itself determined by any of them, cannot itself have any of these determinations, cannot have them as determinations of itself.21 The rami¤cations of this utter nondetermination are profound, or rather, abysmal. Suppose that for something to have meaning were de¤ned as its being determined by such a determination. Suppose, further, that for a word to have meaning were de¤ned as its expressing such a determining determination, its signifying the meaning of something. Then it would have to be said that the third kind has no meaning and that the name it is about to be called, the name c»ra, if it is a name, has no meaning. Both the c»ra and the word c»ra would be meaningless.22 If, on the other hand, it should turn out that somehow, through some twist of lígoV, they have something like a meaning, it would have to be a kind of meaning beyond meaning, just as the third kind (to be said as/by c»ra) is a kind of kind beyond kind. Little wonder, then, that Timaeus has forsworn saying this beginning. Little wonder that the discourse has become calepín. Being formless, the third kind is also invisible. Since it is not determined by any intelligible e†doV, it has no look that, shining through it, could give it a visible aspect. On the other hand, its invisibility is what links it to the intelligible so that it is, as Timaeus says, “in a most perplexing way, partaking of the intelligible”—partaking of the intelligible, not by being determined by it as are generated things, but by being invisible, as are the intelligible eƒdh. Timaeus expresses the point succinctly by calling the third kind an invisible e†doV. And yet, its invisibility cannot but be different. Whereas the invisibility of the intelligible is, in the end, just the other side of another visibility—that is, its invisibility to the senses is just the other side of its visibility to no”V—the invisibility of the third kind is a more insistent invisibility. And yet, if it were absolutely invisible, if it did not announce itself in any way whatsoever, then the discourse addressed
21.Referring to the numerous interpretations that since antiquity have sought to determine the sense of c»ra, Derrida writes: “They always consist in giving form to it by determining it, it which, however, can offer itself or promise itself only by escaping from all determination” (Khôra, 26f.). 22. Regarding what he calls “the thought of the khôra,” Derrida writes: “It would no longer belong to the horizon of meaning [sens], nor to that of meaning as the meaning of being” (Khôra, 22f.). Presumably Derrida is alluding here to Heidegger and suggesting that the thought of the c»ra exceeds the horizon of Heidegger’s thinking, at least of the inscription of that thinking that is governed by the question of the meaning of being. In Heidegger’s own brief discussions of the c»ra, which con¶ate c»ra and típoV and link Platonism to the transformation of the essence of place into space de¤ned as extension, there is little to suggest any originary engagement with the Platonic discourse on the c»ra (see Martin Heidegger, Einführung in die Metaphysik, vol. 40 of Gesamtausgabe [Frankfurt a.M.: Vittorio Klostermann, 1983], 70f.; see also Heidegger, Was Heisst Denken? [Tübingen: Max Niemeyer, 1954], 174).

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to it would be even more than most perplexing, even more than dif¤cult, troublesome, dangerous. It would be utterly blind, completely unbound by anything beyond itself, and the chorology could not but simply fall back into itself. This is why it is of utmost consequence that, despite its invisibility, Timaeus does not deny it all appearing but grants that, in a part where it holds a trace, for instance, of ¤re, it appears as ¤re. Even if as ¤re, it nonetheless appears; it appears, even if never as itself. Indeed, the spacing of the text is such here (51b) as to emphasize this appearing, the declaration of which is framed between two indicators. The ¤rst indicator is Timaeus’ proposal to speak “most correctly.” The second indicator is his proposal to present the discourse that most thoroughly distinguishes with respect to its theme. Between these two indicators stands Timaeus’ declaration of the appearing of the third kind: “That part of it that is made ¤ery appears as ¤re”—and likewise for the others. Appearing as, for instance, ¤re, the third kind shows itself, becomes manifest, but never as itself, never without holding itself as such in concealment. Even in appearing, it remains most dif¤cult to catch. Timaeus’ indication that the most thoroughly distinguishing discourse is now to be presented serves to mark the move to the threshold of the chorology. At this threshold Timaeus takes up again the twofold. That he does not simply and unconditionally assert the distinction between perpetual being and that which is generated but rather takes up the question of this distinction serves to con¤rm just how inconclusive, how questionable, the distinction remained when Timaeus introduced it at the beginning of his ¤rst discourse. But now he explicitly poses the question whether, in addition to the things we see, there is an intelligible e†doV of each or whether what we take to be an e†doV is nothing but discourse, mere lígoV. Yet even now he disclaims giving a de¤nitive answer, one that would ¤nally establish the distinction and, as it were, properly anchor everything. Instead, he casts a vote for a merely conditional, hypothetical declaration: if no”V and true opinion (díxa ålhqæV) are two kinds, then so are the intelligible eƒdh and the things of sense. He then proceeds to specify the differences between no”V and true opinion, leaving the hypothetical premise untouched, letting it remain hypothetical, something laid down, indeed something laid down about what is laid down from lígoV, a hypothetical about the hypothetical as such. If there is to be an establishing of the distinction as such, the distinction between perpetual being and that which is generated, it will not occur prior to the chorology. But at the threshold he merely delimits the ¤rst and the second kinds to the extent needed for the radical—or abysmal—differentiation to be ventured in the chorology. First: “We must agree that one kind is the selfsame e†doV, ungenerated and indestructible, neither receiving into itself any other from elsewhere nor

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itself passing anywhere else into another, invisible and in other ways nonsensible, noetic vision [intellection: níhsiV] being assigned to look upon [ìpiskope¢n] this” (51e–52a). Here Timaeus explicitly pairs the invisibility of the ¤rst kind with its visibility to noetic vision (níhsiV); its invisibility is the other side of another visibility, of a visibility of another order, of the order of no”V. Timaeus also emphasizes the nonreceptivity of the ¤rst kind: such a selfsame e†doV neither receives any other into itself nor itself passes into any other. It neither receives nor is received. Its utter nonreceptivity corresponds to its selfsameness: it is itself throughout itself, lacking all intrinsic connection to an other. It is simply one and the same, simply itself. Second: “The second kind is that which has the same name as and is like the former [i.e., the ¤rst kind], sensible, generated [begotten/born: gennhtín], ever carried about [tossed about, as at sea: pejorhmènon], being generated in some place [típoV] and again perishing from it, apprehensible by opinion with sense” (52a). Timaeus’ indication of the relation between the two kinds goes beyond anything said previously: things of the second kind, sensible things, have the same name and the same look as an intelligible e†doV. A sensible thing is a duplicate of the corresponding e†doV, a duplicate in a double sense, both in lígoV and for vision. It is as if the e†doV had migrated, passing into another, even though Timaeus has insisted that an e†doV—an intelligible e†doV—can no more pass into another than it can receive another into itself. What Timaeus poses at the threshold—as he begins the counting in which the third kind will ¤nally be called c»ra—is the question of the doubling of being. Or rather, in order to sound in it the note of errancy, let it be called the question of the duplicity of being, of duplicity in the double sense of doubling and of wandering, as in or into errancy. CHOROLOGY It is called a third kind, though in the sense of a kind of kind beyond kind. One would call it even a third kind of being, though only at the risk of letting the discourse drift beyond any hope of rigor: for even if, in addition to the ¤rst kind, the second kind could be said—by way of the duplicity of being— to have some slight share in being, there would seem to be only the most remote possibility of extending the word to the third kind, which is neither being nor a being, neither an intelligible being nor a sensible being. If it can be called a being at all, it can only be in a sense of being that exceeds being, in a sense of being that is beyond being (ìpèkeina tôV o‹sÖaV).23 And yet, Timaeus has offered a series of images of it. It is pictured as all-receiving, as the receptacle of all generation, the in which and from which of all generation. Yet it not only receives but also harbors, shelters,
23. This expression, which in the Republic (509b) Socrates uses in speaking of t¬

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nurtures the ¶eeting newborn traces of ¤re, air, water, and earth. It not only nurtures and succors them like a nurse but bears, gives birth to, them (and so to all that arises from them): it is the mother. There are also images of it drawn from tècnh. It is pictured in the image of gold being constantly remodeled, remolded, into every possible design; yet, over against this image, limiting the truth of the image, Timaeus declares the third kind to be invisible. It is portrayed also in the image of a matrix; yet, over against this image, limiting its truth too, the third kind is said to partake of the intelligible, to be like precisely that which would imprint its stamp on the matrix. It is, then, especially the technical images that prove manifestly limited. But then, if the third kind is, as Timaeus declares, completely formless, utterly amorphous, every image will be limited, assuming that it is the very nature of an image as such to present the form of that which it images but from which it is materially distinct. If the third kind lacks all determination, then one must wonder how there can be an image that has any bearing on it itself. In any case it will fall outside the horizon of meaning in a certain classical sense (even if precisely here in the Platonic text where one would locate the origin of this—and perhaps every— classical sense, even the sense of sense itself, a counterstress is already in force). Even what one might take to be its proper name, the name c»ra, will prove, in this classical sense, to be meaningless, and thus its very status as a word, if not as a proper name, will be disturbed. But then, if neither in an image nor in its proper name, how is the c»ra accessible at all? How is it that discourse about it, chorology, can lay at least some remote claim to truth? Two operations, at least, would seem to be involved: from the one side, an indexical operation, the kind of indicating carried out by the words this and that, and, from the other side, its peculiar appearing by way of, for instance, the ¤re that it holds and nurtures. Even of this appearing one could, it seems, catch only a glimpse, perhaps by spying a trace of ¤re in the interval in which, undergoing transformation, ¤re as such breaks down in a way that could release its momentary ¶ash. How otherwise? Except perhaps in a dream. As chorology Timaeus’ discourse comes as near as it ever will to the
23. This expression, which in the Republic (509b) Socrates uses in speaking of t¬ ågaqín, is never used in reference to the c»ra. Yet there is every reason to ask, as does Derrida, about the possibility of extending the expression to the c»ra (see Jacques Derrida, “Tense,” in The Path of Archaic Thinking: Unfolding the Work of John Sallis, ed. Kenneth Maly [Albany: State University of New York Press, 1995], 73f.). Let it suf¤ce here merely to mention the enigmatic passage in Book 7 of the Republic in which Socrates tells of how the liberated prisoner, having escaped the cave, could ¤nally turn his gaze upward: “Then ¤nally I suppose he would be able to look upon the sun—not its appearances [its phantoms: jantâsmata] in water or in some other base [Édra], but the sun itself by itself in its own c»ra— and behold how it is” (Rep. 516b). I have discussed the passage, in the context of a discussion with Derrida, in “Daydream,” Revue Internationale de Philosophie (1997).

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beginning. In becoming chorology its palintropic engagement brings it into a region where it can most nearly, as enjoined, begin at the beginning, even if only in recommencing, in a second beginning. In this discourse Timaeus ventures to call by its proper name that which heretofore has only been counted or else addressed by the names of its images. Yet the differentiations that set it apart have such disruptive force that even the concept of proper name will in the end miss the mark and prove capable only of alluding to the sense—or nonsense—at issue here. What about the word c»ra, if indeed in the Timaeus it functions as a word? The interruption of its meaning (in the classical sense) entails an enormous complication of the question of its translation. If, following Cornford and A. E. Taylor,24 one proposed to translate c»ra as space, then one would have to set about immediately withdrawing from the word much that we cannot but hear in it. For clearly the c»ra is not the isotropic space of post-Cartesian physics. Nor is it even empty space, the void, as discussed in Greek atomism; for this is called t¬ kenín and is in fact discussed as such later in the Timaeus (58b). It would hardly be otherwise if one were to translate c»ra as place, following Thomas Taylor, who in effect translated Chalcidius’ translation of c»ra as locus;25 for one would then have con¶ated the difference between c»ra and típoV and would risk assimilating Plato’s chorology to the topology of Aristotle’s Physics. Yet it is not only a matter of these translations being inadequate and in need of such extensive reservations that in the end they say next to nothing. In a sense they are not translations at all: for to the extent that the meaning of c»ra is interrupted, there can be no translation of it—not, at least, according to a certain classical concept of translation (the very one ¤rst formulated in the Critias [113a–b], thus having its origin precisely in this Platonic context). To propose a translation of c»ra would—according to this concept—be to say that both words, c»ra and its translation, have the same semantic correlate, the same meaning; translation would consist, then, in moving from one word to the other by way of this common meaning. Inasmuch as c»ra has no meaning—at least not in this classical sense—it is intrinsically untranslatable. It is such as to disrupt the very operation of translation, yielding to it perhaps even less than does a proper name, to which it is to this extent akin. On the other hand, even in the Timaeus c»ra has certain semantic af¤nities based on its usage in other texts (where no such interruption
24. Cornford, Plato’s Cosmology, 192. Taylor, Commentary on Plato’s Timaeus, 343f. 25. Plato, The Timaeus and the Critias or Atlanticus, trans. Thomas Taylor, 171 (page citation is to the reprint edition). Timaeus, A Calcidio Translatus Commentarioque Instructus (London: The Warburg Institute, 1962), 50.

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occurs) and of course on its connections within the Greek language as such. In this regard a kind of lateral translation or implication will remain operative, even if in a certain suspension, in the otherwise untranslatable occurrence of c»ra in the chorology. Thus, while leaving c»ra untranslated in the chorology, it will be granted that in other texts (and to a lesser degree in other parts of the Timaeus) there is justi¤cation for translating it, for instance, as place, as land, as country. It seems indisputable, for example, that it means something like place in a passage in the Laws where the Athenian, laying down regulations for commercial exchange, says that such exchange is to be made by a transfer of the article in the c»ra appointed for that purpose in the market (Laws 915d). One could still perhaps translate it as place, though certainly in a more exceptional sense, in two passages from other dialogues that refer to the c»ra of philosophy. The ¤rst, from the Republic, tells of the corruption of the best natures, how they are led to abandon philosophy, while other, unworthy men come to her; as a result, philosophy itself is corrupted, its c»ra having become empty (keníV) although full of ¤ne names and pretentions (Rep. 495c). The second passage, from the Sophist, contrasts the sophist, who runs away into the darkness of nonbeing, with the philosopher, who is devoted to being but who is dif¤cult to see because of the bright light of this c»ra (Soph. 254a). Here the place is, then, not only just that of the philosopher but also, as such, the place of the brightness of being, even (as the Stranger goes on to suggest) a godly place. A number of af¤nities are evident in the Laws, where c»ra occurs with incomparable frequency and virtually always with senses that are decidedly prephilosophical or that at least remain certainly this side of the interruption that the Timaeus produces in the word. Sometimes c»ra is used in the sense of terrain or landscape and is described, for example, as rough (trace¢a) (Laws 695a) or as varied (panto¢a) (Laws 833b); there is talk of adapting the sport of horse racing to the nature of the landscape (katä j¿sin tôV c»raV) (Laws 834c); and at the very beginning of the dialogue Clinias notes that the terrain of Crete is not level, not a plain (pediâV) (Laws 625c–d). One could say too, as it has, in fact, been translated: Crete is not a level country. There are passages in which c»ra designates country in the sense of farmland to be cultivated (qerape¿ein), as a mother tends her children (Laws 740a; cf. 745d). But more often what is prominent when it is used in this general sense is its distinction from the píliV: the country in distinction from the city. For example, there is reference to the country surrounding the city (Laws 704c) and to roads that run from the country into the city (Laws 763c); and there are several passages in which c»ra and píliV are conjoined as two distinct regions, country and city (Laws 759b, 817a, 823e, 945d, 950d). More frequent are passages in which c»ra designates country in the sense of the entire territory, the entire political unit. Sometimes, when

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used in this sense, there is explicit reference to the píliV as within the c»ra: the city is to be set as nearly as possible in the middle of the country (Laws 745b), and both the city and the entire country are to be divided into twelve parts (Laws 745c; cf. 745e, 758e, 760b–e, 761a, 763a, 969c). Quite frequently, it has this same sense in a more generalized mode, as in a passage in which the law is made to utter a chant proclaiming that whoever is caught robbing a temple, if he be a foreigner or a slave, will have a curse branded on his forehead and on his hands, will be scourged, and will then be cast out naked beyond the borders of the country (ìkt¬V tõn Êrwn tôV c»raV) (Laws 854c–d; cf. 855a, 866c, 867e, 881b, 936a, 938c). Likewise in a passage that tells how a foreigner is to be received (›podècesqai) when he comes on public business from another country (ìx êllhV c»raV) (Laws 953b; cf. 930d, 953c–d). And in a passage that tells of those who, out of madness, do violence against the laws with the intent of overthrowing the constitution (politeÖa) and who in the course of their deed commit murder and fail to purge their hands of the blood: such a person will depart into another country and place (e¥V êllhn c»ran kaÜ típon) and remain as an exile for one year (Laws 864e). This passage is especially noteworthy because of its conjoining of c»ra and típoV, a conjunction that, in the most problematic form, turns up at the heart of the chorology. But here it has no appearance of being problematic, no more than do the numerous other occurrences of c»ra in this generalized sense of country (Laws 662b, 705c, 706b, 707d, 708b, 737d, 752d, 830e, 847c, 871d, 874b, 920e, 949c; also Rep. 388a, Pol. 259a). Yet, even in this generalized sense, the word is in some instances suf¤ciently determinate that city and country are contained disjunctively within it: as in a passage telling how the Spartans banished excessive drinking from the land (ìk tôV c»raV), so that drinking parties (sumpísia) are to be seen neither in the cities (êstu) nor in the country (åγρíς) (Laws 637a). The operation of the word c»ra in the discourses of the Timaeus and most notably in the chorology is not independent of the preunderstanding expressed in the translation of c»ra as place, land, and country. Indeed, a number of the connections broached and images evoked in the examples cited have implications for the chorology and its af¤liated discourses, though of course only with various inversions and transformations, to say nothing of the highly problematized context in which these connections and images appear in the Timaeus. Not only is the c»ra interrogated as something like the place of the píliV, but also it is linked to a certain bound or limit of the city, linked thus, in turn, to what is other than the city. And though the city is never mentioned in the chorology, though even the other discourses allied most closely with the chorology seem quite aloof from questions of politics, it is imperative to bear in mind that the larger context is explicitly political, that the entire extended series of dis-

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courses voiced by Timaeus is set between two discourses by Critias on the original Athens and is undertaken precisely for the sake of introducing the second, detailed—and, in the Timaeus, only projected—account that Critias is to give of ancient Athens: Critias’ proposal says in effect that Timaeus’ discourses are to provide the material, namely, the men generated by the discourse, or at least a number of exceptional ones (27a–b), which Critias is then to mold, through his discourse, into a city, into ancient Athens. Among the images evoked in the examples cited from the Laws, those of land, of mother, and of reception echo most distinctly what is said in Timaeus’ second discourse. But the most distinct and far-reaching echo of all is that which sounds in the Stranger’s discourse on the c»ra as the place of being, as the place of its shining, its brightness, for which only the philosopher, it seems, has eyes. Even as it functions in the chorology, c»ra is linked decisively to what can be heard in the corresponding verb cwrèw, especially two of its senses. First, it means to make room for another, to give way or withdraw. Thus, a passage in one of the Homeric Hymns reads: “The earth gave way from beneath [ga¢a d4 Ånerqe c»rhsen].”26 The relevant allusion is to the sense of withdrawing yet receiving, drawing something into itself in its very withdrawing. Cwrèw also means to go forward, to be in motion or in ¶ux, as in the saying attributed to Heraclitus in the Cratylus: “Heraclitus says somewhere that everything moves [pânta cwre¢] and nothing remains still, and, likening the things that are to the ¶ow of a river, he says that you cannot step twice into the same river” (Crat. 402a). Saying the c»ra is not entirely unlike saying the ¶ux. Here is how the c»ra is said, the chorology, or rather a translation: “Moreover, a third kind is that of the c»ra, everlasting [åeÖ], not admitting destruction, granting an abode [Édra] to all things having generation, itself to be apprehended with nonsensation, by a sort of bastard reckoning [logism… tinÜ níq‰], hardly trustworthy; and looking toward which we dream and af¤rm that it is necessary [ånagka¢on] that all that is be somewhere in some place [típoV] and occupy some c»ra; and that that which is neither on earth nor anywhere in the heaven is nothing. As for all of these and others akin to them and concerning [their] wakeful and truly underlying nature, under the in¶uence of this dreaming, we are unable to awaken, to distinguish [these], and to say the truth: that for an image, since not even that itself on the basis of which it comes to be generated belongs to the image but it is always brought forth as the phantom [jântasma] of something other—because of this it is appropriate for it to be generated in something other, clinging to being at least in a certain way, on pain of being nothing at all; whereas to the aid of that which is in the manner appropriate to being [t… d´ ªntwV ªnti] there comes the precise true
26. “To Demeter,” 429f.

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lígoV: that as long as one thing is something and another is something else, neither of the two will ever come to be in the other, so as to become, at once, one (and the same) and two” (52a–d). Nothing could go more without saying than that this translation, even leaving c»ra untranslated, will not have been able to reconstitute the semantic con¤guration of the Greek text. At best it will only have avoided massively projecting back upon the Platonic text forms of discourse and conceptualities that that text in general ¤rst made possible. The c»ra is said to be everlasting, perpetual, always (åeÖ), not admitting destruction, that is, ruin, corruption, passing–away (jqorâ). This corresponds to its being rigorously distinguished from the generated: it is that in which that which is generated comes to be and from which that which is destroyed passes away, departs. It is presupposed by all generation and destruction and thus is not itself subject to generation and destruction. Thus, Timaeus says of it what he also said of the intelligible eƒdh, indeed from the point at the beginning of his ¤rst discourse where the distinction was ¤rst broached. In this way he now makes explicit another respect in which the third kind, as he said, in a most perplexing way partakes of the intelligible: both are everlasting, perpetual, always, admitting no destruction. But, instead of calling it the in which and from which of generation, Timaeus now declares that the c»ra grants, furnishes, supplies (parècw) an abode to all things having generation, to all things inasmuch as they are generated. The word translated as abode is Édra, which means chair, seat in more generalized senses and especially a seat or abode of the gods, hence also altar or temple. Although it is used later in the Timaeus to refer to the seat of an organ such as the liver (67b; see also 62a), in the present context the semantic link to temple would seem decisive: like a temple, the c»ra bespeaks an abode into which something higher is somehow (and even despite its elevation) to be received and held.27 Timaeus says that the c»ra is to be apprehended (reached, touched: ëptw), with nonsensation, by a sort of bastard reckoning, hardly trustworthy. The word translated as trustworthy is pistín; this is the same word that Timaeus used earlier when he declared regarding ¤re, air, water, and earth that one cannot say in a trustworthy manner which is which (49b), since, in the very moment when one would say what such a thing is, it is always already becoming another in the cycle of transformations. The c»ra is similarly elusive; it is, as Timaeus said, most dif¤cult to catch. It eludes vision even more than do the ¶eeting traces of ¤re. It is invisible, indeed more insistently so than are the intelligible eƒdh. It does not appear as itself at all but only as, for instance, the ¤re that is held in and by it. As the likes of ¤re are held in the c»ra, they are mere ¶eeting traces (ƒcnoV—
27. C»ra and Édra are also associated in the Laws (893c).

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see 53b) of themselves, and such appearing in and as these traces hardly suf¤ces to provide an image of the c»ra and thus a trustworthy basis for an e¥kãV lígoV that would proceed from the appearing itself. Equally decisive is the lack of determinations: if the c»ra has no determinations whatsoever, then how can anything be said of it, since presumably to say something of it would be to ascribe a determination to it? Here, then, there can be only a bastard discourse, one whose legitimacy cannot be established. In Athenian usage a bastard (níqoV) was the child of a citizen father and an alien mother. As is the chorology: this bastard discourse is fathered by citizen Timaeus and is to be borne by the maternal c»ra in all its alien elusiveness, its alterity, its strangeness. But why does Timaeus say that this apprehension is with nonsensation (met4 ånaisqhsÖaV)? Here there is no doubt an echo of what was said earlier about the intelligible, that it is apprehended without sense, that is, by no”V. But also, in the phrase “with nonsensation,” there is expressed, more positively, the connection between such discourse and the peculiar appearing of the c»ra: what ¶ashes up in this appearing are only the ¶eeting traces, which are not yet a matter of sensation, as the sense qualities as such come to be constituted only at the much later stage reached toward the end of the second discourse (61c–69a). Timaeus says: looking toward the c»ra, we dream of it and af¤rm that it is necessary that all that is be in some place and occupy some c»ra. The reference to the necessary (ånagka¢on) serves as a reminder that the entire second discourse has to do with necessity (ånâgkh). Presumably it is here in the chorology that Timaeus addresses the necessity that determines or underlies necessity as such. It is the necessity—even here already being folded into a dream—that all beings be in some place (típoV) and that they occupy some c»ra. It is perhaps not entirely fortuitous that the word translated as occupy, katècon, has a double meaning: it can also mean restraining or holding back.28 The beings that occupy the c»ra would, then, also be held back, withheld from it. As the ¤gures are withheld from the gold in which they are molded. But what about the dream? In the dream the c»ra appears as a place in which all that is must be. In this oneiric vision the c»ra—or rather its dream-image—hovers before us as a place so all-encompassing that whatever is set apart from it can only be nothing. But what is there in a dream? In the Republic Socrates tells Glaucon what there is in a dream; or rather, he asks Glaucon to con¤rm what he, Socrates, takes there to be in a dream. Socrates asks him: “Is the man who holds that there are beautiful things but does not hold that there is beauty itself and who, if someone leads him to the knowledge of it, is not able to follow—is he, in your opin28. “Crito had got up and gone away even before I did, because he could not restrain [katècein] his tears” (Phaedo 117d). “. . . the troops on the warship in their turn could no longer restrain their laughter [gèlwta katècein] . . .” (Laches 184a).

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ion, living in a dream or is he awake? Consider it. Doesn’t dreaming, whether one is asleep or awake, consist in believing a likeness of something to be not a likeness but rather the thing itself to which it is like?” (Rep. 476c). Glaucon agrees that such a man is dreaming, and Socrates then goes on to contrast the dreamer with a man who believes that there is a beautiful itself and who is able to distinguish between it and the beautiful things that are likenesses of it. Glaucon agrees that the latter man is quite awake. What there is, then, in a dream is an image that goes unrecognized as an image, an image that in the dream is simply taken as the original. And in contrast to the dreamer there is the one who can distinguish between the image and its original, the one who is wakeful to the difference and who even in a vision of an image will set its original apart from it. It is precisely such differences that go unrecognized as such in the dream of the c»ra. In the dream we af¤rm a double necessity as regards all beings: that they be in some típoV and that they occupy some c»ra. Af¤rming these necessities as if they were one and the same, we are simply submitted in the dream to the image of a kind of place ¤lled with all the things that are. What is decisive in the dream is the con¶ation of this image of the c»ra with the c»ra itself, that is, the failure, as always in a dream, to recognize the image as an image and to set the original, the c»ra itself, apart from it. Instead, the c»ra is simply con¶ated with the típoV of all things. Here típoV means, not just place in some vague, indeterminate sense, but rather something like a region in a sense inseparable from the ¤re, air, water, or earth that belongs intrinsically to the region; the upper region, for instance, is determined as that of ¤re and aether. Later Timaeus will say explicitly, referring to ¤re, air, water, and earth: “The greater part of each kind keeps apart in a region [típoV] of its own because of the movement of the recipient” (57c).29 Thus, the con¶ation of the c»ra with its image is a con¶ation of it with a kind of region of sensible things. In the dream we drift toward obliterating the difference between the c»ra and sensible things, even as there hovers before us the image of a kind of region of regions in which all things would have their place, this image of the c»ra remaining unrecognized in its difference from the c»ra itself.30 But in the dream there is also an equally decisive con¶ation of the intelligible with the sensible: the dream vision is of a region in which all that is would be placed, whereas one who awakens from the dream will—as Timaeus goes on to say—recognize that the intelligible eƒdh are set apart, that they do not pass anywhere else into
29. Later Timaeus also refers to the shifting of bodies “up and down toward their own proper regions [típoi]” (58b–c; cf. 63d). In the Critias típoV clearly has the sense of region when Critias says: “Once upon a time the gods took over by lot the whole earth according to its típoi” (Crit. 109b). Even in Aristotle such usage is still to be found: see Progression of Animals, 706b. 30. In the Laws (760c) one ¤nds the phrase “to“V tôV c»raV típouV,” which entails a differentiation between c»ra and típoV.

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another.31 To awaken from the dream is to distinguish the three kinds con¶ated in the oneiric vision. It is to count them off in their distinctness: 1, 2, 3. Timaeus tells of this awakening, says the truth that one would say if one were to awaken. This includes saying the precise true lígoV that would come to the aid of the ¤rst kind, to the aid of that which is in the manner appropriate to being: “as long as one thing is something and another is something else, neither of the two will ever come to be in the other, so as to become, at once, one (and the same) and two.” To say it otherwise: whatever is distinctly one, that is, a selfsame intelligible e†doV, will never come to be in another in such a way that, while remaining itself, remaining one, it also is the other and hence is two. The intelligible e†dh undergo no reception, but each remains just itself, one, one with itself, selfsame. This utter selfsameness entails that, even though the intelligible e†doV is what stamps (fathers, informs) the image, which thus shares its name and its “look,” the intelligible e†doV cannot belong to the image. This is why the image is a phantom in need of some means by which, though set apart from being, it can cling to being and avoid being nothing at all. The c»ra, in which the phantoms come and go, is that other that secures the image in whatever trace of being it has, so that, though remote from being, indeed set utterly apart from it, the image is still not nothing. The image can double the e†doV without the latter belonging to it, without one becoming also two, hence not one, only because the image is borne by the c»ra, only because the c»ra nurtures the image, sheltering it in a kind of quasi-being, giving birth to it in granting it that being. Because it nurtures and shelters the image, the c»ra is anything but a mere mirror in which perpetual being would be re¶ected and the cosmos thus fabricated in the same way that all things could be made by the clever and wonderful man who took a mirror and carried it around everywhere (Rep. 596c–d). One could call it, rather, a ghost scene that, enshrouding precisely in letting appear, endows the ¶eeting specters with whatever trace of being they might enjoy. Thus, it is the c»ra that makes possible the doubling of being in an image, the duplicity of being.32 But then, the very move that displaces or limits the twofold, namely,
31. “Plato says that these words resemble those of a man who is dreaming: there being is confounded with the image of being. For according to him the generated individuals, which one mistakes for true beings, can, it is true, exist only in a certain place; but true beings, the ideas, are no more in one place than in another, in one time than in another. They are, and that is all one can say of their existence” (Martin, Études sur le Timée de Platon, 2:176 n. LXI). 32. The relation between the duplicity of being and the c»ra is expressed negatively in the Theaetetus (180e): Melissus and Parmenides “maintain that everything is one and is stationary within itself, having no c»ra in which to move.” See also Parmenides, 149a.

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the introduction of the third kind, is at the same time what establishes the very possibility of the twofold, of the doubling of being in an image. Now it is evident why the ¤rst discourse had to leave the twofold suspended: the twofold is itself suspended, it remains impossible, as long as the operation of the third kind is lacking. One will always have to count on from two to three. And yet, as soon as the third kind is introduced, the twofold will have been limited, its exclusive dominion disturbed, displaced; and, in a sense of being beyond being, one will no longer be able to say that there are (il y a) only intelligible and sensible beings. If one were to take metaphysics to be constituted precisely by the governance of the twofold, then the chorology could be said to bring both the founding of metaphysics and its displacement, both at once. Originating metaphysics would have been exposing it to the abyss, to the abysmal c»ra, which is both origin and abyss, both at the same time. Then one could say—with the requisite reservations—that the beginning of metaphysics will have been already the end of metaphysics. One dreams of the c»ra. And one tells of it, Timaeus tells of it, in a bastard discourse, a third kind of discourse, one suited somehow to saying the third kind of being, a discourse engendered by intercourse with the alien, promiscuous—and yet ever virginal—mother. One dreams of the c»ra. Even though in the dream one fails to distinguish properly the three kinds of being, even though one con¶ates these three kinds, still the c»ra is disclosed in the dream in which one dreams of it. The dream not only confounds but also discloses that of which one dreams, just as an image, even if not distinguished from its original, lets the original nonetheless show itself. One can awaken from the dream, even if, under the in¶uence of this dreaming, one is oneself unable to awaken. One can awaken and can then draw the proper distinctions, as Timaeus demonstrates in deed by going on to say the truth that we would say on awakening. On awakening, the disclosure of the c»ra given in the dream can be developed by carrying out the distinctions that were not drawn within the dream. It is in this connection that one needs to attend to what, near the beginning of his third discourse, Timaeus says of the liver. One thing he says is that the liver replicates the c»ra within the human body. For this replica—though never for the c»ra itself—he uses the image of a mirror: the liver is made smooth and bright, and so “the powers of thoughts that proceed from no”V move in the liver as in a mirror that receives impressions and provides visible images” (71b). It is around the liver that a part of the soul “in the night passes its time moderately, being occupied in its slumbers with divination [manteÖa], since it does not partake of lígoV or discernment [jrínhsiV]” (71d). Thus, in the lower parts of soul and body, there is this organ of divination, a gift of the god, given to man’s foolishness. One is receptive to divination only when one’s noetic

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power is fettered in sleep or distraught by disease or by divine inspiration. Timaeus says: “But it belongs to a man when in his right senses [Åmjrwn] to remember and ponder the things spoken of in dream or waking vision by the divining and inspired nature” (71e). As when, awakening from a dream of the c»ra, one ventures a bastard discourse on the c»ra. Or ventures to tell of the dream, of the awakening, and of the c»ra. As in chorology.

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4
Traces of the C»ra

FROM TRACES TO PRIMARY BODIES As he approaches the chorology, Timaeus counts the three kinds three times. The ¤rst counting occurs near the beginning of the second discourse (48e): whereas previously two were distinguished, now a third kind must be declared. Adhering to the numbering schema established at the threshold and the beginning of the chorology, by which the ¤rst is the selfsame, intelligible e†doV, the second the generated sensible, and the third the c»ra, the ¤rst counting may be represented thus: 1, 2—now 3 This counting expresses the framework of the ¤rst discourse (the twofold) and the transition from it. The second counting comes just after the discussion of the ¶eeting ¤re, air, water, and earth circling in their cycle of transformations (which are not yet, in the strict sense, formations at all). The counting occurs in the discussion of the third kind as the receptacle of these fugitives, precisely at a point where Timaeus is in the midst of presenting the various images intended to portray its receptive character (50c–d): there is need to think of three kinds, that which is generated, that in which it is generated, and that from which it is copied and begotten. Adhering to the same numbering schema, this second counting may be represented thus: 2, 3, 1 This counting expresses the shift to the precosmic sensible, to the fugitive traces. The third counting immediately follows the second (50d): it is ¤tting to

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liken the recipient to the mother, the from which to the father, and what is engendered between them to the offspring. In schematic representation: 3, 1, 2 This counting expresses the focus on the c»ra that comes into effect here and remains in force until the end of the chorology. It is not entirely fortuitous that this focus is established at precisely the moment when the c»ra is called the mother. Then there is another counting of the three kinds at the point where the threshold of the chorology gives way to the chorology proper. Or rather, there is a reversion to the ¤rst—presumably proper—counting at this point where the c»ra is ¤nally called by its proper name (52a–b): the ¤rst is the selfsame e†doV, the second the generated sensible, and moreover a third kind is that of the c»ra. This is the counting in which the numbering schema is established: 1, 2, 3 But then, ¤nally, just after the chorology, there is still another counting (52d): there is being, c»ra, and generation—that is: 1, 3, 2 This counting expresses schematically what the chorology has declared and in some respects shown: that the intelligible e†doV and the c»ra are required for there to be a generated image, that is, a double of being outside being. In carrying out this ¤nal counting of the three kinds, Timaeus is stating the account to which he gives—and says that he gives—his vote: it declares “being [ªn] and c»ra and genesis to be [e†nai], three in a threefold manner, before the generation of the heaven” (52d). Here there is a marked shift in the discourse, a transition from that most correct and most thoroughly distinguishing discourse required in the chorology, a kind of falling away from the demands of such a level of discourse. There are two indications of this falling away. The ¤rst is the designation of this account as ìn kejalaÖ‚, which indicates such a shift regardless of whether one takes the phrase merely as meaning in summary or as carrying still the reference to the head that was operative earlier. The second indication is provided by the very formulation of the account: each of the three kinds is said to be (e†nai), even though one of them is called being (ªn) and even though the chorology has declared that, in quite different ways, both the generated and the c»ra are remote from being. On the other hand, the brief discourse (52d–53c) immediately following the chorology does venture certain extensions that in a sense move beyond the chorology. This discourse is no longer addressed just to the

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third kind, to the attempt to say the c»ra in an appropriate way. Rather, it is addressed also, indeed equally, to the second kind. The time is still that before the generation of the heavens, more precisely, a time when the primary bodies (¤re, air, water, and earth) that constitute the second kind are not yet themselves. In this time when measure and order are lacking, this prenatal time of the cosmos, this time (before time) when, as Timaeus says, the god is absent, ¤re and the other three “have only a trace [ƒcnoV] of themselves” (53b). Thus, the discourse is addressed to the c»ra and the traces. It pictures them together, portrays how the traces are in the c»ra. In this discourse Timaeus refers again to the appearing of the c»ra. Reverting to a prechorological name, though one of the most telling, he speaks of how the nurse of generation “appears manifoldly to sight” (52d– e). Previous references have indicated that such appearing involves a certain distribution of the various traces: in the portion that, for instance, is ¤ery, it appears as ¤re. But now Timaeus speaks of the movement by which this distribution comes about. It is a complex movement, one that involves movements both of the χ»ρα and of the traces within the c»ra. One could regard this discourse as responding at the most archaic depth to Socrates’ desire for a discourse depicting a being, whether arti¤cial or in repose, set in movement. The being to which Socrates referred was the city that he had just described, the citizens for which are to be supplied by Timaeus’ discourse. Socrates’ desire is what has set in movement the entire series of discourses that run throughout the Timaeus and continue in the Critias. It is not without paradox that one can speak of the c»ra as itself in movement, as something—though not, of course, some thing—that moves. For the c»ra is not only utterly amorphous but also invisible, even insistently invisible, whereas the things that can be said, without further ado, to move are visible things, things that occupy some place and move to another, or at least that alter their position or state within a place. But how can the c»ra be in a place in which or from which to move? At most, and not with impunity, it might be said, as in the dream of the c»ra,1 to be a kind of region of regions within which something else could move. Yet, in this regard it is imperative to remember that típoi are not merely presupposed by movement but are determined by it: the upper region is the region to which ¤re by nature moves. It is precisely the determination of regions by the movements of the traces that Timaeus is describing here, even if it remains paradoxical, even within the dream, to speak of the c»ra as itself moving.
1. Reentry into the dream, at least a reengagement of a certain con¶ation of c»ra with típoV, is marked by Timaeus’ statement that each kind of trace occupied a different c»ra even before the universe was generated out of them (53a).

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The movement of the c»ra results from a difference and imbalance of the powers (that is, of the traces) within it. Being unbalanced, the nurse sways unevenly, and it is shaken by the powers (as by an earthquake: seÖesqai). But, in turn, the nurse shakes the powers; she moves them, making these ¶eeting traces ¶y off in various directions. Timaeus uses the image of winnowing to describe the result of this complex movement. The result is that the dissimilar are separated and the similar pushed together. Thus, even before the universe comes to be generated out of them, ¤re and the other three—still only as traces—are set apart from each other in— and so as to determine—different regions. Now the god returns, the god who has put in no appearance since the beginning of the second discourse. Upon his return—or his arrival—the ¤rst thing he does, according to Timaeus, is to mark the traces of ¤re and the other three out into shapes by means of eƒdh and numbers. Thus it is that he shapes the traces into primary bodies, into ¤re, air, water, and earth as such, as themselves.2 Since these are the very same bodies that the god took up—that Timaeus took for granted—when in the ¤rst discourse he set about making the cosmos, the account that Timaeus is about to give of the making of the primary bodies will bring the discourse to the point where it will have caught up with itself. Timaeus will have brought his discourse to bear on that for the sake of which he had to turn back in launching his second discourse. Now, with his discourse on the primary bodies, Timaeus will have come around to beginning at the beginning, even though he did not—and will not have done so—in the beginning. Or, more precisely, he will have come around to beginning from the beginning: for he has not been able to provide an e¥kãV lígoV that would constitute the most correct and most thoroughly distinguishing discourse on the c»ra; unable to draw the c»ra into an e¥kãV lígoV, Timaeus has had recourse to a bastard discourse in which the c»ra remains alien, from which it remains withdrawn. As with something of which one has dreamed in a dream from which one has now awakened. Timaeus remarks, almost apologetically, that his account of how the god shaped the traces into the primary bodies will require an unusual kind of discourse, with which fortunately those listening have some acquaintance. One could call the discourse geometrical, were it not that it concerns the metric not only of the earth but also of ¤re, air, and water. But it will turn out that the earth’s proper metric sets it somewhat apart from the other three.

2. Margel emphasizes that the traces, distributed to their proper regions, constitute the possibility of an organizing of the universe such as the god undertakes: “These traces . . . would constitute the mimetic possibility of an organization of the world. Without the possibility of these traces, without the possibility of effectively inscribing in each fugitive and dispersed apparition of the element the delimited (anterior-posterior) horizon of a speci¤c form, the demiurge could never seize the elements in their stable contours separating them from one another” (Le Tombeau du Dieu Artisan, 143).

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Timaeus details the various constructions carried out by the god. He begins with two kinds of triangles. One is the right isosceles, which has one single nature. The other is the right triangle with unequal sides, which, however, is unlimited (êpeiron); hence, from this unlimited variety, one must be chosen, and, says Timaeus, it is to be the most beautiful (t¬ kâlliston), if we intend to make a suitable beginning (e¥ mèllomen êrxesqai katä trípon) (54a)—as is indeed to be made here at this point where account is ¤nally being given of the beginning (the primary bodies) from which the god fabricates the cosmos. To prevent the unlimited from contaminating and virtually undoing in advance the shapes of all but one of the primary bodies, turning this would-be beginning back toward the more archaic, the god chooses, as the most beautiful right triangle with unequal sides, the one that, when conjoined with another like it, produces an equilateral triangle. Thus, beginning with the right isosceles triangle and the half-equilateral triangle, the god constructs from four of the former the square and from six of the latter a larger equilateral triangle. These ¤gures are then used as faces to construct four of the ¤ve regular solids: from six squares the cube is formed, from six equilateral triangles the tetrahedron or regular pyramid, from eight equilateral triangles the octahedron, from twenty equilateral triangles the icosahedron.3 Timaeus tells how the four solids are then assigned to the traces of ¤re (tetrahe-

dron), air (octahedron), water (icosahedron), and earth (cube) so as to form the primary bodies, ¤re, air, water, and earth as such, as themselves. There follows an extended discussion of the primary bodies, of their various kinds and of the transformations that can take place between
3. See Cornford, Plato’s Cosmology, 211–19; also Heath, History of Greek Mathematics, 1:296f.

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them through dissolution into their component triangles (which are so small as never to be seen [56b–c]) and reformation. Three points from this discussion are to be underlined. (1) Timaeus notes that there are various sizes of elementary triangles (57d) and that as a result there are different varieties of each of the kinds of primary bodies. In the case of air he mentions explicitly that there are varieties such as aether, mist, and others because of variation in the size of the triangles (58d). (2) He notes also that the primary bodies can themselves be compounded to form other things. For example, a certain kind of water, speci¤cally, a kind of metal (since metals are kinds of water that are fusible), can be mixed with ¤ne portions of earth to produce bronze (59b–c). (3) Three of the kinds of primary bodies (¤re, air, water) can undergo transformation into one another, since they are composed of the same kind of elementary triangles. But because earth is composed of a different kind of triangle, it cannot change into any of the other three nor any of them into it. Timaeus is explicit: “Earth will never change into another form” (56d). He observes in this regard that earlier it appeared that all passed into one another, but he insists now that this appearance is not correct (54b–c). This observation and this insistence serve to call attention to the difference between these geometrically structured transformations and the ¶eeting, drifting, indeterminate circling of the traces in their circle of generation. In effect, Timaeus marks the difference between the primary bodies and the traces by insisting on this differentiation of earth from the other three, at the same time preparing for a later scene in which earth, in distinction from the other three, will play a distinctive role. EPICHOROLOGY Now that Timaeus’ discourse has in a sense caught up with itself, the question is whether it reverts to the mode and structures that were operative before it broke off and opened the abyss toward which it was drawn by the traces of the c»ra. What, then, about the segment of discourse that ensues once the god has formed the traces into the primary bodies used by the god in fabricating the cosmos? Once the traces have thus been assimilated, once they are no longer traces, do there remain any traces of the c»ra? Is the c»ra in any way traced in the segment of discourse running from the account of the primary bodies to the little comedy with which the dialogue concludes? 4
4. Taking the discussion of the primary bodies as the beginning in the speci¤c sense mentioned above, there is then reason to regard all that follows it as in a certain sense a single discourse. This sense is indicated at the outset of the last major section of the second discourse, the section that follows the discussion of the primary bodies and is devoted to the sensible qualities (61c–69a). The indication lies in Timaeus’ remark that the discussion of the sensible qualities is entangled with those of the ¶esh and of the mortal part of the soul, and conversely (61c). Since the latter constitutes the general theme of the third discourse, Timaeus is saying in effect that there is a kind of mutual envelopment operative between the last major section of the second discourse and the third discourse.

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It is an old complaint, a complaint made by one of the earliest readers of the Timaeus, the complaint that having introduced the c»ra Plato then makes no use of it in the remainder of the dialogue. It is Aristotle’s complaint, for instance, in the passage in On Generation and Corruption where he says: “And what is written in the Timaeus does not distinguish suf¤ciently. For it is not clearly said whether the all-receiving [t¬ pandecèV] is separate from the elements. Nor does he make any use of it, after saying that it is a substratum [›pokeÖmenon] prior to the so-called elements, just as gold is the substratum of works made of gold” (329a). Whatever reservations one might voice about the appropriateness of such words as ›pokeimenon, and however much one may insist that the Timaeus does mark clearly—as clearly as such intrinsically obscure matters allow—the differentiation between the receptacle and what Aristotle calls the elements (himself obliterating a decisive distinction), still the complaint is forthright, and it has continued to be put forth even by some recent commentators on the Timaeus.5 But what about the complaint? Is it sustained when one turns to the dialogue itself and reads with care and discernment? In fact, there are several places in the Timaeus where statements of intent or re¶ections on the account under way would seem to indicate quite the contrary of what Aristotle says. For instance, at the beginning of Timaeus’ second discourse, where he has just broken off and made a new beginning, he declares that the generation of the cosmos came about as a mixture, from the combination of intelligence (no”V) and necessity (ånâgkh). The discourse that follows makes it manifest that ånâgkh is a name for what comes to be called ¤nally c»ra. And, as noted, if the passage is more carefully and discerningly translated, then it speaks, not just of combination (as if no”V and ånâgkh were simply united), but rather of a standing-together (s¿stasiV) in which there can also be hostility, con¶ict, as with two soldiers in close combat. Thus, the speci¤c sense of the passage is such as to suggest that the necessary or choric moment will not be simply assimilated once the god returns, that this moment is not to disappear from the dialogue from that point on. Another instance is found just after the account of how the god assigned the ¤gures of the regular solids to the traces. Re¶ecting on the account, noting that it is a likely discourse, Timaeus observes that indeed the god shaped the primary bodies in just the way described, at least—and this is the decisive indication—to the extent that ånâgkh permitted, to the extent that it gave way, withdrew (56c). There are other, fairly direct references to the c»ra in the epichorological discourse, as when, for instance, Timaeus says that the motion of the receptacle serves to keep the primary bodies apart in their respective regions (57c). To say nothing of the fact that
4. 5. For example, by Edward N. Lee, “On the Metaphysics of the Image in Plato’s Timaeus,” 349.

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even in Timaeus’ third discourse various names for the c»ra and the name c»ra itself are sounded. There can be no question, then, but that the c»ra will remain to some extent in force after the god’s return. At the very least it will limit what the artisan god can achieve in his cosmic fabrication; it will limit the productive operation of divine or noetic causes. And yet, unlike what is produced, unlike even production itself, the c»ra cannot become simply a theme to be presented, something to be presented, say, along with the operation of no”V. Why not? Precisely because the c»ra cannot be presented. It does not itself become present but only appears as something else, not as itself. It cannot be presented even in the sense of being the theme of a discourse that would determine it, for it withdraws from all determination and allows only a bastard discourse. The consequence is that the chorology cannot be integrated into the likely discourse that resumes following it6 and continues to the end of the dialogue. In a sense, then, Plato could not have made use of the c»ra in the rest of the dialogue. Yet this does not mean that the c»ra is not in force beneath the production of the various things the god will fabricate, but only that it is not in force as something present that could be represented, that is, imaged in a likeness in a likely discourse. How, then, is the c»ra in force? And how is it said in—or, in a sense, along with—the likely discourse that runs on to the end of the dialogue? The word that names its way of being in force was introduced at the very beginning of the second discourse in Timaeus’ description of the kind of cause that at that point has to be brought into consideration, not having been considered in the previous discourse. He calls it an errant kind of cause, errant (translating planwmènon) in the double sense of wandering and erring. How, then, is the c»ra in force? As errancy: as hindering, diverting, leading astray the work of no”V, as installing indeterminacy into what no”V would otherwise render determinate. And the c»ra is said in the epichorological discourse of the Timaeus by the way in which this discourse traces the errancy, that is, marks the traces of its operation in the very midst of the god’s productions. The discourse marks the traces of the c»ra by marking the traces of its errant, indetermining operation. In the epichorological portion of Timaeus’ second discourse there are several such traces marked. Let me mention four. The ¤rst occurs near the end of Timaeus’ account of how the primary

6. Following the chorology, just after Timaeus has begun the discussion of the ¤gures from which the god constructs the shapes to be imposed on the traces, Timaeus mentions a kind of discourse which combines likeliness with necessity (53d); this character of the discourse corresponds to its theme, the imposition of shapes (given as such to noetic vision) upon the traces (belonging to the realm of necessity). As the discourse moves away from the discussion of the necessary, Timaeus comes to speak simply of likely discourse (55d, 56a, 57d) or of correct likely discourse (56b).

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bodies are produced by the assignment of the ¤gures of the regular solids to the traces of ¤re, air, water, and earth. As noted, Timaeus explains also exactly how these ¤gures are themselves constructed from two kinds of triangles, right isosceles triangles and triangles each of which consists of half an equilateral triangle. What is unusual in the account—and what marks the operation of errancy—is that, just at the point where it would seem that complete order had been constituted, Timaeus suddenly mentions that these two kinds of triangles occur in all different sizes (57d). Thus there proves to be an unlimited, indeterminately great variety of combinations. Inasmuch as this unlimitedness arises from the variation in the size of the triangles, it is linked to whatever topical or even extensional character may have come at this point to take the place of the withdrawn c»ra. The second such trace takes the form of a curious gap that betrays the workings of errancy. In a sense it is an errancy that insinuates itself in the order oriented to no”V: there is a gap precisely in the construction of the regular solids, for, from the two kinds of triangles that provide the basis for the constructions, only four of the ¤ve regular solids can be constructed. From the two kinds of elementary triangles it is not possible to form the pentagonal faces from which could be constructed the ¤fth regular solid, the dodecahedron, which has as its faces twelve equal regular pentagons.7 Timaeus calls attention to this gap, noting that there remains one other ¤gure, the ¤fth, and remarking, without elaboration, that the god used it for decorating the universe,8 though at this point there is as yet no universe, so that if the god does construct this solid, it will have to lie around unused until a much later time, indeed until the time when time itself comes (along with the heaven) to be generated. Yet, this gap in the construction of the regular solids points to another that consists in the noncorrespondence between the geometrical order (in which there are ¤ve regular solids) and the order of the traces (of which there are only four). This gap constitutes an intrinsic noncoincidence between the noetic and the necessary. The third such trace occurs at the point where, as Timaeus is discussing the four kinds of primary bodies, there suddenly appears a kind of gap in the discourse, an indeterminacy, a certain silence within it. In speaking of air, he notes that there are different kinds of air, since the triangles that
7. Heath, History of Greek Mathematics, 1:296. 8. Since, of the ¤ve regular solids, the dodecahedron has the greatest volume and hence most nearly approaches a sphere, its assignment has a certain appropriateness. It may be, as certain commentators propose, that one is to imagine a ¶exible dodecahedron expanding into a spherical shape; a similar connection is suggested in Phaedo 110b (see Proclus, In Platonis Timaeum Commentaria, 3:141). As Cornford notes, the word diazwgrajõn is ambiguous: it may mean “painting it in various colors” or (as Cornford proposes) “making a pattern of animal ¤gures thereon” (Plato’s Cosmology, 218f.). Taylor proposes “broidering ¤gures on it,” suggesting that the ¤gures or animals (z…a) meant are the constellations (Commentary on Plato’s Timaeus, 377).

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compose it can be different sizes. So, there is aether and mist and, he says, “other eƒdh [of air] without a name, produced because of the inequality of the triangles” (58d). But since, as he just mentioned, there are inde¤nitely many different sizes of triangles, he has now in effect introduced into the very eidetics of air an indeterminate proliferation. Proceeding to discuss water, he mentions the names of several kinds but then says regarding the various mixtures of various kinds of water: “most of the kinds thus generated are without names” (60a). The structure of the text is here most remarkable. Right between a passage in which he gives the names of some kinds of water and the passage in which he admits that many others have no names, Timaeus abruptly turns the discourse upon itself, calling it, not an e¥kãV lígoV, but an e¥kãV m”qoV and characterizing such storytelling as a pleasant, measured, and mindful play (paidiâ). Presumably the discourse here becomes, if it has not indeed already become, a matter of play, of playful stories, because of the indeterminacy, instability, wandering, and vacillation that belongs to things of the kind he is describing. He says even: let us give free rein to this play and go on with such stories. The question is: How far does this self-determination of the discourse as playful story extend? Does it extend only to the end of the discussion of the primary bodies? Or perhaps to the end of the second discourse? Or perhaps even to the end of the dialogue? In any case it is dif¤cult to determine whether the reappearance of the designation e¥kãV m”qoV at this point in the dialogue signals anything beyond the playful and storylike character of a certain portion of the discourse to come. The one thing that seems clear in this regard is that the distinction between lígoV and m”qoV does not simply correspond to any of the basic distinctions that Timaeus draws between the kinds of being. It is not a matter of lígoV being appropriate for saying the intelligible eƒdh and m”qoV being suited to saying the c»ra. Neither does m”qoV enjoy any evident privilege as regards saying the generated sensible images; indeed it was precisely in reference to the latter that Timaeus ¤rst explained that what he would present would be an e¥kãV lígoV (29b), even though, almost immediately and in the same connection, he spoke also of e¥kãV m”qoV (29d). On the other hand, one could be tempted to consider whether, as with the m”qoV that appears in the Republic in the guise of katâbasiV, of the cave, and of the story of Er,9 it is a matter of venturing to say with m”qoV the abysmal other than being. And yet, in the Timaeus, all the attempts to say the c»ra are punctuated by references to lígoV rather than m”qoV, as indeed one would expect on the basis of the original proposal, voiced by Critias and restated by Socrates, that they present a true lígoV rather than an invented m”qoV (26c–e). It is, then, only a question of whether, when it becomes a matter of tracing the c»ra, of marking
9. See Being and Logos, chap. 5.

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the operation of errancy within the universe made by the god, a return of or to m”qoV becomes inevitable, even if of or to a m”qoV that seems only remotely akin to that with which the Timaeus began. The fourth trace is marked in Timaeus’ discussion of sensible affections. For in the course of this discussion, some things turn up that not only have no names but have no eƒdh, thus sensible things of a sort that are not even images of the intelligible. Timaeus mentions especially odors and declares that they “do not allow eƒdh” (66d). He calls them “halfkinds” (òmigenèV). Since they have no eƒdh, they cannot but lack names even more insistently than in the cases discussed earlier. In Timaeus’ third discourse also such traces of the c»ra are marked, this wandering, errant indetermination that haunts the works of the god and, perhaps even more, the works of the engendered gods to whom he delegates the task of making the other living beings, except for their immortal part. Nowhere is such a trace more unmistakably marked than in Timaeus’ description of the making of the mortal part of the human soul. He says that the mortal soul has within it passions that are both fearful (deiníV) and necessary (ånagka¢a). Then he tells how the mortal soul came about: “And blending these with undiscursive sensation and with allendeavoring ÅrwV, they compounded, in the manner of necessity, the mortal kind of soul” (69d). Thus are ånâgkh and its errancy (errancy itself) operative within the human soul from the very formation of its mortal part. In Timaeus’ discourse on the human body there are numerous indications as to how the c»ra is replicated within the body itself and through its double put in play there. It has been noted already how such replication is unmistakably indicated in the case of the liver: this organ is made dense and smooth and bright and sweet, yet containing bitterness; and so, as Timaeus says, “the power of thoughts that proceed from no”V move in the liver as in a mirror that receives impressions and provides visible images” (71b). A connection is also indicated to the spleen, to which is applied one of the words used just before the chorology to name the c»ra, namely, ìkmage¢on. The function of the spleen is said to be to keep the liver bright and clean, as does the ìkmage¢on that in preparation is laid beside a mirror. But now, though intimating the pertinent connection, the word does not signify matrix but rather wiper or duster.10 Also, the lower belly, the abdomen, is explicitly called a receptacle (›podocæ) for food and drink; its purpose is to prevent them from passing through too quickly, that is, to secure them in their ¶ux. Timaeus observes that without this receptacle we would be plagued by insatiable appetite; and then, because of our gluttony, we would be rendered devoid of philosophy. So then, a playful story about how the belly—a double of the c»ra—makes philosophy possible.
10. On the meaning of ìkmage¢on in this context, see Taylor, Commentary on Plato’s Timaeus, 515.

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One could add perhaps another kind of story, about how philosophy requires images, which the c»ra makes possible. But that would be another story! Even the word c»ra is found in Timaeus’ discussion of the origin of disease—appropriately so, since the description pictures disease as like a reversion to that state of imbalance and shaking that was said to prevail when, before the arrival of the god, the c»ra was ¤lled with the traces of ¤re, air, water, and earth. Referring to these four, but now as the primary bodies from which the human body is composed, Timaeus says: “When, contrary to nature, there occurs an excess or de¤ciency of these or a change in the c»ra from the proper to an other, then the body loses its selfsameness and there results disease [nísoV] and unlimitedness [êpeiron]” (82a). When Timaeus goes on to speak of the treatment of disease, speci¤cally of the restoration of symmetry between soul and body, he declares that this involves imitating “the nurse of the universe” (88d); that is, recalling the earlier role of the image of the nurse, it involves imitating the c»ra. This is to be accomplished by never allowing the body to be at rest, by continually producing internal vibrations keeping it in movement, duplicating the state of the c»ra ¤lled with traces being winnowed out. In Timaeus’ third discourse there are numerous touches of comedy. As in the picture of someone making himself like the c»ra and its traces in order to treat his illness, especially in the case of a man, considering the maternal nature of the c»ra. Several of the comic touches have indeed to do with sex, with the difference and relation between the sexes. As, for instance, the little comedy of ¤ngernails. Timaeus says: “For those who constructed us knew that out of men women would someday spring, and all other animals, and that many of these creatures would need for many purposes the help of nails [ªnux];11 hence they impressed upon men at their very birth the rudimentary structure of nails” (76d–e). The story is that from men are born women and then animals! And men are burdened with nails because they will be needed by animals. Perhaps also by women. But what is most remarkable in this regard is the way in which the third discourse and hence the Timaeus as a whole draws to an end. Just short of the end the discourse appears to reach a kind of climax, to culminate in an ascent. Timaeus comes to speak only of the divine part of the soul (housed in the head) and of our looking to the harmonies and revolutions of the cosmos in order to make the revolutions in our head, disturbed by and at birth, like those of the cosmos. The ascent is nothing short of a reversion to the sphere of Timaeus’ ¤rst discourse; both in tone

11. The word ªnux covers not only nails but also the animal counterparts, claws and hooves.

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and in content, it sounds very much like the injunction issued at the end of the ¤rst discourse, just before that discourse was interrupted for the sake of the turn back toward the c»ra. In this ascent, as previously, it is a matter of mimesis and of the structures within which mimesis operates; it is a matter of an imitation that looks to a paradigm in order to make something (now one’s divine part) like the paradigm. Most remarkably, it is at precisely this point that a kind of comedy breaks out, a kind of sex comedy, which comes thus to interrupt the ascent, just as previously, in the ¤rst discourse, the ascent was interrupted by the necessity of turning to the c»ra and just as in the story of the eidetic city the ascent is interrupted by the force of ÅrwV. Timaeus of course is speaking: “And the marrow that we call seed, inasmuch as it is animate and has been granted an outlet, has endowed the part where its outlet lies with a love for generating by implanting therein a lively desire for emission. Wherefore in men the nature of the genital organs is disobedient and self-willed, like a creature that is deaf to lígoV, and it attempts to dominate all because of its frenzied desires. And in women again, owing to the same causes, whenever the womb or uterus, as it is called—which is an indwelling creature, desirous of child-bearing— remains without fruit long beyond the due season, it is vexed and becomes errant; and by straying all ways through the body and blocking up the passages of the breath and preventing respiration, it casts the body into the utmost distress and causes, moreover, all kinds of maladies; until the desire and love [ò ìpiqumÖa kaÜ Ñ ÅrwV] of the two sexes unite them” (91b–c). Thus, at the very moment of ascent—or in the moment of its interruption—there comes a comic transition from male to female, to the prospective mother, whose womb can become errant, wandering (plan»menon). Timaeus tells of how the plowland of the womb gets sown with living beings, who are nourished there and then in birth are brought to the light of day. Timaeus appears to draw a conclusion: “In this way women and all that is female have come to be” (91d). But he has not shown how women speci¤cally come to be, how there comes to be anything female, how sexual differentiation originates, but has rather just taken it for granted, as ludicrously as in the comic transition from male to female genital organs. One wonders whether sexual differentiation is any less elusive than the differentiation between those beings that Timaeus has likened to father and mother: on the one side, being itself, the intelligible eƒdh, on the other side, that kind of being beyond being that in its most nearly proper name is called c»ra. Then comes a comic transformation of the way up, the ascent, the ¶ight. For, as soon as the woman has given birth and Timaeus has drawn his ludicrous conclusion, he continues: “Now, as for the race of birds, they are derived by transformation, growing feathers in place of hair from men

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[males: ånær] who are harmless but light-minded” (91d).12 Little wonder that the discourse is abruptly dragged down to earth, telling of those animals that—derived from men ignorant of philosophy and of the nature of the heaven—have dragged their front limbs and head down to earth. Downward the discourse continues to plunge at a rapid pace, to animals with elongated heads, to those so foolish that they require the support of many feet, on to those that inhabit the depths of the water, the dialogue coming to its conclusion in this descensional bestiary. So then, not only playful stories but comic ones, comedies that interrupt the high-minded ascent of those who would ¤x their gaze upward or suspend themselves in the clouds. Comedies that release the play of ÅrwV and that draw us back toward the abyss. It is with such comedy that the Timaeus, this most abysmal of dialogues, comes ¤ttingly to an end. THE POLITICAL FRAME But what about the city? After all, it was for the sake of a political discourse that Timaeus undertook his extended cosmology. More precisely, the Timaean cosmology follows two incomplete political discourses, Socrates’ recapitulation of yesterday’s discourse and Critias’ outline of the discourse he will present in detail later. The Timaean cosmology would carry out the preparation for that political discourse that Critias has promised; it would effect the transition from the promise of a political discourse to that discourse itself. What, then, about this framing of the cosmology? What about this political frame in which it is set? What is the relation between a cosmology that in its most archaic phase becomes chorology and a discourse on the city, a politology that would turn back from the eidetic city to the original Athens as which the Socratic city comes to life in its vital movement against another city? What does the c»ra have to do with the city? It is also a question of the relation between Socrates and Hermocrates and of their role in the Timaeus. Both have listened in silence to Timaeus’ long discourse as it ventured to say, and then to trace, the c»ra. Both have been to this extent receptive, imitating in their comportment something like the c»ra, the receptacle, both taking part, as guest and host, respectively, in the reception that constitutes the event or deed (Årgon) of the dialogue. Socrates’ silence provides a necessary counterpart to Timaeus’ speech, representing the very silence that cannot but constitute the interstices of a speech that ventures bastard discourse on the c»ra. Yet surely the silence of Hermocrates is different. Surely it does not belong in any such way to discourse on the c»ra—at least, not unless Her12. David Krell calls special attention to this passage in his provocative essay “Female Parts in Timaeus,” Arion, n.s., 2/3 (1975): 418.

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mocrates can hear in that discourse an echo of something very different. For Hermocrates is a man of war and of the city, one whose brilliant speech was to be engaged in dealing with the invasion by which Athens would expand by subjugating Syracuse, by taking over the land of this other city. As one who will become renowned for his military intelligence, for his cleverness and resourcefulness in devising stratagems by which to guarantee military success, but also for the oratorical skill, even the statesmanship, by which to persuade his countrymen to follow his lead, Hermocrates listens to the Timaean cosmology as one who represents the city at war. The question is whether, in listening to the chorology and to all that prepares for and follows it, Hermocrates can have heard echoing from it something about the city at war. The question is whether from the chorology there is a kind of re¶ection out upon the political discourses that frame the Timaean cosmology. Among the various clues, one of the most conspicuous occurs in the course of the descensional bestiary with which the Timaeus comes to its conclusion. Speaking of the wild animals that go on foot, Timaeus outlines their descent, which is from nonphilosophical men but (in another order of descent) toward the earth: they have dragged their front limbs and head down to the earth, planting all four feet there, because of their kinship with the earth, because they are of the same kind as it. Furthermore, those foolish ones that require the support of many feet are dragged down still more to the earth, to say nothing of those no longer in need of feet whose entire body is stretched out upon the earth, those that crawl along the ground. Does reference to the earth provide, then, a way of dealing with the question of the political frame of the Timaeus? How is it, in particular, that reference to the earth belongs to political discourse? The answer, most succinctly, is: necessarily—taking necessity to have the sense it has in the Timaeus. Discourse on the city will at some point or other be compelled, of necessity, to make reference to the earth; at some point or other it will have to tell of the place on earth where the city is—or is to be—established and to tell how the constitution (politeÖa) of the city both determines and is determined by this location. This turn to the earth is manifest in the Republic. The necessity that compels it comes into play from the moment that Socrates sets out, in Book 2, to watch a city coming to be in lígoV in hopes of also seeing justice and injustice coming to be in it, or rather, from the moment he proposes to Adeimantus that, as he says, they “make a city in lígoV from the beginning” (Rep. 369c). Already in the beginning, something like a reference to the earth comes into play. Socrates explains how it happens that the city comes to be: since no one of us is self-suf¤cient, but, having many needs, we call upon others in order to satisfy these needs, many come to be gathered into one dwelling place (oƒkhsiV); to this place where people live

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together (sunoikÖa) we give the name city (píliV). Thus, from the beginning of Socrates’ discourse on the city, from the beginning of the city itself as he watches it—or rather, makes it—come to be, the city involves not just an assembly of men, not just a community of associates (koinwnoÖ), but their assembly at a common dwelling place. The city is precisely this place where they live together. In determining this place to which many are gathered, this place where they live together, needs will be decisive; Socrates ventures even to suggest that what really makes the city are our needs (creÖa), our dependence on certain things necessary for us, on certain necessities. In particular, our principal needs for food, shelter, and clothing determine what Socrates calls the most necessary city (ò ånagkaiotâth píliV), the city of utmost necessity, the city in which would be satis¤ed just those needs imposed upon us with necessity, by necessity, those needs that must of necessity be satis¤ed. This city would have to consist, ¤rst, of a farmer, that is, a gewrgíV, literally, one whose work (Årgon) consists in plowing the earth (gô), in tilling the soil; then, second, of an o¥kodímoV, literally, one who builds (dèmw) dwellings (o¥kÖa) in this dwelling place (oƒkhsiV), this place where people dwell together (sunoikÖa). Thus, the ¤rst two citizens gathered into the city bear in their very occupations reference to the city as a place of dwelling on the earth, a place where dwellings will be needed and where men will live from the earth, by cultivating it, by tilling the soil. Only after having mentioned these two does Socrates then mention those who provide for the need to cover the body. In contrast to the determinacy with which the ¤rst two citizens were introduced, the number of these therapists of the body is inde¤nite: a weaver and a cobbler and some others. The total number needed for this city of utmost necessity is thus also inde¤nite: Socrates says that it would consist of four or ¤ve men (êndreV: men as opposed to women—note that up to this point there is no mention of women, of procreation, or of children). Adeimantus’ answer is appropriately inde¤nite: so it would seem (jaÖnetai) (Rep. 369c–e). Socrates proceeds to establish that, since men’s various natures are different, it is better that each practice the tècnh for which he is by nature best suited. But the immediate result is that the city must then be expanded: for the farmer will not make his own plow if it is to be a good one, or his hoe, or other agricultural implements, nor will the others make the implements they need for their respective tècnai. Hence, there must also be gathered into the city carpenters, smiths, and other artisans (dhmiourgoÖ), as well as shepherds and other herdsmen to supply the animals and animal products needed by the others. Thus, the very small dwelling place (polÖcnion), if it is to have all these, will turn out, as Adeimantus insists, to be not a small city (Rep. 369e–370d). At this point the reference to terrestrial place becomes more explicit than ever: Socrates declares that it will be almost impossible to establish

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the city in a region (or place: típoV) where it will not need imports. This need, in turn, results in still further expansion of the city: it must include merchants to carry on foreign trade, more farmers and artisans to produce the goods to be traded, and all those involved in maritime work. Even beyond these, Socrates adds ¤nally the shopkeepers and wage-earning laborers. With the city seemingly complete, Socrates turns to a description of the way of life led by the men of such a city. He tells of how they will make bread and wine and of how, reclining on simple rustic mats, they will feast with their children, drinking their wine and, while being pleasantly together, singing hymns to the gods, and not producing children beyond their means, lest they fall into poverty or war (Rep. 370d–372c). This passage is remarkable. Here Socrates mentions children for the ¤rst time, as well as the production of children, even though—remarkably—there is still no reference to women. Even the production of children is mentioned almost as if it were an afterthought, and the requirement or fact of these arcadian artisans’ not producing too many children is tacked on almost as if it were the easiest thing of all, as if ÅrwV could, almost without effort, be regulated in accord with their means, their property (o‹sÖa). Nonetheless, Socrates does mention—for the ¤rst time—the consequences that excess in this regard could have: falling into poverty or into war. It will soon become evident how thoroughly the further development of the city turns on this disjunctive connection: that if one exceeds one’s means (again: property, substance, what is one’s own—o‹sÖa), one will have to go to war in order to avoid falling into poverty, that is, in order to increase one’s property. But what is most remarkable is the way in which Glaucon, provoked by this arcadian scene, intervenes at this point, voicing demands the consequences of which Socrates immediately draws out. Interrupting Socrates’ dialogue with Adeimantus, Glaucon asks whether there are to be no relishes or delicacies (ªyon means meat or anything eaten with bread to give it ¶avor, hence, sauce, seasoning, delicacies, rich fare). Socrates enumerates some of the ¤ner foods the arcadian artisans will enjoy (olives, cheese, onions, ¤gs, etc.), but, in the scorn that Glaucon then casts upon this city, it becomes manifest that even such bounteous gifts of the earth fall short of what he—and that is to say, among other things, the Athenians of the time—would demand. For the city that Socrates and Adeimantus have made in lígoV Glaucon calls a city of pigs. Responding to Socrates’ request, he begins detailing some of the things lacking in this city (couches, tables, sweets), but Socrates promptly generalizes: it is not merely the genesis of the city as such that is to be considered but the genesis of the luxurious city, that is, of a city in which one would live comfortably and enjoy all manner of delicacies and re¤nements (Rep. 372c–e). The ¤rst consequence is foreseeable: it will be necessary to enlarge the

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city again in order to cater to all these additional needs. Now it will be necessary to add hunters, painters, musicians, poets, cooks, doctors, and makers of women’s adornment; thus, here ¤nally, in the reference to those having to do with women’s adornment (perÜ t¬n gunaike¢on kísmon), or, as one could also translate, with the female world, here ¤nally, if still indirectly, there is mention of women in the city, but only at the stage where it is a matter of adorning the simple arcadian city by introducing such things as women’s adornment. But there is another consequence, a reassertion, though different, of reference to the earth. Socrates notes that the luxurious city will require not only additional artisans but also additional land or country. Therefore, he continues, we will have to take some of our neighbor’s land; and, in turn, our neighbor will need to take some of ours, if he too goes beyond the limit of necessary needs. The word translated here as land or country is c»ra (Rep. 373d). The need generated by the swarm of unnecessary needs, the necessity of taking some of the neighbor’s land, requires, then, going to war. In turn, it becomes necessary to enlarge the city by an entire army. Socrates mentions, for the ¤rst time, the guardians (j¿lakeV), among whom he will soon distinguish between mere auxiliaries or soldiers and the rulers. Indeed, the double quality that quickly proves to be imperative for the guardians—that these human watchdogs must be both spirited and philosophic (qumoeidÆV and jilísojoV)—opens upon the entire remainder of the Republic. One could say, therefore, that virtually everything—and certainly the further course of the Republic—is launched by the reference to the earth, to terrestrial place, to the need that arises to acquire additional land by going to war against one’s neighbor. In a sense it is only at this point that the discourse becomes genuinely political, in distinction from the story of the arcadian arisans, who, it seems, would have need neither of rulers nor of the laws and other means by which rulers govern a city. In any case, the introduction of the guardians—necessary in order to take some of the neighbor’s land—and, in particular, the identi¤cation of their double quality open onto the decisive disjoining—and paradoxical conjoining—of philosophy and politics that runs through the central Books of the Republic and that brings it about that the philosophic city has ¤nally, at the end of Book 9, to be declared “a paradigm laid up in heaven,” one that is “nowhere on earth” (Rep. 592b). Thus, although reference to the earth is operative in the earliest stages by which the city is built in lígoV, the course of the Republic (including the story to be promulgated about humans being earthborn) produces a kind of reversal such that what ¤nally proves to be lacking is precisely this being-on-theearth, this having a terrestrial location. What the city proves to be is only “a paradigm laid up in heaven,” a city that is only the idea of a city, not a city that could simply as such be somewhere on earth. It is a city that has

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still, as Socrates demands when he recapitulates this discourse in the Timaeus, to be set in motion, to be brought to life, to be depicted going to war against another city. In order to take some of the land of that other city. In order, even in a state of excess that it could in deed never exchange for arcadian simplicity—in order to secure itself in a place, in order to be somewhere on earth. Critias’ discourse in the Timaeus presents in outline the city going to war, presents it as archaic Athens going to war against Atlantis. What proves distinctive about this city (what especially distinguishes it from the Socratic city) is that it is—or was—somewhere, in a singular terrestrial place. It has been noted how various indications are given that this being precisely where it is is distinctive for this city, for example, Critias’ explicit declaration that in founding the city the goddess was careful to choose a fruitful place (típoV), one with a temperate climate, one that would bring forth the wisest men, that would produce men who, like Athena herself, would be lovers of war and of wisdom. Thus, even if only an outline, Critias’ discourse serves to establish the connection of the city to terrestrial place, to the earth. On the other hand, Timaeus’ discourse sets up a certain semantic af¤liation between earth and c»ra. In his ¤rst discourse Timaeus describes the earth as “our nurturer [trojíV]” (40b). Then in his third discourse he refers to what is indisputably the c»ra and calls it both by a name given it earlier, nurse (tiqænh), and by exactly the same name given to the earth, nurturer (trojíV) (88d). From this coincidence of names (even strengthened by the way in which nurturer proved to be one of the most telling names of the c»ra) one cannot conclude that the c»ra and the earth are somehow the same; for Timaeus insists vigorously on the difference between the c»ra and the ¤re, air, water, and earth that it receives, holds, and nurtures. Nonetheless there is a certain semantic af¤liation between c»ra and earth, one that operates more openly as, more remote from the chorology, c»ra regains those senses that are, of necessity, reduced in and around the chorology, such senses as land, country, terrain, and place. This af¤liation, together with the referral of the city to terrestrial place, broaches an analogy. This analogy would relate the c»ra and the earth to the respective oppositions that are shown to require, yet to be limited by, them. Thus it would read: c»ra : intelligible/sensible :: earth : paradigm of city/image (actual city) But if indeed the Timaeus broaches the semantic af¤liation on which this analogy is built, it is the Critias that bears out and con¤rms the decisiveness of the referral of the city to the earth. For it turns out that this fragment of a dialogue, marked explicitly as the sequel to the Timaeus, is about almost nothing else but the earth. Precisely here where the living city is to be described, what comes into play is a kind of Platonic geology.

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A few indications need to be given. Critias begins his discourse by proposing to describe ¤rst the original Athenians and then their enemy; he will speak of the power (d¿namiV) and the constitution (politeÖa) of each city. But in fact Critias begins with the gods: “Once upon a time,” he begins, “the gods were taking over by lot the whole earth according to its regions [típoi]” (Crit. 109b). Thus the very ¤rst move ventured in the discourse is a reference to the earth and to its regions, to terrestrial places. He continues: “So by just allotments they received each one his own, and they settled their countries [c»rai].” In particular, he goes on, “Hephaestus and Athena took for their joint portion this land [c»ra] of ours as being naturally suited and adapted for excellence and discernment [åretÆ kaÜ jrínhsiV], and in this land they put good men as belonging to the earth itself [a‹tícqonaV] and conveyed to their intellects [no”V] the order of the politeÖa” (109b–d). Note here especially how the instituting of the politeÖa is conjoined to men’s being set on the earth as beings of the earth. Critias proceeds to describe the land where Athena and Hephaestus had founded their city. He says that in the excellence of its earth it surpassed all others. As evidence of this, Critias mentions that even what is now left of Athenian soil rivals that of others in its productive capacity, even though, jutting out into deep sea, its soil has been washing away throughout the nine thousand years since its founding, leaving now only the body or corpse of the land (s»ma tôV c»raV). But in the beginning there were high arable hills and plains full of rich soil. In the mountains there were forests with lofty trees rather than the bare slopes seen today. The plentiful rains sent by Zeus were held by the deep earth rather than running off into the sea. Thus—says Critias—the farmers (gewrgoÖ) enjoyed excellent land and an abundance of water. Even when Critias turns to consider the city (êstu: city as distinguished from the surrounding country), what he stresses is the richness of the earth that originally composed the acropolis (Crit. 110e–112b). Nor does the emphasis change when Critias turns to a consideration of the city that in the beginning warred against the Athenians, namely, Atlantis. Again Critias begins with the gods’ portioning of the earth, and, observing that Poseidon received the island of Atlantis as his allotment, Critias notes that the city where Poseidon assembled the children he begot by a mortal woman was set on a plain that was the fairest of all and highly fertile. On a mountain near this plain had lived a man called Evenor, who, says Critias, had sprung from the earth itself. But when the earthborn Evenor and his wife died, leaving their daughter Cleito, Poseidon was struck with desire for her and fathered those who would become the rulers of the city. Arranging the terrain in concentric circular bands alternately of water and of land, he provided for his progeny—set on the inner island— by bringing up from beneath the earth two springs of water and by pro-

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ducing from the earth all kinds of food in plenty. Poseidon fathered ¤ve pairs of sons and set them to rule over the various regions (típoi) of the country (c»ra). Even in this regard Critias slyly mentions that one of the sons, the younger of the third pair, was named 4Autícqona, which means: of the earth itself. Even when he comes to describing the palace that the Atlantans constructed, aided always by Poseidon, he does not fail to mention a grove sacred to Poseidon, one that contained trees of all kinds and that were of marvelous beauty and height, as he says, “because of the excellence of the earth [‹p¬ åretôV tôV gôV]” (Crit. 117b). If one is attentive to the city’s being-on-the-earth and to the semantic af¤nity between earth and c»ra, if one ventures to draw out the implications of the analogy built on these connections, then one will have begun to regard the Timaeus in its political frame. One will have begun to consider how the question of a terrestrially placed city could require a chorology and how it might be that such a one as Hermocrates could hear echoing even from the chorology something politically decisive. It would be a matter of persevering with the thought that the c»ra enables and limits sensible images of the intelligible as the earth enables and limits terrestrial images of that city that is “only a paradigm laid up in heaven.”

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5
Reinscriptions

FORGERY Would anything ever have escaped the tracings of the c»ra? Would its errancy ever have ceased to bring about the indetermining operation that inexorably unsettles from below, as it were, everything that would be established in full integrity from above? Would anything ever have been spared the almost invisible—and thereby most dangerous—¤ssures that it seems to trace everywhere while itself remaining utterly and persistently out of sight? Precisely because it operates always under cover, by stealth, there would seem to be no defense to prevent its overtaking all things. Can even the intelligible remain aloof from the operation of the c»ra? Can the exclusion of this operation from the intelligible be guaranteed once and for all and even beyond the defense erected by the Platonic text? Or is its shadow not already cast across that establishment, even if still almost indiscernibly? Is that shadow not already engaged precisely in the establishment? For the very integrity of each intelligible e†doV is constituted by an absolute negation of reception, of reception in either direction: an intelligible e†doV can neither receive nor be received into any other being. And yet, is it possible for negation to be absolute in every respect and thus to absolve totally what it sets apart, to absolve it completely from that which is negated? Or must negation not also determine, that is, set apart only by also setting into relation? Is the negation of reception nothing but pure singular integrity? Or is the negation of a certain spacing not itself another spacing? One would call this another kind of spacing, were it not the very integrity of kinds that is put in question by the determinacy of negation. Is it not in view of such an other spacing that the question of the community (koinwnÖa) of kinds can be broached (see Soph. 251a–252e)? And would it be completely out of the question to wonder whether

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Socrates is alluding to such a spacing of the intelligible when, in Book 7 of the Republic, he tells how the escaped prisoner comes ¤nally to look upon “the sun itself by itself in its own c»ra” (Rep. 516b)?1 Yet, if a certain defense tends to limit—perhaps even must limit—the vertical reach of its tracings, there is little to limit its horizontal extension, to prevent it from installing even in the lineage of philosophy itself the indetermining operation of what could be called, literally, its nonsense. For instance, in the reception and reinscription of texts, an operation that belongs to and in an essential way punctuates that lineage, the workings of errancy will not have been lacking. Hence, for this reason, and not only because it is a question of reception, the question of the Postplatonic reception and reinscription of the Timaeus and especially of the chorology is not simply extrinsic to all that is in question in the chorology itself. It is not certain who invented the story, perhaps not even entirely certain that it was simply invented, for instance, by someone such as Aristoxenus who was maliciously intent on discrediting Plato.2 In any case it is a story of which there are several variant versions, all bearing on Plato’s authorship of the Timaeus. Iamblicus is perhaps most discreet. In his Life of Pythagoras he tells the story in the course of a discussion of the careful secrecy by which the Pythagoreans preserved the mystery of their writings. He observes that for a long time no Pythagorean writings appeared publicly and that it was only with Philolaus that the secrecy was betrayed: “Philolaus ¤rst published those three celebrated books that, at the request of Plato, Dion of Syracuse is said to have bought for a hundred minae.”3 Diogenes Laertius also writes of this purchase. Referring to “Philolaus of Croton, a Pythagorean,” he continues: “It was from him that Plato, in a letter, told Dion to buy the Pythagorean books.” But Diogenes Laertius’ version of the story goes on to make it explicit that it was a matter not only of reading the Pythagorean books but of reinscribing at least one of them, one that Philolaus, it seems, had actually composed. In Diogenes Laertius’ version: “Hermippus says that according to one writer the philosopher Plato went to Sicily, to the court of Dionysius, bought this book from Philolaus’ relatives for forty Alexandrian minae, and from it copied out [metagegrajènai] the Timaeus.” Diogenes Laertius adds still another variant: “Others say that Plato acquired the books by securing from Dionysius the release from prison of a young man who had been one of Philolaus’ pupils.”4 In whatever way he acquired the book, whether by having someone else buy it or by simply buying it himself or by securing Philolaus’ pupil’s freedom in exchange for it, the point on which Diogenes
1. See above, chap. 3, n. 24. 2. See G. S. Kirk and J. E. Raven, The Presocratic Philosophers (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1962), 308. 3. Diels-Kranz, Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker (Dublin/Zurich: Weidmann, 1968), 14.17. 4. Ibid., 44.A1.

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Laertius seems most intent is that Plato used the book as the basis for the Timaeus. Construed in its most insidious form, the rumor was that Plato was guilty of plagiarism, that the Timaeus was a forgery. It is likely that such rumors, or at least the suspicions that they created about the Timaeus, contributed signi¤cantly to the reception granted to a work entitled On the Nature of the Cosmos and the Soul (PerÜ j¿sioV kísmw kaÜ yucàV); the work bore the signature of Timaeus of Locri and was accepted as genuine by most Neoplatonic commentators, including Proclus.5 This work purported to be the original discourse of Timaeus, from which Plato had composed the Timaeus merely by elaborating the discourse and adding to it the introductory speeches. It was as if the appearance of the work by Timaeus of Locri had realized some obscure longing to recover the origin of—an origin for—the Timaeus. It was as if what the chorology discreetly says of itself could be extended to the entire dialogue and this bastard discourse regarded as the offspring engendered when one of Athens’ most celebrated citizens came in contact with the obscure foreign source. But it is a forgery, this work in which the name Timaeus of Locri is inscribed as the alleged author. No doubt it was precisely because it was a forgery that its author (who cannot be identi¤ed) inscribed the name Timaeus of Locri at the very beginning of the work, so that what one reads, ¤rst of all, is: “Timaeus of Locri spoke as follows.”6 The work was composed so as to appear to be that of a ¤fth-century b.c. writer. But its use of the Doric dialect (in which one from Locri, in southern Italy, would have written) is not consistent, and, most obtrusively, there are numerous elements in the work that are indisputably Postplatonic. The work is not attested before the second century a.d., and it is widely regarded as having been composed either in the ¤rst century b.c. or the ¤rst century a.d. Its af¤nities with Middle Platonic thought are evident, and it may indeed have originated in Alexandria.7 Though it was to have been the original on which Plato based the Timaeus, it is in fact only a remote image derived from the Platonic text, a faint reinscription of the dialogue. Taken from the Timaeus, it gives virtually nothing itself but only dogmatizes, simpli¤es, and ¶attens out the Platonic discourse. Between the Timaeus itself and the forged text, in the transition from the original to this errant image, there seems to be nothing but loss. One thing that is lost is the dialogue form and all the possibilities such form offers, for instance, for leaving matters open, for letting them remain
5. See Proclus, In Platonis Timaeum Commentaria, 1:1. 6. Timaios of Locri, On the Nature of the World and the Soul, text, translation, and notes by Thomas H. Tobin (Chico, Calif.: Scholars Press, 1985), 32f. (marginal page number: 93a). Subsequent references to the work itself will be indicated by TL followed by the marginal page number. 7. See Tobin’s Introduction in ibid., 1–28.

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in a certain suspension; these possibilities and others are subtly transferred even when a portion of a dialogue assumes the form of monologue. Hence, the contrast is enormous between the stylistic resources of the Platonic discourses of Timaeus and those of the ¶at declarations put forth in the forged work. Also lost are the discourses that precede Timaeus’, those by Socrates and by Critias; in the forged work there is no trace whatsoever of these other discourses, nor, therefore, any integration of a Socratic moment into the context of the discourse. Lost, too, is the opening scene of the Timaeus, and thus all that is signaled in word and deed both in that scene and in the discussions that frame and punctuate the Socratic and the Critian discourses. All reference to the Republic is missing; in fact the forgery excludes the entire political frame of the Timaeus. Reference to Athena is gone, corresponding to a suppression of mythical elements that the forgery effects throughout. Above all, the dramatic character integral to the Timaeus is lost altogether, its character as enacting a reception, as enacting in its very setting precisely what the discourse comes to address in and around the chorology. There is a loss, too, of all the caution and reserve that the discourse of the Timaeus exercises upon itself. What the forged work says of the cosmos and the soul is declared with a straightforwardness that excludes even the slightest hint of a need to wonder whether the discourse truly touches upon—whether it is such as could truly touch upon—things themselves. Not that the forged work fails to reinscribe the division that corresponds to that between the three kinds: it proclaims that there are three ways in which things come to be comprehended or declared (gnwrÖzesqai), one way corresponding to each of the three—hence, by no”V through knowledge, by sense perception and opinion, and by bastard reckoning. One of the few contributions offered by the forged work is its explanation of the need for bastard reckoning, an explanation that only serves once and for all to demonstrate how thoroughly the forgery closes off the question of the third kind. For the work explains that the third kind must be known by bastard reckoning “because it can never be known directly but only by analogy” (TL 94b). Yet what is perhaps most remarkable is that once these three ways have been proclaimed the text never returns to them, never takes its own measure by reference to them, never expresses reservation about itself by reference to them—in short, never interrupts for a moment its dogmatic tone. The extreme simpli¤cation and ¶attening-out that the forgery effects on the discourse is demonstrated perhaps most strikingly if one compares the passage that forms the conclusion of Timaeus’ ¤rst discourse with the corresponding passage in the forged work. This is the passage on the greatest good of vision: in the Platonic text Timaeus describes how vision, by allowing us to behold the noetic revolutions in the heaven, makes it possible for us to imitate within ourselves those celestial revolutions, to

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imitate within our own souls the order beheld in the starry heaven above (47a–c). But in the corresponding passage in the forged work, one reads simply: “As for types of sense perception, the god has fastened sight to us for the contemplation of the heaven and the acquisition of knowledge.” The mimetic re¶ection of the visible heaven back into the soul is lost entirely. As is also that of music: regarding the good of hearing, all that is ventured is that “he produced hearing for the apprehension of words and melodies” and that “one who is deaf from birth will later be unable to utter words” (TL 100c). There would be loss enough if the forged work only dogmatized, simpli¤ed, and ¶attened out the discourse of the Timaeus, or, more precisely, its presentation of the discourse of Timaeus. But there is indeed an even more severe loss. One might consider it simply a matter of distortion, were it not such as to conceal and exclude completely that which it distorts. What is submitted to this excluding distortion is precisely the chorology and much of the discourse surrounding it. At the core of the distorting operation is a distortion of the c»ra itself, its distortion into matter («lh). Without the slightest sign of caution or reservation, the forged work identi¤es matter with the various images that the Timaeus offers of the c»ra: “Matter, however, is a matrix and mother [´kmage¢on kaÜ matèra],” as well as “nurse [tiqânan].” Reaf¤rming the author in the clumsiest of ways, the forged work underwrites the distortion: “He said that this matter was everlasting, but not immovable, in itself patternless and shapeless, but receptive of every pattern.” And then, as if to seal the distortion: “Matter is called típoV and c»ra” (TL 94a–b).8 This distortion is accompanied by another, by a distortion of the very form of the Timaeus, a shifting around of various portions in such a way that the forged work comes to have the simple form of division into two parts, the ¤rst dealing with the cosmos, the second dealing with human beings and other mortal creatures. Most decisive among these shifts is that by which the initial portion of Timaeus’ second discourse (leading up to and including the chorology) is moved to the beginning of the work and what remains of that portion is combined with the account of the works of no”V. The difference between Timaeus’ ¤rst discourse and his second, the discontinuity marked by the interruption and new beginning, is abolished through this distortion of the form of the text. This leveling of difference does not so much expel the chorology as, rather, require that its expulsion be already in effect, that it be already withdrawn into oblivion. It is this loss that clears the way for such bland and dogmatic proclamations as that with which—after its false declaration of authorship—the forged work begins: “There are two causes of all things: no”V . . . and ånâgkh . . .” (TL 93a).
8. The work goes on eventually to identify «lh with ›pokeÖmenon (TL 97e).

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REDUCTION Yet it was not in this forged work that the distorting identi¤cation of the c»ra with «lh originated. The identi¤cation was in fact common in Middle Platonism. For instance, in On the Generation of the Soul in the Timaeus Plutarch insists that corporeal being (ò s»matoV o‹sÖa) is none other than what Plato called the all-receiving nature, the abode (Édra), and the nurse (tiqænh) of all generated things (5, 1014c–d). Thus, Plutarch links the material (›likín) to the c»ra (6, 1014e). And ¤nally, reiterating the three kinds counted in Timaeus’ second discourse, Plutarch continues: “It is matter [«lh] that he calls c»ra, as he sometimes calls it abode [Édra] and receptacle [›podocæ]” (24, 1024c). By the time of Plotinus the identi¤cation can be taken for granted, indeed to such an extent that a treatise on matter can begin: “What is called matter [«lh] is said to be some sort of substratum [›pokeÖmenon] and receptacle of forms [›podocæ e¥dõn]; this account is common to all those who have arrived at a conception of a nature of this kind” (II.4.1). Some measure of just how far this distorting identi¤cation has removed Neoplatonic thought from the chorology can be taken by reference to certain of Plotinus’ discourses on matter. For all their philosophical and poetic force and even though—perhaps even because—one still hears faint echoes of things once said of the c»ra, one realizes that such discourses as the following belong to a world quite remote from that of the Timaeus: “Matter, then, is incorporeal. . . . It is a ghostly image of bulk . . . ; it is invisible in itself and escapes any attempt to see it and occurs when one is not looking, but even if you look closely you cannot see it. . . . Whatever announcement it makes, therefore, is a lie . . . ; its apparent being is not being, but a sort of ¶eeting frivolity [paÖgnion]; hence the things that seem to come to be in it are frivolities, nothing but phantoms [eƒdwla] in a phantom, like something in a mirror which really exists in one place but is re¶ected in another; it seems to be ¤lled, and holds nothing; it is all seeming” (III.6.7).9 It is not insigni¤cant that in stating what had become the common account Plotinus identi¤es matter not only as the receptacle but also as
9. Against the background of this distorting assimilation of the c»ra to matter, it is curious, to say the least, that under the title “Une Mère de Glace” Irigaray cites Plotinus on «lh as if the cited passages were about the c»ra. In this context she hardly cites Plato at all, and when she does it is screened through Plotinus and presupposes the identi¤cation of the c»ra with «lh. For example, she writes: “Matter (we read) is ‘the receptacle and nurse of all generation’” (Luce Irigaray, Speculum of the Other Woman, trans. Gillian C. Gill [Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1985], 173). But this is obviously not what we read in the Timaeus nor in any other text by Plato, who uses the word «lh only occasionally and then only in the sense of a building material such as wood.

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substratum, using precisely the word (›pokeÖmenon) by which Aristotle de¤nes matter.10 One could say even that that to which the receptacle, hence, the c»ra, comes to be assimilated is determined by the two terms «lh and ›pokeÖmenon, that it is «lh as ›pokeÖmenon. If, then, one would address this assimilation at the site where its resources originated, one must turn to Aristotle. Indeed the assimilation itself is already in force in Aristotle’s text. One ¤nds it, for instance, in the passage cited earlier from On Generation and Corruption where Aristotle voices the complaint that Plato, having de¤ned the receptacle, then makes no use of it subsequently. The de¤nition that Aristotle declares Plato to have given is linked to the image of the gold that is constantly remodeled, an image that Aristotle tends to privilege, no doubt because it most readily suggests that the receptacle is a substratum for all things. For, according to Aristotle, this is what Plato declared the receptacle to be: “a substratum [›pokeÖmenon] prior to the so-called elements, just as gold is the substratum of works made of gold.” Though in this context Aristotle refers to one other image of the c»ra, that of nurse (tiqænh), he forgoes drawing on the content of that image and, instead, moves immediately to identify the receptacle with “primary matter” (329a). Yet the passage that is, at once, both most decisive and most puzzling occurs in Book 4 of the Physics: “This is why Plato says in the Timaeus that matter and the c»ra are the same; for the receptive and the c»ra are one and the same. Although the manner in which he speaks about the receptive in the Timaeus differs from that in the so-called unwritten teachings, nevertheless he declares that place [típoV] and the c»ra are the same” (209b). One cannot but be struck by the lack of correspondence between this passage and the text of the Timaeus. The passage declares three identi¤cations: that of the receptive (metalhptikín) with the c»ra, that of matter («lh) with the c»ra, and that of place (típoV) with the c»ra. Only the ¤rst of these identi¤cations has any basis in the text of the Timaeus, and then only if one disregards any difference that might distinguish metalhptikín from the Platonic words decímenon and ›podocæ. For the identi¤cation of «lh with the c»ra, there is no basis in the Timaeus. Plato never uses the word «lh in Aristotle’s sense, a sense that, one suspects, comes to be constituted and delimited only in and through the work of Aristotle. When Plato does, on a few occasions, use the word,

10. “For I say that matter [«lh] is the primary substratum [t¬ prõton ›pokeÖmenon] of each thing, from which, as something inherent but not as an attribute, something else is generated” (Aristotle, Physics 192a).

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it has the common, everyday sense of building material such as wood, earth, or stone.11 Following Aristotle’s own strategy in On Generation and Corruption, one could refer to the image of the constantly remodeled gold as providing support for the identi¤cation. But reference to this image could be decisive only if one privileged it over most of the others, disregarding, for instance, the image of the nurse, which represents the relation between the c»ra and the sensible in a way quite irreducible to that between matter and the things formed from it. What is perhaps even more decisive is that all these are images of the c»ra, images declared in an e¥kãV lígoV, which is to be distinguished from the bastardly discourse in which one would venture to say the c»ra. As soon as one begins to grant the multiplicity of images of the c»ra and to differentiate also between the discourse on these images and the bastardly discourse on the c»ra (that is, between the e¥k»V lígoV and the chorology), it will be manifest that the c»ra cannot, on the basis of the Timaeus, be identi¤ed with «lh. Despite the image of the constantly remodeled gold, the c»ra is not reducible to that from which things are made, nor, speci¤cally, to the primary substratum underlying the simplest things, which Aristotle—contrary to the Timaeus—calls elements. Given the decisiveness and even the manifestness of the difference between c»ra and «lh, one cannot but suspect that their identi¤cation serves to transpose into the economy of Aristotle’s thought a moment of the Timaean discourse that otherwise would simply be lost or else would disrupt that economy. But the effect of this transposition is a reduction of the c»ra, a reductive reinscription of the chorology and the other discourses around it. Even if Aristotle stops short of integrating the c»ra into an eidetic economy, into an economy of meaning of the sort that it resists abysmally in the Timaeus, his reduction of the c»ra to «lh does serve to situate it at the limit of the eidetic and to that extent to assimilate it to the eidetic economy. As to the identi¤cation of típoV with the c»ra, one has only to refer to the chorology to show how it is unfounded; but what is remarkable in this regard is that the chorology, while maintaining the difference between típoV and c»ra, shows how the identi¤cation, though illegitimate, is nonetheless motivated. For the chorology tells of how we dream of the c»ra and of how in that dream we con¶ate típoV and the c»ra, between which, upon our awakening, it would be imperative to distinguish. It is as if Aristotelian physics remains absorbed in the dream, reducing the c»ra
11. “But Aristotle’s term for matter («lh) is not used even once by Plato in that sense. To Plato it had only the more common meaning of wood, earth, or speci¤c type of stuff” (George S. Claghorn, Aristotle’s Criticism of Plato’s “Timaeus” [The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1954], 6). See also Cornford, Plato’s Cosmology, 181. Note Plato’s use of «lh in the Timaeus (69a) in a sense that suggests pieces of wood that have been prepared for the carpenter to fasten together.

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to típoV, dreaming of the c»ra as a place that would have a place within the economy of that physics, that metaphysics.12 APPROPRIATION Remote it is indeed from the c»ra. Constrained, too, if one can say that to bind something to the imagination is to constrain it. And yet, in the one text without which the entire movement of German Idealism would be unthinkable, Kant writes: “Now it is clear that there must be a third thing [ein Drittes], which is homogeneous, on the one hand, with the category and, on the other hand, with the appearance and which makes the application of the former to the latter possible.”13 If, in a way that is not entirely foreign to Kant, one takes the categories as expressing the forms or articulations of being as these are thought by the understanding or intellect, then it will be evident that they correspond, within the context of modern (Postcartesian) philosophy, to what in the Timaeus was called the ¤rst kind. And then it will be equally manifest that, since appearances correspond to the second kind, this declaration regarding the necessity of a third kind corresponds to the declaration made at the outset of Timaeus’ second discourse and, most rigorously, in the passage across the threshold of the chorology. The third must be homogeneous with the ¤rst, that is, in a most perplexing way, partaking of the intelligible. As Kant says: “This mediating representation must be pure (devoid of everything empirical), and yet, while it must, on the one hand, be intellectual, it must”—as homogeneous with the appearance—“be, on the other hand, sensible.”14 It is homogeneous with the appearance and falls to this extent on the side of the sensible precisely because all sensible appearance occurs in it—that is, it is receptive of all without itself being determined by any of those things it receives. Moreover, the third is what makes possible the application of the category to the appearance, of the intelligible to the sensible, allowing sensible appearances, determined as objects, to cling to being at least in a cer12. In his interpretation of Aristotle, Heidegger insists that the distinction between the allegedly general character of metaphysics (of what came to be called metaphysics) and the apparently regional character of physics breaks down, indeed to such an extent that “metaphysics is ‘physics’ in a quite essential sense—i.e., a knowledge of j¿siV (ìpistæmh jusikæ).” On this basis Heidegger concludes that Aristotelian physics plays a fundamental role in the history of Western philosophy, that is, of metaphysics: “The Aristotelian ‘Physics’ is the concealed—and hence never suf¤ciently thought through—basic book [Grundbuch] of Western philosophy.” On the other hand, the reduction of the c»ra that is effected by Aristotelian physics offers a basis for putting in question the interpretation of Aristotle’s thought as belonging to “the era of the completion [Vollendung] of Greek philosophy,” or at least for reopening the question as to the sense of that completion. See Martin Heidegger, “Vom Wesen und Begriff der F¿siV: Aristoteles, Physik B, 1,” in Wegmarken, vol. 9 of Gesamtausgabe (Frankfurt a.M.: Vittorio Klostermann, 1976), 241f. 13. Kant, Kritik der reinen Vernunft, A138/B177. 14. Ibid.

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tain way, enabling the duplicity of being. Thus is it made possible for appearances to be determined by the categories, that is, the possibility of a priori synthetic knowledge is vindicated. Kant concludes his discourse on the necessity of the third by naming it: “Such a representation is the transcendental schema.”15 As such a third, the transcendental schema interrupts the twofold structure of the Critique of Pure Reason, a structure manifest in the division of the Transcendental Doctrine of Elements into Transcendental Aesthetic and Transcendental Logic. This twofold structure rests on the division of human knowledge into the two stems, sensibility and understanding. But if there must be a third and if the third is irreducible, then, in enabling the twofold (the application of category to appearance), it will have interrupted it and destabilized the very structure of a critique of reason. Kant writes that transcendental schematism is “an art concealed in the depths of the human soul, whose true modes of activity nature is hardly likely ever to allow us to discover and to have open to our gaze.”16 One could say, as Timaeus says of the third kind, that it is most dif¤cult to catch. Thus, even though remote from the Timaean discourse, even though constrained within the exigencies of modern thought, transcendental schematism is a reinscription of the chorology. Yet it is not Kant but Schelling who most decisively reinscribes the Timaeus and its chorology. In Schelling’s case, unlike Kant’s, the reinscription is determined by return to and from the text of the Timaeus. Schelling’s recently published Plato studies17 attest to this return to the Platonic text and serve to underline the singular decisiveness that this text had for Schelling’s thought. These very early studies, primarily of the Timaeus, make it possible to amplify the brief indications given in Schelling’s works and, in particular, to mark certain points in those works where reinscription of the Timaeus is carried out. By ¤lling out the reinscription along lines traced by the early Plato studies, one can transpose mere general indications into the textual speci¤city corresponding to Schelling’s reinscription of the Timaeus in the text of modern philosophy, his reinscription of the dialogue into a text that while belonging to modern philosophy also renders it radically questionable, perhaps for the ¤rst time. In this way a certain measure can be taken of the decisiveness of the Timaeus for Schelling’s thought.

15. Ibid. 16. Ibid., A141/B180–81. 17. Most notably, F. W. J. Schelling, “Timaeus.” (1794), ed. Hartmut Buchner (Stuttgart-Bad Cannstatt: Frommann-Holzboog, 1994). Further references are indicated in the text by T followed by page number. Additional material belonging to Schelling’s early Plato studies appears as two appendices in Michael Franz, Schellings Tübinger Platon-Studien (Göttingen: Vanderhoeck & Ruprecht, 1996). Franz notes that these texts are only preliminary transcriptions and do not constitute a historical-critical edition.

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At what point does the reinscription occur? At what point in Schelling’s work? At what point in the movement that came to be called German Idealism? Indications are there from the beginning, from before the beginning: for instance, in the recently published notebook dating from August 1792, two years before Schelling’s ¤rst published work. Composed while Schelling was still a student in Tübingen, the notebook is entitled Vorstellungsarten der alten Welt über Verschiedene Gegenstände gesammelt aus Homer, Plato u.a.18 At the very beginning of the text, Schelling cites in Greek a passage from the Timaeus, from the end of the second discourse (68e– 69a). The passage can be rendered: “Therefore there is need to distinguish two kinds of causes, the necessary [t¬ ånagka¢on] and the divine [t¬ qe¢on], and in all things to seek after the divine for the sake of gaining a life of happiness, so far as our nature [j¿siV] admits thereof.” This passage reiterates the opening passage of the second discourse, a passage that Schelling will cite in another notebook two years later: “For this cosmos in its origin was generated as a compound, from the combination [s¿stasiV] of ånâgkh and no”V” (48a). But what is the point of the reinscription? Why, how, where is it carried out? The question of the why will compound itself almost immediately, indeed, in a way that can perhaps be described only as abysmal. For the point of the reinscription is to set the ground apart, to set apart that to which every question that asks why is directed. Setting ground apart cannot but render more problematic every such question of ground and, above all, the question that asks about the ground of the setting apart of ground. But how is the reinscription carried out? With what kind of stylus will Schelling have rewritten the ancient text within the text of modern philosophy? What about the eye that will have caught a glimpse of the blank space closed off within that densely ¤gured text? How will the hand have been deployed to wield the pen within that space—or rather, to set its point dancing so as to reinscribe as lightly as possible what was said—and not said—in the pertinent discourse of the Timaeus? Where, then, is the reinscription carried out? Where in Schelling’s work? Perhaps almost everywhere. For what Schelling rewrites within the text of modern philosophy is a discourse on nature, on nature in its capacity to withdraw, on secluded nature. It is well-known that the question of nature is precisely what precipitated Schelling’s break with Fichte’s Wissenschaftslehre, which reduces nature to a mere not-I posited by the I, that is, reduces it to a mere object brought forth by the transcendental imagination. That in this reduction only the merest residue remains as a kind of
18. Franz, Schellings Tübinger Platon-Studien, Appendix I (pp. 252–71).

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surd (the Anstoss) serves to mark for Schelling the limit, the incompleteness, of the Wissenschaftslehre. What is thus called for is a philosophy of nature that would complement transcendental philosophy (or—in a sense that becomes increasingly compelling—would displace it) and thus compensate for the absence of nature from transcendental philosophy. Schelling’s criticism of transcendental philosophy becomes more comprehensive and more radical in his work of 1809, Philosophical Investigations of the Essence of Human Freedom: “All modern European philosophy since it began with Descartes has this common defect, that nature does not exist for it and that it lacks a living ground [dass die Natur für sie nicht vorhanden ist, und dass es ihr am lebendigen Grunde fehlt].”19 In this work Schelling ventures to recover such a living ground, to differentiate secluded nature from the self-positing subject to which otherwise—and indeed throughout modern philosophy—it is assimilated. It is precisely in the course of this differentiating recovery of ground that Schelling comes openly—perhaps most openly—to reinscribe the Timaeus. Yet the reinscription comes, not at the highest point of the investigation, but rather at its deepest point, where it is most fundamental. At this point Schelling draws the most fundamental of distinctions, setting the living ground apart from the being whose existence it would ground. The distinction is fundamental in a twofold sense: it is the foundation of all the other principal determinations to be developed in the investigation (for example, that of the distinction between good and evil), and it effects the very setting of the fundament, setting it apart from the being whose existence it would ground. Most succinctly, it differentiates between ground and existence (Grund, Existenz). Even in the case of God the distinction remains in force, forestalling any reduction of the grounding relation in God to the virtual identity entailed in the determination of God as causa sui. Even though the ground of God’s existence is inseparable from God, it is necessary to differentiate between God insofar as he exists and the ground of his existence. In this connection Schelling refers to the ground of God’s existence as “the nature in God” (PU 358), thus indicating unmistakably that even in the sphere of the divine what is at issue is the seclusion of nature. It is in this same connection that Schelling delimits nature as such, nature as ground, nature as secluded beyond the limit: “Nature in general is everything that lies beyond the absolute being of absolute identity” (PU 358). Secluded nature Schelling also calls die anfängliche Natur, distinguishing it—though only relatively—from ordered nature. The distinction is only relative because die anfängliche Natur is also the unruly (das Regellose) that precedes the establishment of rule,
19. Schelling, Philosophische Untersuchungen über das Wesen der menschlichen Freiheit und die damit zusammenhängenden Gegenstände, in Sämtliche Werke (Stuttgart and Augsburg: J. G. Cotta’scher Verlag, 1860), I/7: 356. Further references to the Philosophische Untersuchungen (PU) are given in the text according to the pagination of this edition.

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order, form, and that even in ordered nature still persists as capable of breaking through again. Secluded nature is originary (ursprünglich) not only in the sense that it precedes order and form (creation consisting, then, in bringing the unruly to order) but also in the sense that it remains as the irreducible ground always capable of breaking through the order brought by creation. In Schelling’s words: “This is the incomprehensible basis of reality in things, the irreducible remainder, that which with the greatest exertion cannot be resolved in the understanding but remains eternally in the ground” (PU 359f.). The unruly ground Schelling also calls longing (Sehnsucht)—“the longing felt by the eternal One to give birth to itself” (PU 359). He also calls it simply darkness (Dunkel), broaching with this name a discourse of birth, since “all birth is from darkness into light.” That discourse continues: “Man is formed in his mother’s womb, and from the darkness of non-understanding (from feeling, longing, the glorious mother of knowledge) lucid thoughts ¤rst grow” (PU 360). It is at this point that Schelling inserts a decisive indication referring this entire development back to the Timaeus and broaching in effect a reinscription. The originary longing, says Schelling, is to be represented as moving “like an undulating, surging sea, similar to Plato’s matter” (PU 360). In its movement, originary longing, that is, the darkness from which understanding is born, that is, the secluded ground, that is, die anfängliche Natur, is similar to Plato’s matter. What is to be understood by Plato’s matter? There can be little doubt but that Schelling is reproducing the identi¤cation that goes back to Aristotle; the decisive question, on the other hand, will be whether Schelling also reproduces the reduction that, from Aristotle on, has seldom if ever ceased to operate. In any case the early Plato studies make it abundantly clear that Schelling is referring to the c»ra. The connection is evident if one recalls, for instance, the account, immediately following the chorology, of the movement of the c»ra and of the traces of ¤re, air, water, and earth held by it: “But because of being ¤lled with powers that are neither equal nor balanced, in no part of itself is it balanced, but sways unevenly everywhere and is shaken by these [powers] and shakes them in turn as it moves” (52d–e). Just such a scene is what Schelling reinscribes as the unruly ground, the irreducible remainder, secluded nature. Schelling’s reference to birth and the mother further corroborate—and, in turn, are put in perspective by—the identi¤cation of Platonic matter with the c»ra. Among Schelling’s early Plato studies, the most notable text is his commentary on the Timaeus. This text is found in a notebook entitled Über den Geist der Platonischen Philosophie and follows a series of short texts entitled collectively Form der Platonischen Philosophie. The Timaeus-essay is a coherent, self-contained text. It divides into two parts, which are roughly equal in length. The ¤rst part presents an interpretation of

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Timaeus 28a–47c—that is, of Timaeus’ ¤rst discourse. The second part is devoted to Timaeus 47c–53c—that is, to the initial portion of Timaeus’ second discourse, up through the passage that immediately follows the chorology. The second part of the Timaeus-essay includes also a discussion of the Philebus, especially of the forms of êpeiron and pèraV. Although it is not itself explicitly dated, the Timaeus-essay can be dated 1794, between the months of January-February and May-June. Thus it comes at the very beginning of Schelling’s career and, speci¤cally, just before his ¤rst major published work, Über die Möglichkeit einer Form der Philosophie überhaupt. One notes that the Fichtean terminology of Schelling’s ¤rst publications is conspicuously absent from the Timaeus-essay.20 This suggests already a certain reversal of the usual view: rather than coming only after his appropriation of the Wissenschaftslehre (and precisely as critique of Fichte), Schelling’s engagement with the question of nature— even of secluded nature—actually preceded that engagement. Three points stand out in the ¤rst part of the essay, though without at all exhausting its content. (1) Almost at the beginning Schelling identi¤es a “main principle” (“Hauptsatz” ) by quoting the passage (27d–28a) in which Timaeus distinguishes between t¬ ªn and t¬ gignímenon, that is, between being, which is ungenerated and which is apprehended by níhsiV with lígoV, and becoming (that which is generated), which never is and which is apprehended by díxa with aƒsqhsiV. Schelling comments: “Thus here Plato himself explains ªn as something that is the object of pure understanding [das Gegenstand des reinen Verstandes]” (T 23). In turn, Schelling identi¤es t¬ gignímenon as: “the empirical, that which has arisen through experience.” Hence, one recognizes from the outset that Schelling is interpreting Plato’s text by means of Kantian concepts: he takes being, hence, the intelligible eƒdh, as concepts of pure understanding, or, he adds, as ideas of pure reason. (2) Schelling cites and brie¶y discusses Timaeus 30c–d, the passage in which Timaeus characterizes the cosmos as a living being (zõon) and asks about the paradigm in the image of which the demiurgos made it. He then identi¤es the paradigm as the noht¬n zõon, the living being apprehended by níhsiV. Schelling proceeds then to the point that is to be stressed: “The key to the explanation of the entire Platonic philosophy is the remark that everywhere he carries the subjective over to the objective [überträgt can also mean here: transfers, transposes, translates]. From this arose for Plato the principle (present, however, long before him) that the visible world is nothing but an image of the invisible” (T 31). Close attention to this passage and its context makes it clear that the pertinent carrying over of the subjective to the objective is not at all a matter of subjectivation, as
20. See Buchner’s Editorischer Bericht in T 3–21.

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though the subject cast something upon preexistent objects or viewed them only through its own subjective lens. Rather, what is at issue here— and what allows Schelling to make the connection with the Platonic principle—is objectivation. The passage is addressed to the way in which what is subjectively given to our empirical receptivity gets constituted as something objective, as something that is no longer merely relative to our sensibility. For Plato this objectivation takes place through the referral of the visible to the invisible; it occurs precisely insofar as the visible (the subjective) comes to be taken as an image—as a mere image: Nachbild—of the invisible (the objective). Yet the Kantian terms in which Schelling casts this referral are evident: even to characterize it in terms of the opposition subjective/objective is already to broach a Kantian formulation. The connection becomes still more manifest when Schelling goes on to write: “Insofar as the whole of nature as it appears to us is not only a product of our empirical receptivity but properly a work of our power of representation [Vorstellungsvermögen], to this extent the represented world belongs to a higher power than mere sensibility and nature is presented as a type of higher world, which expresses the pure laws of this world” (T 31). Regarding the principle that the visible is an image of the invisible, Schelling adds: “But no philosophy would ever arrive at this principle if it [viz., the principle] did not have its philosophical ground in us” (T 31). In other words, the referral from visible to invisible is to be found already operative in the subject, in the relation between sensibility and understanding— indeed not only operative but grounded in the subject, in the relation between its receptivity and its powers of representation. Only because the principle is in us can philosophy ever have discovered it. (3) Schelling again con¤rms the Kantian parameters of his interpretation when he writes that Plato “must therefore have assumed ideas . . . only insofar as they are dependent, directly or indirectly, on the pure form of understanding” (T 32). Does this mean, then, that the Platonic ideas are simply identi¤ed with the pure concepts of the human understanding? One cannot but wonder how such an identi¤cation could ever be reconciled with the Timaeus, much less derived from it. In fact, Schelling’s interpretation stops short of posing such an identi¤cation. Instead, Schelling regards ideas as, ¤rst of all, concepts in the divine understanding: “In general in the entire investigation of the Platonic theory of ideas, one must keep it always in mind that Plato speaks of them always as ideas of a divine understanding, which would become possible in human understanding only through an intellectual communion of man with the origin of all beings [nur durch intellektuelle Gemeinschaft des Menschen mit dem Ursprunge aller Wesen]” (T 37). The sense of correspondence with the Timaeus itself is readily apparent: in the account given by Timaeus in the dialogue, it is the god who has the eidetic paradigm in view and who fash-

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ions the cosmos in accord with it. On the other hand, this shift does not entail for Schelling that the ideas are to be taken as existing in a higher world. The referral of ideas back to the understanding (even if divine) is what is decisive, and it is the decisiveness of this referral that allows Schelling to forestall all that would arise if recourse were had to simply positing the existence of the ideas. Schelling is explicit about the dif¤culties that would arise, that is, about the reduction of sense that could not, then, be evaded: “As soon as the concept of existence is applied to something supersensible, whether to an idea or to objects insofar as they exist outside their idea, it loses all physical signi¤cance [Bedeutung] and retains merely logical signi¤cance. . . . The concept of existence, applied to the idea of God, is an abyss for human reason [ein Abgrund für die menschliche Vernunft]” (T 44). In the second part of the Timaeus-essay there are again three points to be stressed. These points are not exhaustive and, in particular, do not touch on Schelling’s extended discussion of the Philebus, an apparent digression, aimed, it seems, at recovering a Platonic language in which to express the Kantian categories, or rather in which the categories were already, in the Platonic text, profoundly expressed. (1) Schelling begins by making the transition that Plato’s text makes and itself marks, the transition to Timaeus’ second discourse: “Now Plato proceeds to the necessity . . . that was effective in the coming-to-be of the world” (T 50). Schelling identi¤es the main principle that comes thus into play, citing—in Greek, as always—the passage with which Timaeus’ second discourse in effect begins: “For this cosmos in its origin was generated as a compound, from the combination of ånâgkh [in Schelling’s translation: Notwendigkeit] and no”V” [Timaeus 48a, cited in T 50]. Granted the investigation of the role of no”V that the ¤rst discourse has carried out (doubled by commentary in the ¤rst part of the Timaeus-essay), Schelling notes that it is to ånâgkh that Plato’s text and his own commentary must turn. (2) Schelling observes that everything comes to hinge on introducing a third kind alongside the paradigm and the image, which, Schelling notes, presupposes the third kind. Schelling quotes the passage in which Timaeus calls the third kind “the receptacle [›podocæ], as it were, the nurse, of all generation” (Timaeus 49a, cited in T 53). But what Schelling himself especially calls it—indeed in this very context—is enduring substance, a substance (Substanz) that enduringly (beharrlich) underlies all change of appearances, as the gold mentioned in the Timaeus underlies the change of ¤gures modeled in it yet without itself being identical with any of these ¤gures. But since the receptacle itself is receptive of all forms, since it is “the substratum of all the various forms” (T 54), it can have no determinate form whatsoever; it can receive determinate form only through imitation of the intelligible originals. In Schelling’s words, “Thus the substance itself (which

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has existed unalterably from eternity, di4 anagkhV)21 was the substratum of all the various forms that arose through imitation of the original, pure, intelligible forms” (T 54). Yet, as itself formless, this substratum must also be itself invisible: “Insofar as it is the ¤nal empirical substratum of all the forms that are brought forth through the creation of the world, [it] cannot become visible, because nothing but these forms (imitations, images, of the pure forms of the understanding) can become visible to us” (T 56–58). Schelling appropriately cites in this context one of the most decisive passages from this portion of the Timaeus: “But if we call it an invisible e†doV, formless, allreceiving, and, in a most perplexing way, partaking of the intelligible and most dif¤cult to catch, we will not be speaking falsely” (Timaeus 51a–b). (3) Schelling calls the receptacle not only the enduring substance or substratum but also matter (Materie),22 con¤rming with this appellation that “Plato’s matter,” as he will call it in 1809 when he likens originary longing to it, is none other than the Timaean receptacle, the c»ra. Such matter is not something that one could ever come across as such in the visible world; it is in this sense not a material substance at all. Rather, this “nature [j¿siV] that receives all bodies” (Timaeus 50b) is a matter prior to all generation of things, a pregenetic nature that makes possible the genesis of the visible world, a proto-matter “before the generation of the heaven” (Timaeus 48b).23 In this connection Schelling insists—no less than does, though in different terms, the Timaeus of Plato’s dialogue—on the difference between the all-receptive matter and the elements that come to appear in it; this difference is what precludes regarding the cosmos as simply composed of air, earth, ¤re, and water. Yet the difference is not utter separation, not even utter distinctness: the Timaeus openly declares that the invisible recipient—the all-receiving matter, in Schelling’s terms— which never appears as itself, can come to appear (even though not as itself ) only by way of the appearing of an element held by it, as when, for instance, it appears as ¤ery. Schelling says of matter: it appears to us “only under a form that is not its form” (T 58). Krings’ commentary appended to Schelling’s Timaeus-essay offers several signi¤cant indications of just how thoroughly Schelling’s interpretation of the Timaeus, and especially of the chorology and the discourses around it, remains in play in the series of writings on the philosophy of nature that Schelling produced during the late 1790s.24 One of the most

21. In Schelling’s citations from the Greek text, all accent marks are lacking. 22. The identi¤cation is also found in Hegel: “Thus the principle is that which is without form but is receptive of all form, that which we call ‘matter,’ ‘passive matter’” (Vorlesungen [Hamburg: Felix Meiner, 1996], 8:46). 23. See the commentary appended to the text of Schelling’s Timaeus-essay: Hermann Krings, “Genesis und Materie—Zur Bedeutung der ‘Timaeus’-Handschrift für Schellings Naturphilosophie,” esp. 131–35. 24. Ibid., 127, 143–45.

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striking of these indications is that given regarding that work in which by its very title Schelling refers back to the Timaeus. Though indeed Von der Weltseele (1798) devotes much of its attention to contemporary investigations of nature, with only scant allusions to the world-soul (or other themes) of Plato’s Timaeus, there are passages that are quite remarkable in this regard. For example, in the Preface Schelling discusses the conception of an originary Naturprinzip, which would be prior to the distinction between organic and inorganic; this Naturprinzip, which can be called the world-soul, would indeed precede all natural appearances in the sense of being the activity and productivity underlying these appearances. Schelling writes that it “can be nothing determinate or particular. For this very reason,” he continues, “language has no proper designation for it; and the most ancient philosophy [die älteste Philosophie] (to which, after it has completed its cycle, our philosophy gradually turns back) has handed it down to us only in poetic representations.”25 Krings insists that what Schelling calls here “the most ancient philosophy” is none other than Plato’s; even if this identi¤cation remains perhaps less than certain, there is much to suggest that the poetic representation mentioned is the e¥kãV lígoV of the Timaeus and that this nature that is neither determinate nor particular is the receptacle. Another passage near the end of the work serves to reinforce this suggestion. The language of the passage is virtually that of the Timaeus, indeed of the second discourse, of that very portion of it to which the second part of Schelling’s Timaeus-essay is devoted: “For this reason, this principle, although receptive of all forms, is itself originally formless (êmorjon) and never presentable [darstellbar] as determinate matter.”26 However, with the inception of Schelling’s philosophy of identity (as announced in the 1801 work Darstellung meines Systems der Philosophie) there is manifestly a shift in the stance taken toward the Timaeus. Krings suggests that the shift is such as to distance Schelling’s thought decisively from the Timaeus,27 indeed so decisively as to preclude any expectation of reinscription. Schelling’s statement in the Introduction to Ideen zu einer Philosophie der Natur would, then, be de¤nitive. Referring to the opposition between spirit and matter, Schelling writes: “The greatest thinkers of antiquity did not dare go beyond this opposition. Plato still set matter in opposition to God.”28 But the very sense of the philosophy of identity involves its going beyond this opposition: “Nature is to be visible spirit, spirit invisible nature.” Thus, the philosophy of identity would establish “the absolute identity of the spirit within us and the nature outside us.”29
25. Schelling, Von der Weltseele, in Sämtliche Werke, I/2: 347. 26. Ibid., 621. 27. Krings, “Genesis und Materie,” 145–48. 28. Schelling, Ideen zu einer Philosophie der Natur, in Sämtliche Werke, I/2: 20. 29. Ibid., 56.

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The question is whether the move beyond the opposition simply terminates in absolute identity or whether it reopens the opposition within and yet beyond absolute identity, posing a nature that “lies beyond the absolute being of absolute identity” (PU 358), a secluded nature that is both in God yet also the ground of God’s existence. Prior to the 1809 work on freedom, one ¤nds, to be sure, a surprisingly critical tone: in Philosophie und Religion (1804) Schelling contrasts the concepts of the Timaeus with “the elevated moral spirit of the more genuine Platonic works such as the Phaedo and the Republic.”30 Indeed, he goes so far as to entertain serious doubts whether Plato is even the author of the Timaeus.31 But in the 1809 work on freedom this critical tone is muted and the earlier doubts replaced by mere reservations and hopes that the darkness surrounding this part of Platonic doctrine will soon be dispelled.32 Schelling identi¤es the doctrine to which he is referring: it is “the interpretation of Platonic matter according to which it is a being [Wesen] originally resisting God and therefore in itself evil.” Then, over against such a mere dualism of good and evil, Schelling refers to another “sense in which it could be said of the irrational principle that it resists the understanding, or unity and order, without therefore assuming it to be an evil principle” (PU 374). His mention of “previous considerations” con¤rms that the reference is to the distinction between ground and existence, which Schelling in fact goes on to recall in its bearing on God: “But God himself requires a ground in order that he can be; however, it is not outside him, but within him. And God has a nature within himself, which, though belonging to him, still is different from him” (PU 375). Schelling poses even the prospect of another interpretation of Plato: “In this manner, too, we might well explain the Platonic saying that evil comes from the old nature. For all evil strives to return to chaos, i.e., to that state in which the initial center [das anfängliche Centrum] was not yet subordinated to light; it is an upsurging of the centers of yet unintelligent longing [der noch verstandlosen Sehnsucht]” (PU 374). Such an interpretation would align the Timaean distinction between no”V and ånâgkh, not with a mere dualism of good and evil, but with the distinction between God himself and the

30. Schelling, Philosophie und Religion, in Sämtliche Werke, I/6: 36. 31. Krings notes that the authenticity of the Timaeus was not contested by the philology of the time. He concludes that Schelling’s doubts about Plato’s authorship of the dialogue were based on philosophical rather than philological grounds, speci¤cally, on his doubts whether such dualism as can be found in the Timaeus could have been taught by Plato (Krings, “Genesis und Materie,” 149). 32. Remarking that as long as this is not accomplished “a de¤nite judgment . . . is indeed impossible,” Schelling goes on in a footnote to express his hope that “the quick-minded Böckh” will soon produce the needed elucidation (PU 374). Krings mentions a note that Böckh added to his text in a collected edition of 1866: in the note Böckh says that Schelling “took back his doubt” about the authenticity of the Timaeus (Krings, “Genesis und Materie,” 150).

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nature that is within God yet different from him. It would also align this entire discussion with the earlier one that likens originary longing (moving “like an undulating, surging sea”) to “Plato’s matter” (PU 360). Thus situated beyond the simple dualistic interpretation of the Timaeus, Schelling’s work on freedom would indeed reinscribe the Timaean distinction between no”V and ånâgkh, reinscribe it as the fundamental distinction between existence and ground.33 And yet, at what Schelling designates as “the highest point of the entire investigation” (PU 406), there emerges the question of a “beyond” even of this distinction. But if there is to be a move even beyond the distinction between existence and ground, even beyond the difference separating absolute identity from the nature that lies beyond the absolute being of absolute identity, then everything will depend on the sense and intent of this move. The question is whether the move simply dissolves the opposition into an antecedent unity or whether it is a move toward thinking this opposition more rigorously. Schelling is explicit about the consequence of not thinking the opposition in a way that situates it beyond mere dualism: “But this system, if it actually is thought to be the doctrine of two absolutely different and mutually independent principles, is but a system of the self-laceration and despair of reason” (PU 354). It is the prospect of this consequence that drives thinking on beyond the mere duality of ground and existence, that drives thinking on to what would be antecedent to the opposition: “There must be a Wesen before all ground and before all existence, thus before any duality at all; how can we call this anything but the original ground [Urgrund], or rather the unground [Ungrund ] ?” Schelling insists, however, that this unground is not the identity of the opposites, not absolute identity, but rather absolute indifference (die absolute Indifferenz). One passage, hardly adequate to convey the complexity of this context, will nonetheless suf¤ce to indicate its direction: “Instead of annulling the differentiation, as was supposed, the unground much rather posits and con¤rms it” (PU 407). Thus, the move beyond the opposition of ground and existence is not such as to dissolve the opposition into an antecedent unity. The move beyond to absolute indifference does not, then, dissolve the opposition opened up in the Timaeus between no”V and ånâgkh, the opposition that Schelling reinscribes as that of existence and ground.
33. The following passage also attests, if more obliquely, to the reinscription: “As concerns the plurality of possible worlds, in¤nite possibility certainly seems to be offered by matter [Stoff ] , which is in itself unruly [ein an sich Regelloses] (such as the original movement of the ground in our explanation), that is still unformed but receptive to all forms” (PU 398). The passage is to be read against the background of Schelling’s identi¤cation, in the Timaeus-essay, of the receptacle with matter, though in this passage he uses Stoff rather than Materie. Note also that the question of a plurality of worlds is explicitly taken up in the Timaeus (31a–b).

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Rather, the move is an initiative toward thinking this opposition in a way that forestalls its recoiling destructively on that thinking, its recoiling in such a way as to produce the self-laceration and despair of reason. There are several points that are striking with respect to Schelling’s Timaeus-essay, some because of their directive presence, others because of their absence. Four may be singled out. First, there is Schelling’s remarkable effort to avoid a simple ontic interpretation of the Platonic eƒdh, an interpretation that would take them to exist in an alleged higher world. Even though today one would resist the assimilation to Kantian concepts, it is important—and perhaps instructive—to note that the referral of the eƒdh (as ideas) to the understanding (as constituting conditions of possibility) is precisely what allows Schelling to avoid an ontic interpretation. Second, there is Schelling’s recognition of the radical dimension—or better, the pre-cosmic, pre-genetic dimension—opened up through the chorology and the discourses around it. This dimension proves indeed so radical, in Schelling’s reinscription of it, as to threaten reason as such with self-laceration and despair and thus to require of it a perhaps entirely unprecedented initiative. Yet, third, it is striking that in his remarks on the third kind Schelling insistently reinscribes its name as substance, substratum, and especially matter. On the other hand, there is only the slightest mention of the name given it in what I have called, on the basis of that name, the chorology. To be sure, Schelling does cite a passage in which, counting the three kinds, Timaeus calls the third kind by the name c»ra. But Schelling’s sole pertinent comment serves in effect to forestall the disruptiveness that this name might otherwise exercise on the reinscription. The comment in fact refers to other, related words such as típoV and Édra, and only indirectly to c»ra: “These explanations are too de¤nite for one to be able to understand what is involved in them as space [Raum], as, so far as I know, most interpreters have done” (T 74). Thus, Schelling does not even come to the point of asking how, in thinking the third kind, one is to think together the two otherwise disparate senses expressed, on the one hand, by such words as substance, substratum, and matter and, on the other hand, by various designations related to space. Even less does he set about undoing, for instance, Chalcidius’ rendering of c»ra as locus, in the direction of translating c»ra back into Plato’s Greek. Finally, it is extraordinarily striking that the very thinker who declared art the organon of philosophy and who regarded poetry as that from which philosophy arose and to which ¤nally it would return could, even in this very early text, have paid such scant attention to the artistry and poetry of the Timaeus. No attention is given to the dramatic and dialogical form of the text nor to the re¶ections that the discourse exercises upon itself, as in the determination of its character as e¥kãV lígoV. Indeed,

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Schelling’s commentary skips entirely over the opening scene, the discourse by Socrates on the city, and the story that Critias tells about ancient Athens, thus omitting the entire political discourse by which Timaeus’ cosmology is framed. One can only wonder how Schelling’s interpretation of the dialogue—and his later reinscription of it—might have been transformed, had he taken to heart what only a few years later would be declared by Schleiermacher, that in the Platonic dialogues “if anywhere, form and content are inseparable and every proposition is to be rightly understood only in its place and in the connections and delimitations that Plato has assigned to it.”34 But what about the beyond of the Schellingean reinscription, this powerful appropriation that to an unprecedented degree lets what was called c»ra come again to a manifestness be¤tting its seclusion? What about the beyond of this reinscription that ventured to reconstitute something like the chorology in the midst—indeed at the very center—of modern thought and that seriously faltered perhaps only in not shaping its discourse to the retreat of the c»ra, that is, in not openly declaring itself a bastardly discourse? Whatever may lie beyond this reinscription, one could hardly imagine the way toward it not leading back through a dream of an original chorology, not the dream told of within the chorology, but a dream of a chorology told by one whose discourse would truly be¤t the c»ra, one capable of speaking in such a way as to begin at the natural beginning. Is it perhaps to such a one that the Timaeus alludes at the beginning? Is it such a one that, at the beginning, Socrates counts by not counting, this fourth who is doubly absent and whose part will have been ¤lled, insofar as possible, by Timaeus and the others?

34. Friedrich Schleiermacher, “Einleitung,” in Das Platonbild: Zehn Beiträge zum Platonverständnis, ed. Konrad Gaiser (Hildesheim: Georg Olms, 1969), 10.

168

CHOROLOGY

English Index

169

English Index
Albinus, 75 Anaximenes, 100n Aristocles, 10 Aristotle, 2, 8n, 75n38, 115, 152–153, 154n12, 158 Aristoxenus, 147 Ashbaugh, Anne Freire, 108n17 Atticus, 59n16 Augustine, 79n47 Baracchi, Claudia, 28n beauty (see ), 48, 53, 57, 59, 129 being (see ‹), 9, 47, 66, 67, 126, 134; and generation, 55, 159; and the third kind, 65, 68, 74, 98, 99 Bloom, Alan, 19n Brague, Rémi, 59n17, 78, 79n48, 81–82, 95n Brann, Eva, 22n20, 23 Burnet, John, 10 Bury, R. G., 101 causality (see ¥ ), 50, 90 Chalcidius, 2, 3, 47n; translation of
, 115, 166 Cherniss, Harold, 101–102, 104, 106n, 107n chorology (see
), 1, 3–5, 10, 11, 56, 96, 106, 107, 112–127 Cicero, 47n Claghorn, George S., 153n Cleitophon, 10 comedy, 24–29, 40, 62, 89, 130, 136–138 Cornford, Francis, 11, 22n20, 23, 41n, 66, 72n, 78n43, 81n, 92n2, 100n, 101, 115, 133n8 cosmos (see µ
), 2–4, 10, 15, 27, 30, 69; the soul of cosmos, 9, 58–74; and movement, 80–81 Crantor, 2, 65, 67, 71n, 75 Dercylidas, 10 Derrida, Jacques, 99n, 111nn21,22, 114n Descartes, René, 157 Diogenes Laertius, 147 discourse (see
): and nature, 6; and myth, 39, 44, 85; and intellect, 47–48; and the soul, 74–76; its kinds, 54–55; its elements, 94, 105; its fugitives, 35, 101– 107, 125; likely discourse, 55–57, 97, 132; bastard discourse, 124, 128, 132, 138, 153, 167 doubling: of signature, 1; of discourse, 105– 106; the duplication of being, 69, 70, 126; the duplicity of being, 113, 122 drama, 1, 149; dramatic date of dialogue, 11, 21–23 dream, 5, 10; of the
, 118–124, 127 earth, 85, 130, 139–145 Empedocles, 11, 62 erotic, the (see Å
), 38, 40, 58, 62, 86, 110; relation between sexes, 18–21, 25–27, 88, 136; its technical ordering, 20, 24– 31, 52, 63 errancy (see /), 91–93, 132– 135; of discourse, 63–65 Euclid, 61 Fichte, J. G., 156, 159 Ficino, Marsilio, 2 Fink, Eugen, 109n form, 108, 110 Gadamer, Hans Georg, 3n2 generation (see µ), 9, 37, 41, 112, 113, 119; and opinion, 48, 54; and being, 48, 159 German Idealism, 2, 154, 156 Gill, Mary Louise, 101, 103n Gulley, Norman, 102n Heidegger, Martin, 14n10, 51n4, 51n6, 154n12 Heraclitus, 100n, 118 Hesiod, 53, 85–86 Hyland, Drew A., 24n26 hypothesis, 7, 48 Iamblicus, 10, 59n16, 147 ideas (forms), 48, 161 image/imagination, 1, 38, 51, 57, 74, 92, 99, 120–122, 136, 153; and †
, 38, 51; and discourse, 55, 89, 107; of eternity, 77–82; transcendental interpretation of, 156, 159–162 intellect/intellection (see ”
): and discourse, 47–49; and †
, 98, 99, 125, 137; and the intelligible paradigm, 84, 91, 111, 113; and necessity, 93, 131, 150, 156, 161, 164, 165; and the sensible, 10,

170

English Index
power (see µ
), 51, 98, 108, 144 Proclus, 2, 6–7, 10, 14, 21–22, 27n, 30n, 31n, 32–33, 36, 40n43, 41n, 45n, 46, 47n, 59n16, 66, 133n8, 148 production (see
): of the cosmos, 3, 47, 50, 79, 84, 91, 94, 129; and
, 15–20, 24, 27–30, 40, 50, 52, 63, 91; and procreation, 15, 18–20, 26, 52, 58, 77, 78, 86, 88, 109 Ptolemy (Platonic), 10 Pythagoreanism, 11, 45, 62n, 147 reception: in drama of dialogue, 11, 12, 35, 36, 47, 56, 57; the receptacle, 98–100, 107–110, 135, 138, 151; in Postplatonic tradition, 147–154; for Kant and German Idealism, 154, 161, 162 rhetoric, 99 Rosen, Stanley, 26n Schelling, Friedrich, 2, 155–167 Schleiermacher, Friedrich, 167 sensible, the (see ƒ
), 54, 95n, 121, 123; and the intelligible, 10, 67, 76, 99n, 112, 135, 145; for Kant and German Idealism, 154–166 Simplicius, 47n Solon, 36–40, 42–44, 45n soul, the (see
): and body, 57–90; of the cosmos, 9, 58–80, 149; of the gods, 87 space, 115, 166 Taylor, A. E., 10–11, 21n, 22n21, 37, 53n10, 59n16, 65n21, 68, 69n, 92n2, 100n, 115, 133n8 Taylor, Thomas, 10, 22, 115 Thales, 36 Theaetetus, 10 Thucydides, 33–34, 40n42 Timaeus of Locri, 148 time (see

), 11, 73, 77, 84; at the same time, 18, 79–83, 94, 95; and the eternal, 47, 78–83, 95; the time before time, 82, 85, 95 traces, 35, 125–128, 136; of the
, 46, 119, 135 translation, 10, 42, 48, 49, 115–119 universe, the ( ¬ à), 44, 47, 53, 54, 88, 91, 94 Whittaker, John, 47n Witte, Bernd, 55n wonder (see µ ), 37, 38, 56 Xenocrates, 2, 65–67

67, 76, 81, 99n, 112, 119–123, 135, 144– 146; on Kantian interpretation, 154–166 Irigaray, Luce, 151 Kant, Immanuel, 154–155, 159–161, 166 Kepler, Johannes, 2 kinds (see
), 9, 15, 38, 146; the third kind, 96–98, 107–109, 113, 114, 123, 149, 161, 166 Klein, Jacob, 7 Krell, David, 138n Krings, Hermann, 162–163, 164nn31,32 Lee, Edward N., 101n10, 103n limit (see
), 6, 19, 29, 30, 47 Margel, Serge, 53n9, 68, 78nn43,44, 87n, 101n12, 128n mathematics, 2, 45, 61, 70–73 matrix/mother, 108–110, 114, 123, 126, 135, 150 matter (see «), 150–153, 158, 162–166 memory/remembrance, 12, 13, 18, 30–44, 75 metaphysics, 123, 154 Middle Platonism, 78, 79n47, 151 mimesis, 31, 89, 92, 137, 150 Mohr, Richard D., 103n myth (see µ”
), 1, 23, 36, 39, 75, 85, 134, 149 nature (see
), 6, 44–46, 94; and
, 15, 23–24, 96; and
, 17, 20, 52; and procreation, 86, 109; for German Idealism, 156, 162 necessity (see åâ), 11, 27, 46–54, 77, 88, 90, 100, 120, 135; and chance, 91–92; and intellect, 50, 93, 131, 150, 156, 161, 164, 165; and need, 139–143 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 58n13, 68 number (åµ
), 67, 81, 82, 128; and counting, 7–9, 69, 70, 98, 128 nurse (see    ), 19n, 85, 98, 100, 107, 114, 128, 150–153, 161 opinion (see /), 47–49, 76, 112 origin (see å
), 4, 36–38 paradigm (see µ): and image, 1, 38, 51, 57, 60, 74; and intellect, 58, 59, 69, 70, 89, 91, 105–108, 111, 137, 161 Philo, 78 Philolaus, 10–11, 147 place (see
), 9–10, 36, 40–43, 113, 120, 121, 127, 141–145; and
, 10, 115– 118, 152–154 Plotinus, 2, 66, 78, 151 Plutarch, 2, 52n, 65–67, 75n38, 78, 151 political, the (see
), 14, 21–27, 36, 45, 116, 117, 138–145

English Index

171

Greek Index
Italicized references indicate those passages in which the meaning of the term is determined philosophically.
åa, 56, 114n ƒ, 120, 159; ¥
, 54, 76 ¥
, 50;

   , 90 ¥
, 79, 81, 83; ¥
i, 78, 79, 81; ši, 77, 79, 81, 84 ëµa, 18, 79, 82–83, 94–95 å
â, 11, 27, 46, 50, 52, 54, 59n17, 77, 88, 90; and    , 91, 92; and
”, 93, 120, 131, 150, 156, 161, 162, 164, 165; and Å, 135; and , 140; å
aa
, 100, 118, 120 å
âµ
, 75 ê
, 129, 136, 159 å   , 18, 27n, 144, 145 åµ, 8, 67, 69, 81, 83 å, 4, 12, 37, 38, 54, 56, 62n, 67, 75, 91, 93; ê
, 18n, 19 ê   , 36, 98 ¢, 25; ¢, 25
, 9, 15, 18, 41, 75;
, 55;

, 9, 98 ô, 140
µ

, 48, 159;

, 54    ”, 46, 47 , 35, 152; åµ
, 56;
, 131. See ›
, 42, 45, 76n40 µ/µ, 16, 17, 50, 84, 87, 91, 140
/, 48, 49, 76, 112, 159
µ/
µ, 12, 42, 51, 98, 108, 144;
   , 31; å
a
, 52 É, 114n, 118, 119, 151, 166 ìµ¢
, 108, 135, 150 †/¥, 30, 76, 98, 99, 110–113, 119– 128, 134–137, 146, 151, 162, 166; roots in †/Ñ, 30, 49, 51; and remembrance, 30, 38, 39, 43;
‹ †, 65, 68; of time, 84 ¥
, 7, 51, 55, 81 É
, 67; É

, 61 ìµ, 27, 59n17, 137 ì   µ, 77, 154n12 Å
, 1, 50, 52, 138, 140 Å: and the political, 20, 26–31, 38, 40, 52; and the beautiful, 53; and the cosmos, 58, 60n, 62, 63, 86, 110, 135, 137, 138, 141 Ã
, 58, 159 µ
, 37, 38; µ, 56 , 50, 85

µ, 17, 59n17; µÆ, 142

ƒ
, 119, 127
, 27, 48, 53, 57, 129    , 23, 134 /
, 13, 14, 20, 39, 126 µ, 35, 53, 54, 81, 142; µ, 79 , 1, 14n9, 31, 35, 42, 44–52, 74, 75, 89, 98, 111–113, 119–123, 137–142, 159; and , 6, 94; and the political, 23, 25, 30; and µ”, 36–44, 85; ¥ã , 55, 57n, 97, 99, 107, 120, 128, 134, 153, 163, 166; and its fugitives, 105, 106 µ, 108; êµ
, 163 µ”, 1; and , 36–44, 85; ¥ µ”, 56, 97n, 134
µ, 46
”, 14, 15, 50, 57, 59n17, 64, 74, 77, 90– 92, 94, 95, 110, 123, 144, 149; and the intelligible paradigm, 84, 91, 111–113; and    , 91–92; and å
â, 120, 131, 150, 156, 161, 164, 165; and errancy, 131–135;
, 47, 48, 59, 113, 159;

, 59, 76, 88, 98, 110; a   ä
”
, 14, 74 ‹
, 40, 53, 54, 80–82, 85, 95 ‹, 55, 74, 141; ìè
   ô ‹, 113;    ó ª
, 98, 126, 159; Ê
Ê
, 118; †
, 126 , 27    ó à
, 53, 54, 91 µ, 51    , 52, 87 , 6, 159    , 55, 76;    , 100, 119
   /
, 31, 83, 92, 93;
µ
, 91, 93, 132, 137 /¢
, 15, 16, 47, 65, 68, 79; in relation to , 15–17, 20, 26–29; and the µ, 50–54, 58, 91, 92, 96, 105–110;    , 16, 50, 52 µ, 17, 27 , 14n9, 63, 140; and , 116–117;    , 13, 14, 20, 45n, 117, 139, 144    , 94, 105    , 91, 93, 131, 156 õµ, 57, 66n26, 144; µ   , 60    , 27n, 51
, 15, 40, 50, 63, 91, 92, 107–110, 114, 140; in relation to and , 15–17, 52, 92n1; and the political, 18, 20, 24, 26–30

172
150

Greek Index

, 98, 100, 143, 151, 152;

,    , 36, 40, 113, 141–145, 166; and ,
40–41, 60, 111n22, 115–121, 127, 150– 154    , 18;    , 19n, 85, 100, 143    , 92 «, 150–153 ›, 49, 59n, 63 ›, 12, 98, 99–100, 117, 135, 151, 152, 161 ›, 48 ›µ

, 49, 131, 150n, 151, 152
, 53, 108, 109, 140;
µ , 89, 114n, 118

, 123, 144; Åµ
, 73, 124 , 17, 142 , 6, 10, 15, 44, 86, 154n12, 156, 162; , 109; and , 6, 94; and
, 15, 92n1, 96, 110; and , 17, 20, 52, 109; and
µ, 46
, 42, 76n40
, 2, 9, 12, 89, 97, 98, 100, 111
, 73, 83 , 3, 4, 9–12, 19, 24, 43, 85, 93n3, 96,
99n, 107–115, 115–118, 119–147, 158, 162, 166, 167; and , 40–41, 60, 111n22, 115, 117–121, 127, 150–154; and «, 151–152; and ›µ

, 152–153 , 57, 67

John Sallis is Liberal Arts Professor of Philosophy at Pennsylvania State University. His previous books include Phenomenology and the Return to Beginnings; Being and Logos: Reading the Plationic Dialogues; The Gathering of Reason; Delimitations: Phenomenology and the End of Metaphysics; Spacings—Of Reason and Imagination; Echoes: After Heidegger; Crossings: Nietzsche and the Space of Tragedy; Double Truth; Stone; and Shades—Of Painting at the Limit. He is an editor of numerous books, including, most recently, Retracing the Platonic Text and Interrogating the Tradition: Hermeneutics and the History of Philosophy, and is the founding editor of Research in Phenomenology.

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{ novembre 12, 2009 @ 11:36 pm } · { physis }
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Platone ed agli altri filosofi dell’antichità greca cheavrebbero tutti
attinto – secondo la ferma convinzione del mago rinascimentale – a
quella sacrasorgente. In realtà egli risaliva semplicemente
all’ambiente pagano del Cristianesimo primitivo,a quella religione del
mondo, fortemente imbevuta di influenze magiche e orientali, che
avevacostituito la versione gnostica della filosofia greca e il rifugio
per quei pagani stanchi cheandavano in cerca di una risposta ai
problemi della vita, diversa da quella offerta dai primicristiani, loro
contemporanei.Il dio egiziano Thoth, scriba degli dei e depositario
della sapienza, era stato identificato daigreci col dio Ermete e
dotato, in alcuni casi, dell’epiteto di « tre volte grande ». I Latini
feceropropria questa identificazione di Ermete o Mercurio con Thoth e
Cicerone spiega, nel Denatura deorum, che esisterono di fatto cinque
Mercuri: l’ultimo di loro, dopo aver ucciso Argo,era stato costretto a
recarsi esule in Egitto dove « dette agli Egiziani leggi e lettere » e
assunseil nome di Theuth o Thoth. Sotto il nome di Ermete Trismegisto
si sviluppò una vastaletteratura in lingua greca […].L’importanza della
figura mitica di Ermete Trismegisto nel movimento di rinascitapp.
139-41: «Un altro appunto da fare alla Yates (affiancabile ai suoi
tanti meriti) è quello di averenon solo cancellato la filosofia
naturale di Bruno in rapporto alla scienza, ma anche di non
aversottolineato le diverse qualità della tradizione ermetica».
L’ambiguità del termine «ermetismo»nelle sue diverse accezioni è
peraltro messa in evidenza da E. McMullin, Brunus and Copernicus,in
«Isis», marzo 1987, pp. 55-74, richiamato nel citato contributo di N.
Badaloni.
——————————————————————————–
Page 6 della magia è sottolineata da un particolare cui la Yates stessa
fa riferimentodefinendola «una situazione straordinaria»: la
traduzione, in pochi mesi nel corso del1463, del Corpus Hermeticum da
parte di Ficino, su espressa volontà di Cosimo de’Medici prima che si
affrontassero i testi platonici, disponibili nella loro totalità.
Lacopia del Corpus a disposizione di Ficino, «latore un monaco, uno di
quei moltiagenti impiegati da Cosimo de’ Medici per raccogliergli
manoscritti», non era deltutto completa, poiché priva dell’ultimo dei
quindici trattati di cui era costituital’opera11. «Benché i manoscritti
platonici fossero già tutti riuniti e aspettassero solo divenire
tradotti, Cosimo ordinò a Ficino di metterli da parte e di tradurre
subito l’operadi Ermete Trismegisto prima di affrontare i filosofi
greci». Secondo supposizionedella Yates, la ragione dell’ordine
potrebbe ravvisarsi in un desiderio da parte diCosimo, vicino alla
morte (lo coglierà nel 1464, l’anno dopo l’incaricocommissionato a
Ficino) di leggere per primo Ermete: «Cosimo e Ficino sapevano daiPadri
che Ermete Trismegisto era molto più antico di Platone»12.Egli dette
alla sua traduzione il titolo di Pimander: Nel Corpus Hermeticum questo
titolo siriferiva solo al primo trattato ma egli lo applicò a tutto il
Corpus o, piuttosto, ai quattordicitrattati contenuti nel suo
manoscritto. Ficino dedicò la traduzione a Cosimo e la dedica,
oargumentum, come egli lo chiama, rivela lo stato d’animo,
l’atteggiamento di profondo timorereverenziale e di stupore con cui
egli si era avvicinato a questa meravigliosa rivelazione diantica
sapienza egiziana.In queste affermazioni della storica inglese è tutto
l’interesse verso l’opera di ErmeteTrismegisto, destinata a segnare i
futuri studi in tema di magia e a condizionareancora per lungo tempo,
ben oltre la correzione di «un errore cronologico radicale»,la storia
del pensiero13.Pur non negando l’importanza rivestita dagli studi della
Yates, se da un lato èindiscutibile l’apporto delle sue ricerche alla
ricostruzione della biografia e dellaspeculazione bruniane, dall’altro
tale rilettura non è esente da critica: si pensi al ruoloche essa
attribuisce alla scoperta copernicana nei suoi echi bruniani,
secondariorispetto all’ermetismo.Diversamente, il nesso con il copernicanesimo
è punto importante dellaspeculazione del Bruno. Su questa linea
interpretativa, si pone A. Ingegno inErmetismo e oroscopo delle
religioni nello Spaccio bruniano, qui preoccupandosi di11 La traduzione
di Ficino fu condotta su un manoscritto che si trova nella Biblioteca
MediceaLaurenziana (Laurentianus, LXXI 33 (A)), ritrovato in Macedonia
e portato a Firenze. La notiziadell’incarico di tradurre per prima
l’opera di Ermete è data dallo stesso Ficino nella dedica aLorenzo de’
Medici del commento a Plotino: qui, egli descrive l’impulso dato agli
studi grecidall’arrivo in Firenze di Gemisto Pletone e di altri dotti
bizantini, e racconta come Cosimo gliavesse affidato il compito della
traduzione.12 F.A. Yates, Giordano Bruno e la tradizione ermetica,
cit., pp. 25-27.13 Ermete Trismegisto, secondo l’interpretazione
invalsa nella tradizione e fondata suLattanzio ed Agostino, appare
quale profeta dell’avvento del Cristianesimo: ma, se Lattanziogiudica
Ermete come uno tra i maggiori veggenti pagani, il quale aveva avuto il
merito diprevedere la venuta del Figlio o Sermo perfectus (la Yates
ricorda, a questo proposito, a pagina 20,che «la Parola perfetta, o
Sermo perfectus, è una traduzione corretta del titolo greco
originaledell’Asclepius»), Agostino non gli riconosce merito alcuno a
questo proposito, derivandone laprescienza degli avvenimenti futuri
dalla venerazione da lui praticata ai demoni.
——————————————————————————–
Page 7 ricondurre il significato stesso dell’ermetismo bruniano nel suo
copernicanesimo14. Etale interpretazione è richiamata da Carlo Monti
nella Introduzione alle Opere latinedi Giordano Bruno15.La complessità
dei motivi convergenti nella cosmologia bruniana è comunque
fuoridiscussione e può trovare ulteriori conferme sia nella struttura
astrologica dello Spaccio inriferimento alla dottrina dell’oroscopo
delle religioni sia nel nesso tra religione egizia ecopernicanesimo
indicato nel De immenso, dove si pone la coincidenza tra
abbandonodell’antica cosmologia prearisotelica e il tramonto della
religione egizia, secondo la profeziadell’Asclepio. La nuova
cosmologia, infatti, si pone quale mezzo per il sorgere di un
rinnovatoconcetto di Divino simboleggiato appunto dal mutamento della
natura. L’influenzadell’ermetismo, dunque, va colta proprio in questa
nuova concezione della natura intesa comeesperienza del Divino e tale
concezione della natura è comprensibile solo alla luce di unanuova
cosmologia cui Bruno arriva, appunto, attraverso il copernicanesimo.E
non si dimentichi come qualche decennio prima della Yates fosse già il
Corsano adare nuova linfa all’indagine storiografica: soprattutto
nell’Ottocento, infatti, le operedi Bruno erano state esaminate in
maniera non disinteressata, creando e portando adesasperazione il mito
di un Bruno di matrice laica e liberale. E da qui Corsanoprocedeva, non
limitandosi tuttavia al solo dato biografico, bensì valorizzando
perprimo in modo organico le opere magiche di Bruno16. Il problema è
strettamenteintrecciato con la comprensione in chiave critica dell’evo
moderno: qui, l’attenzioneper le problematiche magica ed ermetica è
parte costitutiva di un nuovo modo diintendere ragione ed insieme
natura ed esperienza umana nell’epoca moderna. Di quila (ri-)scoperta
delle opere inedite di Bruno.Si è trattato di un lungo processo, nel
quale il libro pubblicato da Antonio Corsano nel 1940ha avuto un
rilievo decisivo per due motivi: ha sottolineato, anzitutto, la
dimensioneantiumanistica della «nova filosofia»; e ha, poi, utilizzato,
e valorizzato per la prima volta inmodo organico, le opere magiche di
Bruno, sia per ricostruirne un momento cruciale della vita,sia per
mettere in luce l’aspirazione strutturalmente pratica e «riformatrice»
del suo pensiero.[…] Ponendosi in un crocevia nel quale si intrecciano,
e si congiungono, motivi sia di ordinefilosofico sia di ordine
biografico, Corsano affronta un problema fondamentale dellastoriografia
bruniana, interrogandosi sulle ragioni che spinsero Bruno a tornare in
Italia. Ed èsu questo punto che fa agire le opere magiche: Bruno –
questa è la sua tesi – torna in Italiaavendo in mente un preciso
progetto di «riforma universale» del mondo. Tutt’altro che ungesto
improvviso, o incomprensibile, quella scelta è connessa, per la prima
volta, ad ungiudizio preciso sul proprio tempo storico, con particolare
attenzione, anzitutto, al significatofilosofico-storico del successo in
Francia di Enrico di Navarra. E, in questo quadro, è
connessal’individuazione di un ruolo specifico che Bruno avrebbe potuto
svolgere nei nuovi tempi chesi stavano schiudendo, facendosi – proprio
in virtù delle sue capacità di mago, di «vincolatore»degli animi –
«capitano» di popoli e promotore dell’universale renovatio mundi.
Alcuni14 A. Ingegno, Ermetismo e oroscopo delle religioni nello Spaccio
bruniano, « Rinascimento», 7, 1967, p. 169.15 C. Monti, Introduzione,
in Giordano Bruno, Opere latine, a cura di C. Monti, UTET,collana
Classici della Filosofia (collezione diretta da Nicola Abbagnano),
Torino, 1980, p. 62.L’edizione contiene: Il triplice minimo e la
misura; La monade, il numero e la figura; L’immensoe gli
innumerevoli.16 A. Corsano, Il pensiero di Giordano Bruno nel suo
svolgimento storico, Firenze, Sansoni,1940. L’opera è ora disponibile
per i tipi della Congedo Editore, Lecce, 2002. L’edizione cui sifarà
riferimento in seguito è quella del 1940, edita da Sansoni.
——————————————————————————–
Page 8 decenni prima della Yates, Corsano, prendendo le mosse dalle
opere magiche, risponde dunqueefficacemente ad una domanda alla quale
la storiografia dell’Ottocento, di matrice laica eliberale, non aveva
saputo dare una risposta persuasiva e convincente.E si sottolinei in
particolare quanto segue:Nel suo lavoro Corsano […] dà forte rilievo al
De magia, alle Theses de magia, al Devinculis, valorizzando il tema del
«vincolo», del «vincolare», ed osservando, acutamente, comein Bruno
«domini la preoccupazione del dominio etico-sociale, del civiliter
vincire», nellaquale individua anzi il Leitmotiv di tutte le opere
magiche. E su questo sfondo di problemimostra quale peso abbiano,
secondo Bruno, la «credulitas», la «fides», la quale appunto perquesto
è «vinculum magnum et vinculum vinculorum», cui seguono «veluti filiae»
tutte le altreforze dello spirito umano – da «quelle più alte, ‘spes,
amor, religio’ alle più torbide e irruentima anche potenti e operose
passioni». Del resto, e Corsano lo sottolinea, lo stesso Cristo
ebbebisogno della «credulitas» per ottenere miracoli. Se essa fosse
mancata, il miracolo sarebbestato impossibile: «Neque enim credibile
est nec credendum proponitur quod omnes praetercredentes etiam sanitati
restituerit».Il passo, citato dall’Introduzione di Michele Ciliberto
alle Opere Magiche, mette inparticolare risalto il contributo di
Corsano agli studi bruniani, soprattutto se lo siconsidera insieme alla
fondamentale interpretazione della Yates, la quale «trasformale opere
magiche prima tenute al margine, nella ‘chiave di volta’ di tutta
l’esperienzaumana, intellettuale e filosofica del Nolano»17.Con il suo
Giordano Bruno e la tradizione ermetica, Frances A. Yates collocadunque
il Nolano nel solco dell’ermetismo: «Giordano Bruno, come mago, aveva
unasua missione religiosa ermetica. Egli è un enfant terrible fra gli
ermetici religiosi, maè pur sempre un ermetico religioso. Se lo si
colloca in questo contesto, Bruno vieneformalmente inserito nei
movimenti del suo secolo»18.Ciò che, tuttavia, distingue in modo
evidente la visione di Corsano da quella chesarà in seguito proposta
dalla storica inglese è l’enfasi posta dal primosull’importanza della
professione (se pur non ristretta entro gli argini della
originariaformulazione matematica dei principi) copernicana, superata
nel momento stessodella sua adozione in virtù di una visione della
teoria in senso più filosofico. La Yatesè, infatti, tesa
all’affermazione della teoria di un Bruno in chiave magica, tale
darelegare gli aspetti più propriamente innovativi insiti nella teoria
copernicano-bruniana in secondo piano, quasi a cornice del quadro
magico-ermetico propugnato.Sebbene sia stata trascurata
l’importantissima circostanza del rapporto di Bruno conl’ermetismo,
alcuni studiosi italiani hanno da tempo riconosciuto che la magia
occupa un ruoloconsiderevole nel pensiero di Bruno. Il Corsano fissò la
sua attenzione su questo tema in unlibro pubblicato nel 1940 ed in
seguito osservò che dietro il pensiero magico di Bruno sipossono
rintracciare alcuni elementi di un disegno di riforma religiosa.
Sviluppando le idee delCorsano sulla magia e sulla riforma bruniane, il
Firpo ha ipotizzato una connessione fra l’una el’altra, nel senso che
Bruno ritenesse di poter realizzare la sua riforma grazie alla magia.17
M. Ciliberto, Introduzione, in Giordano Bruno, Opere Magiche, Milano,
Adelphi Edizioni,2000, pp. XIX-XXII. L’edizione, diretta da Michele
Ciliberto, è a cura di Simonetta Bassi,Elisabetta Scapparone, Nicoletta
Tirinnanzi: si tratta di una recente pubblicazione della opere atema
magico di Bruno, promossa dal Comitato Nazionale per le celebrazioni di
Giordano Brunonel quarto centenario della morte, in collaborazione con
l’Istituto Nazionale di Studi sulRinascimento.18 F. A. Yates, Giordano
Bruno e la tradizione ermetica, cit., p. 255.
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Page 9 La Yates prosegue rilevando in nota come «sia Corsano che Firpo
si occupanodell’ultimo periodo di Bruno e del suo ritorno in Italia
nelle vesti di magicoriformatore» e come a Corsano sia «sfuggito che
tutte le opere di Bruno sono pienefin dall’inizio di elementi
magici»19.Ancora, occorre porre in evidenza come l’atteggiamento della
studiosa ingleseporti con sé la conseguenza di lasciare a margine gli
aspetti copernicani e più nel vivofilosofici del pensatore, sì da
ridurre tutto il pensiero dello stesso nel recinto
dell’artemagico-cabalistica. Vera cifra della lettura del Bruno
compiuta secondo le lineeseguite dalla Yates è la radicalizzazione di
motivi ficiniani e pichiani, rispettivamentedi una rivalorizzazione e
rivalutazione moderna della magia naturalis nel primo (manon già
teorizzazione di motivi nuovi) e della cabala nel secondo. Si tratta,
infine, diuna « reductio ad magicum » della speculazione bruniana: se
da un lato essa ha ilmerito di riabilitare il Bruno nella sua identità
di mago, dall’altro ridefinisce,riducendola, l’identità del
filosofo20.Inoltre, nel lavoro della Yates non è riconosciuto ruolo
centrale alle opere a temamagico, De magia e De vinculis in genere in
primo luogo, per fare spazio aconsiderazioni svolte intorno anzitutto
alla Cena delle ceneri, allo Spaccio dellabestia trionfante, agli
Eroici furori. L’opera stessa nasce originariamente da unatraduzione
inglese alla Cena, che avrebbe poi spinto la storica inglese a studi
piùapprofonditi21.Il nuovo approccio ai testi bruniani a carattere
magico, iniziato con Corsano, è conil fondamentale lavoro della Yates
amplificato in opere non immediatamentemagiche, e per questo il motivo
è reso più forte. Tuttavia, ribadiamo come taliconsiderazioni vadano
chiarite alla luce degli esiti cui gli assunti della Yatesriteniamo
conducano.Con diretto riferimento al De vinculis in genere, il Corsano
ha dimostratol’importanza di quest’opera, insieme con il De magia, nel
chiarire i motivi cheportarono Bruno a ritornare in Italia.19 F. A.
Yates, Giordano Bruno e la tradizione ermetica, cit., p. 255, nota 84:
per ilriferimento a Corsano, si veda Il pensiero di Giordano Bruno nel
suo svolgimento storico, cit., pp.281 sgg. Con riguardo alla posizione
di Firpo, la Yates fa chiaro riferimento all’analisi da luicompiuta sui
motivi che ricondussero il Nolano in Italia: il riferimento testuale è
a Il processo diGiordano Bruno, Napoli, «Quaderni della Rivista storica
italiana», 1949, pp. 10 sgg. Nella nuovaedizione dell’opera, a cura di
Diego Quaglioni per i tipi della Salerno Editrice, vedasi il capitolo
II,Il ritorno in Italia del Bruno (Agosto 1591), pp. 9 sgg.20 Un tale
esito dell’immagine di Bruno presente alla Yates è evidenziato da M.
Ciliberto,Introduzione, in Giordano Bruno, Opere magiche, cit., p. XXI,
quale rovesciamento paradossaledell’atteggiamento che aveva
caratterizzato gli studiosi precedenti a Corsano, i quali
avevanotralasciato gli aspetti e le opere magiche, giacché «difficili
da situare nel quadro delleinterpretazioni ‘moderne’ del Nolano» quando
non addirittura «incomprensibili». A quest’ultimoproposito, basti qui
ricordare i nomi di Gentile e di Tocco, e per quest’ultimo le
considerazioniesposte nello includere le opere magiche all’interno
dell’edizione nazionale di fine Ottocento delleOpera latine cona, a
fine di completezza e non per un valore positivo ad esse
riconosciuto,ché anzi la presenza delle stesse risultava scomoda ed
imbarazzante per chi intendesse il Nolanonelle sue vesti di moderno
pensatore.21 F.A Yates, Giordano Bruno e la tradizione ermetica, cit.,
p. 6; Ead. Giordano Bruno e lacultura europea del Rinascimento,
Roma-Bari, Biblioteca Universale Laterza, 1994.
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Page 10 Attraverso di esse egli ha messo in luce come l’antico
atteggiamento strettamente teoreticodel Bruno venisse via via
sopraffatto da un crescente impulso all’azione, quasi che
finalmenteconseguita chiarificazione dei propri concetti, depositata
nei poemi francofortesi, gli imponessedi uscire dall’astratta sfera
speculativa per diffondere ed imporre la riconosciuta verità.
Ilcostante fervore didattico del Bruno segna appunto il ponte di
passaggio tra il pensiero el’azione, la teoria e la prassi. Nella
propria filosofia il Nolano era venuto riconoscendo semprepiù
distintamente un valore etico-sociale, una significazione di annunzio
evangelico e diuniversale rigenerazione; l’insegnamento diveniva
predicazione e apostolato, e la sua opera dirinnovatore della scienza –
tollerata, se non applaudita in Germania – si espandeva inun’azione di
riforma religiosa, che le Chiese protestanti mostravano di reprimere
conintransigenza non meno rigorosa di quella che lo stesso impulso
avrebbe trovato in paesecattolico. La religione che Bruno propugna è
una religione intellettualistica, naturalistica,semplificata, spoglia
di dommatismi, al fine di sgombrare il terreno da ogni appiglio
alledisquisizioni ed alle eresie; un deismo fondato sulla carità
concorde degli uomini, che più nullaha di comune con la dottrina
rivelata del cristianesimo. Risolta in questa visione etico-religiosala
sua tormentosa indagine dialettica e cosmologica, Bruno è trascinato
all’azione e concepisceil proposito di ridurre tutto il mondo ad una
religione, traendone per sé, di conseguenza,quell’autorità politica, di
cui la propria dottrina lo fa degno.Citiamo da Firpo il passo nel
quale, nel solco delle considerazioni di Corsano, egliriconosce nei
motivi che condussero il Nolano in Italia quelli propri di una
decisivasvolta filosofica, che doveva aver mosso quegli a porsi a «
capitano », passandodal campo della speculazione teoretica a quello
della pratica22.La questione è meglio chiarita alla luce della terza
denuncia di Giovanni Mocenigo,nella sua deposizione del 29 maggio
159223:Molto reverendo Padre et signor mio osservandissimo, perché la
Paternità Vostra moltoreverenda m’ha imposto ch’io vada molto ben
pensando a tutto quello che io havessi udito daGiordano Bruno, che
facesse contro la nostra fede catholica, mi son ricordato d’havergli
sentitodire, oltre le cose già scritte a Vostra Paternità molto
reverenda, che il proceder che usa adessola Chiesa, non è quello che
usavano gl’apostoli, perché quelli con le predicationi et congl’esmpi
di buona vita convertivano la gente, ma che hora chi non vuol esser
catholico, bisognache provi il castigo et la pena, perché si usa la
forza et non l’amore; che questo mondo nonpoteva durar così, perché non
v’era se non ignoranza, et niuna religione che fosse buona; che
lacattolica gli piaceva ben più delle altre, ma che questa ancora havea
bisogno di gran regole; etche non stava bene così, ma che presto presto
il mondo haverebbe veduto una riforma generaledi se stesso, perché era
impossibile che durassero tante corruttele; et che sperava gran cose su
’lre di Navara, et che però voleva afrettarsi a metter in luce le sue
opere et farsi credito perquesta via, perché, quando fosse stato tempo,
voleva esser capitano.E nel quadro della riforma ermetica delineata
dalla Yates «anche questeaffermazioni concordano perfettamente con la
dottrina esposta nello Spaccio»,essendo manifestazione della «missione
religiosa ermetica» del Bruno e del concettodelineato in Firpo di una
«connessione» tra magia e riforma religiosa in Bruno24.22 L. Firpo, Il
processo di Giordano Bruno, a cura di D. Quaglioni, cit, pp. 9-10. Si
tratta delcapitolo II, Il ritorno in Italia del Bruno (Agosto 1591),
nel quale lo storico torinese affronta la«questione preliminare» dei
motivi del ritorno in patria del filosofo, «problema di sommo
rilievo,perché quello stato d’animo iniziale ha certamente determinato
tutta la successiva condottaprocessuale del Nolano».23 Ibid., Doc. 10,
pp. 157-58.24 F. A. Yates, Giordano Bruno e la tradizione ermetica,
cit., p. 255. La Yates riferisce leparole della suvvista terza denuncia
del Mocenigo, traendole dai Documenti della vita di Giordano
——————————————————————————–
Page 11 E forse proprio un’intenzione del genere può costituire la
molla segreta dello Spaccio dellabestia trionfante: il mago opererebbe
cioè sulle immagini celesti dalle quali dipendono tutte lecose
inferiori, per far sì che la sua riforma possa attuarsi.Presentiamo
adesso alcune considerazioni svolte da Firpo, che rivestono
quiparticolare importanza25:Le pagine che precedono rappresentano un
tentativo di lettura integrale ed obbiettiva deidocumenti e le
deduzioni ultime che se ne possono trarre sembrano recare finalmente un
po’ diluce sul problema nucleare del processo bruniano: il motivo
centrale della condanna, ossia –trovando la condanna piena
giustificazione legale nell’impenitenza – il motivo della
pertinaceostinazione suprema. Tre spiegazioni sono state abbozzate e
con varie argomentazioni difese:la fedeltà indefettibile al proprio
credo filosofico; la constatazione desolata del fallimentod’ogni
aspirazione alla riforma religiosa; una frattura d’ordine
psicologico-sentimentale fatta èverso i giudici, di cupa disperazione,
di indurato orgoglio, financo di follia.[…] D’altronde, fin dai primi
interrogatori, il Bruno aveva sottolineato la propria esitazionedi
fronte al carattere «ineffabile» di quei dati della rivelazione, aveva
confessato la riluttanzadella ragione nel piegarsi al mistero, mai
s’era accinto a scalzare razionalisticamente quellepietre angolari
dell’intera religione cristiana. Certo dunque si è che la lunga
disputa, alterna dicontestazioni, di arrendevolezze e di ripulse, che
si disnoda nel corso del 1599, ebbe il suoterreno precipuo nel cuore
della filosofia bruniana, sopra le tesi dell’infinita creazione
senzatempo, dell’animazione universale e del moto terrestre. Di fronte
alle accuse disciplinari oteologiche ben noto ci è il contegno del
Bruno: negare il negabile, attenuare l’incerto, invocareil perdono per
le colpe provate; nel campo filosofico invece egli non nega né
sminuiscel’opinione che le stampe documentano, e si rifiuta altresì di
riconoscerne l’errore, cioèl’inconciliabilità nei riguardi del dogma e
della Scrittura. E’ in questo senso che a Veneziaaveva dichiarato di
«saper più degli Apostoli», e in Roma aveva negato ai Santi Padri
autoritàin materia di scienza, e si era detto preparato a chiarire
«tutti i primi theologhi del mondo, chenon sapriano rispondere»: la
verità certa e primaria, quella della prima filosofia, dovevaparergli
conciliabile con la verità rivelata, sia pure sfrondando duramente le
sovrastrutturedogmatiche, ritenute in gran parte arbitrarie.E’ in tale
direzione che si manifesta, nella fase ultima del processo romano,
l’aspirazionedel Nolano ad una radicale riforma religiosa. In questo
conato si innestano quei «rudimenti dicritica biblica», che già erano
stati acutamente rilevati nello Spaccio e che più largamentericompaiono
nei costituti, là nel tentativo di ridurre il cristianesimo a favola
morale, qui diforzare – spesso con evidente artificio – determinati
versetti, onde foggiarne sostegno alleproprie tesi naturalistiche.Qui è
la sintesi di quello che dové costituire, secondo l’analisi condotta
dal Firposulle fonti processuali, l’atteggiamento del Nolano riguardo
alle accuse che glivenivano mosse. La vicenda processuale affermò anche
la dignità della filosofiarispetto alla religione rivelata, ciascuna
delle quali si affermava «circa prima principiaindubitabilia» secondo
quanto sentenziato nella Summa terminorum metafisicorum,«con la
differenza che i principi della prima sono forniti d’immediata
certezzarazionale, quelli della seconda sono manifesti perché ci
provengono da una .Bruno, a cura di Vincenzo Spampanato, Firenze, 1933,
p. 66: i documenti raccolti inquest’edizione sono stati ristampati a
cura di G. Gentile dalla precedente pubblicazione dellostesso
Spampanato, Vita di Giordano Bruno con documenti editi e inediti,
Messina, Principato,1921 (riprod. anast. con postfazione di N. Ordine,
Gela, Roma 1988). Per la terza denucia delMocenigo si veda ora nella
nuova edizione del materiale processuale contenuta in L. Firpo,
Ilprocesso di Giordano Bruno, a cura di D. Quaglioni, cit., Doc. 10,
pp. 157-59.25 L. Firpo, Il processo di Giordano Bruno, a cura di D.
Quaglioni, cit., p. 105.
——————————————————————————–
Page 12 superiore intelligenza»26. Il contegno del Bruno nella fase
ultima del processo romanorivela quanto l’enunciazione teorica del
principio fosse seguita dalla suadimostrazione pratica di fronte agli
inquisitori, pur senza per questo giungere al puntodi «disumanare
l’eroe della vicenda per raggerarlo in una mitologia»27.Così Firpo
perviene alla sua Conclusione, dando veste critica all’immagine
delfilosofo quale si presenta nella sua pur demitizzata grandezza.
Firpo prosegue dunquedenotando28:L’atteggiamento del Bruno nel corso
del 1599 si illumina così d’una piena coerenza: nonquella monolitica
del diniego costante, ma quella umana e viva della lunga ed alterna
disputacoi giudici e più con se stesso. Non folle ostinazione, non
petulanza di grafomane si rivela nelsuo comportamento, ma volontà ferma
di non lasciarsi soffocare, ansia di farsi comprendere,parabola
dolorosa dalla speranza, allo stupore, alla disperazione. Il 25 gennaio
Giordano sipiega all’intimazione del Bellarmino, ma chiede la condanna
ex nunc e presenta un memorialea difesa: chiara è la contestazione del
valore dogmatico di alcune almeno delle proposizionicensurate: il
filosofo si sottomette docile, ma chiede in cambio riconoscimento di
coerenzaspeculativa e nega ogni preesistente definizione della materia
controversa. […] Si genera in luila persuasione di essere vittima d’una
congiura di teologi che voglion far passare per errorequello che tale
non è, o almeno mai fu definito, ed egli sente che l’opinione sua vale
la loro enon vuole accettarne la sentenza; nega perciò di aver mai
sostenuto eresie, non riferendosiinsensatamente alla massa di accuse
del processo, ma al ristretto elenco di tesi filosofichecondannate, e
rifiuta di rinnegarle non per ostinazione assoluta, ma per non
soggiacere a quelloche gli pare un sopruso; si appella con gli ultimi
memoriali al Papa, sperando che ClementeVIII possa intervenire, giudice
imparziale, in una disputa nella quale Giordano vede se stesso ei
membri del tribunale in qualità di contendenti, eguali affatto per
autorità e dignità.Lo storico torinese definisce in questo modo il
processo, giunto nella sua faseconclusiva, secondo i toni di una dotta
contesa tra l’imputato e i suoi accusatori.Secondo questa chiave di
lettura, accusa e (auto)difesa contendono l’una all’altra laragione
finale e conclusiva di un processo condotto fino al suo drammatico
epilogoattraverso affermazioni e contestazioni in tema di teologia così
dell’una comedell’altra parte.E se «nessuno vorrà negare alla Chiesa
cattolica che il processo fu condotto26 A. Corsano, Il pensiero di
Giordano Bruno nel suo svolgimento storico, cit., p. 275.27 Nel passo
appena citato, Firpo prosegue: «La prima tesi può dirsi quella
tradizionale,ricorre nel Berti e nel Tocco, trova pagine eloquenti nel
Gentile, costruisce il mito del Brunoeroico e indomabile, non più mero
difensore della teoria della doppia verità, ma assertore
dellasupremazia assoluta del vero speculativo sui dogmi delle religioni
positive, ridotte a semplicefunzione pratica e sociale. La sua
sottomissione veneziana viene spiegata così come un coerenteossequio
alla religio loci, un atto niente affatto umiliante, doveroso anzi e in
armonia con la severariprovazione del Nolano per i seminatori di
pubblico scandalo; quando poi i giudici veneti –alquanto
artificiosamente dipinti come superficiali dabbenuomini – cedettero il
posto agliinquisitori romani, al sottile Bellarmino, quando cioè
l’esteriore sottomissione meramentedisciplinare apparve insufficiente e
si volle che il Bruno subordinasse al dogma il proprio credofilosofico,
passando dal piano pratico al piano speculativo Giordano si sarebbe
mostratoinflessibile, senza un attimo di esitazione o di debolezza,
fino alla morte. V’è in questa tesi, comevedremo, tanta parte viva di
verità quanto basta ad assicurare da tutti gli antichi e nuovi
detrattorila grandezza del Bruno, ma v’è anche un semplicismo, una
tendenza a ridurre a moduli elementarie puramente razionali un
comportamento certo complesso e intessuto di molteplici motivi,
adisumanare l’eroe della vicenda per raggelarlo in una mitologia».28
Ibid., pp. 110-11.
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Page 13 secondo il rispetto della più stretta legalità, senza acredine
preconcetta, semmai conaccenni di tollerante comprensione per
l’eccezionale personalità dell’inquisito»,ciononostante «per quanti
ritengono invece arbitrario e violento, nel regno dellospirito, ogni
atto di autorità, e nella libera ricerca riconoscono la più
genuinavocazione umana, Bruno rimane la vittima di un’intolleranza, la
cui giustificazionenon va oltre il piano storico, l’assertore non già
di opinioni filosofiche contingenti,ma del diritto dell’uomo di credere
a ciò che pensa, non di pensare per forza quellocui altri vuol ch’egli
creda».Firpo, ciò premesso, può quindi concludere29:Giordano e i suoi
giudici restano così personificazioni di due mondi antitetici,
radicalmenteinconciliabili oggi come allora. Agli uomini dell’una e
dell’altra schiera soltanto si puòchiedere che le rissose contumelie
degli orecchianti, il loro sconsigliato zelo, non turbino queldibattito
che ancora continua, dopo la sentenza ed il rogo, dovunque autorità e
libertà sicontrappongono, in dialettica perenne, nella storia
dell’uomo.Il problema filosofico ed insieme religioso del contrasto e
dell’affermazione di unaverità sull’altra nel contesto di questo
momento storico era, nel momento in cui Firpodiede inizio alla sua
opera, già chiaramente scolpito in Corsano30:Da quando nel 1868 videro
la luce integralmente i documenti del processo veneziano, ilproblema
dell’atteggiamento del Bruno di fronte ai giudici veneti, prima, romani
dopo, èdivenuto uno dei più appassionanti della storiografia moderna.
Né si tratta delle sole difficoltàcausate dall’ancora insufficiente
documentazione del processo romano, le cui lacune è ormaivano sperare
che possano mai esser colmate, date le peripezie sofferte dall’archivio
del SantoUffizio nel periodo rivoluzionario e napoleonico. Ma persino
di fronte alla perfettadocumentazione del processo veneto sorsero e
perdurarono dissensi di estrema gravità:basterebbe citarne uno solo,
quello della impostazione dei rapporti fra filosofia e teologia.Intese
il Bruno di considerare le due verità eterogenee, e ciascuno a suo modo
perfetta, epperòincapaci di venire in conflitto e di richiedere alcun
rapporto di subordinazione e sacrificiodell’una all’altra, oppure
riconobbe una superiorità dell’una sull’altra? In questo caso,
qualedelle due considerò superiore.La questione qui accennata necessita
di un approfondimento, poiché è evidentel’indispensabile ricorso alle
opere, soprattutto considerando la pressoché totaleimpossibilità di
chiarire il problema con ulteriori ritrovamenti di carte processuali.
Esolo a tal fine risulta possibile affrontare in modo proficuo i motivi
insiti nellaspeculazione del Bruno: così invertendo l’azione compiuta
da Firpo, e quindileggendo l’opera del Nolano attraverso la fonte
processuale, quale momento diaffermazione compiuta del pensiero.Corsano
analizza il ritorno in Italia del Bruno, rinvenendone la causa nel
passaggioda quegli compiuto dalla teoria speculativa all’azione
pratica, riferendo dai documentiprocessuali l’affermazione «che sa più
degli Apostoli, che gli bastava l’animo di far,se avesse voluto che
tutto il mondo sarebbe stato d’una religione»31.29 Ibid., pp. 112-15.
Si vedano anche le considerazioni svolte in D. Quaglioni, Il Bruno
diLuigi Firpo, cit., pp. 45-46, già esaminate in nota 4
dell’introduzione, nelle quali si cita il passo inquestione.30 A.
Corsano, Il pensiero di Giordano Bruno nel suo svolgimento storico,
cit., pp. 275-76.31 L. Firpo, Il processo di Giordano bruno, a cura di
D. Quaglioni, cit., Doc. 8, pp. 152-54:l’affermazione è estratta dalla
deposizione del libraio Giacomo Brictano del 26 maggio 1592, nel
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Page 14 Ma ci sarebbe ancora da spiegarsi quel voler sapere «più che
non sapevano gli Apostoli»:che il Bruno volesse gareggiare in iscienza
e dottrina con i semplici discepoli di Gesù, non parnemmeno da
discutere: egli li avrebbe messi senza esitazione tra i sapienti di
virtù asinina,ricettandoli di una perfezione tutta passivamente
ricevuta, non attivamente ricercata eposseduta. E allora, per risolvere
ogni incertezza, non resta che ricorrere a un altro documentodi assai
più diffusa e minuziosa ampiezza, che è la denunzia del Mocenigo.Pur
definendo la fonte «assai sospetta», per la mediocrità e
meschinitàdell’accusatore, Corsano prosegue affermando:Tuttavia il
documento potrebbe valere assai più della fonte: tanto più che, fuor di
ogniindizio di natura psicologica, epperò troppo vago e congetturale,
si è gia avuto il modo disaggiarne la veridicità col confronto di altre
testimonianze: ciò fece il Tocco, trovanocoincidenze con i colloqui col
Cotin, nel mentre lo Spampanato ha rilevato che quasi tutte leaccuse
elencate nelle famosa lettera dello Scioppio sono quelle stesse che si
incontrano nelladenunzia. Un terzo procedimento di verificazione
potrebbe essere, a mio parere, il raffrontocon le opere inedite,
l’ultima testimonianza autentica del pensiero del Bruno.Tra queste,
tolti i De rerum principiis, che possono considerarsi una
concentrazione supeculiari problemi di fisica della dottrina generale
condotta a maturità nel De immenso, e laMedicina lulliana, che
dichiaratamente non intende esser altro che una compilazione,
meritanosoprattutto attenzione il De magia e il De vinculis.Si entra
ora nel vivo dell’analisi dei motivi profondi della magia sociale del
Bruno,così come asserita nelle due opere appena ricordate, e con
particolare riferimento allaseconda.Ora, ciò che colpisce più in queste
opere, che sappiamo essere dettate frettolosamente alBesler fra
Francoforte, Zurigo e Padova, come se il Bruno fosse incalzato da un
bisognoimperioso verso una impresa ormai indifferibile32, è il
prevalere dell’aspetto prammatico eantropologico, così singolarmente in
contrasto con la ispirazione pancosmica che abbiamovisto trionfare nel
De immenso.Corsano prosegue richiamando la definizione del mago, che
qui citiamo per interodal De magia, dove Bruno pone la necessità di
isolare semanticamente l’oggetto didiscussione ed attribuirgli il
giusto significato33:Antequam de magia, sicut antequam de quocunque
subiecto disseratur, nomen in suasignificata est dividendum; totidem
autem sunt significata magiae quot et magi.Magus I [primum] sumitur pro
sapiente, cuiusmodi erant trismegisti apud Aegyptios,druidae apud
Gallos, gymnosophistae apud Indos, cabalistae apud Hebraeos, magi apud
Persas,qui a Zoroastre, sophi apud Graecos, sapientes apud
latinos.Bruno apre il trattato passando in rassegna i diversi significati
assunti dal terminemagia, e delle caratteristiche che connotano
ciascuna delle tipologie elencate. Ad esseva aggiunta un’ultima
definizione, per la quale Bruno avverte:corso della fase veneta del
processo al Bruno.32 Qui Corsano evoca la Prefazione degli editori
Tocco e Vitelli al vol. III delle Opeare latinecona, contenente le
opere inedite, p. XXIV.33 Per i passi citati dal De magia di Bruno,
l’edizione di riferimento è Giordano Bruno, Operemagiche, cit., pp. 158
sgg.
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Page 15 Ultimo sumitur magus et magia iuxta significationem indignam,
ut inter istas nonannumeretur neque ad numerata habeatur, ut magus sit
maleficus utcunque stultus, qui excommercio cum cacodaemone et pacto
quodam pro facultate ad laedendum vel iuvandum estinformatus; et iuxta
hanc rationem sonat non apud sapientem, vel ipsos quidem
grammaticos,sed a quibusdam usurpatur nomen magi bardocucullis, qualis
fuit ille fecit librum De malleomaleficarum, et ita hodie usurpatur ab
omnibus huius generis oribus, ut legere licet apudpostillas,
catechismos ignorantum et somniantium praesbyterorum.Dalla sua rassegna
Bruno esclude, respingendola, la concezione in chiave negativadei
termini mago e magia, secondo la quale mago sarebbe anche colui che
intesserapporti o alleanze con demoni malvagi, così acquisendo la
facoltà di provocare ildanno o dare il giovamento. Abusato da scrittori
di bassa lega, i termini si richiamanonon presso i sapienti né dai
grammatici, ma «apud postillas, catechismos ignorantumet somniantium
praesbyterorum».Nomen ergo magi quando usurpatur, aut cum
distinctiontione est capiendum antequamdefiniatur, aut si absolute
sumitur, tunc iuxta praeceptum logicorum et specialiter Aristotelis inV
Topicorum pro potissimo et nobilissimo significatu est capiendum.E’ la
conclusione, l’ammonimento finale, dove Bruno considera come il
nomemago debba assumersi, ancor prima di definirlo, tenendo presenti le
sue varieaccezioni, «aut si absolute sumitur» nel suo senso eminente e
principale.A philosophis ut sumitur inter philosophos, tum magus
significat hominem sapientem cumvirtute agendi.Corsano approfondisce
l’analisi intorno al De vinculis in genere, considerando orada vicino
l’arte dell’avvincere, ed inserendola all’interno di considerazioni
critichesulla speculazione bruniana che, nel suo ultimo tratto, si fa
pratica anelando adattuarsi in chiave civile34.E nel cenno introduttivo
al De vinculis in genere, per il possesso di quest’artedell’avvincere,
senza di cui non si è medico, non indovino, non uomo d’azione, non
amante,non filosofo, se si richiede una conoscenza universale delle
cose («rerum quodammodouniversalem rationem») si è per la conoscenza e
per il dominio compiuto dell’uomo, «quiepilogus quidam omnium est»; e
si dichiara insistentemente essere quest’arte inalienabiledall’azione
sociale, come strumento infallibile per operare sugli uomini e piegarli
ai propri fini,e cogliere tutti i processi di reciproca attrazione e
seduzione che operano sulla natura umana:sia che abbiano origine
psicofisica da istinti e bisogni di sensuale dilettazione, sia che
neabbiano una più schiettamente psichica e culturale, derivante da
opinioni e convenzioni che, sestabilite, acquistano carattere di
naturale fissità; sia che vengano infine da
un’affascinatrice,persuasiva potenza di numeri e costrutti, quale
esercita la bene ornata parola dell’oratore.[…] Ma qui importa
soprattutto segnalare come vi domini la preoccupazione del
dominioetico-sociale, del «civiliter vincire», che ritorna quasi ad
ogni passo dell’opera, e si determinacon maggiore vigore
nell’ammonimento che cotesto risultato non si possa conseguire se non
sidistingua bene la diversità dei temperamenti su cui si opera
(«diversitatem compositionum etcomplexionum»), e non si sappia che
altro è condursi con gli uomini di alta eroica natura, altrocon i
comuni, altro con i più rozzi e brutali.Si potrebbe dunque pensare che
il Bruno s’illudesse di poter fare accettare quella suareligione della
pura filantropia agli uomini tutti, quando gli avviene così spesso di
mettere fra i34 A. Corsano, Il pensiero di Giordano Bruno nel suo
svolgimento storico, cit., pp. 278-83.
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Page 16 fondamenti della sua etica la filautia, col riconoscimento
della quasi inestirpabile dedizionedell’uomo all’amor di sé,
all’egoismo caparbio e inflessibile, ma a suo modo
perfettamentenaturale, quindi razionale?La risposta ce la danno le Tesi
sulla magia: in cui fra le condizioni fondamentali dell’azionemagica,
pel dominio della universale natura dell’uomo e per l’uomo, è posta la
fede,onnipotente operatrice di miracoli […]dichiarata «vinculum magnum
et vinculumvinculorum», cu seguono «veluti filiae», tutte le forze più
poderose dello spirito umano, daquelle più alte, «spes, amor, religio»,
alle più torbide e irruenti ma anche potenti e operosepassioni; e la
scienza non men che l’ignoranza, causatrice di prava disposizione
all’agire.E si sottolinei con decisione il legame delle precedenti
considerazioni con lareciprocità del vincolo, che qui si va componendo,
secondo l’interpretazione diCorsano, nell’indagine del Bruno35.Così era
anche naturalmente segnato il passaggio al De vinculis, potendosi ben
considerarela fede come il modello più perfetto di quel vincolo che
connette con uguale potenza diobligatio il vinciens e il vincibile, il
soggetto attivo operante e il passivo credente. Poiché qui ilBruno
raggiunge la più alta consapevolezza di quello che aveva già avvertito
nei termini piùapertamente naturalistici delle opere precedenti: non
potersi far credere senza credere, poiché“non est possibile vincire
quenquam sibi, cui vinciens ipsum non siet etiam obligatus”, poichéper
operosa e dominatrice che sia la condizione del vinciens, in quanto
vinculis dominans e taleda essere affetto solo per una sua peculiare
maniera, non può essere che egli si sottraggaall’intima legge della
reciprocità del vincolo senza cadere nella impotenza: come non
puòessere veramente amato chi non ami, come non c’è retore che persuada
senza essere persuaso.La concezione della magia in chiave civile
conduce il Nolano ad un atteggiamentoche interpreta quindi il vincolo
inserendolo nel contesto sociale.Se «l’impianto teorico della
concezione bruniana della magia poggia su dueprincipi semplici: 1) la
continuità scalare del reale o scala degli esseri; 2)l’onnipervadenza
dell’anima del mondo o spirito universale», le cautele con le qualisono
poste le distinzioni in tema di concezioni della magia, secondo la
prospettivaadottata in apertura del De magia, precedono le
considerazioni svolte sul tema delciviliter vincire36.Bruno, dunque,
afferma la dignità della magia liberandola dalla critica negativafrutto
di certi autori, svolgendo poi in maniera lucida le proprie
considerazioni sulla35 Ibid.36 A. Biondi, Introduzione, in Giordano
Bruno, De magia, De vinculis in genere, a cura di A.Biondi, Pordenone,
Biblioteca dell’Immagine, 1986, pp. IX-XIX. Il curatore
dell’edizioneprosegue affermando: «La scala degli esseri è simbolo
tradizionale della continuità del reale […]:Bruno la delinea in
ripetute occasioni, e da diversi punti di vista, articolandola
variamente,moltiplicandone I passaggi o gradi o livelli. Essa è il
tramite o la sede di un processo antitetico didiscesa/ascesa che
esprime il movimento delle forme nello spazio infinito e nel tempo
infinito. Idislivelli di realtà sono il presupposto della dottrina
degli ‘influssi’ e dei ‘vincoli’: “principio dellamagia è considerare
l’ordine degli influssi o scala degli enti: che è lo strumento per cui,
comesappiamo, Dio agisce sugli dei, gli dei sugli astri, gli astri sui
demoni, i demoni sugli elementi, glielementi sui composti”. Ad ogni
livello di questa scala si identifica una realtà superio

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Pagina 4

4libero, se Parla di Dio principio in questione. Secondo Kant, ad esempioDiscorso – D.I. il discorso di classico e moderno Razionale metafisicain particolare (Cartesio, Spinoza, Leibniz) — rispetto a Riconoscimento vocale override.Questo è un altro: la critica filologica della Bibbia che viene in particolare nelTeologia protestante e gestito insegnato agli studenti di Tübingenviene retrocesso al Vecchio come Nuovo Testamento in maniera radicale:Rivelazione E non potrebbe essere maggiore.Così come e da ciò che è giusto ancora una Absolute a parlarepossibile? Come su una nota è molto giovane Schelling. E un primoRisposta alla domanda del perché un tale discorso è quello di servire l’Assoluto, chesecondo (in aggiunta a Libertà) Quote formula Pathos dei giovani Tübingen: hen kai pan(One and All) — ci deve essere una unità delle separazioni eLacerazioni di vita, una unità nella natura e spirito, l’intuizione eL’intelligenza, la comprensione e la ragione, interni ed esterni, la conoscenza e la fede insieme. MenkommenChe tale unità in termini politici e sociali è necessario, è SchellingPer inciso, più tardi, nel suo periodo di Monaco di Baviera, nella grande, non da ultimo per laRe Interventi diretti mettere in chiaro: E ‘media di unità e didovrebbe rappresentare.La rivendicazione di Unità segna l’Illuminismo per il nuovoPensate a 1800. Per le chiamate della propria esperienza di unità. Il Amoretra Schelling e Caroline ha una tale esperienza. Come se concepitoè a Dresda nel 1798 l’esperienza della bellezza: il Arte e Natura.Goethe tiene la mano sulla protezione agli occhi di alcuni scandalosaAmore. Si tratta di un grande testo, e sia visto in questo modo. Nel 1809 si interruppe.Triple determinato Schelling nel suo pensiero iniziale: In primo luogo, comeGeschichtsdenken. E subito in modalità duale diDissertazioni. Progetta il filosofiche uno con l’uscita dalla natura

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Pagina 5

5incipiente Storia della ragioneLo scorrimento secondo giorno in un ambiente naturale d’oro,e porterà l’età della ragione e della libertà, della riconciliazione, aprendo così lateologica Tesi, il più oscuro e dominato manichea pensieroil GnosticismoChe la redenzione di un fallito o di cadutaLa creazione di Demiurgo speranze l’ignoto, venendo a Dio.D’altra parte è determinato il pensiero di Schelling con lo stanziamento di Platone, ilDialoghi Timeo e Filebo, Schelling, il segno si legge in kantianae commentato – un grande momento di parlare della filosofia moderna. Qui sollevaSchelling, il primo e all-view importanti del Natura in dettaglionel suo complesso. Con Platone, egli li vede come “grandi animali”, come Organisme La vita, animato è in piante, animali ed esseri umani e di un totale: 1798Schelling “Da l’anima del mondo – una ipotesi per spiegare la fisica superioreil corpo generale ” scrivere. Questo lavoro lo porta dal GoetheFavore e il professore a Jena 1798. Organismo vivente ed è unoLato della natura, l’altra, e più iniziale Lato, e che molto menoenfaticamente, con Sostanza conosciuto. Platone, per una più matematicamenteil pensiero dello spazio e del concetto di tempo (Heisenberg e von Weizsackerevidenziato). Il 18, Newton e Leibniz si sono impegnati, Centurylavorare con il concetto di Potere o al plurale Le forze vale a dire, quellidi attrazione e repulsione, attrazione e di espansione. Questa volta èKant, nella vista: Attraverso le forze di cui sopra pensa la costituzione diLa materia, ma alla fine rimane indeciso tra un atomica e unContinuum fisica. E Kant è indeciso in termini di organiciNatura: La conoscenza della vita, questo è il fatti di un causa suiSpinoziano detto, è sempre “come se”. Con una vista incredibilmente precisaSchelling riconosce i più giovani, quasi platonica formazione che, con Sostanzae Organism Limiti del pensiero di Kant sono identificati. Da questoView è la filosofia della natura di Schelling loro sistematica punto di partenzaprendere. Egli riconosce la realtà della natura, che è, e quindi la realtà didella storia che dovrebbe essere, in quanto la realtà di Idea o Ragione.Tale punto di vista crea l’ hen kai pan un modo nuovo: come una – come sempre

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Page 6

6il pensiero – la coerenza tra soggetto e oggetto.La funzione di terza, abbiamo bisogno di qualcosa di più vicino ad indagare. Si tratta dellaFondamento della conoscenza e della scienza da Kant, il SchellingSuoi primi scritti direttamente collegati. “Kant ha dato i risultatiOra, è importante per trovare i locali “, dice il suo motto. IlRisultati – Questa è la rivoluzione copernicana, da Kant in 2 Edizione di”Critica della ragion pura” (1787), dice, vale a dire, dopo l’esperienzaConcetti da affrontare “, perché l’esperienza è di per sé un tipo di conoscenza cheComprensione richiede, che io di solito dentro di me, prima di dare a me gli articolideve essere assunto, quindi, a priori, che in termini di escludere a priori,è espressa secondo la quale, pertanto, tutti gli oggetti di esperienza necessariaaffrontate e devono essere conformi con loro “(XVII B f.).Kant si muove – questo è il epocale contro Cartesio, Leibniz, Spinoza (laDio, cercando di garantire la conoscenza), anche rispetto allo scetticismo di Humee l’idealismo di Berkeley (tutto ciò che è mera immaginazione) – Kant, quindi, spostato ilCondizioni di garanzia delle conoscenze in Soggetto. Più precisamente, nel Mente ele sue disposizioni. Da loro, le forme della cognizione e della conoscenzasens. Noi non vogliamo continuare ad esercitare la loro, la differenza di circaanalitici e sintetici della conoscenza. Ciò che conta è che solo le formesono, il plurale è importante. Fichte e Schelling, in contrasto, uno Prototypedella conoscenza, come dice Schelling, dalle determinazioni del empirica Ver –rivolta devono essere ottenuti per giustificarle. Il prototipo prevede l’Dar presupposto richiesto.Fichte, Schelling, e pensano che la figura del assoluto ego uno insenso letterale della parola tedesca incondizionata Io non – in modo empirico, maA causa della io empirico. Qui sono solo le basi occorre ricordare:In primo luogo, la assoluto ego è una figura di pensiero. Ma nella misura in cui il pensiero, piùfilosofico, consente di iniziare qui, ma è allo stesso tempo molto più di unaFIG dire. Un Absolute viene anche con essa in vista filosofico

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Pagina 7

7e che dire, l’irrequietezza della condotta di altri.In secondo luogo, la derivazione o lo sviluppo delle disposizioni del empiricaI (la comprensione) ha indetto una SfondoA ricostruirli. “Che cosaSono stato prima di venire a conoscenza? ” – Questo è questione fondamentale di Schellingcon la quale aveva già adottato fin dall’inizio, da Fichte.In terzo luogo, come il passaggio dalla preistoria dell’io alla suaa pensare di esistenza empirica nella storia “reale”? Niente affatto, èSchelling ha detto. Perché se si pensa che saranno in appresso. In questo mondo diCoscienza, si arriva attraverso un atto inspiegabile appunto – l’attouna volontà semplice, un immemorabile ineludibile, Libertà.”La volontà è primordiale” – Schelling, 1809 e dirà in una costellazione diversal’idea di registrare. Nel 1795 ha chiamato l’alfa e l’omega della filosofia della libertà:”L’essenza del sé è la libertà.” L’anno che ci lascia ancora una volta la vista. RespingonoNel novembre del 1795, Schelling ha superato tutti gli esami. Egli è – questa è laDestino del talento il suo tempo – Hofmeister e così è venuta – non comesperato in Inghilterra o in Francia – ma almeno a Lipsia, dove il suoUndici stanno studiando. Durante il viaggio, il Schelling i suoi genitori in moltibellissime lettere e relazioni è quello di andare in qualsiasi ulteriore, purtroppo. Fine di aprileNel 1796 arriva a Lipsia, ha scritto durante il viaggio ed è diora scrivere di più e leggere.E ‘una mole di lavoro incredibile: Sotto il titolo Descrizione generale del neo –la maggior parte della letteratura filosofica ” 1797/98 apparirà in una serie di saggiun argomento con la ricezione della filosofia kantiana, e qui fissaSchelling, come si trattasse di una piscina separata di pensiero. 1797 pubblicato “Ideeuna filosofia della natura “. 1798 pubblicato “Dal mondo-soul – AIpotesi per spiegare la fisica del corpo di istruzione superiore “. ConEntrambi i lavori, ha fondato la moderna filosofia naturale di Schelling. Essi

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Pagina 8

8sviluppato in vista di Platone e Kant, la natura come un processo dinamico,come una scaletta, che continuamente dal materiale a spirituale, egli –tratti. Che è stato costituito da parte delle forze Sostanza e come auto –nascente Organism rappresentano i concetti di base (e ancheI problemi di base), la filosofia della natura che questa – la natura – come sempreNatura naturans e quando Natura naturata, come un processo di vita e di come la fissazioneProdotto concepisce.Le due opere: The Idee del 1797, la “Mondo Soul” del 1798, chenel 1799, la “Prima bozza di un sistema di filosofia naturale” associato èattesa, tuttavia, e non da ultimo anche stabilire la scienza dei loro tempi:Ragioni di Lavoisier per la chimica di ossigeno, cioè l’impotenza dimetafisica elementi della dottrina che la scoperta di energia elettrica di origine animale, laFotosintesi, — Disposizioni delle funzioni vitali di riproduzione,Irritabilità (: Muscoli) (sensibilità: Nervi).1798 – L’ “Mondo Soul” era appena stato pubblicato – ha Schelling, per inciso, laProspettiva di un lavoro come chimico in Amburgo. Noi non possiamo immaginare cosa fattaLa chimica e la filosofia sarebbe stato se non fosse per il ricorso Goetheprofessore straordinario di filosofia presso l’Università di Jena previstoavrebbe.Il 5 Schelling, di Goethe, nel mese di luglio ha ricevuto una copia della citazione della sua vocazioneinviato. Il professore è stato corrisposto, per inciso, ma ha inciso per nulla. ASchelling deve ascoltatori in grande quantità, in modo che il denaro ascoltatorivenuto per le entrate provenienti da attività letteraria.III.Tra il chiamante e la prima lezione di Jena (29 ottobre 1789) sono grandi e così bene in una settimana non ricorrenti felicità. Schellingè libero dal peso del bambino prodigio, libero dall’onere di provaredovere. Ha trovato uno stand nella vita, e lui non è solo. Egli è

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Pagina 9

9Augus insieme con i fratelli William e Federico Schlegel, in cuiteoria esprime il romanzo, insieme con le loro mogli, Caroline eDorotea, con Novalis, con ghiaia, il traduttore, con Tieck, il cui fratello, abbiamouna delle prime immagini grazie Schelling. Erano, sotto la Schlliers occhiGoethe e conquistare a Dresda e dintorni Arte e Natura. Nella galleria si veda Schelling imparare a conversare con gli amici. VedeMantegna, Botticelli, poi Giorgione, Tiziano, Raffaello e soprattutto Correggio.Correggio è – come dirà poco dopo – “è il pittore dei pittori”, “in luii veri principi della pittura, molto romantico. ” Disegno eColore, forma e materia, concordano in chiaroscuro: “La tonalitàè la parte davvero magica della pittura, dal disegno di legge per il più altounità. [...] L’arte del chiaroscuro è anche diventato possibileImmagini rendono del tutto indipendente, che è la fonte di luce dentro di sédi mettere come in quella celebre dipinto di Correggio, dove un immortaleLuce, a partire con il bambino, la notte oscura della mistica e misteriosalit. Formulazione di Schelling: “le immagini intero fare un’attività in proprio “è ilfondamentale: essa sottolinea l’autonomia del quadro come opera d’arte, e inquella descritta dal chiaroscuro di autonomia mostra l’immagineOpera d’arte come una realtà, la presenza di un assoluto.Schelling prende nel 1807 il famoso discorso “Circa il rapporto del visivoCultura & Natura”Ancora una volta in una posizione molto diversa sulla questione. InVista di Guido Reni “Assunzione”" Che nel grande collezioneil nostro re è predisposta per l’ammirazione generale “, dice Schelling:”Non c’è sostanza, vi è una forza della natura con una pronunciata verso l’esterno” (ibid.).L’opera d’arte è deciso di per sé, dimostra In-the-Beschloss.”Una delle intuizioni più profondi e di vasta portata della filosofia di SchellingArte sta nel riconoscere che l’arte è come indipendente esignifica di per sé mondo perfetto, in quanto è la natura “(Hans Jantzen, 281).

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10Natura – che è l’Elba, il fiume tra i boschi, colline, anchecastelli occupate rive. La natura è luce e scuro: Naturalmente conNovalis nel lato oscuro, la miniera Freyberger sotterranea o grotta,Mio.1800 Schelling si trova su un alto. Dal tardo pomeriggio in eccessoCode di studenti, come colonne di formiche per le strade di JenaUniversità di ascoltare Schelling (come Gotthilf Schubert nelle sue memoriescrive). Schelling era una star accademico, trascende non solo di Jena, eè senza rivali. Nella primavera del Schelling sembra “Sistema di trascendedental idealismo “. Il testo, in questo anno si è in due volumi, inStorico-edizione critica del Bavarian Academy of Sciences, ha –sembra, è uno dei grandi testi della filosofia. Schelling portaqui interpretato i fili insieme dal 1794, ha progettato un intero, solo unSystem, che aiuta.”La natura si dice che sia lo spirito visibile, lo spirito della natura invisibile. QuiCosì, l’identità assoluta dello spirito in noi e la natura salvo DobbiamoIl problema, come una naturale possibile, senza di noi Seye, “Resolve, avevaSchelling ha scritto nel 1797. 1800 riesce nella presentazione: Trascendentale–e la filosofia naturale sono come due facce della stessa moneta. Ma proprio questaEspressione indica abbastanza problematica, anche in anticipo: uno AbsoluteIdentità.Quello Sistema rilasci di 1800, la coscienza, io empirico nella storiaQuestione inizi (Schelling). Questo è Storia di libertà e non soloReality di libertà. Una tale realtà sarebbe quella di Dio, ma:”Se lo fosse, non avremmo”. La storia si sta sforzando di approccio, ma sempree ricadute, il coinvolgimento in mezzo alla natura e certamente con uno di Schellingfrequentemente utilizzato l’espressione “Frammentario. Il Arte Tuttavia, con la loro rappresentazione, il “sistema” comprende, console: è – conle parole del Ranke più giovani — direttamente a Dio. In Arte venire

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11Libertà e necessità decidono di riconciliarsi con il loro spirito e la natura. InLa natura umana aveva aperto gli occhi, così avvenne la separazione. IlAugenaufschlag nuova arte risale – in una superiore unità. IlLa filosofia, tuttavia, è proprio testo di Schelling, “non ha raggiunto la più altaMa si porta fino a questo punto solo, come un frammento di esseri umani.Arte porta tutta la persona [...]. “Al culmine della mostraGerme di ombreggiatura:”L’uomo è un frammento di eterno” in cui la natura e la libertàfall apart ed entrambi vogliono essere.Modo di Schelling a Monaco di BavieraIVL’anno fino al 1806, quando Schelling presso l’Accademia delle Scienze Beyer(Badw) è presa, sono pieni di inquietudine. Amicizie break,con abete rosso, sia qui che in materia, nonché in personale. Schelling fasolo troppo rapidamente in arrogante e arrabbiato critiche polemiche, le richiesteSeguaci, è nelle sue imprese, alle quali la filosofia naturaleLa medicina è ispirato, e pubblicazioni, senza linea chiara.Ben diversa è in Hegel, che è un movimento continuo. 1801 èa Jena, e lui e Schelling al “Critical Journal of Philosophy”problema, un ottimo esempio di un lavoro comune filosofica 1802 / 3. Inpochi anni sarà anche venuto qui per l’alienazione.Ma il lato oscuro non dovrebbe essere eccessivamente enfatizzata. Perché, naturalmente, ci sono anchegrandi amicizie, con Steffens, con il Cavaliere, con Baader (quindi anche unMonaco di Baviera). Goethe non dimenticare! per non parlare dell’amore diCaroline – 1803, sia il padre di fiducia Murrhardt, dopo di GoetheAiutare il divorzio è stato infine il successo. Il pubblico scandalo è che

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12la morte di Auguste, figlia di Caroline, ha scaldato nell’estate del 1800, auna fine.La prevista a Napoli corso di Luna di miele finita già a Monaco di Baviera –affatto infelice: dopo – di lunghezza e Zentner e Thurheimfilettati – Incontro con Montgelas fu Schelling presso l’Università diWurzburg nominato, e che – è stato a metà settembre 1803 – per l’immediataÈ entrato in carica. Le province Franchi di Bamberga e Würzburg erano inAnni, è sceso in Baviera, e uno – vale a dire Elettore Max e Montgelas – avevaentkirchlichten rapidamente la decisione di uno Landshut seconda aggiunta “”Università preparati (era) quasi fino a una nuova fondazione dell’Università;anche voluto fare concorrenza Jena (l’università, i suoi studentiha rappresentato un fattore di particolare importanza economica).Tutto ciò è stato di grado anche reintrodurre Schelling. Zentner e Thurheim avevaacquistato, tuttavia, ulteriori professori Jena, come l’istruzionePaul teologi, Schelling, dal momento che “Ore Kindergarten” si intende fino alla mortefatto la guerra. Misura Wurzburg non significa necessariamente rilievo, in particolareSchelling – accorcia ha detto – “Alleinheitsphilosophie” sempre più sotto il fuocouno ricostruzione pensiero cristiano, così come laici religiosità cattolica.Schelling è stato, come rilevato Tilliette sfuggire alla Cariddi di Jena, a firmare inla Scilla di Wurzburg recuperare.Wurzburg andò con la sua università nel 1805 e la fine del l’arciduca Ferdinando diAsburgo-Toscana. Lo Stato bavarese riconosciuto i suoi obblighirispetto a due anni precedentemente reclutati professori. Schelling speraprobabilmente per una cattedra a Landshut, dove era stato Honorary Doctor del 1802Medicina fatto e caratterizzato il nuovo spirito del tempo di programmazionevolere.1806, ma a quanto pare non lo voleva come un insegnante di pubblico, lui;giunge alla accademia. Non è stato fino al 1820, da Monaco a Erlangen in congedo, si

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13di nuovo per una conferenza pubblica pubblico soprattutto i giovani – ciò chetat modo, in ogni momento con la grande arte, con serietà ed entusiasmo. Si è unitofelice di.Presidente della Accademia wat Jacobi, aperto dal 1803, e dedicato avversarioSchelling, la vita più facile a Monaco non lo è. Schelling è giunta allaLion’s Den.Non avrebbe lacrima. Al contrario – ha affermato lui stesso e la natura della suaThinking brillantemente.Il 12 Ottobre 1807 Nome-Schelling parla del re nel badw”Sul rapporto di Belle Arti e della Natura”. 500 ascoltatori sono, Presente in mezzo a loro l’arte-Crown Prince, alla fine del SchellingDiscorso indirizzi. Si attira l’attenzione. Caroline scrive – probabilmente un po ‘esagerato –che “parecchie settimane a corte e in città c’era nulla di cuicome del discorso di Schelling “. Esso prevede l’impulso per la fondazione dell ‘Accademia diBelle Arti nel 1808, è stato nominato segretario generale Schelling.Monaco di Baviera è ora, in realtà, grazie al re un santuario “delle Scienzee of the Arts.Per Schelling, il discorso è di grande importanza, e che si aspetta da lei, come luiGoethe scrive: “un lieto fine” della sua situazione e gli chiede diun “verdetto pesante”. Verso l’arte Schelling vuole il suo pubblicoAllineare le attività. Recensione di Goethe non è venuto fino al 1813, e di continuare a lavorarelavoro con il Schelling l’arte non è venuto.Tuttavia, gli onori, è stato osservato permesso di badw lei da molto tempoBordo, Studioso d’arte, Next Klenze Boisserée e Wòlfflin.Goethe era in pieno accordo con Schelling. Solo Jacobi, il cui discorso”Il imparato società, il loro spirito e la finalità” aperturaAccademia di luglio 1807 è stata eclissata da Schelling, gemeva come al solito.Lui, anche, di corso, scrisse a Goethe, e lui gestisce un buon commento:

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14″Ci sono solo due sostanzialmente diversi gli uni dagli altriFilosofie. Voglio qui platonismo e Spinoza. Invito [...] Tra i due, condividere il suo cuore, è impossibileancora più impossibile combinarli per davvero “(19.2.1808).E di fatto caratterizzano Spinoza e motivi di Platone SchellingPensare dopo il 1800. Esso porta il titolo La filosofia di identità. Vale a dire chela realtà, naturale e spirituale, il reale e l’ideale (comeSchelling dice) uno e che è, questa è una realtà di uno, unoAbsolute SE.Con quel pensiero pensiero tentativi di comprendere la realtà. InFilosofia di arte, per esempio l’opera d’arte viene utilizzata come espressione di assoluta –in piedi, anche se secondo le distinzioni tra Visual (reale)e parlare (ideale) la ulteriori distinzioni tra arte e musica,Pittura, scultura e poesia, da un lato, e l’epopea romana, altro drammain quanto si tratta di un cosmo, in vista di una sua ulteriore differenziazionemitologia e cristianesimo, sui motivi e materiali dei singoliI tipi di arte appartiene.Con l’intervento di Un, Absolute ecc, Schelling osserva il discorso precedenteil Natura e Spirito come si trattasse di due facce della stessa medaglia di nuovoa:”La natura è lo spirito visibile, lo spirito della natura invisibiledi essere. “1801 e in anni successivi, Schelling è chiaro che questa ideain realtà un Absolute L’unità o l’indifferenza richiede.Proprio come a chiarire questo punto, l’io empirico ego come una cosiddetta assolutaPremessa è stata prevista in modo qui. E come vi (inizialmente) unFigura di pensiero era inteso, così anche qui. Ma è il grande potenziale di speculazioneovvio. Dopo aver percorso con la figura di una unità assoluta o indifferenzapensare al di là di se stessi.

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15Ruota attorno a questo pensiero Schelling potenziale in molto diversoEspressioni negli anni 1809. Vediamo i testi, che abbastanza spessogrande forza linguistica e intellettuale, l’inquietudine del pensiero allaLo sforzo di elaborare una grande idea ed esprimere meglio.La filosofia si intende – come l’arte – espressione molto.E ‘quindi Schelling, tutta la realtà: natura e storia,Arte, scienza e religione, identitätsphilosophisch espressione. Uomopossono sostiene certamente la Romance tipico pensiero unità chiamatama deve sempre avere in mente la struttura, questo è il pensiero nello stessosopra la realtà e riconoscere nel suo insieme: è la struttura di una,Schelling, come dice, “l’unità eterna di infinito (cioè, un termine diverso per laAssoluta) con il finito. ” Un’altra occhiata alla rivista Artworkessere utile: In lui, il finito e l’infinito realmente, e viceversaè l’opera finale di arte come rappresentazione dell’infinito. Il evidenziatoPosizione del opera rappresenta l’artista. Egli è Genie”Ildivinità intrinseca di “uomo”, per così dire, un pezzo da l’assolutezzaDio », come dice Schelling.1809 Schelling getta le sue considerazioni sulla Persone. Ciò significa che un turno. Eglilascia la domanda chiave: “Come l’infinito al finito e il finito perInfinite venire si trova. In essa non c’è risposta. Per entrambe leè —-almeno per noi – sempre insieme, e come bloccato:Proprio in Persone. Che l’uomo occupa una posizione intermedia, occupataLa filosofia da Platone (da cui l’immagine delle date tra parentesi) eAristotele, che vede il popolo nella tensione di dover essere immortalee ancora essere umano ad avere.Lutero, Schelling legge ampiamente circa 1809, aggravata dal pensieroChristian speranza di redenzione. Egli ci chiama uno spirituale ecorporea L’uomo, un signore “libera di tutte le cose” e un “ministeroServo di tutte le cose “.

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16Schelling si riferisce a questo discorso, per stringere di nuovo. Il cleroe la natura fisica dell’uomo, ha espresso oggi come una libertà doppiadell’esistenza umana: “Lei è libera per natura e gratuito di Dio “.”Egli (l’uomo) è libero da Dio per il fatto che si tratta di unradici indipendenti in natura ha liberamente dalla natura dache il divino è risvegliato in lui, in mezzo alla natura piùLa natura (è) “.Il doppio senso di libertà principio di indifferenza (che anche Schelling”Assenza di terra”, dice). In esseri umani, l’indifferenza è sempre suddiviso inqueste due pagine che Schelling “base” e di “esistenza” si chiama. Ha l’immaginedell’organismo in mente, la ragione stessa, vale a dire la sua esistenza è (causasui). La vita umana è sempre così nella dinamica interna delentrambi i lati del terreno naturale e spirituale “”Esistenza. In questoMomentum, dopo che a cercare entrambi i essereVale a dire il tutto (e anche intero) Per essere.Da un lato non è senza l’altro. Il motivo non è senza l’esistenza eviceversa. Ogni pagina è affamato di essere “(Schelling nel contestoplastica), dice, vale a dire per la propria esistenza; ogni lato vuole essere se stessi.”La volontà è primordiale — letture famosa formula di Schelling.Egli trae qui sul “sistema” del 1800, dove il concetto di “volontà”la difficile transizione della storia naturale del empiricaSenso di Schelling era stato pensato.Nel 1809 ha ampliato la sua tesi fondamentalmente su uno, dallato naturale dell’uomo non può più essere una qualsiasi storia, ma comeparte integrante della vita cosciente riconosce. In secondo luogo, in modo tale attol’unicità della transizione adottate. Piuttosto, è permanente, e nelpermanente tensione con l’altro lato del desiderio naturale, che è ilSpirito vuole adottare.1809 Schelling sviluppa un concetto di libertà, in quanto egli non primaAtti. E ‘il concetto di un esistenziale Libertà, allora

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17non a caso da Kierkegaard, Nietzsche e Heidegger, in particolare daè incluso. Il lato oscuro della vita umana, che la formula di Schelling “si è primordiale”aperto, lasciamo indiscusso, avremmo il vocabolario del male,Morboso, anche attacco folle. Il ricordo della parola di”Indistruttibile malinconia profonda di tutta la vita” e le tariffe Semprundovrebbe essere sufficiente.Il tentativo di Schelling non è stato discusso anche nella libertà di scrittura, il rapporto diDio e la creazione, come lo sviluppo di identità e di alienazione di sé di Dioda interpretare. Schelling è fortemente influenzato da Boehme e Baader. Ilritorno antropologica del 1809 è sia un religioso e filosofico.Tutte le reazioni più amaro Schelling, Jacobi nel 1811 ancora una volta – inInoltre, in qualità di Presidente della Bavarian Academy of Sciences – l’Spinoza accusato, che naturalmente significava per Jacobi quanto l’ateismo.Schelling ha scritto immediatamente una smentita completa. Eradevastanti. Anche gli amici di Schelling, come erano circa Goethe, inorridito. “Io sonoprobabilmente un po ‘troppo avanti “, ha detto in seguito circa la sua scrittura del 1812.Lo stesso anno si sposa di nuovo (paolino Gotter, figlia di drammi dell’autoreFederico Cotter). Sei figli avranno il matrimonio. E nello stesso annoIl segretario di classe Schelling al badw e riceve la nobiltà personale: Knightda Schelling.Ma ancora il disagio. Dopo il 1809, Schelling ha cercato di pensare aScrittura e portare la libertà di continuare a parlare in un movimento ordinato.L’età dell’Universo era il titolo del progetto, e il corso è stato attraverso gli eoni- Esecuzione di un premio “uomo del privatoLa creazione di fuori. “Il passato è noto, il presente èè punibile riconosciuto il futuro “sono le frasi famose di apertura.Ancora una volta e ancora una volta, Schelling 1810-1815 ha fissato, ri-scritta

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18e scartato, e così via. L’editore Cotta ha dimostrato una grande pazienza.Schelling è stato, per dirla in passato, una storia di. Insert Ancora una volta e di nuovo il giro del preconscio, e solo nella misura in passatoVita. Le tre versioni esistenti sono testimonianza al massimo un pensatoree il potere della letteratura, e anche di disperazione. In un modo molto particolareSono moderni e hanno alle spalle grandi progetti di sistema.Nel 1815, egli ha agito per il giorno del re nome in Accademia bavaresedi Scienze. Se ne va Circa la divinità di Samotracia. Schelling ver –nal come Supplemento alla maturazione del Mondo e lo presenta con una grande imparatoMemoir sui Misteri greca.Esso rappresenta, infatti, una conoscenza del passato, Schelling legge le provesulla divinità di Samotracia, che sono i Cabiri come prova di unprima coscienza mitologica, la prova di una Privato ilCreazione.Il discorso è Schelling l’ultimo pubblicato scritti filosofici. Essa è, tuttavia,non addio, ma indica la via da seguire. Schelling è il futuro inOttiene in tal modo di iniziare, la filosofia di funzionamento, proprio come una latrina. Quellodiventerà una filosofia per la sua storia, vale a dire la ricostruzione del suo camminointesa come sviluppo di un quadro concettuale che è la cosa. IlVerrà a conoscenza di un altro fatto, storicamente, il concettualeo, come dice Schelling, per sviluppare positivamente. La filosofia in un altro modoRicostruzione di una coscienza razionale un razionale sviluppo essere. Quelloè quello di guardare le fonti e le testimonianze della mitologia e della religione, ChristianRivelazione. Questa è una difficile e Schelling esperti nel loroDistinzione è Importance controversa. Schelling li designa comeUna distinzione negativo filosofiaChe, come Hegel, solo unaLo sviluppo del concetto di possesso, da un La filosofia positivaQualecomplementare a che conserva il corridoio storico.Il discorso del 1815 sulla divinità di Samotracia, che sono i Cabiri,

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19è il complesso (da Schelling, anche in vista di Hegelchiaro) distinzione: è positivo, cioè in vista delLe fonti storiche, che è quello che in precedenza Schelling negativo, vale a dire concettualmenterappresentavano solo pensiero era: La volontà, la fame per l’esistenza. Goethe, ilDiscorso di Schelling ha studiato intensamente, dà le due parti in Faust esattamenteancora una volta, se egli rappresenterà il Cabiri nella notte di Valpurga:Questa incomparabilevogliono sempre di più, Longing fame Per l’irraggiungibileDopo il 1815, Schelling viene in acque più calme. Nel 1820, egli è a Erlangenin congedo e può finalmente dare lezioni. August von Platen aggiuntoai suoi ascoltatori. Il tempo di Erlanger mezzi chiarimenti e rassicurazioni. Stabilisce QuiSchelling, la Fondazione per il suo lavoro in seguito a Monaco di Baviera.V.1826 porta alla delocalizzazione dell ‘Università di Landshut a Monaco di Baviera.Ludwig I desidera il ritorno di Schelling, ma esita a “molto delicatoe la preoccupazione “gli sembra la sede a Monaco rapporti, probabilmente è dovuto aldi retribuzione.Nel semestre invernale 1827/28 Schelling, ma poi viene a MonacoConservatore Generale delle collezioni scientifiche dello Stato e comePresidente dell’Accademia delle Scienze. Allo stesso tempo lo seguiva la reputazione come unoprofessore di filosofia presso la nuova università di Monaco di Baviera. Làegli è nel cerchio così illustri colleghi come Thiersch, muratori, Schubert, Okenregistrati.L’ufficio di curatore capo è una riorganizzazione fondamentale dellaCollege Bound. Le collezioni scientifiche ad esso appartenenti, comeintorno al giardino botanico o l’Osservatorio, che sarà

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20Generale Conservatorio trasferiti. Le strutture sono l’Università diL’uso di sinistra.L’accademia è convertito da un istituto di ricerca del governo in unalibertà di associazione (ora non retribuito) studiosi che per la maggior parteProfessori raggiungere l’università. Nel suo discorso di apertura alAcademy il 25 Agosto 1827 Schelling rende l’importanza della (fino ad oggiefficace) Riorganizzazione chiaro che la ricerca e l’insegnamento vanno insieme.Pertanto, tutte le istituzioni accademiche sono concentrati presso l’Università divolontà.Schelling è non solo per la riorganizzazione del panorama scientificocoinvolti, ma anche di studiare le riforme. Con lo statuto per gli studentiUniversità bavarese di Schelling e dei suoi colleghi scrivono cheProgramma di un’università moderna. Essa è definita come l’area della scienzae non come un istituto di formazione utile.Schelling ricorda i suoi studi proprio ed è successo per ilAbolizione di studi obbligatorio nelle norme libro. Nella sua prima Monaco di BavieraConferenza su 26.11.1827, egli sottolinea “l’identità interiore di tutte le scienze”apparente. Egli parla di sé come di un maestro libero, che ha volontariamente e sentitolibero da uno spirito, cioè il re, è stato nominato. Il buonI rapporti con il re anche significare che Schelling 1835-1840Maestro del principe ereditario, il futuro re Massimiliano è il secondo.Quando il nuovo Ministro bavarese della Cultura Abel annulla la tolleranza religiosa, restituisceSchelling Monaco di Baviera nel 1841 sul retro e prende la chiamata a Berlino.La lezione inaugurale nel 1841 a Berlino, è sovraffollato, Bakunin, Engels, Kierkegaardtra gli ascoltatori. La delusione è comune. Schelling utilizza ilZeitgeist non, l’hegeliana si esprime – se a destra oa sinistra.”La filosofia è il suo tempo compreso nel pensiero”, afferma Hegel nella prefazione alsuo Filosofia del diritto. L’giovani hegeliani hanno visto nella Carta,

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21tutti i possibili riflessi sui fenomeni del suo tempo come una filosofiaproblema.Le serrature sono Schelling. Egli insiste sul fatto tutto ciò che è reale, naturale ela storia, intesa come una realtà assoluta (che altro?). Mamentre è importante vedere nel reale traccia della assoluta. E puòche la disperazione di bene. Ma forse è anche così fuori pistanon è stato trovato, ma ancora cercando il suo avere in mente.Il 20 Schelling è morto agosto 1854 a Bad Ragaz, in Svizzera.Maximilian II ha messo il suo maestro a Bad Ragaz, un monumento su cui sirecita: “L’primi pensatori della Germania” e Schelling in neo-classicalModo come un insegnante e Maximilian II mostra alcune importanti rispetto ai suoiStudenti. Sopra la scena è in una nicchia il busto vedere Schelling, unaLavoro Halbig. Nel monumento mostra il frontone unoButterfly, incorniciato da una corona di alloro. L’immagine simboleggiaImmortalità. L’esistenza dopo la morte, Schelling ha alcune riflessionidedicato.Egli stesso, sarà permesso di dire, continua a vivere nel suo lavoro, come lo storico –Edizione critica della Commissione di Schelling per badw è pubblicato

ontologia ci va più.E ‘la parola dal “indistruttibile malinconia profonda di tutta la vita.” Essoricorda l’ Romani”Sappiamo che tutta la creazione fino a questoMomento con noi ed è sospiro ansioso. “(8, 22). Il versetto ricorda ancheSchelling Tübingen inizi.Se si dovesse scrivere la libertà di cui torneremo, l’immagineparti, si dovrebbe Goya e Fuseli, Blake anche cercare, ad esempio. contemporaneaImmagini di un terrorismo interno ed esterno. Dürer, ma è entrato in questione –con il buio incombente Melancholy, Che è circondata dalla morte e il cavaliere diavolo(Media vita in morte sumus), Ei loro cavalieri dell’Apocalisse.In alcuni luoghi, scrive Schelling maggio 1809 aveva forse troppo inDark dipinto, ma forse anche in precedenza messo in evidenza il lato giorno troppo.Il lato oscuro è stato, tuttavia, noto fin dall’inizio. Non chiediamo:Che so, ma a sua volta l’inizio. IIDurante la Rivoluzione francese, la cui passione per la libertà, gli studenti in modo Tübingen(molto commovente uno di loro, un po ‘più di SchellingE ‘il francesePortare il ministro degli esteri), abbiamo rilevato, come a Kant, del Han –Nessun soggetto razionale, da parte Autonomia determinato, e conoscendo la diSpontaneità. Allo stesso tempo, che Kant è oggetto di forse più profonda ——————————————————————————–Pagina 4 4libero, se Parla di Dio principio in questione. Secondo Kant, ad esempioDiscorso – D.I. il discorso di classico e moderno Razionale metafisicain particolare (Cartesio, Spinoza, Leibniz) — rispetto a Riconoscimento vocale override.Questo è un altro: la critica filologica della Bibbia che viene in particolare nelTeologia protestante e gestito insegnato agli studenti di Tübingenviene retrocesso al Vecchio come Nuovo Testamento in maniera radicale:Rivelazione E non potrebbe essere maggiore.Così come e da ciò che è giusto ancora una Absolute a parlarepossibile? Come su una nota è molto giovane Schelling. E un primoRisposta alla domanda del perché un tale discorso è quello di servire l’Assoluto, chesecondo (in aggiunta a Libertà) Quote formula Pathos dei giovani Tübingen: hen kai pan(One and All) — ci deve essere una unità delle separazioni eLacerazioni di vita, una unità nella natura e spirito, l’intuizione eL’intelligenza, la comprensione e la ragione, interni ed esterni, la conoscenza e la fede insieme. MenkommenChe tale unità in termini politici e sociali è necessario, è SchellingPer inciso, più tardi, nel suo periodo di Monaco di Baviera, nella grande, non da ultimo per laRe Interventi diretti mettere in chiaro: E ‘media di unità e didovrebbe rappresentare.La rivendicazione di Unità segna l’Illuminismo per il nuovoPensate a 1800. Per le chiamate della propria esperienza di unità. Il Amoretra Schelling e Caroline ha una tale esperienza. Come se concepitoè a Dresda nel 1798 l’esperienza della bellezza: il Arte e Natura.Goethe tiene la mano sulla protezione agli occhi di alcuni scandalosaAmore. Si tratta di un grande testo, e sia visto in questo modo. Nel 1809 si interruppe.Triple determinato Schelling nel suo pensiero iniziale: In primo luogo, comeGeschichtsdenken. E subito in modalità duale diDissertazioni. Progetta il filosofiche uno con l’uscita dalla natura ——————————————————————————–Pagina 5 5incipiente Storia della ragioneLo scorrimento secondo giorno in un ambiente naturale d’oro,e porterà l’età della ragione e della libertà, della riconciliazione, aprendo così lateologica Tesi, il più oscuro e dominato manichea pensieroil GnosticismoChe la redenzione di un fallito o di cadutaLa creazione di Demiurgo speranze l’ignoto, venendo a Dio.D’altra parte è determinato il pensiero di Schelling con lo stanziamento di Platone, ilDialoghi Timeo e Filebo, Schelling, il segno si legge in kantianae commentato – un grande momento di parlare della filosofia moderna. Qui sollevaSchelling, il primo e all-view importanti del Natura in dettaglionel suo complesso. Con Platone, egli li vede come “grandi animali”, come Organisme La vita, animato è in piante, animali ed esseri umani e di un totale: 1798Schelling “Da l’anima del mondo – una ipotesi per spiegare la fisica superioreil corpo generale ” scrivere. Questo lavoro lo porta dal GoetheFavore e il professore a Jena 1798. Organismo vivente ed è unoLato della natura, l’altra, e più iniziale Lato, e che molto menoenfaticamente, con Sostanza conosciuto. Platone, per una più matematicamenteil pensiero dello spazio e del concetto di tempo (Heisenberg e von Weizsackerevidenziato). Il 18, Newton e Leibniz si sono impegnati, Centurylavorare con il concetto di Potere o al plurale Le forze vale a dire, quellidi attrazione e repulsione, attrazione e di espansione. Questa volta èKant, nella vista: Attraverso le forze di cui sopra pensa la costituzione diLa materia, ma alla fine rimane indeciso tra un atomica e unContinuum fisica. E Kant è indeciso in termini di organiciNatura: La conoscenza della vita, questo è il fatti di un causa suiSpinoziano detto, è sempre “come se”. Con una vista incredibilmente precisaSchelling riconosce i più giovani, quasi platonica formazione che, con Sostanzae Organism Limiti del pensiero di Kant sono identificati. Da questoView è la filosofia della natura di Schelling loro sistematica punto di partenzaprendere. Egli riconosce la realtà della natura, che è, e quindi la realtà didella storia che dovrebbe essere, in quanto la realtà di Idea o Ragione.Tale punto di vista crea l’ hen kai pan un modo nuovo: come una – come sempre ——————————————————————————–Page 6 6il pensiero – la coerenza tra soggetto e oggetto.La funzione di terza, abbiamo bisogno di qualcosa di più vicino ad indagare. Si tratta dellaFondamento della conoscenza e della scienza da Kant, il SchellingSuoi primi scritti direttamente collegati. “Kant ha dato i risultatiOra, è importante per trovare i locali “, dice il suo motto. IlRisultati – Questa è la rivoluzione copernicana, da Kant in 2 Edizione di”Critica della ragion pura” (1787), dice, vale a dire, dopo l’esperienzaConcetti da affrontare “, perché l’esperienza è di per sé un tipo di conoscenza cheComprensione richiede, che io di solito dentro di me, prima di dare a me gli articolideve essere assunto, quindi, a priori, che in termini di escludere a priori,è espressa secondo la quale, pertanto, tutti gli oggetti di esperienza necessariaaffrontate e devono essere conformi con loro “(XVII B f.).Kant si muove – questo è il epocale contro Cartesio, Leibniz, Spinoza (laDio, cercando di garantire la conoscenza), anche rispetto allo scetticismo di Humee l’idealismo di Berkeley (tutto ciò che è mera immaginazione) – Kant, quindi, spostato ilCondizioni di garanzia delle conoscenze in Soggetto. Più precisamente, nel Mente ele sue disposizioni. Da loro, le forme della cognizione e della conoscenzasens. Noi non vogliamo continuare ad esercitare la loro, la differenza di circaanalitici e sintetici della conoscenza. Ciò che conta è che solo le formesono, il plurale è importante. Fichte e Schelling, in contrasto, uno Prototypedella conoscenza, come dice Schelling, dalle determinazioni del empirica Ver –rivolta devono essere ottenuti per giustificarle. Il prototipo prevede l’Dar presupposto richiesto.Fichte, Schelling, e pensano che la figura del assoluto ego uno insenso letterale della parola tedesca incondizionata Io non – in modo empirico, maA causa della io empirico. Qui sono solo le basi occorre ricordare:In primo luogo, la assoluto ego è una figura di pensiero. Ma nella misura in cui il pensiero, piùfilosofico, consente di iniziare qui, ma è allo stesso tempo molto più di unaFIG dire. Un Absolute viene anche con essa in vista filosofico ——————————————————————————–Pagina 7 7e che dire, l’irrequietezza della condotta di altri.In secondo luogo, la derivazione o lo sviluppo delle disposizioni del empiricaI (la comprensione) ha indetto una SfondoA ricostruirli. “Che cosaSono stato prima di venire a conoscenza? ” – Questo è questione fondamentale di Schellingcon la quale aveva già adottato fin dall’inizio, da Fichte.In terzo luogo, come il passaggio dalla preistoria dell’io alla suaa pensare di esistenza empirica nella storia “reale”? Niente affatto, èSchelling ha detto. Perché se si pensa che saranno in appresso. In questo mondo diCoscienza, si arriva attraverso un atto inspiegabile appunto – l’attouna volontà semplice, un immemorabile ineludibile, Libertà.”La volontà è primordiale” – Schelling, 1809 e dirà in una costellazione diversal’idea di registrare. Nel 1795 ha chiamato l’alfa e l’omega della filosofia della libertà:”L’essenza del sé è la libertà.” L’anno che ci lascia ancora una volta la vista. RespingonoNel novembre del 1795, Schelling ha superato tutti gli esami. Egli è – questa è laDestino del talento il suo tempo – Hofmeister e così è venuta – non comesperato in Inghilterra o in Francia – ma almeno a Lipsia, dove il suoUndici stanno studiando. Durante il viaggio, il Schelling i suoi genitori in moltibellissime lettere e relazioni è quello di andare in qualsiasi ulteriore, purtroppo. Fine di aprileNel 1796 arriva a Lipsia, ha scritto durante il viaggio ed è diora scrivere di più e leggere.E ‘una mole di lavoro incredibile: Sotto il titolo Descrizione generale del neo –la maggior parte della letteratura filosofica ” 1797/98 apparirà in una serie di saggiun argomento con la ricezione della filosofia kantiana, e qui fissaSchelling, come si trattasse di una piscina separata di pensiero. 1797 pubblicato “Ideeuna filosofia della natura “. 1798 pubblicato “Dal mondo-soul – AIpotesi per spiegare la fisica del corpo di istruzione superiore “. ConEntrambi i lavori, ha fondato la moderna filosofia naturale di Schelling. Essi ——————————————————————————–Pagina 8 8sviluppato in vista di Platone e Kant, la natura come un processo dinamico,come una scaletta, che continuamente dal materiale a spirituale, egli –tratti. Che è stato costituito da parte delle forze Sostanza e come auto –nascente Organism rappresentano i concetti di base (e ancheI problemi di base), la filosofia della natura che questa – la natura – come sempreNatura naturans e quando Natura naturata, come un processo di vita e di come la fissazioneProdotto concepisce.Le due opere: The Idee del 1797, la “Mondo Soul” del 1798, chenel 1799, la “Prima bozza di un sistema di filosofia naturale” associato èattesa, tuttavia, e non da ultimo anche stabilire la scienza dei loro tempi:Ragioni di Lavoisier per la chimica di ossigeno, cioè l’impotenza dimetafisica elementi della dottrina che la scoperta di energia elettrica di origine animale, laFotosintesi, — Disposizioni delle funzioni vitali di riproduzione,Irritabilità (: Muscoli) (sensibilità: Nervi).1798 – L’ “Mondo Soul” era appena stato pubblicato – ha Schelling, per inciso, laProspettiva di un lavoro come chimico in Amburgo. Noi non possiamo immaginare cosa fattaLa chimica e la filosofia sarebbe stato se non fosse per il ricorso Goetheprofessore straordinario di filosofia presso l’Università di Jena previstoavrebbe.Il 5 Schelling, di Goethe, nel mese di luglio ha ricevuto una copia della citazione della sua vocazioneinviato. Il professore è stato corrisposto, per inciso, ma ha inciso per nulla. ASchelling deve ascoltatori in grande quantità, in modo che il denaro ascoltatorivenuto per le entrate provenienti da attività letteraria.III.Tra il chiamante e la prima lezione di Jena (29 ottobre 1789) sono grandi e così bene in una settimana non ricorrenti felicità. Schellingè libero dal peso del bambino prodigio, libero dall’onere di provaredovere. Ha trovato uno stand nella vita, e lui non è solo. Egli è ——————————————————————————–Pagina 9 9Augus insieme con i fratelli William e Federico Schlegel, in cuiteoria esprime il romanzo, insieme con le loro mogli, Caroline eDorotea, con Novalis, con ghiaia, il traduttore, con Tieck, il cui fratello, abbiamouna delle prime immagini grazie Schelling. Erano, sotto la Schlliers occhiGoethe e conquistare a Dresda e dintorni Arte e Natura. Nella galleria si veda Schelling imparare a conversare con gli amici. VedeMantegna, Botticelli, poi Giorgione, Tiziano, Raffaello e soprattutto Correggio.Correggio è – come dirà poco dopo – “è il pittore dei pittori”, “in luii veri principi della pittura, molto romantico. ” Disegno eColore, forma e materia, concordano in chiaroscuro: “La tonalitàè la parte davvero magica della pittura, dal disegno di legge per il più altounità. [...] L’arte del chiaroscuro è anche diventato possibileImmagini rendono del tutto indipendente, che è la fonte di luce dentro di sédi mettere come in quella celebre dipinto di Correggio, dove un immortaleLuce, a partire con il bambino, la notte oscura della mistica e misteriosalit. Formulazione di Schelling: “le immagini intero fare un’attività in proprio “è ilfondamentale: essa sottolinea l’autonomia del quadro come opera d’arte, e inquella descritta dal chiaroscuro di autonomia mostra l’immagineOpera d’arte come una realtà, la presenza di un assoluto.Schelling prende nel 1807 il famoso discorso “Circa il rapporto del visivoCultura & Natura”Ancora una volta in una posizione molto diversa sulla questione. InVista di Guido Reni “Assunzione”" Che nel grande collezioneil nostro re è predisposta per l’ammirazione generale “, dice Schelling:”Non c’è sostanza, vi è una forza della natura con una pronunciata verso l’esterno” (ibid.).L’opera d’arte è deciso di per sé, dimostra In-the-Beschloss.”Una delle intuizioni più profondi e di vasta portata della filosofia di SchellingArte sta nel riconoscere che l’arte è come indipendente esignifica di per sé mondo perfetto, in quanto è la natura “(Hans Jantzen, 281). ——————————————————————————–Pagina 10 10Natura – che è l’Elba, il fiume tra i boschi, colline, anchecastelli occupate rive. La natura è luce e scuro: Naturalmente conNovalis nel lato oscuro, la miniera Freyberger sotterranea o grotta,Mio.1800 Schelling si trova su un alto. Dal tardo pomeriggio in eccessoCode di studenti, come colonne di formiche per le strade di JenaUniversità di ascoltare Schelling (come Gotthilf Schubert nelle sue memoriescrive). Schelling era una star accademico, trascende non solo di Jena, eè senza rivali. Nella primavera del Schelling sembra “Sistema di trascendedental idealismo “. Il testo, in questo anno si è in due volumi, inStorico-edizione critica del Bavarian Academy of Sciences, ha –sembra, è uno dei grandi testi della filosofia. Schelling portaqui interpretato i fili insieme dal 1794, ha progettato un intero, solo unSystem, che aiuta.”La natura si dice che sia lo spirito visibile, lo spirito della natura invisibile. QuiCosì, l’identità assoluta dello spirito in noi e la natura salvo DobbiamoIl problema, come una naturale possibile, senza di noi Seye, “Resolve, avevaSchelling ha scritto nel 1797. 1800 riesce nella presentazione: Trascendentale–e la filosofia naturale sono come due facce della stessa moneta. Ma proprio questaEspressione indica abbastanza problematica, anche in anticipo: uno AbsoluteIdentità.Quello Sistema rilasci di 1800, la coscienza, io empirico nella storiaQuestione inizi (Schelling). Questo è Storia di libertà e non soloReality di libertà. Una tale realtà sarebbe quella di Dio, ma:”Se lo fosse, non avremmo”. La storia si sta sforzando di approccio, ma sempree ricadute, il coinvolgimento in mezzo alla natura e certamente con uno di Schellingfrequentemente utilizzato l’espressione “Frammentario. Il Arte Tuttavia, con la loro rappresentazione, il “sistema” comprende, console: è – conle parole del Ranke più giovani — direttamente a Dio. In Arte venire ——————————————————————————–Pagina 11 11Libertà e necessità decidono di riconciliarsi con il loro spirito e la natura. InLa natura umana aveva aperto gli occhi, così avvenne la separazione. IlAugenaufschlag nuova arte risale – in una superiore unità. IlLa filosofia, tuttavia, è proprio testo di Schelling, “non ha raggiunto la più altaMa si porta fino a questo punto solo, come un frammento di esseri umani.Arte porta tutta la persona [...]. “Al culmine della mostraGerme di ombreggiatura:”L’uomo è un frammento di eterno” in cui la natura e la libertàfall apart ed entrambi vogliono essere.Modo di Schelling a Monaco di BavieraIVL’anno fino al 1806, quando Schelling presso l’Accademia delle Scienze Beyer(Badw) è presa, sono pieni di inquietudine. Amicizie break,con abete rosso, sia qui che in materia, nonché in personale. Schelling fasolo troppo rapidamente in arrogante e arrabbiato critiche polemiche, le richiesteSeguaci, è nelle sue imprese, alle quali la filosofia naturaleLa medicina è ispirato, e pubblicazioni, senza linea chiara.Ben diversa è in Hegel, che è un movimento continuo. 1801 èa Jena, e lui e Schelling al “Critical Journal of Philosophy”problema, un ottimo esempio di un lavoro comune filosofica 1802 / 3. Inpochi anni sarà anche venuto qui per l’alienazione.Ma il lato oscuro non dovrebbe essere eccessivamente enfatizzata. Perché, naturalmente, ci sono anchegrandi amicizie, con Steffens, con il Cavaliere, con Baader (quindi anche unMonaco di Baviera). Goethe non dimenticare! per non parlare dell’amore diCaroline – 1803, sia il padre di fiducia Murrhardt, dopo di GoetheAiutare il divorzio è stato infine il successo. Il pubblico scandalo è che ——————————————————————————–Pagina 12 12la morte di Auguste, figlia di Caroline, ha scaldato nell’estate del 1800, auna fine.La prevista a Napoli corso di Luna di miele finita già a Monaco di Baviera –affatto infelice: dopo – di lunghezza e Zentner e Thurheimfilettati – Incontro con Montgelas fu Schelling presso l’Università diWurzburg nominato, e che – è stato a metà settembre 1803 – per l’immediataÈ entrato in carica. Le province Franchi di Bamberga e Würzburg erano inAnni, è sceso in Baviera, e uno – vale a dire Elettore Max e Montgelas – avevaentkirchlichten rapidamente la decisione di uno Landshut seconda aggiunta “”Università preparati (era) quasi fino a una nuova fondazione dell’Università;anche voluto fare concorrenza Jena (l’università, i suoi studentiha rappresentato un fattore di particolare importanza economica).Tutto ciò è stato di grado anche reintrodurre Schelling. Zentner e Thurheim avevaacquistato, tuttavia, ulteriori professori Jena, come l’istruzionePaul teologi, Schelling, dal momento che “Ore Kindergarten” si intende fino alla mortefatto la guerra. Misura Wurzburg non significa necessariamente rilievo, in particolareSchelling – accorcia ha detto – “Alleinheitsphilosophie” sempre più sotto il fuocouno ricostruzione pensiero cristiano, così come laici religiosità cattolica.Schelling è stato, come rilevato Tilliette sfuggire alla Cariddi di Jena, a firmare inla Scilla di Wurzburg recuperare.Wurzburg andò con la sua università nel 1805 e la fine del l’arciduca Ferdinando diAsburgo-Toscana. Lo Stato bavarese riconosciuto i suoi obblighirispetto a due anni precedentemente reclutati professori. Schelling speraprobabilmente per una cattedra a Landshut, dove era stato Honorary Doctor del 1802Medicina fatto e caratterizzato il nuovo spirito del tempo di programmazionevolere.1806, ma a quanto pare non lo voleva come un insegnante di pubblico, lui;giunge alla accademia. Non è stato fino al 1820, da Monaco a Erlangen in congedo, si ——————————————————————————–Pagina 13 13di nuovo per una conferenza pubblica pubblico soprattutto i giovani – ciò chetat modo, in ogni momento con la grande arte, con serietà ed entusiasmo. Si è unitofelice di.Presidente della Accademia wat Jacobi, aperto dal 1803, e dedicato avversarioSchelling, la vita più facile a Monaco non lo è. Schelling è giunta allaLion’s Den.Non avrebbe lacrima. Al contrario – ha affermato lui stesso e la natura della suaThinking brillantemente.Il 12 Ottobre 1807 Nome-Schelling parla del re nel badw”Sul rapporto di Belle Arti e della Natura”. 500 ascoltatori sono, Presente in mezzo a loro l’arte-Crown Prince, alla fine del SchellingDiscorso indirizzi. Si attira l’attenzione. Caroline scrive – probabilmente un po ‘esagerato –che “parecchie settimane a corte e in città c’era nulla di cuicome del discorso di Schelling “. Esso prevede l’impulso per la fondazione dell ‘Accademia diBelle Arti nel 1808, è stato nominato segretario generale Schelling.Monaco di Baviera è ora, in realtà, grazie al re un santuario “delle Scienzee of the Arts.Per Schelling, il discorso è di grande importanza, e che si aspetta da lei, come luiGoethe scrive: “un lieto fine” della sua situazione e gli chiede diun “verdetto pesante”. Verso l’arte Schelling vuole il suo pubblicoAllineare le attività. Recensione di Goethe non è venuto fino al 1813, e di continuare a lavorarelavoro con il Schelling l’arte non è venuto.Tuttavia, gli onori, è stato osservato permesso di badw lei da molto tempoBordo, Studioso d’arte, Next Klenze Boisserée e Wòlfflin.Goethe era in pieno accordo con Schelling. Solo Jacobi, il cui discorso”Il imparato società, il loro spirito e la finalità” aperturaAccademia di luglio 1807 è stata eclissata da Schelling, gemeva come al solito.Lui, anche, di corso, scrisse a Goethe, e lui gestisce un buon commento: ——————————————————————————–Pagina 14 14″Ci sono solo due sostanzialmente diversi gli uni dagli altriFilosofie. Voglio qui platonismo e Spinoza. Invito [...] Tra i due, condividere il suo cuore, è impossibileancora più impossibile combinarli per davvero “(19.2.1808).E di fatto caratterizzano Spinoza e motivi di Platone SchellingPensare dopo il 1800. Esso porta il titolo La filosofia di identità. Vale a dire chela realtà, naturale e spirituale, il reale e l’ideale (comeSchelling dice) uno e che è, questa è una realtà di uno, unoAbsolute SE.Con quel pensiero pensiero tentativi di comprendere la realtà. InFilosofia di arte, per esempio l’opera d’arte viene utilizzata come espressione di assoluta –in piedi, anche se secondo le distinzioni tra Visual (reale)e parlare (ideale) la ulteriori distinzioni tra arte e musica,Pittura, scultura e poesia, da un lato, e l’epopea romana, altro drammain quanto si tratta di un cosmo, in vista di una sua ulteriore differenziazionemitologia e cristianesimo, sui motivi e materiali dei singoliI tipi di arte appartiene.Con l’intervento di Un, Absolute ecc, Schelling osserva il discorso precedenteil Natura e Spirito come si trattasse di due facce della stessa medaglia di nuovoa:”La natura è lo spirito visibile, lo spirito della natura invisibiledi essere. “1801 e in anni successivi, Schelling è chiaro che questa ideain realtà un Absolute L’unità o l’indifferenza richiede.Proprio come a chiarire questo punto, l’io empirico ego come una cosiddetta assolutaPremessa è stata prevista in modo qui. E come vi (inizialmente) unFigura di pensiero era inteso, così anche qui. Ma è il grande potenziale di speculazioneovvio. Dopo aver percorso con la figura di una unità assoluta o indifferenzapensare al di là di se stessi. ——————————————————————————–Pagina 15 15Ruota attorno a questo pensiero Schelling potenziale in molto diversoEspressioni negli anni 1809. Vediamo i testi, che abbastanza spessogrande forza linguistica e intellettuale, l’inquietudine del pensiero allaLo sforzo di elaborare una grande idea ed esprimere meglio.La filosofia si intende – come l’arte – espressione molto.E ‘quindi Schelling, tutta la realtà: natura e storia,Arte, scienza e religione, identitätsphilosophisch espressione. Uomopossono sostiene certamente la Romance tipico pensiero unità chiamatama deve sempre avere in mente la struttura, questo è il pensiero nello stessosopra la realtà e riconoscere nel suo insieme: è la struttura di una,Schelling, come dice, “l’unità eterna di infinito (cioè, un termine diverso per laAssoluta) con il finito. ” Un’altra occhiata alla rivista Artworkessere utile: In lui, il finito e l’infinito realmente, e viceversaè l’opera finale di arte come rappresentazione dell’infinito. Il evidenziatoPosizione del opera rappresenta l’artista. Egli è Genie”Ildivinità intrinseca di “uomo”, per così dire, un pezzo da l’assolutezzaDio », come dice Schelling.1809 Schelling getta le sue considerazioni sulla Persone. Ciò significa che un turno. Eglilascia la domanda chiave: “Come l’infinito al finito e il finito perInfinite venire si trova. In essa non c’è risposta. Per entrambe leè —-almeno per noi – sempre insieme, e come bloccato:Proprio in Persone. Che l’uomo occupa una posizione intermedia, occupataLa filosofia da Platone (da cui l’immagine delle date tra parentesi) eAristotele, che vede il popolo nella tensione di dover essere immortalee ancora essere umano ad avere.Lutero, Schelling legge ampiamente circa 1809, aggravata dal pensieroChristian speranza di redenzione. Egli ci chiama uno spirituale ecorporea L’uomo, un signore “libera di tutte le cose” e un “ministeroServo di tutte le cose “. ——————————————————————————–Pagina 16 16Schelling si riferisce a questo discorso, per stringere di nuovo. Il cleroe la natura fisica dell’uomo, ha espresso oggi come una libertà doppiadell’esistenza umana: “Lei è libera per natura e gratuito di Dio “.”Egli (l’uomo) è libero da Dio per il fatto che si tratta di unradici indipendenti in natura ha liberamente dalla natura dache il divino è risvegliato in lui, in mezzo alla natura piùLa natura (è) “.Il doppio senso di libertà principio di indifferenza (che anche Schelling”Assenza di terra”, dice). In esseri umani, l’indifferenza è sempre suddiviso inqueste due pagine che Schelling “base” e di “esistenza” si chiama. Ha l’immaginedell’organismo in mente, la ragione stessa, vale a dire la sua esistenza è (causasui). La vita umana è sempre così nella dinamica interna delentrambi i lati del terreno naturale e spirituale “”Esistenza. In questoMomentum, dopo che a cercare entrambi i essereVale a dire il tutto (e anche intero) Per essere.Da un lato non è senza l’altro. Il motivo non è senza l’esistenza eviceversa. Ogni pagina è affamato di essere “(Schelling nel contestoplastica), dice, vale a dire per la propria esistenza; ogni lato vuole essere se stessi.”La volontà è primordiale — letture famosa formula di Schelling.Egli trae qui sul “sistema” del 1800, dove il concetto di “volontà”la difficile transizione della storia naturale del empiricaSenso di Schelling era stato pensato.Nel 1809 ha ampliato la sua tesi fondamentalmente su uno, dallato naturale dell’uomo non può più essere una qualsiasi storia, ma comeparte integrante della vita cosciente riconosce. In secondo luogo, in modo tale attol’unicità della transizione adottate. Piuttosto, è permanente, e nelpermanente tensione con l’altro lato del desiderio naturale, che è ilSpirito vuole adottare.1809 Schelling sviluppa un concetto di libertà, in quanto egli non primaAtti. E ‘il concetto di un esistenziale Libertà, allora ——————————————————————————–Pagina 17 17non a caso da Kierkegaard, Nietzsche e Heidegger, in particolare daè incluso. Il lato oscuro della vita umana, che la formula di Schelling “si è primordiale”aperto, lasciamo indiscusso, avremmo il vocabolario del male,Morboso, anche attacco folle. Il ricordo della parola di”Indistruttibile malinconia profonda di tutta la vita” e le tariffe Semprundovrebbe essere sufficiente.Il tentativo di Schelling non è stato discusso anche nella libertà di scrittura, il rapporto diDio e la creazione, come lo sviluppo di identità e di alienazione di sé di Dioda interpretare. Schelling è fortemente influenzato da Boehme e Baader. Ilritorno antropologica del 1809 è sia un religioso e filosofico.Tutte le reazioni più amaro Schelling, Jacobi nel 1811 ancora una volta – inInoltre, in qualità di Presidente della Bavarian Academy of Sciences – l’Spinoza accusato, che naturalmente significava per Jacobi quanto l’ateismo.Schelling ha scritto immediatamente una smentita completa. Eradevastanti. Anche gli amici di Schelling, come erano circa Goethe, inorridito. “Io sonoprobabilmente un po ‘troppo avanti “, ha detto in seguito circa la sua scrittura del 1812.Lo stesso anno si sposa di nuovo (paolino Gotter, figlia di drammi dell’autoreFederico Cotter). Sei figli avranno il matrimonio. E nello stesso annoIl segretario di classe Schelling al badw e riceve la nobiltà personale: Knightda Schelling.Ma ancora il disagio. Dopo il 1809, Schelling ha cercato di pensare aScrittura e portare la libertà di continuare a parlare in un movimento ordinato.L’età dell’Universo era il titolo del progetto, e il corso è stato attraverso gli eoni- Esecuzione di un premio “uomo del privatoLa creazione di fuori. “Il passato è noto, il presente èè punibile riconosciuto il futuro “sono le frasi famose di apertura.Ancora una volta e ancora una volta, Schelling 1810-1815 ha fissato, ri-scritta ——————————————————————————–Pagina 18 18e scartato, e così via. L’editore Cotta ha dimostrato una grande pazienza.Schelling è stato, per dirla in passato, una storia di. Insert Ancora una volta e di nuovo il giro del preconscio, e solo nella misura in passatoVita. Le tre versioni esistenti sono testimonianza al massimo un pensatoree il potere della letteratura, e anche di disperazione. In un modo molto particolareSono moderni e hanno alle spalle grandi progetti di sistema.Nel 1815, egli ha agito per il giorno del re nome in Accademia bavaresedi Scienze. Se ne va Circa la divinità di Samotracia. Schelling ver –nal come Supplemento alla maturazione del Mondo e lo presenta con una grande imparatoMemoir sui Misteri greca.Esso rappresenta, infatti, una conoscenza del passato, Schelling legge le provesulla divinità di Samotracia, che sono i Cabiri come prova di unprima coscienza mitologica, la prova di una Privato ilCreazione.Il discorso è Schelling l’ultimo pubblicato scritti filosofici. Essa è, tuttavia,non addio, ma indica la via da seguire. Schelling è il futuro inOttiene in tal modo di iniziare, la filosofia di funzionamento, proprio come una latrina. Quellodiventerà una filosofia per la sua storia, vale a dire la ricostruzione del suo camminointesa come sviluppo di un quadro concettuale che è la cosa. IlVerrà a conoscenza di un altro fatto, storicamente, il concettualeo, come dice Schelling, per sviluppare positivamente. La filosofia in un altro modoRicostruzione di una coscienza razionale un razionale sviluppo essere. Quelloè quello di guardare le fonti e le testimonianze della mitologia e della religione, ChristianRivelazione. Questa è una difficile e Schelling esperti nel loroDistinzione è Importance controversa. Schelling li designa comeUna distinzione negativo filosofiaChe, come Hegel, solo unaLo sviluppo del concetto di possesso, da un La filosofia positivaQualecomplementare a che conserva il corridoio storico.Il discorso del 1815 sulla divinità di Samotracia, che sono i Cabiri, ——————————————————————————–Pagina 19 19è il complesso (da Schelling, anche in vista di Hegelchiaro) distinzione: è positivo, cioè in vista delLe fonti storiche, che è quello che in precedenza Schelling negativo, vale a dire concettualmenterappresentavano solo pensiero era: La volontà, la fame per l’esistenza. Goethe, ilDiscorso di Schelling ha studiato intensamente, dà le due parti in Faust esattamenteancora una volta, se egli rappresenterà il Cabiri nella notte di Valpurga:Questa incomparabilevogliono sempre di più, Longing fame Per l’irraggiungibileDopo il 1815, Schelling viene in acque più calme. Nel 1820, egli è a Erlangenin congedo e può finalmente dare lezioni. August von Platen aggiuntoai suoi ascoltatori. Il tempo di Erlanger mezzi chiarimenti e rassicurazioni. Stabilisce QuiSchelling, la Fondazione per il suo lavoro in seguito a Monaco di Baviera.V.1826 porta alla delocalizzazione dell ‘Università di Landshut a Monaco di Baviera.Ludwig I desidera il ritorno di Schelling, ma esita a “molto delicatoe la preoccupazione “gli sembra la sede a Monaco rapporti, probabilmente è dovuto aldi retribuzione.Nel semestre invernale 1827/28 Schelling, ma poi viene a MonacoConservatore Generale delle collezioni scientifiche dello Stato e comePresidente dell’Accademia delle Scienze. Allo stesso tempo lo seguiva la reputazione come unoprofessore di filosofia presso la nuova università di Monaco di Baviera. Làegli è nel cerchio così illustri colleghi come Thiersch, muratori, Schubert, Okenregistrati.L’ufficio di curatore capo è una riorganizzazione fondamentale dellaCollege Bound. Le collezioni scientifiche ad esso appartenenti, comeintorno al giardino botanico o l’Osservatorio, che sarà ——————————————————————————–Pagina 20 20Generale Conservatorio trasferiti. Le strutture sono l’Università diL’uso di sinistra.L’accademia è convertito da un istituto di ricerca del governo in unalibertà di associazione (ora non retribuito) studiosi che per la maggior parteProfessori raggiungere l’università. Nel suo discorso di apertura alAcademy il 25 Agosto 1827 Schelling rende l’importanza della (fino ad oggiefficace) Riorganizzazione chiaro che la ricerca e l’insegnamento vanno insieme.Pertanto, tutte le istituzioni accademiche sono concentrati presso l’Università divolontà.Schelling è non solo per la riorganizzazione del panorama scientificocoinvolti, ma anche di studiare le riforme. Con lo statuto per gli studentiUniversità bavarese di Schelling e dei suoi colleghi scrivono cheProgramma di un’università moderna. Essa è definita come l’area della scienzae non come un istituto di formazione utile.Schelling ricorda i suoi studi proprio ed è successo per ilAbolizione di studi obbligatorio nelle norme libro. Nella sua prima Monaco di BavieraConferenza su 26.11.1827, egli sottolinea “l’identità interiore di tutte le scienze”apparente. Egli parla di sé come di un maestro libero, che ha volontariamente e sentitolibero da uno spirito, cioè il re, è stato nominato. Il buonI rapporti con il re anche significare che Schelling 1835-1840Maestro del principe ereditario, il futuro re Massimiliano è il secondo.Quando il nuovo Ministro bavarese della Cultura Abel annulla la tolleranza religiosa, restituisceSchelling Monaco di Baviera nel 1841 sul retro e prende la chiamata a Berlino.La lezione inaugurale nel 1841 a Berlino, è sovraffollato, Bakunin, Engels, Kierkegaardtra gli ascoltatori. La delusione è comune. Schelling utilizza ilZeitgeist non, l’hegeliana si esprime – se a destra oa sinistra.”La filosofia è il suo tempo compreso nel pensiero”, afferma Hegel nella prefazione alsuo Filosofia del diritto. L’giovani hegeliani hanno visto nella Carta, ——————————————————————————–Pagina 21 21tutti i possibili riflessi sui fenomeni del suo tempo come una filosofiaproblema.Le serrature sono Schelling. Egli insiste sul fatto tutto ciò che è reale, naturale ela storia, intesa come una realtà assoluta (che altro?). Mamentre è importante vedere nel reale traccia della assoluta. E puòche la disperazione di bene. Ma forse è anche così fuori pistanon è stato trovato, ma ancora cercando il suo avere in mente.Il 20 Schelling è morto agosto 1854 a Bad Ragaz, in Svizzera.Maximilian II ha messo il suo maestro a Bad Ragaz, un monumento su cui sirecita: “L’primi pensatori della Germania” e Schelling in neo-classicalModo come un insegnante e Maximilian II mostra alcune importanti rispetto ai suoiStudenti. Sopra la scena è in una nicchia il busto vedere Schelling, unaLavoro Halbig. Nel monumento mostra il frontone unoButterfly, incorniciato da una corona di alloro. L’immagine simboleggiaImmortalità. L’esistenza dopo la morte, Schelling ha alcune riflessionidedicato.Egli stesso, sarà permesso di dire, continua a vivere nel suo lavoro, come lo storico –Edizione critica della Commissione di Schelling per badw è pubblicato

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{ ottobre 27, 2009 @ 10:45 pm } · { ikona }
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{ ottobre 27, 2009 @ 10:41 pm } · { ikona }
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exousia

{ ottobre 23, 2009 @ 3:39 pm } · { physis }
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Di solito motivo di irreversibilità in quantum open-sistema meccanico è l’interazione con un bagno termale, costituito sotto forma numero infinito di gradi di libertà. Irreversibilità del sistema appare dovuto alla media su tutte le realizzazioni possibili dell’ambiente Stati. Ma, in caso di quantum open-sistema meccanico con pochi gradi di libertà situazione è molto più complicato. Si dovrebbe aspettare ancora irreversibile, se perturbazione esterna è solo una forza adiabatico senza caratteristiche casuali? Problema non è ancora chiaro. Questo è il principale problema che ci affrontare in questo lavoro di revisione. Dimostriamo che il punto chiave nella formazione di irreversibilità in quantistici caotici sistemi meccanici, con pochi gradi di libertà, è la struttura complessa di spettro di energia. Prenderemo in considerazione della meccanica quantistica con il sistema parametrico spettro di energia dipendente. In particolare, abbiamo spettro di energia studio della Mathieu-equazione di Schrodinger. La struttura dello spettro non è abbastanza banale, è costituita dai domini di non degenerare e statistiche degenerata, separate le une dalle altre da punti di ramificazione. Grazie alla modulazione del parametro, il sistema eseguirà le transizioni da un dominio a un altro. Per la determinazione della autostati per ogni dominio e le probabilità di transizione tra di loro, utilizziamo i metodi di algebra astratta. Si mostrerà che particolarità di dipendenza parametrica dei termini di energia, porta alla formazione di stato misto e per l’irreversibilità, anche per l’esiguo numero di livelli coinvolti nel processo. Questa ultima affermazione è importante. Significato è che stiamo andando ad indagare il caos quantistico in sostanza, di dominio quantistica.

g8

{ ottobre 12, 2009 @ 8:58 pm } · { ikona }
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