Those who assert that all things are unclear must necessarily do one of two things: either keep silent, or declare something and speak. If, then, they keep quiet, it is plain that there could be no discourse at all with such people; but if they make declarations, they will in every way and altogether say either that something is or that it is not - just as, of course, they now say that all things are unknowable and matters merely of convention for everyone.
As for him who claims that 'this is nothing,' either the thing is made clear and it is possible to understand what is being said, or it is not possible. But if it is not made clear, then absolutely there could be no discourse at all with such a person on that basis either. But if it does signify something, then he must be speaking of things either infinite or finite in number; and if infinite, there could be no discourse with him even so, for there is no knowledge of the infinite; but if the things signified are finite, whether many or even just one, then the one who says this is defining and judging something. How, then, could all things be unknowable and unjudgeable? And if he should say that the same thing both is and is not, then, in the first place, the same thing will be both true and false; and further, he will both assert something and not assert it; and by using reason he will destroy reason; and moreover, while confessing that he lies, he says that one must believe him.
It is worth inquiring, moreover, from what source and by learning what they say that all things are unclear. For they must first know what 'the clear' actually is; only thus could they be in a position to say that things are not of that character. For one must first know the affirmation, and then the negation. But if they are ignorant of what sort of thing the clear is, they could not know what the unclear is either.
Again, when Aenesidemus in his Outline sets forth the nine modes (for he has attempted to declare things unclear according to that number), shall we say that he speaks them knowing them, or in ignorance? For he says that living creatures differ from one another, and we ourselves differ, and cities, and ways of life, and customs, and laws; and he says that our senses are weak, and that many external factors corrupt knowledge - distances, sizes, and motions; and further, that the young and the old are not disposed alike, nor the waking and the sleeping, nor the healthy and the sick; and that we grasp nothing simple and unmixed.
For, he says, all things are confused and spoken of only in relation to something else. Now, I say, one would gladly ask this man, as he elegantly discourses on these and similar matters, whether he speaks knowing well that things are in this condition, or in ignorance. For if he did not know, how could we believe him? But if he did know, he was altogether a fool, at once declaring all things unclear, and at the same time claiming to know so many things.
Furthermore, whenever they set forth such arguments, they are doing nothing other than making a kind of induction, showing what sort of things the appearances and particulars are - and this very procedure both is and is called 'belief.' If, then, they assent to it, it is plain that they hold opinions; but if they do not believe it, then we should have no wish to pay them any attention either.
Now Timon, in his Python, relates, spinning out a long discourse, how he met Pyrrho walking toward Pytho beside the shrine of Amphiaraus, and what they said to one another. Would it not be reasonable, then, for someone standing beside him as he wrote this to say: 'Why, you rascal, do you trouble yourself writing these things and narrating what you do not know? For why should it be more true that you met him than that you did not meet him, and that you conversed than that you did not converse?'
And did that admirable Pyrrho himself know why he was walking to view the Pythian games? Or did he simply wander along the road like a madman? And when he began to accuse mankind and their ignorance, shall we say that he was speaking the truth or not, and that Timon was affected by his words and gave his assent to them, or that he paid no attention? For if he was not persuaded, how did he become a philosopher instead of a dancer, and continue all his life admiring Pyrrho? But if he did assent to what was said, then it would be absurd for one who himself practices philosophy to prevent us from doing the same.
One might simply wonder what on earth Timon's Lampoons, and his blasphemies against all mankind, and the long treatises addressed to Aenesidemus, and the whole crowd of such writings, actually want to achieve. For if they have written these things thinking they will make us better, and for this reason suppose it necessary to refute everyone so that we may cease from our foolish talk, then clearly they want us to know the truth and to suppose that things are just as Pyrrho holds them to be. So that, if we were persuaded by them, we should become better instead of worse, by judging what is more advantageous and accepting those who speak better.
How, then, could things be equally indifferent and unjudgeable? And how could we become people who withhold assent and hold no opinions? But if there is no benefit at all in their arguments, why do they trouble us with them? Or why does Timon say that 'no other mortal would ever contend with Pyrrho'? For one would have no more reason to admire Pyrrho than that famous Coroebus, or Meletides, men who are reputed to have been outstanding for their folly.
One ought, moreover, to consider this as well. What sort of citizen, or judge, or counselor, or friend, or, to put it simply, what sort of human being could such a person turn out to be? Or what evil deed would he not dare to commit, who truly believes that nothing is evil, or shameful, or just, or unjust? Nor, indeed, could one say that such men are restrained by fear of the laws and their penalties; for how could they be, being, as they themselves claim, free from passion and untroubled?
Timon indeed says the following about Pyrrho: 'But such a man - free of vanity, unconquered - I beheld, unlike all of you, mortal tribes who are overpowered, both the unspoken multitudes and the renowned, fickle nations of the peoples, weighed down this way and that by passions, by opinion, and by arbitrary convention.'
Whenever, moreover, they utter this piece of wisdom - that one ought to live following nature and customs, yet assent to nothing - they are being altogether simple-minded. For if to nothing else, then at least to this very statement one must assent, and suppose that it is so. But why should one follow nature and custom rather than not follow them, seeing that they know nothing at all, and possess nothing by which we might judge?
This too, indeed, is utterly foolish - when they say that, just as purgative drugs expel themselves along with the waste matter, in the same way the argument which claims that all things are unclear also abolishes itself along with the rest. For if it refutes itself, then those who employ it would be talking nonsense. It would therefore be better for them to keep quiet and not even open their mouths.
But indeed, the purgative drug and their argument have nothing at all in common. For the drug is excreted and does not remain in the body, whereas their argument must exist in the soul, being the same and continuously believed; for only this argument, remaining, could be the one that makes people withhold assent.
That they do not actually think man can be without opinion, one might also learn in this way. It is impossible for one who perceives not to perceive. And to perceive was to recognize something. That a man also trusts his perception is evident to all; for when wishing to see more accurately, he rubs his eyes, comes closer, and shades his eyes to see better.
And moreover, we know when we feel pleasure and when we suffer pain; for it is not possible for one who is being burned or cut to be unaware of it. And who would deny that memories and recollections come about together with supposition? For as regards our common notions - that such-and-such a thing is a man - and further, as regards the sciences and arts, what could one say? For none of these would exist, had we not been so constituted as to form suppositions. But I let the rest go. Whether we believe or disbelieve what is said by these men, it is in any case, in every way and altogether, necessary to hold opinions.
That it is impossible to philosophize in this manner, then, is plain. And that it is also contrary to nature and contrary to the laws, we may perceive as follows. For if things were really thus, what would be left except for us to live at random and thoughtlessly, as though in a dream? So that lawgivers, generals, and educators would all be talking nonsense. But to me, at least, it seems that all other men live according to nature, while only these men - who babble such things - are puffed up with conceit, or rather are afflicted with a raging madness.
One might learn this not least from the following account as well. Antigonus of Carystus, who lived in the same era and wrote a record of their lives, says that Pyrrho, being chased by a dog, fled up a tree; and when he was mocked by those present, he said that it was difficult to strip off being human. And when his sister Philista was offering sacrifice, and one of his friends had promised to supply what was needed for the sacrifice but failed to provide it, and Pyrrho, having bought the goods himself, was indignant - since his friend was saying that his conduct was not consistent with his own teachings, nor worthy of his professed freedom from passion - Pyrrho replied that one ought not to make proof of one's philosophy in the case of a mere woman. And yet the friend might justly have said: 'You foolish man, you ought to demonstrate it in the case of a woman, and a dog, and everything else, if indeed there is any benefit at all in these doctrines of yours.'
It is right, moreover, to learn also who were the ones who emulated him, and whom he himself emulated. Pyrrho, then, became a pupil of a certain Anaxarchus, who was at first a painter, and not even a very successful one; then, having come upon the books of Democritus, he neither discovered nor composed anything useful, but spoke ill of all - both gods and men. Pyrrho himself, later taking on this same conceit, while calling himself 'free from conceit,' left nothing behind in writing.
And Timon of Phlius became his pupil, who at first used to dance in the theaters, but then, having encountered him, composed harsh and scurrilous parodies in which he blasphemed all who had ever practiced philosophy. For he was the one who wrote the Lampoons, saying: 'Wretched men, base reproaches, mere bellies, out of such strife and such groanings you were fashioned - men, wineskins full of empty conceit.'
But since no one paid any attention to them, as if they had never even existed at all, only just recently, in Alexandria in Egypt, a certain Aenesidemus began to rekindle this nonsense. And these are, one might say, the most eminent of those who have walked this path.
It is clear, then, that no one in his right mind would call such a thing correct - whether one wishes to call it a 'sect,' or a 'system of reasoning,' or however and by whatever name one pleases to call it. For I, indeed, do not think one ought even to name it 'philosophy,' seeing that it abolishes the very first principles of philosophizing.
These remarks, then, are directed against those who are considered to philosophize in the manner of Pyrrho. Akin to them would also be the objections raised against those who follow Aristippus of Cyrene, who say that only the affections are apprehensible. Now Aristippus was a companion of Socrates, the one who founded the school called Cyrenaic, from which Epicurus took his starting points for his exposition of the end of life. Aristippus led a very dissolute life and was fond of pleasure; but he never openly discoursed about the end, though in effect he said that the substance of happiness lay in pleasures. For, by constantly making pleasure the subject of his discourse, he led those who associated with him to suspect that he held the end of life to be living pleasantly.
Among others who became his students was also his own daughter, Arete; and she, having borne a son, named him Aristippus, who, having been introduced by her to the study of philosophy, was called 'mother-taught.' This grandson clearly defined the end of life as living pleasantly, classifying pleasure as a kind of motion. For he said there are three states with respect to our bodily constitution: one, in which we feel pain, resembling a storm at sea; another, in which we feel pleasure, resembling a smooth wave - for pleasure, he said, is a smooth motion, comparable to a favorable wind; and a third, intermediate state, in which we feel neither pain nor pleasure, resembling a calm. He said, then, that we have perception only of these affections; and it is against these men that the following objections have been raised.
Next in order would come those who say that only the affections are apprehensible; this was said by some of the Cyrenaics. These men maintained, as though oppressed by some kind of stupor, that they knew nothing at all, unless someone standing beside them should strike and prick them; for they said that when burned or cut they recognized that they were experiencing something, but could not say whether that which burned was fire, or that which cut was iron.
One would immediately ask those who say this whether, at any rate, they themselves know this much - that they are experiencing something and perceiving it. For if they did not know it, they could not even say that they know only the affection; but if, on the other hand, they do recognize this, then it would not be true that only the affections are apprehensible. For the statement 'I am being burned' was a proposition, not merely an affection.
But indeed, these three things must necessarily coexist together: the affection itself, and the agent producing it, and the subject undergoing it. He, then, who apprehends the affection must certainly also perceive the subject undergoing it. For surely it is not the case that he will know, say, that something is becoming warm, and yet be ignorant of whether it is himself or his neighbor; or whether it is now or last year, and whether it is in Athens or in Egypt, and whether he is alive or dead, and further, whether he is a man or a stone.
He will therefore also know by what he is being affected; for indeed men recognize one another, and roads, and cities, and food; and craftsmen, in turn, know their own tools, and physicians and sailors take note of things to come, and among the animals, dogs find the tracks.
Furthermore, one who experiences an affection at all apprehends it either as belonging to himself or as belonging to someone else. Whence, then, will he be able to say that this is pleasure and that is pain? Or that he experiences something by tasting, or seeing, or hearing? And that he tastes with the tongue, sees with the eyes, and hears with the ears? Or how do they know that this thing must be chosen, and that thing avoided? And if they know none of these things, they will have neither impulse nor desire, and thus would not even be living creatures. For it is ridiculous when they say that these things happen to them, yet they do not know how or in what manner. For such people could not even say whether they are by nature human beings, or whether they are alive; and therefore neither could they say whether they are saying anything or making any assertion at all.
What discourse, then, could there be with such people? One might indeed marvel if they do not know whether they are on earth or in heaven; but it would be far more astonishing if, while claiming to practice philosophy, they do not know whether four is more than three, and how many one and two together make. For these people cannot even say how many fingers they have on their hands, nor whether each of them is one person or several.
So they would not even know their own name, nor their homeland, nor even Aristippus their own teacher. Nor, then, would they know whom they love or hate, nor what they desire; nor, if they laughed or wept, would they be able to say that this thing was laughable and that thing distressing. It is plain, then, that they do not even understand what we are now saying. Such people, then, would differ in no way from gnats or flies - and yet even those creatures recognize what is according to nature and what is contrary to it.
Against those who are so disposed, although one could say countless things, these remarks suffice. It follows, next, that we should also examine together with them those who took the opposite path, and who determined that one must believe everything reported by the bodily senses - among whom were Metrodorus of Chios and Protagoras of Abdera.
Now they said that Metrodorus had been a student of Democritus, and that he declared the full and the void to be first principles, of which the one is being and the other non-being. Writing, indeed, on nature, he made use of the following opening: 'None of us knows anything, not even this very thing - whether we know or do not know.' This opening gave bad occasion to Pyrrho, who came afterward. And, proceeding further, he says that everything is whatever one might conceive it to be.
As for Protagoras, tradition holds that he was called an atheist. For, writing likewise concerning the gods, he too made use of the following opening: 'Concerning the gods, I am not able to know either that they exist, or what sort of form they have; for there are many things that prevent me from knowing each of these matters.' The Athenians punished him with exile, and publicly burned his books in the middle of the marketplace. Since, then, these men said that one ought to trust the senses alone, let us now examine the objections raised against them.
There have been some who maintain that one ought to trust sense-perception and appearances alone. Some, indeed, say that Homer too hints at this very thing, when he declares Ocean to be the origin of all things - implying that things exist in a state of flux. Among those we know of, Metrodorus of Chios likewise appears to say this same thing; but Protagoras of Abdera does so quite explicitly.
For he said that man is the measure of all things - of those that are, that they are, and of those that are not, that they are not. For whatever things appear to each person to be, such they are; and concerning anything else we are able to affirm nothing.
Against these men, one could say what Plato also says in the Theaetetus. First, why on earth, if things are really so, did they see fit to make man the measure of truth, rather than a pig or a dog-headed baboon? Next, how could they say that they themselves were wise, if indeed every single person is himself the measure of truth for himself? Or how do they refute others, if what appears to each person is true for him? Moreover, we are ignorant of certain things even though we frequently perceive them - just as, for instance, when we hear barbarians speaking.
Moreover, one who has viewed something, and then remembers it, knows it, but no longer perceives it by sense. And if he should close one eye but see with the other, it is clear that he will both know and not know the very same thing.
In addition to this, if what appears to each person is also true, and it does not appear to us that what is said by those men is true, then it would also be true that man is not the measure of all things.
And indeed, the skilled differ from the unskilled, and the experienced from the inexperienced, and for this reason a helmsman, a physician, and a general foresee more accurately what is going to happen.
In short, these men do away entirely with the more and the less, with the necessary and the contingent, with what is according to nature and what is contrary to nature. On their view the same thing would be both being and not-being. For nothing prevents the same thing from appearing to some to exist and to others not to exist; and the same thing would be both a man and a piece of wood — for sometimes the same thing appears to this man to be a man, and to that man to be a piece of wood.
Every statement would be true, and for that very reason also false; and those who deliberate and those who sit in judgment would have nothing to do. And, most absurd of all, the same men would be both good and worthless, and vice and virtue would be the same thing. One could say many other things of this sort; but there is no need of further argument against men who do not believe that mind and reason exist.
Then, next: since there are even now some who say that every sensation and every appearance whatsoever is true, let us say a little about these men too. For they seem to be afraid that, if they should say that some sensations are false, they would no longer have a criterion or a standard that is secure and trustworthy. But they do not see that in doing so they would be no better off, since on the same principle they would have to declare all opinions true as well; for it is by opinions, too, that we are naturally accustomed to judge many things. Yet none the less they insist that of these some are true and some false.
Furthermore, on examination one would find that not even among the other standards of judgment is anything unfailingly and universally free from error — take, for instance, a balance, or a lathe, or any such thing; rather, each of them, when in such-and-such a condition, is sound, but in such-and-such another condition, faulty; and used in this way it gives a true result, used in that way it gives a false one. And indeed, if every sensation were true, they ought not to differ so greatly from one another. For sensations differ according to whether one is near or far, sick or healthy, skilled or unskilled, sane or foolish. And it would surely be altogether absurd to say that the sensations of madmen are true, and likewise those of people who see or hear amiss; for it would be a silly thing to say that a man who sees amiss either sees or does not see — for one might say that he does see, but not correctly.
But when they say that sensation, being irrational, neither adds anything nor takes anything away, they plainly fail to see what is right before them; for in the case of the oar in the water, and in paintings, and countless other instances, it is sensation itself that deceives us. That is why in all such cases we all blame not our reason but our imagination. For the argument refutes itself in claiming that every appearance is true. For it proves our own appearance — the very one on account of which we do not believe that every appearance is of that sort — to be altogether false. It thus happens to them that they call every appearance both true and false.
In general they err in supposing that things are such as they appear to us. On the contrary, things appear such as they by nature are, and it is not we who make them to be so, but rather we ourselves are somehow affected by them. Since it would indeed be ridiculous if we, like painters and sculptors, upon merely conceiving puppies or chimeras, should suppose that these forthwith exist, and should therefore imagine them as standing ready before us.
That, then, those who assert that every sensation and every appearance is true do not speak correctly is clear from what has been said. But although matters stand thus, once again the school of Epicurus, taking its start from the succession of Aristippus, made everything depend on pleasure and sensation, defining that only the affections are apprehensible, and that pleasure is the end of goods.
Epicurus is said by some to have been the pupil of no one, but to have chanced upon the writings of the ancients; by others, that he heard Xenocrates, and later also Nausiphanes, who had been an acquaintance of Pyrrho. Let us then consider what arguments have in fact been raised against him.
Since knowledge is twofold — knowledge of things, and knowledge of what is to be chosen and avoided by us — some say that we have, as the starting point and criterion of choice and avoidance, pleasure and pain; and indeed even now the Epicureans say something of this sort. It is therefore necessary to examine this point as well.
So far am I, then, from saying that feeling is the starting point and standard of good and evil, that it seems to me that this very thing itself stands in need of a criterion. For that it exists, it shows of itself; but what sort of thing it is requires another, a judging faculty. For sensation tells us whether a thing is akin to us or alien, but it is reason that tells us whether it is to be chosen or avoided.
They themselves say that they do not embrace every pleasure nor avoid every pain. And this happens quite reasonably. For criteria reveal both themselves and the things judged, but feeling reveals only itself. And that this is so they themselves bear witness. For although they maintain that every pleasure is a good and every pain an evil, they nevertheless say that one need not always choose the one and avoid the other; for these are to be measured by quantity, not by quality.
It is clear, then, that quantity is judged by nothing other than reason; for it is reason that judges that it is better to endure certain pains, in order that we may enjoy greater pleasures, and that it is expedient to abstain from certain pleasures, so that we may not suffer harsher pains — and it is reason that judges all such things.
In general, sensations and appearances resemble mirrors and images of things; feelings, however — pleasures and pains — are turnings and alterations of ourselves. Accordingly, when perceiving and forming impressions, we look outward at external things, but when feeling pleasure and pain, we turn back only upon ourselves. For our sensations are produced by external things, and whatever those external things are like, such it makes our appearances as well; but our feelings become of a certain quality on account of ourselves, and according to how we ourselves are disposed.
That is why the same things appear at one time pleasant, at another time unpleasant, and sometimes more so, sometimes less. Since this is so, we shall find, if we are willing to examine it, that those lay down the best foundations of knowledge who take into account both the senses and the mind.
Sensation resembles nets and snares and other such hunting devices, while mind and reason resemble the hounds that track and pursue. Yet of these very things, one must reckon that those philosophize best who neither use the senses at random nor employ the feelings for the discernment of truth. For it would surely be a terrible thing that men, who by nature possess the most divine of judges, the mind, should abandon it and hand themselves over to irrational pleasures and pains. These things are from Aristocles.
'Let us then judge, one by one, each of the three things in relation to pleasure and mind. For we must see to which of the two we shall assign each of them as more akin.' 'Do you mean with respect to beauty, truth, and due measure?' 'Yes. First, then, take hold of truth, Protarchus, and having taken hold of it, look at the three — mind, truth, and pleasure — and after holding back a long time, answer for yourself whether pleasure or mind is more akin to truth.'
'Why is there need of time? For they differ greatly, I think. Pleasure is of all things the most given to false boasting; and, as they say, even in the pleasures of love, which are held to be the greatest, perjury has received pardon from the gods, as though those who feel pleasure were like children possessing not even the least particle of mind; whereas mind is either the very same thing as truth, or of all things the most like it and the truest.'
'Next, then, examine in the same way due measure — whether pleasure possesses more of it than wisdom, or wisdom more than pleasure.' 'You have proposed an easy question to examine. For I think no one could find anything by nature more immoderate than pleasure and excessive delight, nor anything ever more measured than mind and knowledge.'
'Well said. Yet still tell me the third point. Has mind partaken more of beauty than the class of pleasure, so that mind is more beautiful than pleasure, or is it the contrary?' 'Is it not true, Socrates, that no one has ever anywhere, in any way, either waking or in dream, seen or conceived wisdom and mind as ugly — neither becoming so, nor being so, nor about to be so?' 'Rightly said.'
'But pleasures, surely — and these almost the greatest of them — when we see anyone at all enjoying them, we ourselves feel shame at seeing either the ridiculous, or the most shameful of all things, following upon them, and we hide and conceal them as much as possible, consigning all such things to night, as though the light ought not to behold them.'
'Everywhere, then, Protarchus, you will declare, both sending word by messengers and telling those present, that pleasure is not the first possession, nor again the second, but that the eternal nature has chosen for the first place, in some sense, measure and the measured and the timely, and everything of that kind that must be so reckoned.' 'So it appears, at any rate, from what has just been said.'
'In the second place, that which concerns the well-proportioned, the beautiful, the perfect and sufficient, and everything belonging in turn to this same class.' 'So it seems, at any rate.'
'Is it not, then, that the things we set down as belonging to the soul itself — knowledge, arts, and what are called right opinions — these are the fourth, in addition to the three, if indeed they are more akin to the good than to pleasure?' 'Perhaps so.'
'And fifth, then, those pleasures which we set down defining them as painless, calling them the pure pleasures of knowledge belonging to the soul itself, and those which follow upon the senses.' 'Perhaps.'
'"In the sixth generation," says Orpheus, "cease the order of song"; and our discourse, too, is likely to have come to rest at the sixth judgment. After this nothing remains for us except, as it were, to set a head upon what has been said.' 'Indeed we must.'