Substance as Form in Aristotle

It is an easy mistake to inadvertently misconceive Aristotle's Categories as a metaphysical work - that is, that it is a work about things, forgetting that in fact it is not about things per se, but about thought. In my experience, this misconception leads to a peculiar understanding of what is real, i.e. the notion of substance, that is set in explicit opposition to the notion of real that was once put forward by Plato: whereas, for Plato, the real or the substantial was primarily form, for Aristotle it is the composite individual that is primarily real or the substantial, according to the Categories. 

What many students of Aristotle forget, when they read the Categories, is that Aristotle is there speaking in a mode that is according to logical intentions, and not according to the ontological order of things in themselves. According to the mode of intentions, which is the same as the mode of predication, the individual as conceived and signified is that which stands most independently, on its own, in relation to that which is attributed to it (its genera and species, as well as its accidents): it is the subject of a proposition that is expressed as standing on its own, independently, whereas the predicate is expressed precisely as being dependent upon the subject. And it is the individual in the genus of substance that is most of all a subject, in propositions. It is not predicated of anything, but all genera and species, and all other categories, are predicated of it. 

This conception of substance is expressed in the Categories, chapter 5: 

Substance, in the truest and primary and most definite sense of the word, is that which is neither predicable of a subject nor present in a subject; for instance, the individual man or horse. But in a secondary sense those things are called substances within which, as species, the primary substances are included; also those which, as genera, include the species. For instance, the individual man is included in the species 'man', and the genus to which the species belongs is 'animal'; these, therefore-that is to say, the species 'man' and the genus 'animal,-are termed secondary substances. 

Witness the apparent contrast with these couple of excerpts from Aristotle's Metaphysics, book Z (or book 7), chapter 3:

The term substance is used chiefly of four things, if not of more; for the essence (or quiddity) and the universal and the genus seem to be the substance of each thing, and fourthly the subject. Now the subject is that of which the others are predicated, while it itself is not predicated of anything else. And for this reason it is first necessary to establish the truth about this, because this first subject seems in the truest sense to be substance. 

Now in one sense matter is said to be the subject, and in another, the form, and in still another, the thing composed of these. By matter I mean the bronze, and by form the specifying figure, and by the thing composed of these the whole statue. 

If, then, the specifying principle is prior to the matter and is being to a greater degree, for the same reason it will also be prior to the thing composed of these... (1028b33-1029a8)

For to exist separately and to be a particular thing seem to belong chiefly to substance; and for this reason it would seem that the specifying principle and the thing composed of both the specifying principle and matter are substance to a greater degree than matter. 

Yet that substance which is now composed of both (I mean of form and matter) must be dismissed; for it is subsequent and open to view. And matter too is in a sense evident. But it is necessary to investigate the third kind of substance, for this is the most perplexing. (1029a29-1029b1)

Here, in contrast to the Categories, Aristotle seems to be asserting that substance is primarily form, rather than the individual that is composed of form and matter. This is potentially confusing to the young student of Aristotelian philosophy. Moreover, many modern interpreters have taken this as a sign that Aristotle rejected the view which he originally proposed in the Categories, and thus the whole philosophical system of Aristotle loses its inner coherence and unity. But I think the key to maintaining the coherence of Aristotle's philosophy is to recognize the difference, though there is a close connection, between logic and metaphysics. Logic treats the intentional order, the order of the mind, the modes of conceptualization and signification, whereas metaphysics treats the real order, the modes of being, unconditioned by mental modes and categories. 

In the real order, as contrasted with the logical order, that which is in fact the most real is the form of a thing, its inner actuality, because it simply is the reality of the thing. The composite only has the notion of substance, of something real, because this notion is communicated to it by the form. Thus, the form has the notion of substance or reality in a way that is prior to the composite itself. The form itself just is the reality of the composite. Act is prior to potency; and it is prior to its own dilution by the admixture of potency - i.e. composition. Substance, inasmuch as it is that which is most independently actual, is therefore primarily the form, since form is to matter as act to potency. Thus, the initial temptation to unqualifiedly oppose Aristotle to Plato is unfounded, since both of them give priority of being to the form, and not to the composite individual.

But there is still confusion. Is it not the case that Plato, in attributing primary reality not to sensible individuals but to their forms, intended to separate form from matter, such that Forms have an existence on their own, as subsistent entities? Is this not exactly what Aristotle denies? Is this not the definitive point of difference between these two great philosophers? 

Thus, the question remains how Aristotle compares to Plato in respect to the precise notion of the separation of form from matter. What did Plato mean by separation? Is there anything in Aristotle that is analogous to the separate Forms of Plato? What are we to make of Aristotle's heavy criticisms of the Platonic Forms? What does all of this entail for the universals? Are Plato's Forms not just hypostasized or reified universals? Are Aristotle's separate substances - and what, indeed, are these? - universals in any sense?

So far, my research has revealed to me that these questions are answered, perhaps in an inchoate way, and in various ways, by the Neoplatonists, whether in their own separate treatises or in commentaries which they made on the texts of Aristotle himself. One of the hallmarks of the various Neoplatonic strands of thought is the attempt to reconcile, to some degree or another, the philosophies of Plato and Aristotle, both of whom they viewed and respected as masters of philosophy. Certainly, the Neoplatonic commentaries were not without heavy criticisms of Aristotle. But on the whole, what the attitude of the Neoplatonists reveal is the possibility of integrating Aristotle's project within the project of Platonism as a whole: the voyage of discovery that begins with sensible reality and proceeds to the sublime heights of the supersensible, the purely intelligible - an essentially theological project (in the sense of natural, not revealed, theology).

This year, and probably next year too, in some form, I will be working on a research project that focuses on the Neoplatonic gradual integration of Aristotle's Metaphysics into the Platonic program, which prefigures what I take to be the great synthesis that occurs in the Middle Ages, with Thomas Aquinas. Today's thoughts on substance as form were a first step, still to be developed, in building up my own understanding of that project in detail, informed by a closer reading of the original texts. I will, of course, be posting more of my thoughts in the upcoming weeks and months. In my next few posts, hopefully, I will attempt to address some of the questions listed above.

Tradition and Reverence for Form

Today's thought pertains quite closely to that of the previous post, on the subject of form and the attitude of reverence. This is a topic with widespread consequences in discussions of politics and culture. The following excerpt is taken from Richard Weaver's classic piece of conservative literature, Ideas Have Consequences (my emphasis):

"Ideas have consequences."
-- Richard Weaver

The man of self-control is he who can consistently perform the feat of abstraction. He is therefore trained to see things under the aspect of eternity, because form is the enduring part. Thus we invariably find in the man of true culture a deep respect for forms. He approaches even those he does not understand with awareness that a deep thought lies in an old observance. Such respect distinguishes him from the barbarian, on the one hand, and the degenerate, on the other. The truth can be expressed in another way by saying that the man of culture has a sense of style. Style requires measure, whether in space or time, for measure imparts structure, and it is structure which is essential to intellectual apprehension. (23)

I think this excerpt contains a remarkable insight - which desperately needs to be developed - concerning the profound connection between traditional culture and form as something worthy of respect or reverence. A truly cultured man has reverence for tradition, because he has reverence for form - the aspect of things that is most divine and enduring, that most transcends space and time. As such, form is what constitutes the sacredness of things: the immanent presence in a contingent, transient world, of something which is itself transcendent and eternal. Such a thing is not to be approached lightly or with an attitude of easy dismissal; rather it is to be approached for the deep enlightenment which it may have to offer. Tradition is essentially an issue of forms. Forms that are, perhaps, apparently conventional and artificial - or artistic, a word which, I think, better conveys a sense of non-arbitrariness - but they are forms nonetheless. 

Perhaps, however, the objection which the liberal minded modernist might bring against this claim, that the respect for tradition is founded upon the respect for form, is precisely that traditional forms are merely artificial, or merely conventional - that is to say, that they are precisely arbitrary. Reverence for arbitrary forms would indeed seem to be quite unfounded. This is, I think, exactly where Weaver's thought is in need of further development: the traditionalist must establish either: 1) that even the arbitrary forms of human tradition are deserving of respect, and hence that tradition is deserving of respect; or 2) that such forms are, in fact, not arbitrary after all, but profoundly rooted in a nature that is beyond the arbitrary construction of human whims and fancies. I think Weaver, Platonist that he famously is, would subscribe unhesitatingly to the latter view, probably with the Aristotelian defense that art imitates nature; and it is only to the degree that man seeks, by his artistic faculties, to depart from the model of nature that the "forms" which he creates become truly arbitrary. Accordingly, it is the modern liberal mindset, which glorifies individual autonomy over any pre-individualistic standard or archetype, such as might be received in a pre-existing tradition, that is truly arbitrary and unworthy of our reverence or respect. 

Form, Reverence, Myth... Wherein I Speak of Things Divine

"The world is charged with the grandeur of God..."

Form and esse, those principles in things by which they are actual, are also the principles in things by which they have some share, some participation, in the divine. Inasmuch as the divine is present in them - by way of a contracted similitude - they command an attitude of reverence in the soul who encounters them. Creatures are symbols of God, in each their own fashion, to the degree that they participate in God's likeness - which is to the degree that they have form and being. Form is the intrinsic grandeur of things. This is one place where metaphysics leads to a kind of sublime and reverential contemplation: when the philosopher simply basques in the mystery of being, when he gazes with the eye of his soul upon the resplendence of form in things, he is fulfilling, if only in a partial way, the destiny of his human nature. And note, here I do not mean merely the consideration of the abstract species, but the apprehension of the relation of participation which this species has towards the more universal form of the angelic natures, and especially God. 

The whole trajectory of philosophy is towards vision. To know the inner reality and essences of things is, in a way, to anticipate the pure vision that occurs at the very height of philosophy, where reasoning ceases, and the soul simply rests in the contemplating the most universal principle, the One. This vision is, of course, not fully attainable by philosophical endeavor, but only by the life of holiness and the grace of God, according to traditional Christian doctrine. But it is helpful to recognize, in a qualified sense, the homogeneity or continuity of knowledge that begins in the natural consideration of being and form in things, and terminates in a supernatural beatific vision that could not be attained without grace. I say "in a qualified" sense, because there is a certain heterogeneity between nature and grace; it is important to maintain their distinction in kind, not in mere degree, while still recognizing that grace transforms and elevates nature "from the inside," as it were, not by being merely tacked on like a cherry on top. (I am, of course, referring to the De Lubac affair.)

This is, I think, one of those important connections which metaphysics bears upon the living out of the philosophic life in practice - at least in terms of the fundamental attitude of life: the attitude of reverence. Philosophy, in this sense, is not merely an isolated academic study, though it certainly involves that to a very large degree. Rather, philosophy as a way of life is characterized by a basic way of approaching reality in one's very experience of it, day to day. In the light of such a conception of philosophy, the world becomes suddenly alive with a divine mystery, and the philosopher acquires an awareness that is very much like that of the poet: he senses that he is part of a grand myth (which does not mean a mere fable, by the way), in which the main players are not only men but also gods and angels... This may be a rather quaint way of thinking, but something very analogous is true of the Christian life itself, which one may describe as "lived theology": as Christians, with a kind of theological awareness, we become characters in a mythical plot that is much grander and more beautiful than our own individual roles. We are participators in an action that is performed by God, a God-man, angels, heroes, kings, and sages. Reverence and awe, of the sort due to epic tales and legends, are the characteristic emotions of a life lived this way. (And again, I do not mean tales, legends, or myths, in the sense of a make-believe fable. All the ancient cultures were animated by the belief that their myth was in fact, in some sense, their own ancient past. Mythology was their revelation, a record of a time when gods walked the earth and interacted with men, when miracles of a grand scale shaped the world and the course of its history. Christianity does not lack this element - on the contrary, the historical reality of the Incarnation is crucial to our faith.)

It may seem a very wide jump from the metaphysical notions of form and being, as conceived by very rational men like Aristotle and Thomas, to this more poetic and literary way of conceiving the philosophic life. We moderns are not accustomed to associating these things. Even the modern Aristotelian will often treat the notion of form less as an occasion for mythical awe than as an opportunity for study and investigation. But the world of the ancients had not thus been demythologized and disenchanted. Even for Aristotle and Thomas, form was something divine in things, a powerful symbol and residue of divine activity. The relation of cause and effect was not the mere physical and mechanical notion that it is today, but a tale of divine art. Aristotle may have been much more moderate than Plato in his expression of these ideas, when he wrote his Physics, but the spirit of the Timaeus is in important ways more characteristic of the ancient view of the divine cosmogony. The cosmogony is still taking place, indeed: the gods are still active in the world. God has even become a man in these latter days, and the meaning of things has been renewed and transformed in the context of Christ's revelation. We need only have eyes to see - or the faith to believe - the form that is bestowed on things by the Incarnation.

For this kind of life, worship pervades the whole, being concentrated at a certain topmost level of contemplative activity - which, I would argue, occurs first and foremost in a kind of religious ritual. This is described as theurgy - the work of God - by the Neoplatonists. Theurgy is the context within which the divine meaning of things is fully actualized by the mediation of man as priest-theurgist, and returned back to the gods in the act of sacrifice. In theurgy, the myth of the gods is relived and experienced in a special way. I do not believe Aristotle had a notion of theurgy, at least explicitly, but I think it coincides quite nicely with his account of contemplation, which occurs at the height of metaphysics. In Christian theology, this is, of course, the sacred liturgy, where the attitude of reverence is especially concentrated and focused on the sacramental presence of God, especially in the Eucharist. Indeed, in the liturgy, by way of symbolic forms and meanings, the divine cosmogonic myth of redemption, performed by Christ, is energetically relived upon Christian altars in Christian sanctuaries. We the faithful become participators of a divine story.

An example of Christian Theurgy.

Exitus-Reditus and Nostalgia in Theology

It is the office of the wise man to dispose things in order, and this he does in view of the end or final cause of these things. (SGC, I,1). Theology - which, more than any other science, is wisdom - has for its end or final cause the salvation of humanity: "It was necessary for man's salvation that there should be a knowledge revealed by God..." (ST Ia, q.1, a.1). Man's salvation consists in the knowledge of God: "For this is eternal life, that they might know Thee, the only true God..." (John 17:3). It is striking to me that St. Thomas gives human salvation as the purpose of theology itself, which is a science. It seems that St. Thomas must therefore closely associate the study of theology with the Christian life itself - that is, theology has something to do with living well, since it has for its end the eternal beatitude of man.

But theology does not only end with the beatific vision, the knowledge of God, it also begins with it. Every lower science, St. Thomas tells us (Ia, q.1, a.2), receives its principles from a higher science, as music receives its principles from mathematics. In each science, the principles are accepted by a kind of faith. In theology, these principles are none other than the articles of faith, which are received from "the science of God and the blessed." Beatific vision - God's knowledge of Himself, the participation of the blessed in this divine knowing - is the source and beginning of sacred theology. This is the structure of exitus-reditus: procession and return. The perfection of things consists in their return to the first principle from which they proceeded in the first place.

Theology is thus an essentially nostalgic affair: it seeks to return home, to its beginning, to the beginning of all things, indeed. God is called the subject of this science, even though other things are studied in theology, because it is He who is the principle and end of all things: things are only considered, in theology, inasmuch as they refer to Him as their principle and end. Moreover, the very division of theology, in the Summa, according to Thomas, is structure according to this conception: 1) God in Himself (in which we also consider God as Creator, i.e. beginning of all things); 2) man's advance and return to God (in which, accordingly, we consider God as the end of all things); and 3) Christ, who, as man, is our way to God. (Ia, q.2, prologue.)