to Supplementary pageOn the Nicomachean Ethics
by George Anastaplo
The epigraph is taken from Homer, Odyssey 13.116-24. See Plato, Republic 620C-D.
They stepped from the strong-benched Ship out
onto the dry
land [of Ithaca], and first they lifted and carried Odysseus
out of the hollow hull, along with his bed linen and shining
coverlet, and set him down on the sand. He was still bound
fast in sleep. Then they lifted and carried out the posses-
sions, those which the haughty Phaiakians, urged by great-
hearted Athena, had given him, as he set out for home, and
laid them next to the trunk of the olive, all in a pile and
away from the road, lest some wayfarer might come before
Odysseus awoke, and spoil his possessions.
-Homer
i
HAPPINESS, WE ARE TOLD by Aristotle, is the end of all human activity. It is that highest good at which all human activity aims. (See 1099a24.) It is or can be complete, not lacking anything. (See 1176b6.)HAPPINESS, WE ARE TOLD by Aristotle, is the end of all human activity. It is that highest good at which all human activity aims. (See 1099a24.) It is or can be complete, not lacking anything. (See 1176b6.)
Happiness itself can be understood to depend upon a half-dozen things or conditions. A preliminary survey of the things upon which happiness depends anticipates my extended discussion here of the last one of them, equipment, before returning in the second half of this chapter to the virtues themselves. (I draw upon all of the Nicomachean Ethics in this discussion of problems dealt with by Aristotle primarily in the first half of his treatise. His Poetics has been drawn upon in chapter 4 of this book.) Here, first, are the things upon which happiness depends:
1) Virtues. This is complicated. Most of the Ethics is devoted to an examination of the virtues, moral and intellectual, upon which happiness primarily depends. (See 1099b7.)
2) Life itself. The emphasis is upon a "complete life," preferably not a short one. (1098a18. See, also, 1100a3 sq.) Life and pleasure, it seems, are intimately linked (1175a20). Pleasures, as well as pains, can be used as rudders by the artist-in-ethics (or "the architect of the end") to steer the young and thereby to educate them (1152b1, 1172a20).
3) A city (or community). This includes the constitution and laws of the city (1179b35 sq.). The city is useful for preserving and training citizens who are, in a sense, among the things that the city uses. (Thus, the citizen cannot properly destroy himself on his own initiative [1138a7 sq.].)
4) A body–preferably a healthy and beautiful body. Chance can be important here (1099b4). Self-sufficiency is aimed at, but it can never be complete. (See 1097b8 sq.)
5) Friends. This includes the importance of good birth, of family, and of the household. (See 1155a1 sq.) Various kinds of friendship, for various purposes and for different lengths of time, are examined.
6) Circumstances. For example, a man who is being tortured is, other things being equal, not as happy as someone who is not being tortured. Virtue alone, we are thereby reminded, is not enough to ensure happiness. (See, e.g., 1100b20 sq., 1153b13 sq.)
7) Equipment. This, too, is complicated. It could be understood, for instance, as another way of saying either "body" or "circumstances." We can, by considering equipment at some length, remind ourselves of how "realistic" the "idealistic" ancients could be.
ii
In a sense, various of the half-dozen conditions that I have just listed as things upon which happiness depends could be considered as "equipment," not just the last item–things such as virtue, life itself, friends, and the city. But they, unlike the last item listed, are not called equipment by Aristotle. Those things do tend to be desired more for their own sake. (Some parts of the body are called "instrumental" [1110a15]. The body as a whole may be considered instrumental, with a view to certain purposes.) Virtue, life, and friends can be considered good in themselves, things to be "pursued even when isolated from others," even as are "intelligence, sight, and certain pleasures and honors" (1096b17). Thus, "life itself is good and pleasant" (1170a25). Thus, also, virtue is called "the greatest of goods" (1169a10). Friends, too, can be desired for themselves, even though friends can be spoken of as "useful people" (1169b24); "no one would choose the whole world on condition of being alone, since man is a political creature" (1169b18).
Consider, on the other hand, how equipment, or certain kinds of external goods, are spoken of. It is indicated at the outset of book 1 that any preparation of equipment takes its bearings from a higher calling. The equipment of horses, for example, is determined by the "art of riding," which in turn is subsumed under strategy (1094a12). Toward the end of book 1 (1101a14), the importance of equipment is summed up in this fashion: "Why then should we not say that he is happy who is active in accordance with complete virtue and is sufficiently equipped with external goods, not for some chance period but throughout a complete life?"
To speak of equipment, then, is to recognize a hierarchy. This means, among other things, that money-making is "undertaken under compulsion" –that it is done not for its own sake but for a higher purpose (1096a5). Again and again, the "final good" is pointed to. (See 1097b8.) This is related to the "function of man." (See 1097b26.) We are also told, "The study of pleasure and pain belongs to the province of the political philosopher; for he is the architect of the end, with a view to which we call one thing bad and another good without qualification" (1152b1).
iii
What is to be done with respect to property considered primarily as equipment? Virtue can direct one how to deal with various kinds of property in various circumstances. The virtue of justice helps to determine, for example, how property is to be acquired and transferred.
Certain virtues can even depend upon property, if one is to exercise them. Liberality determines how property is to be shared with friends and others; magnificence, which can be related to piety in some instances, determines how one's great wealth is to be used. (See, e.g., 1123a6.) The magnificent man knows how to spend large sums tastefully for the enrichment of all (1122a34). We can see here, in the practice of liberality and in the practice of magnificence, uses of property for the sake of a good life. So it can be said that "it is impossible, or not easy, to do noble acts without the proper equipment." (1099b1. We recall the armor evidently required by Achilles for his greatest exploits.)
These uses of property are in addition to the uses of property for survival and for certain pleasures or comforts. (The virtue of temperance can be critical, as well as the virtue of courage, in that one is in a condition to fight.) Thus, property can be seen here as useful for the sake of life itself. Care is needed, of course: "drink or food which is above or below a certain amount destroys the health, while that which is proportionate both produces and increases and preserves it" (1104a18). Care is needed also lest property become a hindrance rather than a help. Thus, one's property can be thrown overboard to save oneself on a ship (1110a10). Certainly, wealth has undone people (1094b19). It is not something good for its own sake. The effects of its presence or absence can depend upon circumstances. For example, some who have nothing may be the best soldiers, because they are ready to face great dangers and sell their life for trifling gains (1117b17). On the other hand, professional soldiers, who are moved only by prospect of gain, can become unreliable when their numbers or weapons are inferior to those of the enemy (1116b17).
iv
The importance of property in helping to determine or shape one's circumstance, as well as the condition of one's body and one's relations with one's friends, is evident throughout the Ethics. The importance of circumstances is what helps make prudence critical both for virtue and for happiness. Prudence is related to deliberations about what is good and expedient, especially with respect to the good life in general (1140a27). "Practical wisdom," we are told, "must be a reasoned and true state or capacity to act with regard to human goods" (1140b20). Prudence, we have been told by Edmund Burke, is "the god of this lower world." (See Anastaplo, The Constitutionalist, p.783.)
Prudence does reflect a recognition of the role of bodies and the requirements of (including the taxes collected by) cities which are, to a considerable extent, dedicated to the survival and health of living bodies. The dictates of prudence may even be seen in the management of what we would call "spiritual matters." (See, on how temples should be placed, Aristotle, Politics 1331a24-31, 1335b13-17; chapter 3, addendum, sections v-vi. See, also, Anastaplo, "Church and State," pp.61, 109.)
Furthermore, prudence recognizes (and is required by) the fact that not all can be expected to understand everything that a privileged few can. It recognizes the limited prospects of most people, the limited views of most with respect to happiness, which many do tend to see primarily in terms of pleasure as ordinarily understood.
Even so, the opinions of the many with respect to these matters are not without foundation. If various physical pleasures are added to an otherwise good life, the total effect is usually greater (and better) than it would have been–provided, however, that the more important activities necessary for a truly good life are not impeded by such pleasures. (See 1097b20. See, also, 1172b26 sq.)
v
We have seen that the need for equipment reflects critical human limitations. Several requirements should be met if virtue is to be fully supplemented as a basis for happiness. We have also seen that these limitations, which are due in part to our mortality and hence to our dependence upon the body, are intimately related to the vital role among us of prudence.
Since bodies, the cities that serve them, and the circumstances that affect them all differ as much as they do, it does not make sense to have inflexible rules by which to conduct ourselves. Inflexible rules presuppose fixed quantities or entities (as in mathematics). But bodies are so constituted that no one activity is always pleasant (1154b20). The variety of circumstances is such, for example, that stumbling can be worse than pleurisy on some occasions (1138b2). To deal with bodies is, among other things, to deal with chance to a considerable degree.
Prudence is aware of, and responds to, that infinite variety which material things–whether bodies or cities–exhibit, that variety which again and again requires adjustments in our responses. This means that the subject-matter of ethics does not permit of precise treatment. Aristotle reminds us of this repeatedly. (See, e.g., 1094b11 sq., 1098a26, 1103b34 sq., 1165a13.)
vi
Much more precision is available to the student of the unchanging things which are the concern of scientific inquiry and of metaphysics. (See, e.g., bk. 6, chap. 3.) It is to the grasp of eternal things that the contemplative life is primarily directed, that activity which is best for happiness. This is the most human if not even a divine life–or so it would seem from the following passage in which may be found things we have noticed (1177a11-19):
If happiness is activity in accordance with virtue, it is reasonable that it should be in accordance with the highest virtue; and this will be that of the best thing in us. Whether it be reason or something else that is this element which is thought to be our natural ruler and guide and to take thought of things noble and divine, whether it be itself also divine or only the most divine element in us, the activity of this in accordance with its proper virtue will be perfect happiness. That this activity is contemplation we have already said.
This emphasis upon the reasonable conforms with the fact that the contemplative life has the least need for equipment or property, that property which is, in a sense, an a-rational element in the fabric of human existence. Thus, it is said that "the excellence of the reason" "would seem . . . to need external equipment but little, or less than moral virtue does" (1178a20-25).
Of course, the contemplative life does require some property, so long as one is concerned with and dependent upon life on earth. (See 1178b32 sq.) Still, the physical needs of such a human being are likely to be moderate. Perhaps these needs are further restrained because he knows that "man is not the best thing in the world" (1141a23). Should not this recognition curtail his bodily as well as his social desires (including that ambition which will be discussed further on in this chapter)?
Yet, it should be remembered, "it is for himself most of all that each man wishes what is good" (1159a12). Existence is good to the virtuous man, so much so that he does not want, in order to gain even the greatest goods, to become someone else (1166a18 sq.). And is not to be oneself (at least as a human being) somehow to be, or at least to have been, associated with a body in need of sustenance and other support?
vii
Much of what I have said thus far in this chapter is summed up by the following quite practical comment by Aristotle in book 7 (1153b13-20):
The chief good would be some pleasure, though most pleasures might perhaps be bad without qualification. And for this reason all men think that the happy life is pleasant and weave pleasure into their ideal of happiness–and reasonably too; for no activity is perfect when it is impeded, and happiness is a perfect thing; this is why the happy man needs the goods of the body and external goods, i.e., those of fortune, viz. in order that he may not be impeded in these ways. Those who say that the victim on the rack or the man who falls into great misfortunes is happy if he is good, are, whether they mean to or not, talking nonsense.
Thus, it would seem, virtue (including intellectual virtue) is not so self-sufficient, or sufficient enough in making one happy, that it is in no need at all of equipment. So much is external equipment needed in all walks of life that some people mistakenly identify happiness with good fortune. (1099b8. See, also, 1153b20.) This is not unlike those who, in post-classical times, would identify happiness (or salvation) as dependent primarily if not exclusively upon grace.
The Aristotelian approach to these matters, which is in part natural and hence "pragmatic," is to be contrasted with approaches that see virtue–in the form, say, of a determined good will, or in the form of a confession of the true faith–as in itself sufficient for happiness. In either case, prudence is depreciated, if not altogether discarded. We may even be told that it suffices, if one is to be happy (indeed eternally happy) that one believe and act as one should, irrespective of the circumstances and consequences. That one is a "victim on the rack" should not matter–indeed, some have borne witness, it may even enhance one's merit and hence one's reward.
We can see in Aristotle a more prosaic approach than these more "idealistic" alternatives to the virtues, especially the moral virtues to which the happiness of most people is keyed. We turn now, in order to see what the moral virtues do look like, to how they are organized in the Nicomachean Ethics. (See, on the "idealistic" alternatives, Anastaplo, The American Moralist, p. 27.)
viii
There are discussed, in books 3, 4, and 5 of the Ethics, eleven moral virtues distributed among seven categories. The seven categories are (to adopt W. D. Ross's designations) the following (with numbering added here):
Another categorization could combine, as we shall see, courage and temperance, on the one hand, and the virtues concerned with anger and with social intercourse, on the other hand, resulting in five categories.
The eleven moral virtues surveyed by Aristotle in books 3-5 of the Ethics are the following (with the Ross vocabulary set forth first in each case):
(A quasi-virtue, shame, is considered between ready wit and justice.)
One recognized Aristotelian contribution to moral philosophy has been to encourage us to regard each of these virtues as separate, or at least as separable. (Aristotle thereby refines, perhaps, the approach taken by Gorgias.) This draws upon the general opinion that it is possible for a man to have, or to exhibit, some of these virtues but not others. Still, may there not be something to the Platonic assumption that the virtues are interrelated, however much Aristotle (at least in this context) resists reducing all of the moral virtues to one only (that is, to prudence)?
Even so, an interrelatedness among the virtues is reflected in our expectation that a principle of order may be discerned for the sequence supplied by Aristotle. We are confident that his is not a haphazard arrangement, even though we may be far from sure about what his ordering principle is, except that the virtues may be unified in their contributions to happiness. (Was the number of the moral virtues intended to recall "The Eleven," the administrators, chosen in Athens by lot, who were in charge of the prison and executions? The Eleven were, in effect, the official executors of the moral judgments of the city. See, for example, Plato, Apology 37B-C.)
ix
The array of moral virtues is framed by the two most complex of the eleven virtues, courage and justice.
The complexity of these two virtues is suggested by the particularly extended discussion allocated to each of them. It is suggested as well by the complications in their names. Various things are called courage, which are not quite that; and justice has both a more general and a more specific form, with several branches of the latter.
We sense that courage (along with temperance) is fundamental, as providing a foundation for the development of the moral virtues, and we sense that justice is fundamental, as illuminating for the moral virtues their ultimate objective or end in the city. Both courage and justice are needed if the city is to exist––if it is to be able to preserve itself and if it is truly to be a city and hence worth preserving. The virtues of social intercourse, which are related to friendship, anticipate justice or are somehow related to it. Do we see in justice a social amalgam of what courage and temperance permit, aim at, or are guided by?
When Aristotle discusses the greatsouledness which may be seen in . . . the term usually translated as pride, the other virtues casually taken for granted are courage and justice. We can see again and again that these two virtues define the limits within which the moral virtues range. They further resemble each other in that both of them, more than the others, can be regarded ultimately as another's good, however much all of the virtues are good for their practitioners.
We move from the framing of the moral virtues by courage and justice to a preliminary suggestion of how the two halves of the Aristotelian array fit together. The first half of the moral virtues are directed, for the most part, toward material things (including one's body) and their management. This kind of concern extends even to glimpses of how the greatsouled man talks and walks in his pride. The orientation in the discussion of the first five virtues seems more "personal," however socially important virtues such as courage, liberality, and magnificence may be.
In the second half of the moral virtues the emphasis is less upon how one is "personally" and more upon how one is "socially," upon how one carries on with others. Thus, although courage (the first of the virtues) does refer to how a man deals with others, he can be seen as standing alone against others; gentleness (the first of the second half of the virtues) very much looks to how he deals with others. This dealing with others culminates for the second half of the array in justice, whereas the standing-alone culminates for the first half of the array in greatsouledness, seen in the man who is of all moral actors the most nearly self–sufficient.
Critical to the greatsouled man is his self-assessment: he is what he is, conducting himself as he should, no matter what others think. Similarly, acts of courage and of temperance may be called for even in circumstances where it cannot be expected that others would ever hear of those acts. Others may benefit from these, as well as they do from one's liberality and magnificence, but the "personal" character of the activity may be more critical here than in the virtues concerned with anger and social intercourse.
x
Central to the array of the specific virtues is a concern with honor: ambition and lack of ambition are listed as extremes of a nameless virtue.
The greatsouled (or highminded) man, although he is worthy of the highest honors, is not primarily concerned with honor or ambition but with doing properly the things that one should be honored for in a well-ordered community. The virtue of pride1 or greatsouledness, which is immediately before the central virtue keyed to ambition, includes a lack of concern about either ambition or honor. Yet the proper response to ambition, with its deference to public opinion, lies at the core of the workings of the moral virtues in a city. (Does gentleness, the virtue immediately after the central [nameless] virtue pertaining to ambition, tend to counter the effects of pride, the greatsouledness-inclined virtue that precedes the central virtue in Aristotle's list?)
The brevity of the discussion of this central but nameless virtue–the shortest discussion allotted to any of the moral virtues–invites quotation of the passage in its entirety (1125b1-25):
There seems to be in the sphere of honour also, as was said in our first remarks on the subject [1123b24-27], a virtue which would appear to be related to pride as liberality is to magnificence. For neither of these has anything to do with the grand scale, but both dispose us as is right with regard to middling and unimportant objects; as in getting and giving of wealth there is a mean and an excess and defect, so too honour may be desired more than is right, or less, or from the right sources and in the right way. We blame both the ambitious man as aiming at honour more than is right and from wrong sources, and the unambitious man as not willing to be honoured even for noble reasons. But sometimes we praise the ambitious man as being manly and a lover of what is noble, and the unambitious man as being moderate and self-controlled, as we said in our first treatment of the subject [1107b33]. Evidently, since "fond of such and such an object" has more than one meaning, we do not assign the term "ambition" or "love of honour" always to the same thing, but when we praise the quality we think of the man who loves honour more than most people, and when we blame it we think of him who loves it more than is right. The mean being without a name, the extremes seem to dispute for its place as though that were vacant by default. But where there is excess and defect, there is also an intermediate; now men desire honour both more than they should and less; therefore it is possible also to do so as one should; at all events this is the state of character that is praised, being an unnamed mean in respect to honour. Relatively to ambition it seems to be unambitiousness, and relatively to unambitiousness it seems to be ambition, while relatively to both severally it seems in a sense to be both together. This appears to be true of the other virtues also. But in this case the extremes seem to be contradictories because the mean has not received a name.
The reliance upon honor, at the core of the moral virtues, points up the political importance, or orientation, of those virtues. They are not only for one's self-satisfaction, personal fulfillment, or "salvation." A civic perspective informs our grasp of all of the moral virtues. But, as we have noticed, the model of the greatsouled man reminds us that the ultimate justification for honor is that it can encourage self-assessment and self-direction, as one is led to do the things that make one truly worthy of honor. (These observations hearken back to the reservations recorded in the opening pages of the Ethics about any pursuit of honor for its own sake.) Moreover, we must ultimately depend upon the citizen who wants to be a certain kind of human being, whether or not anyone is watching.
It is emphasized by Aristotle in the brief discussion of this central virtue that it is nameless, the only one of the eleven virtues thus singled out emphatically. Why should he have so arranged matters as to dramatize this virtue as nameless? Names reflect the settled opinions of the community about things. But, it seems, there is something inherently ambiguous about this virtue, the virtue that may "make things happen." Indeed, we may even be alerted to this kind of problem with all of the moral virtues by a dramatization of namelessness in the presentation of the central virtue. The status, or at least the precision, of the moral virtues may thereby be called into question, especially from the perspective of anyone adept in the intellectual virtues.
Is not a rough general awareness usually relied upon, and perhaps even sufficient, for the typical moral virtue? A strict scientific, or theoretical, approach should not be expected in such matters, an approach which would require and result in precise namings. (A full discussion of this would have to consider at length what Aristotle has to say in book I of the Ethics about the Platonic account of the Idea of the Good, something that is touched upon in part two of chapter 11 of this book.) The vying of extremes for possession of this unnamed virtue suggests that assessments of moral activities may all too often depend in part upon "where one is coming from."
The namelessness of the central virtue also reminds us that the moral virtues have developed out of the everyday practice from which they have taken their names. This is not to deny that nature may have been at work in their emergence, but that is possible without a people's being self-conscious. It is only after critical conditions exist, and perhaps have existed for some time–conditions that depend in large part upon established moral virtues–that a philosophical inquiry into, and refinement of, the moral virtues can take place.
Such refinement may be seen in the way that the moral virtues are arranged. The philosopher, in the ordering of his discussion of what the various virtues look like in practice, says more about them than the typical practitioner can appreciate.
xi
We return now to more detail on how Aristotle moves from one virtue to another. The sequence, we have seen, builds upon courage and temperance. We know from everyday experience that these two virtues may be separated in practice, that a man can be courageous without being temperate (consider the brave soldier on a drunken furlough) or that a man can be temperate without being courageous (consider the timid man who watches his weight).
We must wonder, however, whether these two virtues are not the proper foundation for all the other moral virtues. Certainly, these two virtues represent the preliminary shaping of fear and desire (which can lead, all too often, to cowardice and greed). Courage and temperance are said by Aristotle to be the virtues of the irrational part, however much reason may have to be used in determining what should be done about fear and desire. (See 1117b22.) Children, in particular, it seems, need to have both fear and desire curbed if something noteworthy is to be made of their lives.
If courage and temperance are the foundations, then civic concerns must build on personal traits. We can recognize here the perennial problem of the proper relation between the city and the family, that family which helps prepare human beings for citizenship. We know that Sophocles' Antigone, with its defiance of the law for the sake of a brother, addresses this problem one way; Plato's Republic, with its community of wives and children, another way.
xii
Aristotle's sequence of the moral virtues continues. The virtues concerned with money follow upon the virtue of temperance. Rather than spending on oneself, one should spend properly on others; rather than be self-indulgent, one should use one's property in a manner reflecting a sound character in oneself.
Then there come the virtues concerned with honor. Greatsouledness follows naturally upon magnificence. Magnificence makes much of grandeur, using money instead of virtue to achieve the desired effect. The greatsouled man is, so to speak, the real thing: he is that which the wealthy man with his tasteful expenditures on a grand scale properly appears to be. These two pairs of virtues (liberality and magnificence, on the one hand; pride and the unnamed response to ambition, on the other) are brought together by Aristotle in a ratio: "There seems to be in the sphere of honor . . . a virtue which would appear to be related to pride as liberality is to magnificence." (See 1125b1. See, also, 1107b24 sq. The typical citizen, even with the Greek term before him, is not apt to appreciate the greatsouled element in [ ], making pride the more comfortable translation for him.)
Just as the virtues concerned with money may be keyed to the virtue of temperance, so the virtues concerned with honor may be keyed to the virtue of courage. One should use one's courage in the service of the community, making oneself worthy of honor. In some people, one suspects, the prospects of honor or of dishonor can counteract to a considerable extent the influence of fear. Just as the virtues concerned with money guide one to a proper paying out to others, so the virtues concerned with honor guide one to a proper gathering in from others (that is, one is paid in the best available "coin of the realm").
Following immediately upon the virtues concerned with honor and hence ambition is the virtue concerned with anger. We have noticed that courage may be at the root of ambition–and anger is easily, if not naturally, provoked by both courage and ambition. Does not the virtue of gentleness help moderate the competition for honors? Anger should not be altogether extinguished, however, since it not only helps one to brave death in battle but it also helps to fuel the proper indignation sometimes needed if justice is to be pursued.
Then there come the virtues concerned with social intercourse. These are related to the friendship made so much of in books 8 and 9 of the Ethics. In a way, people care more for these virtues, most of the time, than for the others. Once honor has been put in proper perspective, with anger sufficiently curbed, a satisfying social intercourse can be developed.
Finally, there is the virtue of justice. The other ten virtues have to be developed first because one aspect of justice incorporates all the other virtues, at least in their social dimensions. Then there is justice in the particular sense having to do with transactions of one kind or another. Justice-in-its-general-form and particular justice are related to one another, especially as they both take their bearings by the common good and often by the law. Justice, then, can be seen as the culmination of the moral virtues in their communal manifestations, just as greatsouledness can be seen as the culmination of the moral virtues in their highest human manifestation.
xiii
Whether the moral virtues are themselves the highest form of human excellence depends upon the status among us of the intellectual virtues, the discussion of which Aristotle turns to in book 6. The authority of the intellectual virtues may be seen not only in the way the moral virtues are organized in the Ethics but also in what Aristotle indicates about the significance of names.
Consider, for example, what we have noticed about the uses of names in the ordering of the virtues. The first of the moral virtues, courage, has to be distinguished from several other things that look like it and bear the same name in everyday parlance; the central moral virtue is a nameless virtue dependent upon honor, with honor itself being a kind of naming of a man by the community or public opinion; and the final moral virtue, justice, incorporates under one name related but different things vital to the well-being of the community.
It can be important to know what the names of things are. Honor is less determinable, less knowable, than either courage or justice, it would seem. This working with, and continual reworking of, names points beyond the moral virtues to the intellectual virtues.
The human passions may well have a cognitive element at their core, although that may be difficult to discern in some cases. If the opinion underlying a passion is addressed, what happens to the passion? If nothing happens, then we may be dealing with a kind of insanity that cannot be treated except perhaps by physical (including chemical) means.
This brings us to major questions which can be little more than mentioned here: How critical, in Aristotle, is the understanding for virtue? To what extent, or in what way, are the moral virtues grounded in nature? (These are questions that may be important for the Rhetoric as well as for the Ethics.) These questions are illuminated by what Aristotle says in the Ethics about shame in book 4 and about continence in book 7. What does it mean, for example, that a man can appear to recognize something as wrong and yet still do it? Can he, in these circumstances, truly know either what is wrong or what he is doing?
The cognitive element in the virtues may best be seen in Aristotle's discussion of justice, which sometimes requires sustained and intricate calculations. It may be seen as well in the confident self-knowledge of the greatsouled man. Further indicative of the cognitive element in the virtues may be how Aristotle arranges the moral virtues, something that we have just begun to examine.
This is related to the effort I have made throughout this book to examine the intimate relation between the thinker and the artist, including the artist who devotes himself to the creation and maintenance of a moral community and the thinker who draws upon the intellectual virtues in ordering, relying on, and describing the moral virtues. (See Anastaplo, "Lessons for the Student of Law," p. 179. See, also, my article in volume 28 of the Loyola University of Chicago Law Journal, "Individualism, Professional Ethics, and the Sense of Community: From Runnymede to a London Telephone Booth." This includes a discussion of Milton's Paradise Lost.)
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Reprinted here with the author's permission.