Ontologie: Probleme filosofice

I. Aporia. Introducere; Problema problemelor filosofice: aporetica;

I.1. Aristotel: metoda diaporematică (Metafizica III (B);
I.1.1. Petrus Abaelardus: Sic et Non;

II. Sorites: barba, pletosul, chelul, grămada de nisip; deșertul; buchetul de flori; pădurea;

II.1. Sider on Hell; Problema Judecătorului (în fața mulțimii vagi): Ted Sider despre iad;

III. Sofismul morții: Platon, Parmenide;

IV. Paradoxul din Menon; Meno's paradox

V. Methexis: relația dintre Forme și lucrurile individuale; mundus intelligibilis & mundus
sensibilis; Plotin despre relația dintre Forme și lucrurile individuale: individul seamănă
cu Forma / Ideea; Ideea / Forma nu seamănă cu lucrul concret;

VI. Vasul Argo; ship of Argo problem; identity in time;

VI. 1. Personal identity

VII. Boundaries. Limite, extremități, granițe

VIII. Argumentul ontologic: sf. Anselm, Descartes, Kant; Ontological Argument

IX. Holes: Găuri, caverne și peșteri

X. No Progress in Philosophy

I. Despre aporie

23. In 1900, the great mathematician David Hilbert challenged his peers to solve twenty-
three unsolved problems in the field. As of today the consensus holds that ten of these
problems have been solved, with seven more solutions holding partial acceptance, leaving
four problems left open. Kurt Godel’s incompleteness theorem — demonstrated in 1931 — 
addresses the second question in Hilbert’s problem set and, with John von Neumann,
Alonzo Church, and Alan Turing building on its insights, the problem’s resolution opened
the door to the invention of modern computing.
By comparison, Bertrand Russell wrote a book in 1912 called The Problems of
Philosophy. Each chapter discusses an open problem in the field — the riddle of induction,
appearance versus reality, the limits of knowledge, and so on. None of the problems in
Russell’s book have been solved to date.

In philosophy, Aporia (Ancient Greek: ᾰᾰ̓πορῐῐ́ᾱ, translit. aporíā, lit. 'impasse, difficulty in
passage, lack of resources, puzzlement') is a puzzle or state of puzzlement. In rhetoric, it
is a useful expression of doubt.

In philosophy, an aporia is a philosophical puzzle or a seemingly insoluble impasse in an

inquiry, often arising as a result of equally plausible yet inconsistent premises (i.e.
a paradox). It can also denote the state of being perplexed, or at a loss, at such a puzzle or
impasse. In Plato's Meno (84a-c), Socrates describes the purgative effect of reducing
someone to aporia: it shows someone who merely thought he knew something that he
does not in fact know it and instills in him a desire to investigate it.

In Aristotle's Metaphysics, aporia plays a role in his method of inquiry. In contrast to

a rationalist inquiry that begins from a priori principles, or an empiricist inquiry that
begins from a tabula rasa, he begins the Metaphysics by surveying the various aporiai
that exist, drawing in particular on what puzzled his predecessors: "with a view to the
science we are seeking [i.e., metaphysics], it is necessary that we should first review the
things about which we need, from the outset, to be puzzled" (995a24). Book Beta of
the Metaphysics is a list of the aporiai that preoccupy the rest of the work.

Metoda diaporematică

Valentin Mureșan: În Metafizica III (B) 1, demersul dialectic e descris astfel: atunci când
suntem confruntați cu rezolvarea unor probleme disputate, “în privința cărora unii
gânditori dinainte şi‐au exprimat păreri deosebite de ale noastre”, ceea ce vom face mai
întâi va fi să trecem în revistă opiniile pe care vrem să le discutăm în legătură cu aceste
probleme: aceste opinii vor include atât punctele noastre de vedere asupra subiectului
cât şi puncte de vedere străine. Esențială e identificarea corectă a problemelor căci
rezultatul depinde pe jumătate de aceasta; „dacă nu ştii unde e nodul, nu poți să‐l
dezlegi”. Scopul nostru e “să clarificăm dificultățile” care apar din punerea laolaltă a
acestor opinii şi pentru asta trebuie să ştim cum e cel mai bine să le abordăm. Căci un om
care “cercetează fără a formula mai întâi dificultățile e ca şi acela care nu ştie încotro
trebuie să meargă” şi nu îşi dă seama atunci când a descoperit ceva dacă a făcut
realmente o descoperire sau nu. “Căci scopul nu îi e clar unui asemenea om, pe când celui
ce a discutat mai întâi dificultățile îi e clar”. Acesta înțelege mai bine care ar fi principiul
din moment ce a / ascultat susținătorii tuturor opiniilor care se confruntă, ca la tribunal.
Un cercetător veritabil nu poate rămâne închis în propria sa teorie, neavând nici o
justificare pentru principiile pe care le‐a adoptat în concurență cu alții (căci principiile nu
se autojustifică), aşa încât calea cea mai bună pentru a ne verifica soliditatea construcției
e “să discutăm [principiile] prin intermediul opiniilor general admise într‐o anumită
problemă şi această sarcină revine în mod propriu, sau e cea mai potrivită, dialecticii,
căci dialectica e un proces critic apt să deschidă calea spre principiile tuturor tipurilor de
cercetare” (Top. I, 2). Noi vom putea “discerne mai uşor adevărul de fals” atâta vreme
cât, în legătură cu toate problemele controversate despre care există teorii divergente,
vom compara punctele de vedere ale autorilor acelor teorii cu al nostru sau cu altele de
acelaşi fel. Căci cu siguranță va fi „în stare să judece mai bine acela care, ca la tribunal, a
ascultat toate argumentele părților în cauză” (Met. III, 1).
Cum constată J. Barnes, Cartea III (B) din Metafizica este un lung catalog de probleme
dialectice şi de aporii, pentru ca restul cărții să fie dedicat în principal soluționării lor.

Structura Metafizicii e aporetică și nu deductivă.

In Pyrrhonism aporia is intentionally induced as a means of producing ataraxia.

Contemporary academic studies of the term further characterize its usage in philosophical
discourses.
In Aporetics: Rational Deliberation in the Face of Inconsistency (2009), Nicholas
Rescher is concerned with the methods in which an aporia, or "apory", is intellectually
processed and resolved. In the Preface, Rescher identifies the work as an attempt to
"synthesize and systematize an aporetic procedure for dealing with information overload
(of 'cognitive dissonance', as it is sometimes called)" (ix).
The text is also useful in that it provides a more precise (although specialized) definition
of the concept: "any cognitive situation in which the threat of inconsistency confronts us"
(1). Rescher further introduces his specific study of the apory by qualifying the term as "a
group of individually plausible but collectively incompatible theses", a designation he
illustrates with the following syllogism or "cluster of contentions":
1. What the sight of our eyes tells us is to be believed.
2. Sight tells us the stick is bent.
3. What the touch of our hand tells us is to be believed.
4. Touch tells us the stick is straight. (2)
The aporia, or "apory" of this syllogism lies in the fact that, while each of these assertions
is individually conceivable, together they are inconsistent or impossible (i.e. they
constitute a paradox). Rescher's study is indicative of the continuing presence of
scholarly examinations of the concept of aporia and, furthermore, of the continuing
attempts of scholars to translate the word, to describe its modern meaning.

Îndoială, nesiguranță, încurcătură. „Nu văz nici un spor de la tine; aceasta mă pune în
mare aporie”. FILIMON, C. 82. Încurcătură.

II. Sorites. Paradoxul grămezii

The sorites paradox - sometimes known as the paradox of the heap - is a paradox that
arises from vague predicates.[2] A typical formulation involves a heap of sand, from
which grains are individually removed. Under the assumption that removing a single
grain does not turn a heap into a non-heap, the paradox is to consider what happens when
the process is repeated enough times: is a single remaining grain still a heap? If not, when
did it change from a heap to a non-heap?[3]
The original formulation and variations[edit]

Paradox of the heap: Paradoxul grămezii

The word "sorites" derives from the Greek word for heap.[4] The paradox is so named
because of its original characterization, attributed to Eubulides of Miletus.[5] The
paradox goes as follows: consider a heap of sand from which grains are individually
removed. One might construct the argument, using premises, as follows:[3]
1,000,000 grains of sand is a heap of sand (Premise 1)
A heap of sand minus one grain is still a heap. (Premise 2)
Repeated applications of Premise 2 (each time starting with one fewer grain) eventually
forces one to accept the conclusion that a heap may be composed of just one grain of
sand.[6] Read (1995) observes that "the argument is itself a heap, or sorites, of steps
of modus ponens":[7]
1,000,000 grains is a heap.
If 1,000,000 grains is a heap then 999,999 grains is a heap.
So 999,999 grains is a heap.
If 999,999 grains is a heap then 999,998 grains is a heap.
So 999,998 grains is a heap.
If ...
... So 1 grain is a heap.
Variations
Then tension between small changes and big consequences gives rise to the Sorites
Paradox...There are many variations...[some of which allow] consideration of the
difference between being...(a question of fact) and seeming...(a question of perception).
[2]
Another formulation is to start with a grain of sand, which is clearly not a heap, and then
assume that adding a single grain of sand to something that is not a heap does not turn it
into a heap. Inductively, this process can be repeated as much as one wants without ever
constructing a heap.[2][3] A more natural formulation of this variant is to assume a set of
colored chips exists such that two adjacent chips vary in color too little for human
eyesight to be able to distinguish between them. Then by induction on this premise,
humans would not be able to distinguish between any colors.[2]
The removal of one drop from the ocean, will not make it 'not an ocean' (it is still an
ocean), but since the volume of water in the ocean is finite, eventually, after enough
removals, even a litre of water left is still an ocean.
This paradox can be reconstructed for a variety of predicates, for example, with "tall",
"rich", "old", "blue", "bald", and so on. Bertrand Russell argued that all of natural
language, even logical connectives, is vague; moreover, representations of propositions
are vague.[8]
Other similar paradoxes are:
Argument of the beard [9]
The bald man paradox

Proposed resolutions
On the face of it, there are some ways to avoid this conclusion. One may object to the
first premise by denying 1,000,000 grains of sand makes a heap. But 1,000,000 is just an
arbitrarily large number, and the argument will go through with any such number. So the
response must deny outright that there are such things as heaps. Peter Unger defends this
solution.[10] Alternatively, one may object to the second premise by stating that it is not
true for all heaps of sand that removing one grain from it still makes a heap.[citation needed]
Setting a fixed boundary
A common first response to the paradox is to call any set of grains that has more than a
certain number of grains in it a heap. If one were to set the "fixed boundary" at,
say, 10,000grains then one would claim that for fewer than 10,000, it is not a heap;
for 10,000 or more, then it is a heap.[11]
However, such solutions are unsatisfactory as there seems little significance to the
difference between 9,999 grains and 10,000 grains. The boundary, wherever it may be set,
remains as arbitrary and so its precision is misleading. It is objectionable on both
philosophical and linguistic grounds: the former on account of its arbitrariness, and the
latter on the ground that it is simply not how we use natural language.[12]
A second response attempts to find a fixed boundary that reflects common usage of a
term. For example, a dictionary may define a "heap" as "a collection of things thrown
together so as to form an elevation."[13] This requires there to be enough grains that some
grains are supported by other grains. Thus, adding one grain atop a single layer produces
a heap, and removing the last grain above the bottom layer destroys the heap.
Unknowable boundaries (or epistemicism)

Timothy Williamson and Roy Sorensen hold an approach that there are fixed boundaries
but that they are necessarily unknowable.

Group consensus
One can establish the meaning of the word "heap" by appealing to consensus.
Williamson, in his epistemic solution to the paradox, assumes that the meaning of vague
terms must be determined by group usage.[27] The consensus approach typically claims
that a collection of grains is as much a "heap" as the proportion of people in a group who
believe it to be so. In other words, the probability that any collection is considered a heap
is the expected value of the distribution of the group's views.
A group may decide that:
One grain of sand on its own is not a heap.
A large collection of grains of sand is a heap.
Between the two extremes, individual members of the group may disagree with each
other over whether any particular collection can be labelled a "heap". The collection can
then not be definitively claimed to be a "heap" or "not a heap". This can be considered an
appeal to descriptive linguistics rather than prescriptive linguistics, as it resolves the issue
of definition based on how the population uses natural language. Indeed, if a precise
prescriptive definition of "heap" is available then the group consensus will always be
unanimous and the paradox does not arise.
Sorensen, Roy A. (2009). "sorites arguments". In Jaegwon Kim; Sosa, Ernest;
Rosenkrantz, Gary S. A Companion to Metaphysics. John Wiley & Sons. pp.565-566.

565 Sorites arguments

The sorites argument was invented by the ancient Megarian philosopher, Eubulides. He
begins with the premise that, say, one million grains of sand constitutes a heap.
Removing one grain of sand never turns a heap into a non-heap. Repeated application of
this principle leads to the conclusion that one grain of sand constitutes a heap. As an
Eleactic, Eubulides may well have regarded his paradox as metaphysically significant but
subsequent philosophers spurned it as a sophistic piffle. They objected that the argument
is highly indiscriminate. For a semantic slippery slope argument can be mounted for any
vague word – and nearly all words are vague. What’s worse, one can equally well argue
in the opposite direction: Positive version of the heap paradox
(1) A collection of one million grains of sand is a heap.
(2) If a collection of n grains of sand is a heap, then so is a collection of n − 1 grains.
(3) A collection of one grain of sand is a heap.

Negative version of the heap paradox

(1) A collection of one grain of sand is not a heap.
(2) If a collection of n grains is not a heap, then neither is a collection of n + 1 grains.
(3) A collection of one million grains of sand is not a heap.
Positive sorites arguments bloat the extension of a vague predicate while negative sorites
arguments shrivel it. Given the logical analogy between the two and their conflict with
each other, both arguments are highly suspect. However, it is notoriously difficult to
pinpoint the fallacy. Twentieth-century philosophers, especially those in the last twenty
years, have been increasingly intrigued by Eubulides’ invention. They grant the
reversibility of sorites arguments shows that not all sorites arguments are sound. But they
insist that an argument can be philosophically interesting even when it is known to be
unsound. Part of the modern optimism about the metaphysical significance of the sorites
is due to its connections to particular issues such as the Ship of Theseus paradox,
questions of personal identity, and problems in modal reasoning (see the extended essay
on modality and possible worlds; persons and personal identity). But the optimism also
has grander expressions. Closest in spirit to Eubulides are the nihilists. They reject the
base step of positive sorites arguments on the grounds that vague predicates such as
“heap” are incoherent. Since most of our vocabulary is vague, this constitutes a thorough
repudiation of the ontology suggested by common sense. Thus these nihilists accept the
negative sorites arguments as insightful impossibility proofs. For example, Unger (1979)
and Heller (1990) have argued that the sorites demonstrates that there are no ordinary
things (that vague predicates such as “smog”, “bagel” and “professor” are empty). Most
commentators attack the induction step of the sorites. In classical logic, the negation of
the induction step is equivalent to an existential generalization asserting the existence of a
precise threshold: there exists an n such that n grains of sand constitutes a heap but n − 1
grains does not. So continued allegiance to classical logic leads to the conclusion that
language or reality is “precise” in that our ordinary vague words manage to sharply
partition objects. There are metaphysics of precision that seem to satisfy this hunger for
determinacy. Mechanism narrows down the possible behavior of things. Atomism, natural
kinds and fact-ontologies tend to depict reality as discrete and so immune from slippery
slopes that exploit continua. However, there are also metaphysical principles that foster
vagueness. The principle of plenitude states that every possibility is realized in the

566 world. This gap-filling ensures that there will always be intermediate cases that slip
between qualitative categories. An equally ancient basis for metaphysical indeterminacy
is the Platonic principle that particular things are imperfect approximations of ideal types
(see Plato). Their inevitable deviations from the blueprint restrain one’s demand for
precision. Libertarianism is a metaphysics of vagueness because it cracks the causal
cement binding all events. Dualists compromise by granting determinism and free will
(see the extended essay) different dominions. Dualism will prompt some philosophers to
contend that logic only applies to one domain of reality. For example, in 1923 Russell
asserted that logic only applies to the Platonic heavens, not the terrestrial world of rough
and ready particulars. This engineering stance has to be separated from commitment to
vague objects. Russell insists that only representations can be vague and diagnosed belief
in vague objects as an instance of verbalism: the fallacy of imputing properties of words
to their referents. In 1978, Gareth evans presented an apparent disproof of the possibility
of vague objects. If there were vague objects, there would have to be a statement of the
form a = b that was indeterminate. However, Leibniz’s Law ensures the determinacy of
all identity statements. For if a = b, then whatever property a has is possessed by b. One
of the properties of a is being definitely identical to a. Therefore b must be definitely
identical to a. Evans’s argument has drawn many objections from philosophers who think
logic cannot exclude vague objects. Likewise, many commentators on the sorites are
reluctant to draw any metaphysical conclusion from the sorites paradox. They think its
true significance is logical. Proponents of many-valued logic say that the sorites paradox
exposes the need to assign indeterminate statements a degree of truth. Supervaluationists
say indeterminacies should be represented with truth-value gaps. Intuitionists try to de-
rail the sorites paradox by forbidding inference rules such as Double Negation. All of
these deviant logicians agree that classical logic only works for precise discourse and so
urge that we design a logic that is better suited to vague, natural languages. See also
antinomies; identity of indiscernibles; vagueness.

Bibliography
Evans, G.: “Can There Be Vague Objects?,” Analysis 38 (1978), 208.
Heller, M.: The Ontology of Physical Objects (New York: Cambridge University Press,
1990).
Sorensen, R.: Blindspots (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988).
Unger, P.: “There Are No Ordinary Things,” Synthese 4 (1979), 117–54.
van Inwagen, P.: Material Beings (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1991).
Wheeler, S.: „Megarian Paradoxes as Eleactic Arguments”, American Philosophical
Quarterly 20 (1983), 287–95.
Soluția propusă de Peter Unger: Nu există ceva de genul grămezii de nisip, lucrurile
obișnuite (ca mulțimi de părți, de atomi și molecule denumite în felurite chipuri) nu
există.

The problem elicited by these and other sorites paradoxes concerns the vagueness of
language. Terms like “heap,” “blue,” “short,” and “bald” are vague since they allow for
borderline cases where, despite having all the information normally considered sufficient
to determine whether the word may be used, it remains unclear whether or not to apply
it.2 We could count exactly how many grains are in a collection or measure the precise
wavelength of a patch of color, yet still be unable to determine with confidence whether it
is a heap or whether it is blue. Therefore, any solution to a sorites paradox must account
for the nature of vagueness itself.
To resolve a paradox, one of four approaches may be taken: denying the paradox is
logically possible, accepting the conclusion, claiming the reasoning is invalid, or denying
the premises are all true.3 For sorites paradoxes, the first option seems unviable since
many forms of the paradox are clearly possible and can even be modeled in real life. The
second option appears only slightly better since it implores us to accept that a single grain
may be a heap. Peter Unger argues along these lines that due to widespread and inherent
flaws in our language, there are in fact no such things as heaps: vague concepts are
“incoherent.”4 He notes, however, that due to the unattractiveness of this solution,
accepting the conclusion ought only to be a last resort if other approaches prove
unfruitful.5 The third strategy of attacking the reasoning seems unlikely to yield success
since the argument relies exclusively on iterations of modus ponens. If all premises are
true, it follows deductively that a 1-grain collection is a heap. This leaves only the fourth
approach: denying the truth of at least one premise. Since the conclusion is absurd, yet
the reasoning is valid, it looks to follow by reductio ad absurdum that at least one premise
must be false.

4 Peter Unger, „There Are No Ordinary Things”, Synthese 41, no. 2 (1979): 118,

Soluția propusă de Unger pare a fi fost intuită și de călugărul Nagasena

Există sofisme ale genului, speciei şi indivizilor, dar şi sofisme partitive, ale întregului şi
părţilor. Pentru a ilustra acest gen de dificultăți, voi cita un ilustru sofism partitiv. După
cum Anthistene replica lui Platon că el vede calul particular, dar nu calul în sine [sau
Ideea de cabalinitate], omul particular, dar nu omul în sine [sau Ideea de om], la fel
sofistul indian Nagasena reducea întregul (carul) la o sumă de părți disparate, după
exemplul următor.

„Rege, ai venit la mine la marginea oraşului într-un car. Ce este oare carul tău? Este roata
sau roţile? Este osia sau oiştea? Este totul laolaltă sau este altceva decît toate aceste părţi?
Ce numeşti tu ‚car’? O parte, părţile sau întregul? Şi ce este întregul? Poate fi el vreodată
văzut aievea de noi?

Nu, carul tău nu este nici una dintre aceste părţi ale sale, iar ca ‚tot / întreg’ nu ‚este’
deloc. Totul [întregul], carul, e numai un termen, care e înţeles în dependenţă de toate
aceste părţi. Întregul (carul) este numai un nume convenţional (pentru o mulțime de părți)
inventat de către oamenii care și-au făcut obiceiul de a se amăgi pe sine cu denumiri vagi
pentru entități (carul, buchetul de flori, roiul de albine) care nu există ca atare în realitate.

Şi ceea ce e mai important: Ce eşti tu, marele, victoriosul rege Menandru? Eşti mîna sau
piciorul tău? Capul sau gîndirea ta? Nu: tu nu ‚eşti’. Există numai părţile tale, apariţii ce
trec pe dinainte, însă nu există nici un tot [un întreg] care ar putea să poarte mîndrul nume
de rege Menandru, aşa cum nu există, în definitiv, un călugăr buddhist cu numele de
Nagasena..."

Nota: Regele Menandru a domnit în Punjab în jurul anului 150 înainte de Christos.

II.1. Sider on Hell; Problema Judecătorului (în fața mulțimii vagi): Ted Sider despre iad;

Intețial lui Ted Sider în articolul Hell and Vagueness, este de a prezenta un paradox care
implică o serie de cerințe rezonabile. Din punctul de vedere al considerațiilor biblice,
standard cu privire la Judecata de apoi și la împărțirea păcătoșilor în mîntuiți / aleși (cei
care vor merge în rai) și damnați (cei care merg în iad) aceste cerințe (și urmări) par
plauzibile. Aceste cerințe ar fi:

Dihotomia: există numai și numai două locuri / stări / condiții în viața de apoi: paradisul
și iadul.

Condiția dureroasă: indivizii din iad trăiesc infinit mai rău / mai atroce în iad decît
indivizii care au fost distribuiți din rai.

Non-universalitatea recompensei: unii oameni merg în rai și ceilalți / restul în iad. Nu

există o a treia categorie de indivizi (sfinții, să zicem) și nici un al treilea loc (purgatorial,
de pildă) în lumea de dincolo.

Controlul divin: Dumnezeu decide / hotărăște cine va merge în infern și cine va merge în
paradis.

Proporționalitatea: justiția / hotăririle judecătorului (pedepsele și recompensele) este

proporțională în sensul că „interzice tratamentul diferit al persoanelor care sînt foarte
asemănătoare sub aspectul unor atribute relevante”.

justice is proportional, in the sense that it “prohibits very unequal treatment of persons
who are very similar in relevant respects.”
Dreptate: judecata lui Dumnezeu cu privire la cine merge în rai și în iad este dreaptă /
corectă / îndeplinește criteriul justeții.

Trebuie să acceptăm că există unele modalități / criterii de a-i împărți pe toți indivizii în
mulțimile A și non-A (și numai în aceste mulțimi, o a treia nefiind posibilă) așa încît
indivizii foarte asemănători (sub aspectul condiției) nu pot fi plasați în mulțimi diferite.
Astfel, prin exigența dreptății, urmează că trebuie să existe o cale de a-i împărți pe
oameni în grupele A (rai) și non-A (iad). Indivizii foarte asemănători nu pot fi distribuiți
în grupe diferite.

Dificultatea, consideră Ted Sider, este că nu poate fi găsit un asemena criteriu infailibil (o
cale de diviziune perfectă) pentru a împărți corect / convenabil / drept / just mulțimea
oamenilor supuși Judecății de apoi. Oricum ar proceda Judecătorul, se ajunge la situația
că indivizi foarte asemănători ajung în mulțimi diferite. Sau, și mai rău, se ajunge la
situația în care un individ nu poate fi distribuit nici în rai, nici în iad decît printr-o decizie
arbirară a Judecătorului. Dar Dumnezeu nu poate proceda arbitrar. Judecătorul rămîne
mereu și mereu logic.

„Orice astfel de criteriu trebuie să-i judece pe indivizii creați în conformitate cu un

standard care presupune grade, sau admite cazuri de limită; dar nici un astfel de criteriu
nu poate rămîne simultan just - ori cel puțin non-arbitrar - și consistent / compatibil cu
natura vieții de apoi tocmai descrise”.

[A]ny just criterion must judge created beings according to a standard that comes in
degrees, or admits of borderline cases; but no such criterion can remain simultaneously
just—or at least non-arbitrary—and consistent with the nature of the afterlife just
described”.

III. Sofismul morţii. Sophism of Death

Alături de alte sofisme create de filosofii antici, putem pune şi un aşa-zis „sofism
mortal”. El este menţionat şi de Aulus Gellius în Nopţile atice (XIII, 1-12): „Cînd se
poate spune că moare cineva, cînd a trecut între cei morţi sau cînd este încă viu?”.

Întrebarea e suficient de dificilă: „fie că răspunzi într-un fel sau altul, răspunsul e absurd
şi ridicol, şi va părea cu mult mai absurd, dacă vei spune că amîndouă răspunsurile sînt
valabile sau nici unul din ele nu e valabil”.

Unii filosofi au ripostat că problema nu merită nici măcar a fi discutată, fiind vorba de o
simplă capcană de limbaj. Cel aflat încă în viaţă nu moare, fiindcă e în viaţă (cînd se
constată că moare); cît despre cel mort deja, a spune că moare e o inepţie. Verbul a
muri nu se poate aplica nici unui moment din viaţa celui viu (cît e viu). În ceea ce-i
priveşte pe morţi, verbul a muri e inutil.
Aulus Gellius afirmă că Platon „n-a atribuit nici vieţii, nici morţii momentul marcat de
verbul a muri”. Argumentul lui poate fi rezumat astfel: „[Platon] a văzut că şi una, şi alta
[şi viaţa, şi moartea] sînt opuse şi că din două contrarii nu poţi admite unul cînd celălalt
rămîne în picioare”.

Problema e „de a pune în concordanţă doi termeni contradictorii, viaţa şi moartea. De

aceea, Platon a spus că un asemenea moment este ceva nou, o stare intermediară, la
hotarul dintre cele două" [viaţa şi moartea].

În dialogul Parmenide (155e-157b), Platon a numit acest interval spaţiul subitului,

al instantaneului. Doar lui i se poate aplica verbul a muri.

Sofismul morții în formularea Aulus Gellius, Noctes atticae, VII, 13: „a miniature
collection of quaestiunculae sympoticae presided over by the philosopher Taurus”

„On the brief topics discussed at the table of the philosopher Taurus and called
Sympoticae, or Table Talk.43

1 This custom was practised and observed at Athens by those who were on intimate terms
with the philosopher Taurus; 2 when he invited us to his home, in order that we might not
come wholly tax-free,44 as the saying is, and without a contribution, we brought to the
simple meal, not dainty foods, but ingenious topics for discussion. 3 Accordingly, each
one of us came with a question which he had thought up and prepared, and when the
eating ended, conversation began. 4 The questions, however, were neither weighty nor
serious, but certain neat but trifling ἐνθυμημάτια, or problems, which would pique a mind
enlivened with wine; for instance, the examples of a playful subtlety which I shall quote.
5 The question was asked, when a dying man died — when he was already in the grasp of
death, or while he still lived? And when did a rising man rise — when he was already
standing, or while he was still seated? And when did one who was learning an art become
an artist — when he already was one, or when he was still learning? 6 For whichever
answer you make, your statement will be absurd and laughable, and it will seem much
more absurd, if you say that it is in either case, or in neither.
7 But when some declared that all these questions were pointless and idle sophisms,
Taurus said: "Do not despise such problems, as if they were mere trifling
p127 amusements. 8 The most earnest of philosophers have seriously debated this
question.45 Some have thought that the term 'die' was properly used, and that the moment
of death came, while life still remained; others have left no life in that moment, but have
claimed for death all that period which is termed 'dying.' 9 Also in regard to other similar
problems they have argued for different times and maintained opposite opinions. 10 But
our master Plato,"46 said he, "assigned that time neither to life nor to death, and took the
same position in every discussion of similar questions. 11 For he saw that the alternatives
were mutually contrary, that one of the two opposites could not be maintained while the
other existed, and that the question arose from the juxtaposition of two opposing
extremes, namely life and death. Therefore he himself devised, and gave a name to, a new
period of time, lying on the boundary between the two, which he called in appropriate
and exact language ἡ ἐξαίφνης φύσις, or 'the moment of sudden separation.' And this very
term, as I have given it," said he, "you will find used by him in the dialogue
entitled Parmenides."
12 Of such a kind were our "contributions"47 at Taurus' house, and such were, as he
himself used to put it, the τραγημάτια or "sweetmeats" of our desserts.

43 Really, talk "over the wine," or after-dinner talk.

44 The reference is to a dinner to which each guest brought his contribution
(symbolon); cf. Hor. Odes, IV.12.14 f., non ego te meis immunem meditor tinguere
poculis; Catull. XIII.

45 See Pease, "Things without Honor," Class. Phil. XXI (1926), pp27º ff.

46 Parm. 21, p156D; cf. VI.21, above.

Spyridon Rangos, „Plato on the Nature of the Sudden Moment, and the Asymmetry of the
Second Part of the Parmenides”, Dialogue 53 (03): 538-574 · September 2014 
In this paper, Plato’s notion of the sudden moment is fully explored. In the Parmenides,
the “now” (nun) and the “sudden” (exaiphnês), it is argued, refer to one and the same
entity from the distinct perspectives of timeless Being and temporal Becoming,
respectively. This interpretation tallies well with, and enriches, the Platonic views on time
and eternity found in the Timaeus. Finally, the paper highlights the pivotal role of the
third deduction, where the sudden moment appears, for an understanding of the entire
dialectical exercise of the Parmenides.

sympŏsĭăcus: a, um, adj., = συμποσιακός,>

I of or belonging to a banquet, convivial, symposiac: quaestiunculae, Gell. 6, 13 tit. (al.
sympoticae).—Subst.: Sympŏ-sĭăca, ōrum, n., the writings
of Plutarch entitled Symposium, Gell. 4, 11, 13; 17, 11, 6.
symposiacus, a, um (συμποσιακός), zum Gastmahle gehörig, subst., symposiaca, ōrum,
n., Tischgespräche, die συμπόσιον betitelten Schriften des Plutarch, Gell. 3, 6, 1; 4, 11, 13
u. 17, 11, 6.

IV. Methexis

“If the form proves to be like what partakes of it, a fresh form will never cease
emerging.” “That’s very true.” “So other things do not get a share of the forms by
likeness; we must seek some other means by which they get a share.” (Plato, Parmenides
132a-b)
Let us turn, then, to the Phaedo. in which Plato first speaks of methexis. Individual things
are caused to be what they are (e.g., beautiful, just, tall) by the presence (parousia) in
them of the Forms of Beauty, Justice, Tallness and by their having beauty, justice and
tallness somehow in common (koinonia) with such Forms. These latter make individuals
be beautiful, just and tall (Phaedo. 100D sgq.) .3 But how can the single Form of (say)
Beauty be in multiple beautiful existents? How can such a Form have something in
common with them? The closest Plato comes to replying to such inquiries is his
distinction of three factors in a participational situation: the Form itself (e.g., Beauty),
which is unique and separate from things; the participated perfection (beauty), which
must be as multiple as the individual beautiful things;4 and the participant, which is the
individual rose or person or race horse and which receives the participated perfection and
is thereby caused to be beautiful (102B-D). Father obviously, the second factor is crucial
if the Form is itself to remain transcendent and yet be the immanent source of perfection
in multiple participants. The participated perfection alone inheres directly in each
participant and yet is the medium through which the Form makes the many individuals
participating it be what they are. The integrity and causality of the Form are both
preserved,5 and the original problem of how a single Form can be in multiple
participations and have something in common with them is solved.

But a new question arises now and it concerns the multiple participations, which are
distinct from Form and from participants. What produces them? the Form itself? by itself
or with some other cause? We look in vain for a discussion of those issues in the Phaedo
but are more successful in the Parmenides. While studying objections against the
existence and nature of the Forms, Plato speaks through Parmenides to explicate the
problem already met in the Phaedo: participation in a single Form by multiple
participants appears impossible since the Form would then be present in each thing either
entirely or partially, and neither alternative is acceptable (Parm.. 131 A-D).5 But a couple
of pages later he returns to participation with another statement (through Socrates this
time) :

Let Forms be patterns in nature and let things resemble them and be their likeness. In
fact, let participation of things in a Form be itself nothing else than their being-made-as-
images of Forms--132D1 -4:

The aorist passive infinite in line four (eikasthenai) reveals what Plato has in mind.7
Things are not merely like the Form: they are made to be like it, they are caused to be
images of it. And this causality arises necessarily from two sources, one of which is the
Form (already disclosed in the Phaedo) , the Other an agent working not through his
natural but mental powers. This intelligent agent brings things about by his activity and
thus is an efficient cause. The Porm directs that activity and thus is an exemplary cause.

– Hai să cercetăm împreună - îndeamnă Socrate - cum este fiecare din ele. În primul rând:
dreptatea este un lucru sau nu este nici unul? Mie mi se pare că e; tu ce părere ai? – Și
mie mi se pare tot așa. – Ei bine, dacă cineva ne-ar întreba pe mine și pe tine: „O!
Protagoras și Socrate, referitor la dreptatea pe care ați pomenit-o adineauri, spuneți-mi,
este ea însăși ceva drept sau ceva nedrept?“, eu unul i-aș răspunde că este ceva drept; tu
ce răspuns ai da? Același ca și mine sau altul? – Același ca și tine, zise el. – Așadar
dreptatea este ceva drept, aș spune eu unul răspunzând celui care întreabă; oare și tu?
– Da, zise el. – Dacă după asta ne-ar întreba: „Dar pietatea, credeți oare că e și ea ceva?“
Am zice că da, după câte cred eu. – Da, întări el. – „Deci ziceți că și aceasta este un
anumit lucru?“ Am zice așa sau nu? – Și cu aceasta sunt de acord.
– „Oare acest lucru credeți că este prin natura lui ceva pios sau ceva nepios?“ La
această întrebare, eu unul m-aș supăra, și aș zice: Vorbește cuviincios, omule! Cum
ar putea fi altceva pios dacă pietatea însăși nu ar fi ceva pios? Ce! Tu nu ai răspunde la
fel? – De bună seamă, zise el.
(Platon, Protagoras, 2001: 330b-330e.)

In theatre, methexis (Ancient Greek: μέθεξις; also methectics), is "group sharing".

Originating from Greek theatre, the audience participates, creates and improvises the
action of the ritual. In philosophy, methexis is the relation between a particular and
a form (in Plato's sense), e.g. a beautiful object is said to partake of the form of beauty.[1]

Plato did in fact change the expression, as Aristotle claims. Instead of “mimesis,” he
says methexis. But here translation becomes extremely difficult.

Forma glodului și a gunoiului

Plato did not claim to know where the line between Form and non-Form is to be drawn.
As Cornford points out,[45] those things about which the young Socrates (and Plato)
asserted "I have often been puzzled about these things"[46] (in reference to Man, Fire and
Water), appear as Forms in later works. However, others do not, such as Hair, Mud, Dirt.
Of these, Socrates is made to assert, "it would be too absurd to suppose that they have a
Form."
Ross also objects to Aristotle's criticism that Form Otherness accounts for the differences
between Forms and purportedly leads to contradictory forms: the Not-tall, the Not-
beautiful, etc.
A Form is aspatial (transcendent to space) and atemporal (transcendent to time).

Comparații cu viețuitoarele acvatice: Socrate este peștele torpilă; Aristotel este sepia

V. Problema din Menon: Meno’s Paradox

The argument known as “Meno’s Paradox” can be reformulated as follows:

1. Dacă știm deja ce căutăm, cercetarea nu este necesară / e inutilă.

2. Dacă nu știm ce trebuie să căutăm (și unde), cercetarea este inposibilă.
3. Prin urmare, cercetarea este sau inutilă / non-necesară sau iposibilă.

Menon, 80
Socrate este asemenea peștelui marin numit torpilă.
MENON: Socrate, știu din auzite, încă de cînd nu eram împreună, că tu nu faci altceva
decît încurcaturi, si ție însuti si celorlalti. Acum 80a iată, găsesc ca mă vrajesti, ma
farmeci si nu stii cum sa ma încînti, așa că mă simt împovărat de îndoială. De-mi este
îngăduită o glumă, îmi pari foarte asemenea, si la înfatisare si la celelalte, cu acel lat
peste marin ce se numeste torpilă. Cum se apropie de el sau îl atinge vreo viețuitoare,
aceasta încremenește pe loc; și tu m-ai facut acum sa trec b printr-o astfel de încremenire.
În adevăr, am si ramas cu sufletul si gura înmărmurite, de nu mai sînt în stare sa rostesc
vreun răspuns. Și totusi am discutat de mii de ori în fata multimilor si am tinut
nenumarate cuvîntari asupra virtuții si cred ca am iesit foarte bine din toate împrejurarile.
Acum însa nu ma simt în stare sa mai spun măcar un cuvânt despre ce este ea. Am
credinta c-ai hotărît bine cînd n-ai mai vrut să iesi din patria ta nici cu pluta nici cu
piciorul. Căci daca te-ar fi prins ca străin făcînd asa ceva în alt stat, numaidecît te-ar fi
închis ca pe un vrajitor.
SOCRATE: Esti numai viclesug, Menon; mai c-am căzut în lațul înșelăciunii tale.
c " MENON: Prin ce, Socrate?
SOCRATE: Știu în ce scop m-ai asemanat cu torpila.
MENON: În ce scop crezi?
SOCRATE: Ca sa fac si eu o comparatie cu tine. Ei bine, știu de toti oamenii frumoși că
le place să fie comparati; le convine, se întelege, căci și icoanele de comparare ale celor
frumosi tot frumoase sînt. Ci eu nu-ti voi pune înainte o icoană asemenea chipului tau.
Din parte-mi, dacă torpila însăși este încremenita, si astfel fiind, îi încremeneste si pe
ceilalti, recunosc ca-i seman; altfel nu. În adevar, eu nu-s omul care, avînd toate
mijloacele la dispozitie, pune piedici celorlalti; eu dacă pun în încurcatură pe altii pricina
este ca sînt eu însumi în cel mai greu d impas. Întorcându-mă acum la virtute, nu știu,
prin urmare, ce este; se poate totuși ca tu s-o fi stiut înainte de a fi luat contact cu mine,
dar în .: clipa de față semeni leit unuia care nu știe nimic. Ci eu vreau ca amîndoi să luam
în cercetare si sa cautam împreuna ce poate fi ea. .

Se poate afla un lucru despre care nu știm nimic?

MENON: În ce chip vei cerceta, Socrate, un lucru pe care nu-l știi deloc cum este? De la
ce punct de reazem, între atâtea necunoscute, vei

360 MENON
porni cînd vei face cercetarea? Sau, chiar presupunînd că te-ai întîlni cu soluția cea mai
bună, cum vei ști că-i ea, dacă n-o cunoști deloc?
SOCRATE: Înteleg, Menon, cum stă lucrul pe care vrei să mi-l spui. Vezi în ce discuție
eristică mă bagi: în discutia după care omul nu poate cerceta nici ceea ce știe nici ceea ce
nu știe. Nu cercetează ce știe, fiindcă dacă știe n-are nevoie de o cercetare a celor ce știe;
nu cercetează ce nu știe, întrucît nu știe ce să cerceteze.
MENON: Nu-ti pare bine întocmit raționamentul acesta, Socrate?
SOCRATE: Nu mi se pare.
MENON: Poți să-mi spui prin ce este slab?
SOCRATE: Da. Am auzit în adevăr de la bărbați și femei înțelepte cîte ceva asupra
lucrurilor divine...
MENON: Ce i-ai auzit spunînd?
SOCRATE: Cuvînt cuprinzător de adevăr și, după părerea mea, frumos chiar.
MENON: Ce cuvînt? Cine-l spun?

Pentru a ieși din impas, Platon propune:

Teoria re-amintirii
SOCRATE: Cei care-l spun sînt preoți și preotese, dintre aceia ce-au avut grijă să dea
socoteală - fiind și în stare a o da - asupra faptelor unde ei sînt întrebuințati. Dar si Pindar
o spune, dar și multi alții - poeți care sînt cu inspirație divină. Acum iată ce spun ei. Tu
bagă numai de seamă de găsești adevărate susținerile lor. Zic de sufletul omului că-i
nemuritor, dar că uneori el pune capăt vieții: asta-i ce numesc "a muri"; alteori însă el
creeaza din nou viață; dar că niciodată nu dispare. De aceea ni se și impune să trăim în
cea mai mare sfințenie.

Jonathan Barnes, 12: „Un critic din Antichitate a susţinut că "el [Aristotel] învăluie
dificultatea subiectului tratat cu ambiguitatea limbajului său şi evită astfel respingerea,
producînd obscuritate - la fel ca o sepie, care, pentru a se face greu de capturat, elimină o
secreţie negricioasă".7 Fiecare cititor se va gîndi la Aristotel uneori ca la o sepie”.

Atticus , fr. 7 (p.28 în ediţia Baudry), citat de Eusebius, Preparatio evanghelica XV ix

14, 810d.

Problema din Menon

There are contemporary contexts that provide input for the various questions posed here:
how to account for the gap between experience and knowledge, what are some of the
sources of knowledge, or how much knowledge is possessed prior to experience or
without conscious awareness
In Chomsky's 1986 book Knowledge of Language, the author begins with informal
characterization of Plato's Problem as The problem of explaining how we can know so
much given so little evidence[5], which is based on an early expression of Plato’s Problem
by [Bertrand Russell]: "How comes it that human beings, whose contacts with the world
are brief and personal and limited, are nevertheless able to know as much as they do
know?" [6]

Meno's paradox
Meno asks Socrates: "And how will you inquire into a thing when you are wholly
ignorant of what it is? Even if you happen to bump right into it, how will you know it is
the thing you didn't know?"[9] Socrates rephrases the question, which has come to be the
canonical statement of the paradox: "[A] man cannot search either for what he knows or
for what he does not know[.] He cannot search for what he knows--since he knows it,
there is no need to search--nor for what he does not know, for he does not know what to
look for."[10] Plato, Meno, 80e

[A] The argument known as “Meno’s Paradox” can be reformulated as follows:

[1] If you know what you’re looking for, inquiry is unnecessary.

[2] If you don’t know what you’re looking for, inquiry is impossible.
[3] Therefore, inquiry is either unnecessary or impossible.
[B] An implicit premise: Either you know what you’re looking for or you don’t know
what you’re looking for.

And this is a logical truth. Or is it? Only if “you know what you’re looking for” is used
unambiguously in both disjuncts.

VI. Vasul Argo. The Ship of Theseus

Text pentru interpretare, Lucius Annaeus Seneca, Scrisoarea 58: „[Lucrurile sensibile]
sînt în necontenită creștere și descreștere. Nimeni dintre noi nu este la bătrînețe același cu
cel din tinerețe. Nimeni nu este în dimineața asta cel care a fost ieri. Trupurile noastre
sunt duse ca niște ape. Tot ce vezi fuge împreună cu timpul: nimic din ce vedem nu
rămîne locului. Chiar eu, în timp ce spun că acestea se schimbă, mă schimb. Asta vrea să
spună și Heraclit, zicînd: ‘în același fluviu noi coborîm și nu coborîm de două ori’.
Numele fluviului rămîne, dar apa a trecut. Faptul acesta este mai vădit la apă decît la om,
dar și pe noi ne tîrăște un șuvoi atît de repede și de aceea mă uimește nebunia noastră,
care iubim lucrul cel mai trecător, corpul, și ne temem să nu murim într-o bună zi, cînd
orice clipă este de fapt moartea celei de dinaintea ei. Vrei să nu te temi că s-a întîmplat
odată ceea ce se întîmplă în fiecare zi! Vorbeam despre om, ființă trecătoare și pieritoare,
supusă tuturor întîmplărilor”.

Vasul Argo

Iată în câteva cuvinte, problema pusă de corabia lui Theseus… Cel dintâi o formulează
Plutarch (c.46 – 120) în Vita Thesei, 22-23. El menţionează că această corabie mai putea
fi văzută în timpul vieţii unui anume Demetrios Phalereus, ceea ce înseamnă cu
aproximaţie 350-280 ante Christum. Demetrios a fost un atenian cunoscut şi un membru
al şcolii peripateticiene, un elev al lui Aristotel aşadar. A scris 45 de cărţi şi a fost şi om
politic.
Problema e următoarea (prima versiune): atenienii repară corabia, ancorată în port, pe
măsură ce părţile sale se strică. La un moment dat, e posibil ca nici măcar o scîndură din
vasul originar să nu mai facă parte din corabie. Ca atare, ne putem întreba: atenienii mai
păstrează vasul originar al lui Theseus sau vasul reparat este complet diferit de acela cu
care călătorise Theseus.
Versiunea modernă a problemei susţine că înlocuirea părţilor corabiei are loc în timpul
călătoriei pe mare. Pe măsură ce se strică, navigatorii înlocuiesc treptat toate părţile
vasului. Cine revine în port la sfîrşitul călătoriei? Corabia lui Theseus sau un vas diferit?

O versiune mai complexă a problemei: după corabia lui Theseus vine Scavenger, care
culege bucăţile aruncate peste bord de corăbierii care repară vasul lui Theseus. Scavenger
soseşte în port într-o corabie care se compune exact din părţile care au aparţinut iniţial
corabiei lui Theseus. Cine deţine corabia adevărată: echipajul lui Theseus sau Scavenger?
Problema vasului lui Theseus nu este una doar de ordin logic. Ea este cu siguranţă şi o
problemă ontologică, fiindcă pune în discuţie tema identităţii obiectelor şi a persistenţei
lor în timp. Prin urmare, paradoxul vasului Argo pune în cauză identitatea unei entităţi (a
unui artefact, în acest caz) în timp. Atîta vreme cît toate (dar absolut toate!) componentele
vasului “Argo” sunt înlocuite treptat, în timpul lungii călătorii, corabia care se întoarce în
port, după ani şi ani, mai este cu adevărat vasul originar? Navigatorii vor spune, desigur,
că vasul e însuşi “Argo”, în pofida tuturor modificărilor şi înlocuirilor. Deşi catargul e
altul, puntea e alta, prora, pupa, pînzele etc. sînt altele decît cele cu care au plecat la
drum, ei pot spune că numele, totuşi, a rămas acelaşi, că identitatea corabiei ţine, pînă la
urmă, de permanenţa numelui. Alţii vor nega această soluţie: navigatorii se află pe un vas
diferit.

În fine, alţii vor susţine că nu există nici o soluţie şi că enigma vasului “Argo” e
insolubilă. Semioticianul francez Roland Barthes oferă, la rându-i, un răspuns, nici mai
bun, nici mai rău decît altele: “Argo” este structura lui “Argo”, forma lui “Argo”: dacă
structura se păstrează, corabia rămîne aceeaşi. În schimb, filosoful american Peter van
Inwagen va rezolva paradoxul după metoda “nodului gordian”: el argumentează pur şi
simplu că nu există la popriu nici catarg, nici vîsle, nici ancoră, şi nici măcar o corabie
anume cu numele “Argo”, atâta vreme cât pentru a fi un lucru ceva trebuie să fie mai întîi
viu, să aibă viaţă. Doar vieţuitoarele există. Corabia, nu. Soluţia lui van Inwagen este la
fel de ciudată ca şi paradoxul însuşi. E, cu siguranţă, un răspuns radical şi disperat la una
din eternele probleme ale metafizicii.

În încheiere, voi transcrie textul lui Roland Barthes. Fragmentul este intitulat, desigur,
“Vasul Argo”: „Imagine frecventă: cea a vasului Argo (luminos şi alb), ale cărui piese
erau înlocuite, fiecare, rând pe rând, de către Argonauţi, astfel încît avură la sfârşit un vas
pe de-a-ntregul nou, fără să trebuiască să-i schimbe nici numele, nici forma. Acest vas
Argo e foarte folositor: el furnizează alegoria unui obiect eminamente structural, creat, nu
prin geniu, inspiraţie, hotărîre, evoluţie, ci prin două acte modeste (ce nu pot fi surprinse
în nici o mistică a creaţiei): substituirea (o piesă o alungă pe alta, ca într-o paradigmă) şi
numirea (numele nu este deloc legat de stabilitatea pieselor): tot combinînd în interiorul
unui acelaşi nume, nu mai rămâne nimic din origine.
Argo este un obiect fără altă cauză decât numele lui, fără altă identitate decît forma sa.

Alt Argo: eu am două spaţii de lucru, unul la Paris, altul la ţară. De la unul la altul - nici
un obiect comun, căci nimic nu e niciodată transportat. Totuşi, aceste locuri sînt identice.
De ce? Pentru că dispoziţia uneltelor (hârtie, peniţe, pupitre, pendule, scrumiere) este
aceeaşi: cea care creează identitatea este structura spaţiului. Acest fenomen particular ar
fi de ajuns ca să arunce o lumină asupra structuralismului: sistemul prevalează asupra
structurii obiectelor”.

Theseus' Paradox
Also known as the Ship of Theseus, this is a classical paradox on the first branch of
metaphysics, Ontology (philosophy of existence & identity). The paradox runs thus:
There used to be the great ship of Theseus which was made out of, say, 100 parts. Each
part has a single corresponding replacement part in the ship's storeroom. The ship then
sets out on a voyage. The ship sails through monster-infested waters, and every day, a
single piece is damaged and has to be replaced. On the hundredth day, the ship sails back
to port, the voyage completed. Through the course of this journey, everything on the ship
has been replaced. So, is the ship sailing back home the ship of Theseus or no?

If yes, consider this: the broken original parts are repaired and re-assembled. Is this the
ship of Theseus or no? If no, let us name the ship that sails into port "The Argo". At what
point (during the journey) did the crew (echipajul) of the Theseus become the crew of the
Argo? And what ship is sailing on the fiftieth day? If both the ships trade a single piece,
are they still the same ships?

This paradox is a minor variation of the Sorites Paradox above, and has many variations
itself. Both sides of the paradox have convincing arguments and counter-arguments,
though no one is close to proving it completely.

The ship of Theseus, also known as Theseus' paradox, is a thought experiment that raises
the question of whether an object that has had all of its components replaced remains
fundamentally the same object. The paradox is most notably recorded by Plutarch in Life
of Theseus from the late first century. Plutarch asked whether a ship that had been
restored by replacing every single wooden part remained the same ship.

The paradox had been discussed by more ancient philosophers such as Heraclitus,
Socrates, and Plato prior to Plutarch's writings; and more recently by Thomas Hobbes
and John Locke. Several variants are known, including the grandfather's axe, which has
had both head and handle replaced.

Variations of the paradox

This particular version of the paradox was first introduced in Greek legend as reported by
the historian, biographer, and essayist Plutarch,
The ship wherein Theseus and the youth of Athens returned from Crete had thirty oars,
and was preserved by the Athenians down even to the time of Demetrius Phalereus, for
they took away the old planks as they decayed, putting in new and stronger timber in
their places, in so much that this ship became a standing example among the
philosophers, for the logical question of things that grow; one side holding that the ship
remained the same, and the other contending that it was not the same. - Plutarch, Theseus
[1]
Plutarch thus questions whether the ship would remain the same if it were entirely
replaced, piece by piece.

Centuries later, the philosopher Thomas Hobbes introduced a further puzzle, wondering
what would happen if the original planks were gathered up after they were replaced, and
used to build a second ship.[2] Hobbes asked which ship, if either, would be the original
Ship of Theseus.

Modern era
John Locke proposed a scenario regarding a favorite sock that develops a hole. He
pondered whether the sock would still be the same after a patch was applied to the hole,
and if it would be the same sock, would it still be the same sock after a second patch was
applied, and a third, etc., until all of the material of the original sock has been replaced
with patches.[3]

Proposed resolutions
Heraclitus
The Greek philosopher Heraclitus attempted to solve the paradox by introducing the idea
of a river where water replenishes it. Arius Didymus quoted him as saying "upon those
who step into the same rivers, different and again different waters flow".[8] Plutarch
disputed Heraclitus' claim about stepping twice into the same river, citing that it cannot
be done because "it scatters and again comes together, and approaches and recedes".[9]

Aristotle's causes
According to the philosophical system of Aristotle and his followers, four causes or
reasons describe a thing; these causes can be analyzed to get to a solution to the paradox.
The formal cause or 'form' (perhaps best parsed as the cause of an object's form or of its
having that form) is the design of a thing, while the material cause is the matter of which
the thing is made. Another of Aristotle's causes is the 'end' or final cause, which is the
intended purpose of a thing. The ship of Theseus would have the same ends, those being,
mythically, transporting Theseus, and politically, convincing the Athenians that Theseus
was once a living person, though its material cause would change with time. The efficient
cause is how and by whom a thing is made, for example, how artisans fabricate and
assemble something; in the case of the ship of Theseus, the workers who built the ship in
the first place could have used the same tools and techniques to replace the planks in the
ship.
According to Aristotle, the "what-it-is" of a thing is its formal cause, so the ship of
Theseus is the 'same' ship, because the formal cause, or design, does not change, even
though the matter used to construct it may vary with time. In the same manner, for
Heraclitus's paradox, a river has the same formal cause, although the material cause (the
particular water in it) changes with time, and likewise for the person who steps in the
river.
This argument's validity and soundness as applied to the paradox depend on the accuracy
not only of Aristotle's expressed premise that an object's formal cause is not only the
primary or even sole determiner of its defining characteristic(s) or essence ("what-it-is")
but also of the unstated, stronger premise that an object's formal cause is the sole
determiner of its identity or "which-it-is" (i.e., whether the previous and the later ships or
rivers are the "same" ship or river).
This latter premise is subject to attack by indirect proof using arguments such as
"Suppose two ships are built using the same design and exist at the same time until one
sinks the other in battle. Clearly the two ships are not the same ship even before, let alone
after, one sinks the other, and yet the two have the same formal cause; therefore, formal
cause cannot by itself suffice to determine an object's identity" or " [...] therefore, two
objects' or object-instances' having the same formal cause does not by itself suffice to
make them the same object or prove that they are the same object."

Definitions of "the same"

One common argument found in the philosophical literature is that in the case of
Heraclitus' river one is tripped up by two different definitions of "the same". In one sense,
things can be "qualitatively identical", by sharing some properties. In another sense, they
might be "numerically identical" by being "one". As an example, consider two different
marbles that look identical. They would be qualitatively, but not numerically, identical. A
marble can be numerically identical only to itself.

Note that some languages differentiate between these two forms of identity. In German,
for example, "gleich" ("equal") and "selbe" ("self-same") are the pertinent terms,
respectively. At least in formal speech, the former refers to qualitative identity (e.g. die
gleiche Murmel, "the same [qualitative] marble") and the latter to numerical identity
(e.g.dieselbe Murmel, "the same [numerical] marble"). Colloquially, "gleich" is also used
in place of "selbe", however.

Cultural differences
In Japan, Shinto shrines are rebuilt every twenty years with entirely "new wood". The
continuity over the centuries is spiritual and comes from the source of the wood in the
case of the Ise Jingu's Naiku shrine, which is harvested from an adjoining forest that is
considered sacred. The shrine has currently been rebuilt sixty-two times.[11] Where the
traditional Greek discussions struggle is between two defined identities of the physical
structure, the Shinto thought places the identity differently, and the argument vanishes

References
Plutarch. "Theseus". The Internet Classics Archive. Retrieved 2008-07-15.
Page 89: The Ship of Theseus, Person and Object: A Metaphysical Study, By Roderick
M. Chisholm - Google Books
Cohen, M. (2010). Philosophy for Dummies. Chichester: John Wiley & Sons.
Browne, Ray Broadus (1982). Objects of Special Devotion: Fetishism in Popular Culture.
Popular Press. p. 134.
"Atomic Tune-Up: How the Body Rejuvenates Itself". National Public Radio. 2007-07-
14.
Bruce Rushton (2008-02-22). "Ax turns out to be Lincoln's last swing". Rockford
Register-Star.
"Dumas in his Curricle". Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine LV(CCCXLI): 351.
January–June 1844.
Didymus, Fr 39.2, Dox. gr. 471.4
Plutarch, "On the 'E' at Delphi"
David Lewis, "Survival and Identity" in Amelie O. Rorty [ed.] The Identities of Persons
(1976; U. of California P.) Reprinted in his Philosophical Papers I.
Olson, Brad (30 August 2013). "Japan's most sacred site rebuilt, for the 62nd time". CNN
News.

Nonfiction
The French critic and essayist Roland Barthes refers at least twice to a ship that is entirely
rebuilt, in the preface to his Essais Critiques (1971) and later in his Roland Barthes par
Roland Barthes (1975); in the latter the persistence of the form of the ship is seen as a
key structuralist principle. He calls this ship the Argo, on which Theseus was said to have
sailed with Jason; he may have confused the Argo (referred to in passing in
Plutarch's Theseus at 19.4) with the ship that sailed from Crete (Theseus, 23.1).

In the book Last Chance to See by Douglas Adams, he discusses the Gold Pavilion
Temple in Kyoto, which is an example similar to the Shinto shrine (discussed in the main
article), and realised the following:

"The idea of the building, the intention of it, its design, are all immutable and are the
essence of the building. The intention of the original builders is what survives. The wood
of which the design is constructed decays and is replaced when necessary. To be overly
concerned with the original materials, which are merely sentimental souvenirs of the past,
is to fail to see the living building itself."

Theseus's paradox bears also on the question of virtual human identity discussed
in Douglas Hofstadter's and Daniel Dennett's The Mind's I: Fantasies and reflections on
self and soul (1981). Speculations concerning mind uploading suggest it is possible to
transfer a human mind from an organic brain to a computer, incrementally and in such a
way that consciousness is never interrupted, e.g. by replacing neurons one by one with
electronics designed to simulate the neurons' firing patterns. Yet the result of this process
is an object entirely physically distinct from the starting point.
The Talmud presents the paradox with three practical implications to Jewish law, and
concludes that it is indeed considered as if it was a different object.[1]

Identity, Persistence, and the Ship of Theseus

Heraclitus’s “river fragments” raise puzzles about identity and persistence: under what
conditions does an object persist through time as one and the same object? If the world
contains things which endure, and retain their identity in spite of undergoing alteration,
then somehow those things must persist through changes. Heraclitus wonders whether
one can step into the same river twice precisely because it continually undergoes changes.
In particular, it changes compositionally. At any given time, it is made up of different
component parts from the ones it was previously made up of. So, according to one
interpretation, Heraclitus concludes that we do not have (numerically) the same river
persisting from one moment to the next.
Plato is probably the source of this “paradoxical” interpretation of Herclitus. According
to Plato, Heraclitus maintains that nothing retains its identity for any time at all:
“Heraclitus, you know, says that everything moves on and that nothing is at rest; and,
comparing existing things to the flow of a river, he says that you could not step into the
same river twice” (Cratylus 402A).

But what Heraclitus actually said was more likely to have been this: “On those who enter
the same rivers, ever different waters flow.” (fr. 12)

On Plato’s interpretation, it’s not the same river, since the waters are different. On a less
paradoxical interpretation, it is the same river, in spite of the fact that the waters are
different. On both interpretations of Heraclitus, he holds the Flux Doctrine: Everything is
constantly altering; no object retains all of its component parts from one moment to the
next. The issue is: what does Flux entail about identity and persistence? Plato’s
interpretation requires that Heraclitus held what might be called the Mereological Theory
of Identity (MTI), i.e., the view that the identity of an object depends on the identity of its
component parts. This view can be formulated more precisely as follows:

For any compound objects, x and y, x = y only if every part of x is a part of y, and every
part of y is a part of x.
I.e., an object continues to exist (from time t1 to time t2) only if it is composed of all the
same components at t2 as it was composed of at t1. Sameness of parts is a necessary
condition of identity.
It now seems that if we want to allow that an object can persist through time in spite of a
change in some of its components, we must deny MTI. An object x, existing at time t1,
can be numerically identical to an object y, existing at time t2, even though x and y are
not composed of exactly the same parts.
But once you deny MTI, where do you draw the line? Denying MTI leaves us vulnerable
to puzzle cases, the mother of all of which is the following.

The Ship of Theseus

This is a puzzle that has been around since antiquity, probably later than Heraclitus, but
not much later. It first surfaces in print in Plutarch (Vita Thesei, 22-23):
“The ship wherein Theseus and the youth of Athens returned had thirty oars, and was
preserved by the Athenians down even to the time of Demetrius Phalereus, for they took
away the old planks as they decayed, putting in new and stronger timber in their place,
insomuch that this ship became a standing example among the philosophers, for the
logical question of things that grow; one side holding that the ship remained the same,
and the other contending that it was not the same.”
Plutarch tells us that the ship was exhibited during the time [i.e., lifetime] of Demetrius
Phalereus, which means ca. 350-280 BCE. (Demetrius was a well-known Athenian and a
member of the Peripatetic school, i.e., a student of Aristotle. He wrote some 45 books,
and was also a politician).
The original puzzle is this: over the years, the Athenians replaced each plank in the
original ship of Theseus as it decayed, thereby keeping it in good repair. Eventually, there
was not a single plank left of the original ship. So, did the Athenians still have one and
the same ship that used to belong to Theseus?
But we can liven it up a bit by considering two different, somewhat modernized, versions.
On both versions, the replacing of the planks takes place while the ship is at sea. We are
to imagine that Theseus sails away, and then systematically replaces each plank on board
with a new one. (He carries a complete supply of new parts on board as his cargo.) Now
we can consider these two versions of the story:
Simple version: Theseus completely rebuilds his ship, replaces all the parts, throws the
old ones overboard. Does he arrive on the same ship as the one he left on? Of course it
has changed. But is it it?
Let A = the ship Theseus started his voyage on.
Let B = the ship Theseus finished his voyage on.
Our question then is: Does A = B? If not, why not? Suppose he had left one original part
in. Is that enough to make A identical to B? If not, suppose he had left two, etc. Where do
you draw the line?
Complex version: Like the simple version, but with one addition -- following Theseus in
another boat is the Scavenger, who picks up the pieces Theseus throws overboard, and
uses them to rebuild his boat. The Scavenger arrives in port in a ship composed of
precisely the parts that composed the ship Theseus started out in. He docks his ship right
next to one that Theseus docked.
Now we have:
C = the ship the Scavenger finished his voyage on.
Our problem is to sort out the identity (and non-identity) relations among A, B, and C.
The only “obvious” fact is that B = C (after all, they are berthed side by side in the
harbor, so they can hardly be one and the same ship!). Beyond that, there are two
alternatives:
MTI tells us that A = C. The ship on which Theseus started his voyage, namely A, is
identical to the ship on which the Scavenger finished his voyage, namely C. So we have
two ships: one (A) that was sailed out by Theseus and (C) sailed in by the Scavenger, and
another one (B) that was created (out of new parts) during the voyage and was sailed into
port by Theseus.
The alternative is to abandon MTI and hold that A = B. On this account, we still have two
ships, but their identity and non-identity relations are different: one ship (A) was sailed
out by Theseus and (B) sailed in by Theseus, and another one (C) was created (out of
used parts) during the voyage and was sailed into port by the Scavenger.
Unfortunately, both alternatives lead to unintuitive consequences.
The problem with alternative (i) is that it requires Theseus to have changed ships during
the voyage. For he ends up on B, which is clearly not identical to C. But Theseus never
once got off his ship during its entire voyage: Theseus got on board a ship (A), sailed a
voyage during which he never got off the ship, and arrived at his destination in a ship (B).
He was on just one ship during the whole process, but alternative (i) seems to require that
he was on (at least!) two different ships.
The problem with alternative (ii) is that in holding that A = B and admitting (as it must)
that B  C , it must also hold that A  C . Yet every part of A is a part of C, and every part
of C is a part of A! So A and C are two different ships even though their parts are the
same; and what of A and B? They have no parts in common, and yet A and B are the same
ship.
These results seem as paradoxical as the view that there are no persisting objects.
Conclusion: MTI seems too strong. It denies identity to objects that we think of as
persisting through time. But that leaves us with some problems:
What do we replace it with? Spatio-temporal continuity (the intuition behind our
alternative (ii), above) is the most promising (and common) suggestion. A persisting
object must trace a continuous path through space-time. And tracing a continuous path is
compatible with a change of parts, so long as the change is gradual and the form or shape
of the object is preserved through the changes of its component materials. So it appears
that we can replace MTI with the theory of spatio-temporal continuity (STC).
But STC is also problematic. For it is easy to imagine cases in which our intuitions tell us
that we have numerical identity without spatio-temporal continuity. Consider that an
object can be disassembled and then reassembled. (Think of a bicycle that is taken apart.
The parts are then placed in a number of separate boxes, which are then shipped,
separately, across country. The boxes are then unpacked and the bicycle is reassembled.)
How do we account for its identity? STC breaks down in this case, for there is no
continuously existing bicycle-shaped object tracing a smooth path through space-time.
But MTI gives us the right result: the reassembled bicycle is made of exactly the same
parts as the one that was taken apart, and so is numerically the same bicycle.
In fact, there is a way of describing the case of Theseus’s ship that seems to demand MTI
rather than STC. Suppose the ship (A) is in a museum, and a clever ring of thieves is
trying to steal the ship by removing its pieces one at a time and then reassembling them.
Each day, the thieves remove another piece, and replace it with a look-alike. When they
have removed all the original pieces, we are left with this situation. There is a ship, B,
that is in the museum (made of all new materials), and there is a ship, C, in the possession
of the thieves (the original pieces of A now reassembled). Which ship is A (Theseus’s
original ship)? Surely not B—it’s just a copy of A, left behind in the museum by the
crooks to cover up their crime. It is C that will interest the antique dealer who is
interested in buying A, the original ship.
We are still struggling with Heraclitus’s puzzle.

http://maverickphilosopher.typepad.com/maverick_philosopher/paradoxes/

Van Inwagen on the Ship of Theseus

Peter van Inwagen's Material Beings (Cornell UP, 1990) is a very strange book, but he is
a brilliant man, so one can expect to learn something from it. A central claim is that
artifacts such as tables and chairs and ships do not exist. One can appreciate that if there
are no ships then the ancient puzzle about identity known as the Ship of Theseus has a
very quick (dis)solution.
The Ship of Theseus is a puzzle about diachronic artifact identity. Here is one version.
You have a ship, or a rowboat, or any object, composed entirely of wooden planks. You
remove one of the planks and replace it with an aluminum plank of the same size. The
wooden plank is placed in a warehouse. After this minor replacement, you have a ship
and indeed numerically the same ship as the one you started with. It is not a numerically
different ship. Now replace a second wooden plank with an aluminum plank, and place
the second wooden plank in the warehouse (depozit). Again, the numerical identity of the
original ship has been preserved. Continue the replacement process until all of the
wooden planks have been replaced with aluminum planks. You now have a wholly
aluminum ship that is presumably numerically identical to the original wholly wooden
ship despite the fact that none of the original matter is to be found in the aluminum ship.
After all, the aluminum ship 'grew out of' the original wooden ship by minor changes
each of which is identity-preserving.
Now take the wooden planks from the warehouse and assemble them in the form of a
ship and in such a way that the planks bear the same relations to one another as the planks
in the original wooden ship bore to one another. You now have two ships, a wooden one
and an aluminum one. The question is: which of these ships is identical to the original
wooden one?
Suppose the two ships collide on the high seas, and suppose the captain of the original
ship had taken a solemn vow to go down with his ship. Where does his duty lie? With the
wooden ship or with the aluminum one? Is the original ship identical to the resultant
aluminum ship? One will be tempted to say 'yes' since the aluminum ship 'grew out' of
the original wooden ship by minor transformations each of which was identity-
preserving. Or is the original ship identical to the wooden ship that resulted from the re-
assembly of the wooden planks? After all, it consists of the original matter arranged in the
original way. Since the resultant wooden and aluminum ships are numerically distinct,
they cannot both be identical to the original ship.
Van Inwagen makes short work of the puzzle: "There are no ships, and hence there are no
puzzles about the identities of ships." (128) One way van Inwagen supports this bizarre
solution is by re-telling the story in language that does not make even apparent reference
to ships. Here is his retelling:

”Once upon a time, there were certain planks that were arranged shipwise. Call then the
First Planks. . . . One of the First Planks was removed from the others and placed in a
field. Then it was replaced by a new plank; that is, a carpenter caused the new plank and
the remaining First Planks to be arranged shipwise, and in just such a way that the new
plank was in contact with the same planks that the removed planks had been in contact
with, and at exactly the same points. Call the planks that were then arranged shipwise the
Second Planks. A plank that was both one of the First Planks and one of the Second
Planks was removed from the others and placed in the field and replaced (according to
the procedure laid down above), with the consequence that certain planks, the Third
Planks, were arranged shipwise. Then a plank that was one of the First Planks and one of
the Second Planks and one of the Third Planks . . . . This process was repeated till all the
First Planks were in the field. Then the First Planks were caused to be arranged shipwise,
and in just such a way that each of them was in contact with the same planks it had been
in contact with when the First Planks had last been arranged shipwise, and was in contact
with them at just the same points” (Material Beings, Cornell UP, 1990, pp.128-129).
If I understand what van Inwagen is claiming here, it is that there is nothing in the
standard telling of the story, a version of which I presented above, that is not captured in
his re-telling. But since there is no mention of any ships in the re-telling, no puzzle about
ship-identity can arise. Perhaps van Inwagen's point could be put by saying that the
puzzle about identity is an 'artifact' of a certain way of talking that can be paraphased
away. Instead of talking about ships, we can talk about shipwise arrangements of planks.
The planks do not then compose a ship, he thinks, and so there is no whole of which they
are proper parts, and consequently no question about how this whole maintains its
diachronic identity under replacement of its parts.
What are we to say about van Inwagen's dissolution of the puzzle? What I find dubious is
van Inwagen's claim that ". . . at no time do two or more of these planks compose
anything, and no plank is a proper part of anything." (129) This strikes me as plainly
false. If the First Planks are arranged shipwise, then there is a distinction beween the First
Planks and their shipwise arrangement. The latter is the whole ship and the former are its
proper parts. So how can van Inwagen claim that the planks do not compose a ship? Van
Inwagen seems to think that if the planks were parts of a whole, and there were n planks,
then the whole would be an n + 1 th entity. Rejecting this extreme, he goes to the other
extreme: there is no whole of parts. If there were ships, they would be wholes of parts,
but there are no artifactual wholes of parts, so there are no ships. The idea seems to be
that when we build an artifact like a ship we are not causing something new to come into
existence; we are merely re-arranging what already exists. If so, then although a ship's
planks exist, the ship does not exist. Consider what van Inwagen says on p. 35:
”If I bring two cubes into contact so that the face of one is conterminous with the face of
the other, have I thereby brought into existence a solid that is twice as long as it is wide?
Or have I merely rearranged the furniture of the earth without adding to it?”
Van Inwagen seems to be saying that when it comes to artifacts, there is only
rearrangement, no 'addition to existence.' As a general thesis, this strikes me as false. A
ship is more than its planks, and van Inwagen seems to concede as much with his talk of
a shipwise arrangement of planks; but this shipwise arrangement brings something new
into being, namely, a thing that has causal powers that its constituents do not have. For
example, a boat made of metal planks properly arranged will float, while the planks
themselves will not float.

A commentary on Chisholm’s “Identity through Time”

The article “Identity through Time” by Roderick M. Chisholm is written concerning what
it means to have an identity despite chronological progression. One might say it is
generally assumed that I am today the same person that I was yesterday, and unless
something extraordinary occurs, I will continue to be the same person in the future. But
what is it exactly that gives us this identity? What traits about our personhood or being
are attributed to establishing and maintaining identity? And not just as people, but the
traits that maintain the identity of any spatial body as well. This is exactly what Chisholm
discusses in “Identity through Time”.
To start, Chisholm introduces a famous illustrative anecdote concerning identity known
simply as, The Ship of Theseus. Essentially, there is a wooden plank ship that sails long
distances. At some point along the journey, a plank is replaced with an entirely new
plank. This would seem to have no effect on the identity of the ship as a whole due to the
subtlety of the change. As time goes on, the ship continues to have plank after plank
replaced until suddenly every piece of the original Ship of Theseus has been replaced
with a new aluminum piece. At this point, we begin to question the ship’s identity as the
original Ship of Theseus. The ship still sails the same route and continues to carry the
same crew and go by the same name, but something seems to suggest that the ship is no
longer the Ship of Theseus. The fact that no original part of the Ship of Theseus makes
one think that perhaps this ship – being composed of entirely foreign parts – is now
something entirely new. This would seem logical, however the overall identity should
have survived each individual change since identity is seen as a transitive characteristic
(Chisholm 538). Now, consider the addendum to the story by the famed English
philosopher and author Thomas Hobbes: “If some man had kept the old planks as they
were taken out, and by putting them together in the same order, had again made a ship out
of them, this, without doubt, had also been the same numerical ship with that which was
at the beginning; and so there would have been two ships numerically the same, which is
absurd” (Chisholm 538). This seems to make sense, as two clearly distinct objects (n=2)
could never be considered the same numerical object (n=1). This would mean that one of
these bodies must not be the Ship of Theseus and one must still be the original ship. But
which one is the original and which one is the new one? Some might say that the one
with the original planks is the original; however, this neglects the fact that while it has the
parts of the original ship, it was created as an entirely new entity. It was made to be a
different ship, not the Ship of Theseus. This way of thinking seems to virtually discredit
the concept of identity relying solely on the parts of the whole entity. But, one can
consider this: the aluminum ship holds no parts at all that can be attributed to the original
ship. So what does it have that suggests to us that it is still the original ship? These types
of questions make one ponder about identity not just in objects, but humans as well. We
are constantly changing and there has to be something that makes us who we are beyond
time, or at least we hope there is something that holds our identity together.
Another such puzzle worth mentioning in the article is the idea of rivers flowing into one
and one flowing into many (Chisholm 539). Suppose rivers A, B, and C all flow
separately until they come together at one point and form river D. At what point do rivers
A, B, and C cease to be themselves and become some part of river D? Or do they ever?
Well, this problem is quite analogous to the Ship of Theseus problem previously
discussed. There has to be some point in which the rivers discontinue being numerically
distinct identities and become one in the same, just as there has to be some point in which
the original Ship of Theseus is no longer one entity and becomes two numerically distinct
entities.
One way to circumvent this problem altogether is to deny what Chisholm refers to as
“alteration” (Chisholm 539). He defines alteration as the changing of a particular set of
properties held within some entity, creating an entirely new set of properties. This,
however, doesn’t seem to have any solid practical footing. For example, if we paint the
original Ship of Theseus, does its original identity no longer exist? Of course this
question is laughable, as properties are necessary, but not sufficient for the constant
maintenance of the identity of some entity. Even when applied to human beings this
statement receives no practical support. If I change my hair color or apply cologne to
change my scent, all I have done is alter something about how others perceive my
identity. I have done nothing to intrinsically change my real identity as the person I am.
In other words, changing properties so that they are different from our past does not entail
an identity change, but rather a change in property set. There is not a past “you” with
property set A and a numerically separate set “you” with property set B; rather, you now
have a new property set that you did not possess in the past. This makes you seem
different from the old you, but they are one in the same. Just as changing the color of the
ship does not make it a new ship; changing a property in us does not entail an entirely
different person.
Chisholm goes on to draw from Dissertation 1 from “The Whole Works of Joseph
Butler”, in which it is stated that some things are “more tightly identical to themselves,
while others are more loosely identical with themselves” (Chisholm 540). This statement
is not saying there are different degrees of identity for entities, but rather loose use of the
being verb of identity (the “am” in “I am”). For example, saying something is one thing
and somewhere else, it is something else, it would seem that we are using the “is” of
identity and applying it to both terms in the same way, when in reality they are not the
same thing at all. In fact, they are totally numerically differentiated entities (Chisholm
541). The best example Chisholm uses lies in the following list: Socrates is mortal, and
Socrates is mortal. Is this one phrase or two? Well, it could be either depending on how
we interpret the seemingly separate phrases. This in itself highlights our misuse of the
“is” in relation to identity. Something is either one thing or separate things, but cannot be
both [(A ∨ B), not (A • B)]. If A has some property set and B has some other property set,
then they cannot both be numerically the same entity. The misuse – or ordinary language
error – can be easily corrected with a simple reordering of words. If instead we said “A
mortal is Socrates”, we have changed the word “is” to modify Socrates, rather than his
property of mortality. This is similar to Chisholm’s third example of the misuse of “is”.
He says “The President of the United States was Eisenhower in 1955, Johnson in 1965,
and Ford in 1975”, which seemingly says one thing has been identical to three things
(President has been Eisenhower, Johnson, and Ford). It should instead be written as “The
President of the United States in 1955 was Eisenhower; the President of the United States
in 1965 was Johnson; and the President of the United States in 1975 was Ford”
(Chisholm 542). By simply changing the word order so that the temporal expression – in
1955, 1965, 1975 – to modify “The President of the United States”, rather than “was”, the
sentence maintains the existence of separate identities instead of one president of 3
identities, which is illogical.

To return to Theseus’ ship again, Thomas Reid has an interesting interpretation of a

response by David Hume. Reid has this to say concerning the Ship of Theseus: “A ship of
war, which has successively changed her anchors, tackle, sails, masts, planks, and her
timbers, while she keeps the same name is the same” (Chisholm 544). At first glance, this
seems to suggest that despite the loss of its parts, Reid is saying the ship is still the Ship
of Theseus. This is not the case.
Earlier, Reid says that language simply has an inescapable barrier that we cannot describe
each change as its own event and forming a new identity. In other words, each little
change begets an entirely new entity and identity, but our language – along with the use
of the loose “is” – confuses us into thinking that the original thing persists beyond these
changes. This, to me, is not right. Despite subtle or even major changes, I think the thing
in question would continue to persist, as identity rests not in properties, but in the overall
perception – outward or inward – of the thing as it is, but I digress. If Reid were to be
correct, then even things such as location changes would entail the creation of an entire
new identity for some entity, while the other ceases to exist. I don’t think this is probable
because then there is never an instance of maintained identity through the movement of
time since everything undergoes constant, even simultaneous changes. If a simultaneous
change were to occur, then an entity would be numerically distinct from itself, which
violates elementary logic.
Logic, for Chisholm, plays a particularly important role in his concept of “feigning
identity”. Suppose object AB (a table) on Monday, which becomes object BC on Tuesday,
and this becomes object CD on Wednesday (See figure 2 Chisholm 546). Objects AB,
BC, and CD essentially comprise the table as whole objects, which creates a “succession
of objects”. We could also say that these objects occupied the same spatial location, but
on different days (Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday). If these objects succeeded one another
in time with the same properties, then this definitely supports the idea that this table
represents a “succession of objects”. Chisholm describes object BC as “doing duty for
AB on Tuesday, and CD as doing duty for BC on Wednesday” (Chisholm 547). This is
interesting since Reid commented that identity seemingly relies on changes. Now, these
objects have the same properties and are analogous to one another, yet most people would
consider them as having separate, numerically distinct identities. We can see that
Monday’s table went on successfully to become Tuesday’s table, and Tuesday’s table
became Wednesday’s table. Essentially, if a small piece of a table is removed and
replaced with a similar thing to the part removed, we could have had a table this entire
time, even during the time a part was missing (Chisholm 547 D. III). Similarly, table CD
on Wednesday, although indirectly, is a successor to Monday’s AB table. This succession
of objects seems complicated, but the logic is clear. Since AB is a table, and a table
always remains – despite part replacement – there is always a direct table successor. This
would mean that its identity as a table was never lost or different. As long as a succession
of objects is present – according to Hume – the identity is conserved through time.
The problem I see with this argument would be that while yes, there is always a table in
this succession that does not infer the numerically identical table. Imagine the following:
A total mind wipe of a person is carried out, ridding the person of any previous memories
of anything and everything. This would mean that a person’s identity as a thinking,
perceiving, rational thing is conserved throughout time, but one could argue that it is not
the numerically same person as its past self. The conservation of an object’s identity is
nothing more than colloquialisms and conjecture. It may be defined as a person, but
whether or not it is specifically the individual person that existed pre-mind wipe could
easily still be questioned. The same goes for the table: A table composed of new parts
than it was composed of in the past is still a table, but I am no longer sure it is the exact
same table as before. The same goes for Theseus’ ship: Replacing parts may conserve the
identity of a ship, but as the same exact ship, I am no longer convinced.

http://cjishields.com/5-on-what-there-is-quine.pdf
Identity, Persistence, and the Ship of Theseus

Heraclitus’s “river fragments” raise puzzles about identity and persistence: under what
conditions does an object persist through time as one and the same object? If the world
contains things which endure, and retain their identity in spite of undergoing alteration,
then somehow those things must persist through changes. Heraclitus wonders whether
one can step into the same river twice precisely because it continually undergoes changes.
In particular, it changes compositionally. At any given time, it is made up of different
component parts from the ones it was previously made up of. So, according to one
interpretation, Heraclitus concludes that we do not have (numerically) the same river
persisting from one moment to the next.
Plato is probably the source of this “paradoxical” interpretation of Herclitus. According
to Plato, Heraclitus maintains that nothing retains its identity for any time at all:
“Heraclitus, you know, says that everything moves on and that nothing is at rest; and,
comparing existing things to the flow of a river, he says that you could not step into the
same river twice” (Cratylus 402A).
But what Heraclitus actually said was more likely to have been this: “On those who enter
the same rivers, ever different waters flow.” (fr. 12)
On Plato’s interpretation, it’s not the same river, since the waters are different. On a less
paradoxical interpretation, it is the same river, in spite of the fact that the waters are
different. On both interpretations of Heraclitus, he holds the Flux Doctrine: Everything is
constantly altering; no object retains all of its component parts from one moment to the
next. The issue is: what does Flux entail about identity and persistence? Plato’s
interpretation requires that Heraclitus held what might be called the Mereological Theory
of Identity (MTI), i.e., the view that the identity of an object depends on the identity of its
component parts. This view can be formulated more precisely as follows:
For any compound objects, x and y, x = y only if every part of x is a part of y, and every
part of y is a part of x.
I.e., an object continues to exist (from time t1 to time t2) only if it is composed of all the
same components at t2 as it was composed of at t1. Sameness of parts is a necessary
condition of identity.
It now seems that if we want to allow that an object can persist through time in spite of a
change in some of its components, we must deny MTI. An object x, existing at time t1,
can be numerically identical to an object y, existing at time t2, even though x and y are not
composed of exactly the same parts.
But once you deny MTI, where do you draw the line? Denying MTI leaves us vulnerable
to puzzle cases, the mother of all of which is the following.

The Ship of Theseus

This is a puzzle that has been around since antiquity, probably later than Heraclitus, but
not much later. It first surfaces in print in Plutarch (Vita Thesei, 22-23):
“The ship wherein Theseus and the youth of Athens returned had thirty oars, and was
preserved by the Athenians down even to the time of Demetrius Phalereus, for they took
away the old planks as they decayed, putting in new and stronger timber in their place,
insomuch that this ship became a standing example among the philosophers, for the
logical question of things that grow; one side holding that the ship remained the same,
and the other contending that it was not the same.”
Plutarch tells us that the ship was exhibited during the time [i.e., lifetime] of Demetrius
Phalereus, which means ca. 350-280 BCE. (Demetrius was a well-known Athenian and a
member of the Peripatetic school, i.e., a student of Aristotle. He wrote some 45 books,
and was also a politician).
The original puzzle is this: over the years, the Athenians replaced each plank in the
original ship of Theseus as it decayed, thereby keeping it in good repair. Eventually, there
was not a single plank left of the original ship. So, did the Athenians still have one and
the same ship that used to belong to Theseus?
But we can liven it up a bit by considering two different, somewhat modernized, versions.
On both versions, the replacing of the planks takes place while the ship is at sea. We are
to imagine that Theseus sails away, and then systematically replaces each plank on board
with a new one. (He carries a complete supply of new parts on board as his cargo.) Now
we can consider these two versions of the story:
Simple version: Theseus completely rebuilds his ship, replaces all the parts, throws the
old ones overboard. Does he arrive on the same ship as the one he left on? Of course it
has changed. But is it it?
Let A = the ship Theseus started his voyage on.
Let B = the ship Theseus finished his voyage on.
Our question then is: Does A = B? If not, why not? Suppose he had left one original part
in. Is that enough to make A identical to B? If not, suppose he had left two, etc. Where do
you draw the line?
Complex version: Like the simple version, but with one addition -- following Theseus in
another boat is the Scavenger, who picks up the pieces Theseus throws overboard, and
uses them to rebuild his boat. The Scavenger arrives in port in a ship composed of
precisely the parts that composed the ship Theseus started out in. He docks his ship right
next to one that Theseus docked.
Now we have:
C = the ship the Scavenger finished his voyage on.
Our problem is to sort out the identity (and non-identity) relations among A, B, and C.
The only “obvious” fact is that B ¹ C (after all, they are berthed side by side in the harbor,
so they can hardly be one and the same ship!). Beyond that, there are two alternatives:
MTI tells us that A = C. The ship on which Theseus started his voyage, namely A, is
identical to the ship on which the Scavenger finished his voyage, namely C. So we have
two ships: one (A) that was sailed out by Theseus and (C) sailed in by the Scavenger, and
another one (B) that was created (out of new parts) during the voyage and was sailed into
port by Theseus.
The alternative is to abandon MTI and hold that A = B. On this account, we still have two
ships, but their identity and non-identity relations are different: one ship (A) was sailed
out by Theseus and (B) sailed in by Theseus, and another one (C) was created (out of
used parts) during the voyage and was sailed into port by the Scavenger.
Unfortunately, both alternatives lead to unintuitive consequences.
The problem with alternative (i) is that it requires Theseus to have changed ships during
the voyage. For he ends up on B, which is clearly not identical to C. But Theseus never
once got off his ship during its entire voyage: Theseus got on board a ship (A), sailed a
voyage during which he never got off the ship, and arrived at his destination in a ship (B).
He was on just one ship during the whole process, but alternative (i) seems to require that
he was on (at least!) two different ships.
The problem with alternative (ii) is that in holding that A = B and admitting (as it must)
that B ¹ C , it must also hold that A ¹ C . Yet every part of A is a part of C, and every part
of C is a part of A! So A and C are two different ships even though their parts are the
same; and what of A and B? They have no parts in common, and yet A and B are the
same ship.
These results seem as paradoxical as the view that there are no persisting objects.
Conclusion: MTI seems too strong. It denies identity to objects that we think of as
persisting through time. But that leaves us with some problems:
What do we replace it with? Spatio-temporal continuity (the intuition behind our
alternative (ii), above) is the most promising (and common) suggestion. A persisting
object must trace a continuous path through space-time. And tracing a continuous path is
compatible with a change of parts, so long as the change is gradual and the form or shape
of the object is preserved through the changes of its component materials. So it appears
that we can replace MTI with the theory of spatio-temporal continuity (STC).
But STC is also problematic. For it is easy to imagine cases in which our intuitions tell us
that we have numerical identity without spatio-temporal continuity. Consider that an
object can be disassembled and then reassembled. (Think of a bicycle that is taken apart.
The parts are then placed in a number of separate boxes, which are then shipped,
separately, across country. The boxes are then unpacked and the bicycle is reassembled.)
How do we account for its identity? STC breaks down in this case, for there is no
continuously existing bicycle-shaped object tracing a smooth path through space-time.
But MTI gives us the right result: the reassembled bicycle is made of exactly the same
parts as the one that was taken apart, and so is numerically the same bicycle.
In fact, there is a way of describing the case of Theseus’s ship that seems to demand MTI
rather than STC. Suppose the ship (A) is in a museum, and a clever ring of thieves is
trying to steal the ship by removing its pieces one at a time and then reassembling them.
Each day, the thieves remove another piece, and replace it with a look-alike. When they
have removed all the original pieces, we are left with this situation. There is a ship, B,
that is in the museum (made of all new materials), and there is a ship, C, in the possession
of the thieves (the original pieces of A now reassembled). Which ship is A (Theseus’s
original ship)? Surely not B—it’s just a copy of A, left behind in the museum by the
crooks to cover up their crime. It is C that will interest the antique dealer who is
interested in buying A, the original ship.
We are still struggling with Heraclitus’s puzzle.

VII. Extremitate și limită dintre A și B. Contact

„A boundary is not that at which something stops but, as the Greek recognized, the
boundary is that from which something begins its presencing.” Heidegger - from
„Building Dwelling Thinking”
boundary The boundaries of extended objects may be thought of in two ways: as
limits or as thin parts. Limits of the object have fewer dimensions than it has itself: a
three-dimensional brick has surfaces without thickness; the edge where two faces meet is
a one-dimensional line; the corner where
three faces meet is a point. An enduring event like a kiss has a beginning and an end
without duration. There are also inner
boundaries, like the half-way point in the flight of an arrow. Boundaries in this sense
raise many ontological questions. Do they really exist or are they mathematical fictions?
Are they parts of their objects, or of the surroundings, or neither? Alternatively,
boundaries are simply “thin” parts of the same dimensionality as their wholes. At stake
is whether the highly successful mathematics of continuous structures, like the real
numbers, which treat extents as composed of extensionless points, truly depict reality.

bibliography
Aristotle: Metaphysics, ed. W. Jaeger (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1957), Bk. 5, ch. 17,
1022; Bk. 11, ch. 3, 1061.
Stroll, A.: Surfaces (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1988).
Whitehead, A.N.: An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Natural Knowledge
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1919); 2nd edn. (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1925), esp. Part III, “The Method of Extensive Abstraction.”
peter simons

Owned vs. Unowned Boundaries

Euclid defined a boundary as “that which is an extremity of anything” (Elements Bk I, Df
13), and Aristotle made this more precise by defining the extremity of a thing x as “the
first thing outside of which no part [of x] is to be found, and the first thing inside of
which every part [of x] is to be found.” (Metaphysics 1022a) This definition is intuitive
enough and may be regarded as the natural starting point for any investigation into the
concept of a boundary.

Consider Aristotle's own riddle about motion: At the instant when an object stops
moving, is it in motion or is it at rest? (PhysicsVI, 234a ff.) Or consider the dilemma
raised by Leonardo in his Notebooks: What is it that divides the atmosphere from the
water? Is it air or is it water? (1938: 75-76). Or, again, consider Peirce's puzzle: What
color is the line of demarcation between a black spot and its white background? (1893:
98)

Sharp vs. Vague Boundaries

A third puzzle relates to vagueness. Aristotle's definition (as well as standard topology)
suggests that there is always a sharp demarcation between the inside and the outside of a
thing. Yet it may be observed that ordinary objects and events, as well as the extensions
of many ordinary concepts, may have boundaries that are in some sense fuzzy or
indeterminate. Clouds, deserts, mountains, let alone the figures of an impressionist
painting, all seem to elude the idealized notion of a sharply bounded object. Likewise, the
temporal boundaries of many events (let alone their spatial boundaries) seem to be
indeterminate. When exactly did the industrial revolution begin? When did it end?
(Where did it take place?) And certainly the concepts corresponding to such predicates as
‘bald’ or ‘tall’ do not posses sharp boundaries; as Frege put it, to such concepts there
seems to correspond “an area that ha[s] not a sharp boundary-line all around, but in
places just vaguely fade[s] away into the background” (1903: §56)
The boundary may belong neither to A nor to B. This was, ultimately, Leonardo's view

The boundary must belong either to A or to B, though it may be indeterminate to which

of A and B it belongs. This theory builds on Bolzano's view (1851), which in turn is
mirrored by the standard account of point-set topology.

The boundary may belong both to A and to B, but the relevant overlap is sui generis
precisely insofar as it involves lower-dimensional parts.

There really may be two boundaries, one belonging to A and one belonging to B, and
these two boundaries would be co-located — that is, they would coincide spatially
without overlapping mereologically. This view can be traced back to Brentano (1976) and
has been worked out in detail by Chisholm (1984, 1992/1993).

Appendix: A Bouquet of Quotations

“A point is that which has no part. A line is breadthless length. The extremities of a line
are points. […] A surface is that which has length and breadth only. The extremities of a
surface are lines. […] A boundary is that which is an extremity of anything.”
[Euclid, Elements, Bk I, Dfs 1-3, 5-6, 13]

“We call a limit the extremity of each thing, i.e., the first thing outside of which no part
[of the thing] is to be found, and the first thing inside of which every part [of the thing] is
to be found.” [Aristotle, Metaphysics 1022a]

“[T]he spherical body does not touch the flat body primarily with a part that is such that
each of its parts touches the flat body. Therefore, it does not touch it primarily with some
part that is prior to all the other touching parts. Rather, any given touching part is still
such that a half of it does not touch immediately, and a half of that half does not touch
immediately, and so on ad infinitum.” [William of Ockham, Quodlibetal Questions, I, q.
9, a. 2 (1991: …)]

Points are “things completely indivisible”, lines are “things divisible only in one
dimension”, and surfaces are “things divisible in two dimensions.” [Gregory of Rimini,
Commentary of the Sentences, In secundum Sententiarum (Eng. trans. from Duhem
1913/1959: 25-26)]

“What is it […] that divides the atmosphere from the water? It is necessary that there
should be a common boundary which is neither air nor water but is without substance,
because a body interposed between two bodies prevents their contact, and this does not
happen in water with air. […] Therefore a surface is the common boundary of two bodies
which are not continuous, and does not form part of either one or the other, for if the
surface formed part of it, it would have divisible bulk, whereas, however, it is not
divisible and nothingness divides these bodies the one from the other.” [Leonardo da
Vinci, Notebooks (1938: 75-76)]

“Real contact occurs in some entity which truly and formally exists in things; for the
contact itself is real, and properly and formally exists in reality; therefore it occurs in
some real entity which formally exists in the thing; and yet it occurs in an indivisible
thing; therefore such an indivisible entity exists formally in the thing itself.” [Francisco
Suarez, Disputationes Metaphysicae §19 (Eng. trans. from Zimmerman 1996: 160)]

“[B]y superficies we do not here mean any portion of the surrounding body, but merely
the extremity which is between the surrounded body and that surrounded, which is but a
mode; or […] we mean the common surface which is a surface that is not a part of one
body rather than the other, and that is always considered the same, so long as it retains the
same magnitude and figure.” [René Descartes, Principles of Philosophy, Part 2, Principle
XV (1911: 261)]

“I define the limit of a body as the aggregate of all the extreme (äusserst) ether-atoms
which still belong to it. […] A closer consideration further shows that many bodies are at
certain places altogether devoid of limiting atoms; none of their atoms can be described
as the extreme ones among those which still belong to it and would accompany it if it
started to move. [Two bodies are in contact] when the extreme atoms of the one, […]
together with certain atoms of the other, form a continuous extension.” [Bernard
Bolzano Paradoxes of the Infinite § 66 (1851: 167-68)]

“One of the two lines into which the line would be split upon division would […] have an
end point, but the other no beginning point. This inference has been quite correctly drawn
by Bolzano, who was led thereby to his monstruous doctrine that there would exist bodies
with and without surfaces, the one class containing just so many as the other, because
contact would be possible only between a body with a surface and another without. He
ought, rather, to have had his attention drawn by such consequences to the fact that the
whole conception of the line and of other continua as sets of points runs counter to the
concept of contact and thereby abolishes precisely what makes up the essence of the
continuum.” [Franz Brentano, Nativistic, Empiricist, and Anoetistic Theories of our
Presentation of Space (1976: 146)]

„If a red surface and a blue surface are in contact with each other, then a red and a blue
line coincide.” [Franz Brentano, On What is Continuous (1976: 41)]

“One calls the equator an imaginary line, but it would be wrong to call it a line that has
merely been thought up. It was not created by thought as the result of a psychological
process, but is only apprehended or grasped by thought. If its being apprehended were a
matter of its coming into being, then we could not say anything positive about the equator
for any time prior to this supposed coming into being.” [Gottlob Frege, The Foundations
of Arithmetic § 26 (1884: 35)]
“[We must distinguish between the category of Natural Frontiers and] the category of
Artificial Frontiers, by which are meant those boundary lines which, not being dependent
upon natural features of the earth's surface for their selection, have been artificially or
arbitrarily created by man.” [Lord Curzon of Kedleston, Frontiers (1907: 12)].

“‘Surface,’ it is true, is a substantive in grammar; but it is not the name of a particular

existent, but of an attribute.” [H. H. Price, Perception (1932: 106)]

“It is […] wrong to imply that everything has a surface. Where and what exactly is the
surface of a cat?” [John L. Austin, Sense and Sensibilia (1962: 100)]

“A vague concept is boundaryless in that no boundary marks the things which fall under
it from the things which do not, and no boundary marks the things which definitely fall
under it from the things which do not definitely do so; and so on. Manifestations are the
unwillingness of knowing subjects to draw any such boundaries, the cognitive
impossibility of identifying such boundaries, and the needlessness and even disutility of
such boundaries.” [Mark Sainsbury, Concepts without Boundaries (1990: 257)]

Dynamic Boundaries: Place in Aristotle's Biology

Nathan Andersen

“A boundary [peras] is not that at which something stops, but, as the Greeks recognized,
the boundary is that from which something begins its presencing.” Martin Heidegger

Place, as Aristotle defines it, is to be sharply distinguished from merely geometrical

space. Places, unlike geometrical spaces, are not indifferent to that which they contain.
Indeed, they seem to have a kind of power. For unless something interferes, things
gravitate naturally toward places that suit them. This power that Aristotle attributes to
place is obvious not only in the case of elemental bodies, but much more so in the case of
animals, whose very existence depends upon their inhabitation of a suitable place. A fish
out of water soon ceases to be a fish, and, in general, living substances can only preserve
and maintain themselves given the stable existence of several characteristic
environmental conditions. That is why it is surprising that standard readings of Aristotle
on the concept of place have focused almost exclusively on its explicit treatment in the
Physics, and have largely failed to address his usage of the concept of place in other
writings.
My aim in this essay was to elucidate the conception of place at work in Aristotle's
biological treatises. A consideration of the role played by place in Aristotle’s biological
treatises assists in retrieving a richer and more complex conception of place than is
indicated by a tradition of commentators who have looked primarily or exclusively to his
explicit comments on the subject in the Physics. It reveals that the Aristotelian approach
is not merely of antiquarian interest but can be a valuable resource for recent thinkers – in
the context of environmental philosophy, phenomenology, feminist theory and the social
sciences – who are working on issues centered around the philosophy of place.

VIII. Argumentul ontologic

Anselm's ontological argument purports to be an a priori proof of God's existence.

Anselm starts with premises that do not depend on experience for their justification and
then proceeds by purely logical means to the conclusion that God exists. His aim is to
refute the fool who says in his heart that there is no God (Psalms 14: 1). This fool has two
important features.
 He understands the claim that God exists.
 He does not believe that God exists.

Anselm's goal is to show that this combination is unstable. Anyone who understands what
it means to say that God exists can be led to see that God does exist. On this view, the
atheist is not just mistaken: his position is internally inconsistent.

What follows is an attempt to clarify the argument as it is presented in Chapter II of

the Proslogium. The argument in Chapter III is rather different, and in some ways more
interesting. After you have worked through this page, you might try to produce a similar
gloss on the second argument. This will not be easy: the argument is notoriously
complicated. But you might find it a useful exercise nonetheless.

A Running Paraphrase of the Argument

Let's work through the argument as Anselm presents it.

Anselm writes:

... we believe that thou art a being than which nothing greater can be conceived.

This is Anselm's definition. We might paraphrase it as follows:

By "God" we mean an absolutely unsurpassable being, a being that cannot conceivably

be improved upon.

As we've stressed, you do not need to agree that this is what the word "God" ordinarily
means. Treat it as a stipulation. Clearly, if Anselm can establish the existence of a being
of this sort, his conclusion would be of immense philosophical and theological
significance.

Or is there no such nature, since the Fool has said in his heart, there is no God?
This puts the question: Is there in fact a being with the properties our definition assigns to
God?

But, at any rate, this very fool, when he hears of this being of which I speak - a being
than which nothing greater can be conceived - understands what he hears, and what he
understands is in his understanding; although he does not understand it to exist.

This begins and ends straightforwardly. The fool understands the definition of God but
denies that God exists. The first hint of strangeness comes in what seems to be a
parenthetical remark: "what he understands is in his understanding". Anselm apparently
proposes to treat the understanding or the mind as if it were a place, and to speak of
things existing "in the understanding". Anselm's assumption here is that if I understand
claims about God, then we may say that God exists in my understanding or in my mind.

For it is one thing for an object to be in the understanding, another to understand that the
object exists. For when a painter first conceives of what he will afterwards perform, he
has it in his understanding be he does not yet understand it to be, because he has not yet
performed it. But after he has made the painting, he both has it in his understanding and
he understands that it exists, because he has made it.

Anselm here explains a distinction. It is one thing for an object to exist in my

understanding, and another for me to understand it to exist. This is a familiar distinction,
even if the terms are not familiar. Ghosts, trolls, flying saucers and the like are all things I
can think about. We might say that I have ideas of these things; Anselm says that they
exist in the understanding. Anselm's point is that in general there is a difference between
saying that something exists in my understanding and saying that I understand (or
believe) it to exist. Trolls exist in my understanding; but I do not understand them to
exist.

Hence even the fool is convinced that something exists in the understanding, at least, than
which nothing greater can be conceived. For when he hears of this, he understands it. And
whatever is understood, exists in the understanding.

Here Anselm applies the distinction he has just drawn to the case of God. The fool
understands claims about God. So God - a being than which none greater can be
conceived - exists in his understanding. Anselm means this to be an entirely
uncontroversial claim.

And assuredly, that than which nothing greater can be conceived cannot exist in the
understanding alone: then it can be conceived to exist in reality, which is greater.
Therefore, if that than which nothing greater can be conceived exists in the understanding
alone, the very being than which nothing greater can be conceived is one than which a
greater can be conceived. But obviously this is impossible.

This is the heart of the argument. The trick is to show that God cannot possibly exist in
the understanding alone. Anselm begins by contrasting existing in the
understanding with existing in reality. This by itself is not problematic. Trolls exist in the
understanding alone; Bill Clinton exists both in the understanding and in reality; and no
doubt there are things that exist in reality that do not yet exist in the understanding
because no human being has ever managed to frame a thought about them. The picture
seems to be as follows:

In the area marked A we have things that exist in the understanding alone; in the area
marked B we have things that exist both in the understanding and in reality; and in the
area marked C we have things that exist in reality but not in the understanding. (For
obvious reasons, we cannot give any concrete examples of the last category.)

At this stage the fool has conceded that God exists in the understanding: so God belongs
either in A or in B. Anselm now argues that God cannot exist in the understanding alone.
The argument seems to proceed as follows.

(1) Suppose (with the fool) that God exists in the understanding alone.

(2) Given our definition, this means that a being than which none greater can be
conceived exists in the understanding alone.

(3) But this being can be conceived to exist in reality. That is, we can conceive of a
circumstance in which theism is true, even if we do not believe that it actually obtains.

(4) But it is greater for a thing to exist in reality than for it to exist in the understanding
alone.

(5) Hence we seem forced to conclude that a being than which none greater can be
conceived can be conceived to be greater than it is.

(6) But that is absurd.

(7) So (1) must be false. God must exist in reality as well as in the understanding.

This reading of the argument is amply confirmed by the final paragraph:

Therefore, if that than which nothing greater can be conceived exists in the understanding
alone, the very being than which nothing greater can be conceived is one than which a
greater can be conceived. But obviously this is impossible. Hence there is no doubt that
there exists a being than which nothing greater can be conceived, and it exists both in the
understanding and in reality.

A Reconstruction of the Argument

This is a useful first pass at the argument. Now let's go over it and try to isolate its most
fundamental assumptions. (I'll highlight the premises of the reconstructed argument in
red.) Remember the argument's dialectical context. The aim is to refute the fool - or less
tendentiously, the rational atheist. So what we want to know about these premises is
whether the fool should accept them. There is first the definition:

(a) By "God" we mean "a being than which no greater being can be conceived"

Then there are some assumptions about the Fool's understanding.

(b) We understand what it means to speak of a being than which no greater can be
conceived. We understand what these words mean.

(c) We can conceive of such a being's existing in reality.

Anselm now assumes a principle that he clearly regards as trivial.

(d) If we understand what it means to speak of X, then X exists in the understanding.

From (a),(b) and (d) we may now infer:

(e) God exists in the understanding.

(Note: this is not a premise. It is an intermediate conclusion supported by a quick

argument from premises we have already accepted.)

Anselm now employs a form of reasoning called reductio ad absurdum. This is a very
useful technique. In a proof of this sort, we begin by assuming the opposite of what we
want to prove. Then we derive a contradiction or an absurdity from this supposition. And
from this we conclude that our original assumption was false. The general form of such
an argument is as follows:

Suppose P
From P it follows that Q
But Q is absurd (self-contradictory).
Therefore P is false.

For Anselm the target of his reduction is the proposition that God exists in the
understanding alone. So let us suppose that this is the case:

(f) Suppose that God exists in the understanding but not in reality.

From (f) and (c) we may now infer

(g) God in fact exists in the understanding alone, but he may be conceived to exist in
reality as well as in the understanding.
At this point Anselm wields what is perhaps his most controversial premise. It is hard to
know exactly how to formulate it. But something like the following seems to be what
Anselm has in mind.

(h) If something exists in the understanding alone, but can be conceived to exist in reality,
then that thing can be conceived to be greater than it actually is.

The idea seems to be: if we compare two things that are alike in all respects except that
one exists in the understanding alone and the other exists in reality, then the one that
exists in reality is clearly greater, better, more perfect. We will have to discuss the
cogency of this assumption in class. But suppose for now that it is granted. We may then
argue as follows. From (g) and (h) it follows that

(I) God can be conceived to be greater than it actually is.

But this is absurd. For given our definition (a), this just means that

(j) A being that cannot be conceived to be greater than it is can be conceived to be greater
than it is.

From which it follows that our supposition (f) is false. We may therefore conclude

(k) God exists in reality.

Now you should ask: Is this a valid argument as it stands? Are the assumptions plausible?
Would the fool be willing to grant them? Would you be willing to grant them? If you
think that the argument is not a good one, you are under an obligation to say where it
goes wrong. It might go wrong in several places. See how many "mistakes" you can find.

Holes
First published Thu Dec 5, 1996; substantive revision Tue Feb 18, 2014

Holes are an interesting case study for ontologists and epistemologists. Naive, untutored
descriptions of the world treat holes as objects of reference, on a par with ordinary
material objects. (‘There are as many holes in the cheese as there are cookies in the tin.’)
And we often appeal to holes to account for causal interactions, or to explain the
occurrence of certain events. (‘The water ran out because of the hole in the bucket.’)
Hence there is prima facie evidence for the existence of such entities. Yet it might be
argued that reference to holes is just a façon de parler, that holes are mere entia
representationis, as-if entities, fictions.
1. Problems
2. Theories
Bibliography
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Related Entries

1. Problems

‘A hole?’ the rock chewer grunted. ‘No, not a hole,’ said the will-o'-the-wisp despairingly.
‘A hole, after all, is something. This is nothing at all’. (Ende 1974/1985: 24)

Hole representations—no matter whether veridical—appear to be commonplace in

human cognition. Not only do people have the impression of seeing holes; they also form
a corresponding concept, which is normally lexicalised as a noun in ordinary languages.
(Some languages even discriminate different types of hole, distinguishing e.g. between
inner cavities and see-throughperforations.) Moreover, data from developmental
psychology and the psychology of perception confirm that infants and adults are able to
perceive, count, and track holes just as easily as they perceive, count, and track paradigm
material objects such as cookies and tins (Giralt & Bloom 2000; Nelson & Palmer 2001).
These facts do not prove that holes and material objects are on equal psychological
footing, let alone on equal metaphysical footing. But they indicate that the concept of a
hole is of significant salience in the common-sense picture of the world, specifically of
the spatiotemporal world.
If holes are entities of a kind, then, they appear to be spatiotemporal particulars, like
cookies and tins and unlike numbers or moral values. They appear to have a determinate
shape, a size, and a location. (‘These things have birthplaces and histories. They can
change, and things can happen to them’, Hofstadter & Dennett 1981: 6–7.) On the other
hand, if holes are particulars, then they are not particulars of the familiar sort. For holes
appear to be immaterial: every hole has a material “host” (the stuff around it, such as the
edible part of a donut) and it may have a material “guest” (such as the liquid filling a
cavity), but it does not itself seem to be made of matter. Indeed, holes seem to be made of
nothing, if anything is. And this gives rise to a number of conundrums. For example:
It is difficult to explain how holes can in fact be perceived. If perception is grounded on
causation, as Locke urged (Essay, II-viii-6), and if causality has to do with materiality,
then immaterial bodies cannot be the source of any causal flow. So a causal theory of
perception would not apply to holes. Our impression of perceiving holes would then be a
sort of systematic illusion, on pain of rejecting causal accounts of perception. (On the
other hand, if one accepts that absences can be causally efficacious, as urged by Lewis
2004, then a causal account could maintain that we truly perceive holes; see Sorensen
2008.)
It is difficult to specify identity criteria for holes—more difficult than for ordinary
material objects. As holes are immaterial, we cannot account for the identity of a
hole via the identity of any constituting stuff. But neither can we rely on the identity
conditions of its material host, for we can imagine changing the host—partly or wholly,
gradually or abruptly—without affecting the hole. And we cannot rely on the identity
conditions of its guest, for it would seem that we can empty a hole of whatever might
partially or fully occupy it and leave the hole intact.
It is equally difficult to account for the mereology of holes. Take a card and punch a hole
in it. You have made one hole. Now punch again next to it. Have you made another hole?
In a way, yes: now the card is doubly perforated. But what prevents us from saying that
we still have one hole, though a hole that comes in two disconnected parts? After all,
material objects can be disconnected: a bikini, your copy of the Recherche, a token of the
lowercase letter ‘i’. Perhaps holes may be disconnected, too? If so, perhaps we have just
punched a single, disconnected hole?
It is also difficult to assess the explanatory relevance of holes. Arguably, whenever a
physical interaction can be explained by appeal to the concept of a hole, a matching
explanation can be offered invoking only material objects and their properties. (That
water flowed out of the bucket is explained by a number of facts about water fluidity,
combined with an accurate account of the physical and geometric conditions of the
bucket.) Aren't these latter explanations enough?
Further problems arise from the ambiguous status of holes in figure-ground displays
(Bozzi 1975). Thus, for example, though it appears that the shapes of holes can be
recognized by humans as accurately as the shapes of ordinary objects, the area seen
through a hole typically belongs to the background of its host, and there is evidence to the
effect that background regions are not represented as having shapes (Bertamini &
Croucher 2003; Bertamini & Casati 2014). So what would the shape of a hole be, if any?
2. Theories
These difficulties—along with some form of horror vacui—may lead a philosopher to
favor ontological parsimony or revisionism over naive realism about holes. A number of
options are available:
One may hold that holes do not exist at all, arguing that all truths about holes boil down
to truths about holed objects (Jackson 1977: 132). This calls for a systematic way of
paraphrasing every hole-committing sentence by means of a sentence that does not refer
to or quantify over holes. For instance, the phrase ‘There is a hole in…’ can be treated as
a mere grammatical variant of the shape predicate ‘… is holed’, or of the predicate ‘... has
a hole-surrounding part’. (Challenge: Can a language be envisaged that contains all the
necessary predicates? Can every hole-referring noun-phrase be de-nominalized?
Compare: ‘The hole in the tooth was smaller than the dentist's finest probe’, Geach 1968:
12.)
One may hold that holes do exist, but they are nothing over and above the regions of
spacetime at which they are found (Wake et al. 2007). They are not just regions of space,
for holes can move, as happens any time you move a donut, whereas regions of space
cannot. But as regions of spacetime, they can be said to move in virtue of having different
temporal parts follow one another in different places. (Challenge: Take the doughnut and
spin it clockwise. Take a wedding ring, put it inside the hole in the doughnut, and spin it
the other way. Both holes are spinning, though in opposite directions, but the relevant
temporal part of the little hole is a spatiotemporal part of the big hole. Would it be
spinning in both directions?)
One may hold instead that holes are qualified portions of spacetime (Miller 2007). There
would be nothing peculiar about such portions as opposed to any others that we would
not normally think of as being occupied by ordinary material objects, just as there would
be nothing more problematic, in principle, in determining under what conditions a certain
portion counts as a hole than there is in determining under what conditions it counts as a
dog, a statue, or whatnot. (Challenge: What if there were truly unqualified portions of
spacetime, in this or some other possible world? Would there be truly immaterial entities
inhabiting such portions, and would holes be among them?)
One might also hold that holes are ordinary material beings: they are neither more nor
less than superficial parts of what, on the naive view, are their material hosts (Lewis &
Lewis 1970). For every hole there is a hole-surround; for every hole-surround there is a
hole. On this conception, the hole-surround is the hole. (Challenge: This calls for an
account of the altered meaning of certain predicates or prepositions. Would a point on a
hole-surround count as being inside the hole? Would expanding the hole-surround
amount to enlarging the hole?)
Alternatively, one may hold that holes are “negative” parts of their material hosts
(Hoffman & Richards 1985). On this account, a donut would be a sort of hybrid
mereological aggregate—the mereological sum of a positive pie together with the
negative bit in the middle. (Again, this calls for an account of the altered meaning of
certain modes of speech. For instance, making a hole would amount to adding a part, and
changing an object to get rid of a hole would mean to remove a part, contrary to ordinary
usage.)
Yet another possibility is to treat holes as “disturbances” of some sort (Karmo 1977). On
this view, a hole is to be found in some object (its “medium”) in the same sense in which
a knot may be found in a rope or a wrinkle in a carpet. (The metaphysical status of such
entities, however, calls for refinements. Simons 1987: 308 has suggested construing them
as Husserlian moments that continuously change their fundaments, but this seems to suit
knots and wrinkles better than holes.)
Finally, it may be held that holes are not the particulars they seem to be. Perhaps they are
properties, or relations, which is to say way things are (Meadows 2013). Or perhaps they
are genuine absences, understood as localized states of the world and, therefore, though
not things or natural properties or relations of things, they can serve as truth-makers for
negative existentials or false-makers for positive existentials (Martin 1996).
On the other hand, the possibility remains of taking holes at face value. Any such
undertaking would have to account, not only for the general features mentioned in section
1, but also for a number of additional peculiarities (Casati & Varzi 1994). Among others:
Holes are ontologically parasitic: they are always in something else and cannot exist in
isolation. (‘There is no such thing as a hole by itself’, Tucholsky 1930.)
Holes are fillable. (You don't necessarily destroy a hole by filling it up. You don't create a
new hole by removing the filling.)
Holes are mereologically structured. (They have parts and can bear part-whole relations
to one another, though not to their hosts.)
Holes are topologically assorted. (Superficial hollows are distinguished from internal
cavities; straight perforations are distinguished from knotted tunnels.)
Holes are puzzling creatures. The question of whether they are to be subjected to
Ockham's razor, reduced to other entities, or taken at face value is an instance of the
general question that philosophers have to address when they scrutinize the ontology
inherent in the common-sense picture of the world.

Bibliography
Bertamini, M., and Casati, R., 2014, ‘Figures and Holes’, in J. Wagemans
(ed.), Handbook of Perceptual Organization, Oxford: Oxford University Press, in press.
Bertamini, M., and Croucher, C. J., 2003, ‘The Shape of Holes’, Cognition, 87: 33–54.
Bozzi, P., 1975, ‘Osservazione su alcuni casi di trasparenza fenomica realizzabili con
figure a tratto’, in G. d'Arcais (ed.), Studies in Perception: Festschrift for Fabio Metelli,
Milan/Florence: Martelli-Giunti, pp. 88-110.
Casati, R., and Varzi, A. C., 1994, Holes and Other Superficialities, Cambridge, MA:
MIT Press.
Ende, M., 1979, Die unendliche Geschichte: von A bis Z, Stuttgart: Thienemanns.
English translation by R. Manheim: The Neverending Story, Garden City, NY:
Doubleday, 1983; reprinted by Puffin Books, 1985.
Geach, P., 1968, ‘What Actually Exists’, Proceedings of the Aristotelian
Society (Supplement), 42: 7–16.
Giralt, N., and Bloom, P., 2000, ‘How Special Are Objects? Children's Reasoning about
Objects, Parts, and Holes’, Psychological Science, 11: 503–507.
Hoffman, D. D., and Richards, W. A., 1985, ‘Parts of Recognition’, Cognition, 18: 65–96.
Hofstadter, D. R., and Dennett, D. C., The Mind's I. Fantasies and Reflections on Self and
Soul, New York: Basic Books.
Jackson, F., 1977, Perception. A Representative Theory, Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press.
Karmo, T., 1977, ‘Disturbances’, Analysis, 37: 147–148.
Lewis, D. K., and Lewis, S. R., 1970, ‘Holes’, Australasian Journal of Philosophy, 48:
206–212; reprinted in D. K. Lewis, Philosophical Papers. Volume 1, New York: Oxford
University Press, 1983, pp. 3–9.
Lewis, D. K., 2004, ‘Void and Object’, in J. D. Collins, N. Hall, and L. A. Paul
(eds.), Causation and Counterfactuals, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, pp. 277–290.
Martin, C. B., 1996, ‘How It Is: Entities, Absences and Voids’, Australasian Journal of
Philosophy, 74: 57–65.
Meadows, P. J., 2013, ‘What Angles Can Tell Us About What Holes Are
Not’, Erkenntnis, 78: 319–331.
Miller, K., 2007, ‘Immaterial Beings’, The Monist, 90: 349–371.
Nelson, R., and Palmer, S. E., 2001, ‘Of Holes and Wholes: The Perception of
Surrounded Regions’, Perception, 30: 1213–1226.
Simons, P., 1987, Parts. A Study in Ontology, Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Sorensen, R., 2008, Seeing Dark Things. The Philosophy of Shadows, Oxford: Oxford
University Press.
Tucholsky, K., 1931, ‘Zur soziologischen Psychologie der Löcher’ (signed Kaspar
Hauser), Die Weltbühne, March 17, p. 389; now in Gesammelte Werke, ed. by M.
Gerold-Tucholsky and F. J. Raddatz, Reinbek bei Hamburg: Rowohlt Verlag, 1960, Vol.
9, pp. 152–153. English translation by H. Zohn: ‘The Social Psychology of Holes’,
in Germany? Germany! The Kurt Tucholsky Reader, Manchester: Carcanet Press, 1990,
pp. 100–101.
Wake, A., Spencer, J., and Fowler, G., 2007, ‘Holes as Regions of Spacetime’, The
Monist, 90: 372–378.
Metaphilosophy
Philosophical progress
A prominent question in metaphilosophy is that of whether or not philosophical progress
occurs and more so, whether such progress in philosophy is even possible.[47] It has even
been disputed, most notably by Ludwig Wittgenstein, whether genuine philosophical
problems actually exist. The opposite has also been claimed, for example by Karl Popper,
who held that such problems do exist, that they are solvable, and that he had actually
found definite solutions to some of them.
David Chalmers divides inquiry into philosophical progress in metaphilosophy into three
questions.
The Existence Question: is there progress in philosophy?
The Comparison Question: is there as much progress in philosophy as in science?
The Explanation Question: why isn’t there more progress in philosophy?[48]

References
Klein, P. D., “Human Knowledge and the Infinite Progress of Reasoning,” Philosophical
Studies, 134. 1, 2007, 1-17.

Quine, W. V. (1948). On what there is

Schaffer, Jonathan (2009). „On what grounds what”. In David Manley, David J. Chalmers
& Ryan Wasserman (eds.), Metametaphysics: New Essays on the Foundations of
Ontology. Oxford University Press 347-383.