The Ten Tropes of Skepticism are, as histories of philosophy tell us, a systematic collection of all or the most important arguments against the possibility of knowledge used by the ancient Pyrrhonists. The list of eight, nine, or ten “tropes,” or modes of argument, presumably goes back to Aenesidemus, the reviver of the Pyrrhonist school in the first century B.C. Very little is known about Aenesidemus as a person. He seems to have lived in Alexandria (Aristocles ap. Eusebius, Praep. ev. XIV 18. 22). Photius tells us (Bibl. Cod. 212) that he dedicated a book to a “fellow Academic,” the Roman L. Tubero, and this may indicate that he started off as a student of the skeptical Academy, but later decided to argue for a different form of skepticism associated with the name of Pyrrho. From Photius's account it appears that he may have been dissatisfied with the dogmatic turn the Academy seemed to take during his lifetime, and hence decided to appeal to the more or less mythical founder of the skeptic movement. We do not know how he became acquainted with the Pyrrhonist tradition, nor whether his collection of arguments had any predecessor; but since later authors tend to associate the list of Tropes with his name, it seems likely that he was the first who tried to present a systematic repertoire of Pyrrhonist arguments.

This volume brings together papers and monographs on Hellenistic philosophy I have written over a period of almost twenty years. Some of them have been hard to find; two were published in German and appear here in translation. I hope that the collection will make it easier to see some of the connections between the different topics taken up in individual essays. With the exception of Chapter 2, my first venture into Hellenistic philosophy, each of the issues discussed here arose from a question left open in an earlier paper. The introductory chapter, previously unpublished, deals with the Sophists of the fifth century B.C., and hence a much earlier period. It started out, however, from a question about the predecessors of the Greek Skeptics: How is it that most of the arguments used by the Pyrrhonists seem to be available at the end of the fifth century, yet Skepticism – at least according to the ancient accounts – begins only with Pyrrho, at the end of the fourth century? I think that a look at the similarities and differences between the Sophists and Skeptics can help one better to understand the role of the skeptical movement in the larger framework of Greek epistemology in general.

A collection of this kind would hardly make sense were it not for the remarkable revival of interest in Hellenistic philosophy inaugurated by the two conferences at Chantilly (1976) and Oxford (1978).

The following rather lengthy piece is a revised version of the Nellie-Wallace lectures I give at Oxford University in the spring of 1984. My aim in this series of six talks was to put together an outline of Stoic ethics that would permit an audience of non-specialists to see some of the connections between the notorious bits of Stoic doctrine with which – or so I assumed – most of us are familiar. For example, most philosophers or classicists will have heard that the Stoics believed the universe was governed by a divine reason, identified with nature; that they defended the view that virtue is the only good, and that the virtuous person would be free from all emotion. But I thought that it was not so clear, given our fragmentary sources, how these doctrines hang together, and so I tried to offer a more or less historical sketch of the development of Stoic ethics as one way in which the pieces of the puzzle could be put together. The first five chapters can I think be read as a continuous account of Stoic theories about the goal of life and of morality; the last one deals with “freedom from emotion,” picking up what is perhaps the most strikingfeature of Stoicism.

I am aware of the fact that a lot has been written on all these topics since 1984, and that it is now much easier, thanks to the sourcebook of A. A. Long and D. N. Sedley (The Hellenistic Philosophers, Cambridge, 1987), to find one's way through the bewildering array of sources for Stoic doctrine.

The prospective student of Stoic ethics who tries, perhaps naïvely, to find out what the proper entrance might be to the apparent labyrinth the Stoics so proudly proclaimed as their system, will soon come across a topic called oikeiōsis. The Greek term is usually not translated, but transliterated; not because it is untranslatable, but because any translation would seem to be intolerably clumsy. What it means can perhaps be rendered as ‘recognition and appreciation of something as belonging to one’; the corresponding verb, which is actually more prominent in the earlier sources, oikeiousthai pros ti, as ‘coming to be (or being made to be) well-disposed towards something’. It will do no harm, I think, to keep the transliteration as a convenient label.

Oikeiōsis, then, appears as the first chapter of several ancient accounts of Stoic ethics. If one turns to the experts for some guidance as to its importance, one finds that some seem to place great weight on it – Pohlenz says it was the foundation of Stoic ethics, Pembroke even claims that ‘if there had been no oikeiōsis, there would have been no Stoa’ – while others tend to play it down, saying that it is just one way of arguing for the fundamental axiom of Stoic ethics, as Brink does, or that Zeno needed it to introduce some differentiation into the field of things declared to be totally indifferent by the Cynics (Rist).

The Sophists of the fifth century B.C. have had a spectacular comeback over the last few decades. One scholar after another, in philosophy as well as in history or in classical literature, has argued that we ought to get away from Plato's devastating campaign to ruin their reputation, and restore them to their rightful place in the history of Greek thought. Perhaps the most complete and balanced picture of their role in the intellectual history of Athens has come from Jacqueline de Romilly. More recendy still, Thomas Cole (1991) has argued, on the basis of what we can find out about their literary activities, that the tradition that makes the Sophists mere rhetoricians as opposed to philosophers is anachronistic in the sense that it imposes an Aristotelian distinction between (rhetorical) form and (argumentative) content upon a period in which such a distinction was not and arguably could not be made. The upshot of these reappraisals tends to be the judgment that the Sophists were both philosophers and rhetoricians, so that their contribution to both fields must be taken seriously. They have a place in both histories, and it is no use confusing the picture by pretending, as Plato does, that they were orators posing as philosophers.

Strictly speaking, though, we ought to say that the Sophists were neither philosophers nor rhetoricians, given that the establishment of philosophy and rhetoric as distinct disciplines came about only in the fourth century.

Skepticism seems of late to have had a kind of renaissance among philosophers. Apart from the usual chapters on skeptical doubt in general treatments of epistemology, there is now a whole series of books and articles, in which a position described as ‘skeptical’ is analyzed and either defended or attacked. Hence it is understandable that historians of philosophy too have turned with renewed enthusiasm to the interpretation of the ancient reports of the Greek skeptics. It seems to me that our picture of ancient skepticism has become more subde and precise through the scholarly studies of the past twelve years (since the appearance in 1969 of Charlotte Stough's book Greek Skepticism), so that it may be worthwhile to take up again the “old question, treated by many Greek authors” (Gellius XI v 6) of the difference between the two skeptical movements in antiquity. For anyone concerned to understand the grounds for skeptical doubt of the possibility of knowledge, it will certainly be of interest to ask whether there were different kinds of skepticism and how these might have looked.

The title of this article belongs to a treatise by Plutarch, which has unfortunately been lost. No doubt it dealt with the difference between the two skeptical schools, because though of course any philosopher from Plato's school could be called an Academic, still, in late antiquity, this label usually referred to the members of the New Academy, of whom the most famous were Arcesilaus in the third century B.C., and Carneades in the second.

Greek ethics has had a kind of renaissance in the last few years. A number of authors, tired, perhaps, of debates about forms of utilitarianism or technicalities of metaethics, have pointed to the classical Greek theories as offering a wider perspective. Three points in particular have been singled out for praise. First, Greek authors were usually concerned to provide an account of the good life for man – what they called eudaimonia, happiness – as opposed to focusing narrowly on right or good action. Second, this wider scope led them to treat seriously and without philistine prejudices the question of motives for morality, or reasons for wanting to be good – a question that has been an embarrassment to both Kantians and utilitarians. Finally, the Greek philosophers tended to be concerned with virtues of character, the traits that underlie or explain a disposition to act in the right way, more than with principles of right action. This is an advantage for two reasons. First, it would seem that our evaluations of people as distinct from actions must be based on a consideration of their character – indeed, even actions can hardly be understood or evaluated without regard to the agent's motives, and motives have more to do with character than with theoretical justification. Second, it seems that if ethics is to have some beneficial effect, preaching the rules of morality would be a most unpromising way of trying to achieve this.

The puzzle that has led me to put together the story that follows is, I think, one that will be familiar to every reader of early modern philosophy: what is natural about natural law?

The term “natural law” refers, it would seem, to the rules of morality conceived of as a kind of legal system, but one that has not been enacted by any human legislator. By contrast to human legal codes, the natural law is supposed to be valid independently of any formal procedures, and such that it cannot be changed. Besides, this law is supposed to provide the standards by which human legislation is to be judged – laws will be just or unjust depending on whether they do or do not conform to natural law. This is, at any rate, the concept of natural law that I'm going to talk about.

Why should such a code of moral rules be called natural law? What nature is one appealing to here? The nature of the universe? or of man? or of human society? It seems that all those answers have in fact been given, once the term “natural law” had become part of the legal and philosophical vocabulary. So there seems to be no single correct answer to my initial question; but it might still be worth asking how this very flexible notion arose, who introduced it, and for what purpose.

Xenophanes of Colophon was a philosopher and poet of the late sixth and early fifth centuries. Although an Ionian by birth, he evidently lived as an exile in Sicily.

(DK 2, W2, lines 11–19)

(DK 15)

(DK 16)

(DK 11)

(DK 34)

The “Old Oligarch” is the name commonly given by modern scholars to the author of this anonymous treatise on the government of Athens, which was preserved among the writings of the Athenian historian and thinker, Xenophon (born c. 430). Technically it is called pseudo-Xenophon's Constitution of the Athenians. The date of the treatise is uncertain, but the consensus is that it was written after 446 (because of events mentioned in 3.11) but probably before 424 (because of an event not mentioned in 2.5).

The author may be an Athenian in exile, for he speaks of Athenians as “they” (1.1 etc.) but also as “we” (1.12 etc.). He disapproves of their democratic constitution but admires the skill with which they have implemented this system. His style is very uneven, and the purpose of the treatise has long puzzled scholars. In our view the treatise belongs to the fifth-century debate about the relative merits of different constitutions and may have been an exercise that, like the Dissoi Logoi, required the assessment of both pros and cons.

[1] My subject is the constitution (politeia) of the Athenians. I do not approve their choice of this type of constitution, for in making their choice they preferred the well-being of the inferior class (ponēroi) at the expense of the better class (chrēstoi). For this reason, then, I do not approve of it.

Critias was a relative (probably cousin) of Plato's mother, from an old and wealthy Athenian family which, like most such families, traditionally favored close relations with Sparta; he seems to have been a vocal advocate of Spartan customs (see frs. 18–21). He is best known as one of the leaders of the Thirty, a group of oligarchs who with the support of Sparta staged a coup against the democratic government of Athens in 404–403. The Thirty had some reasonable goals but their regime soon turned brutal, and democrats regained power in 403. Critias was killed in the final battle at about the age of fifty. The moderate tone of his surviving fragments seems strangely incongruent with the cruelty and violence that characterized his last year. See the Bibliographical Note, § B.5, for details of the fragments in our selection.

Tragedies

Pirithus

Ancient sources ascribe Pirithus to Euripides, but most scholars accept Critias' authorship.

(DK 21, S 10)

(DK 22, S 11)

Protagoras was born in Abdera around 485 and enjoyed a career of forty years as a professional teacher. He traveled widely and was richly paid for his efforts. The tradition that he was a student of Democritus is probably false, although he too came from Abdera. Most scholars also doubt the story that Protagoras was tried in Athens and condemned for atheism.

We translate here all of the generally accepted fragments, as well as texts in which Protagoras is paraphrased or closely imitated. We have shown only as much of the context as is needed for comprehension. Irrelevant intrusions of context have been omitted without comment. Some passages contain only a word or phrase that is a quotation from Protagoras; in such cases we have underlined the quotation and supplied the necessary context in normal print. We have included titles of works by Protagoras that are well attested and are interesting in their own right. We have also included passages that probably represent teachings of Protagoras that have been filtered through the teachings of other thinkers; these passages are labeled “reconstruction.”

In a few cases we print passages that have long been associated with Protagoras, even though we are not convinced that their content is due to Protagoras. In such cases we preface our designation with the comment “doubtful.”

Pindar (518–c. 440) was an aristocratic Boeotian lyric poet known especially for his odes in honor of victors at festivals such as the one at Olympia. He wrote for rich and powerful patrons throughout the Greek world and was, on the whole, a defender of tradition. The fragment translated here comes from one of the most frequently cited poems of Greek antiquity. It is most notably cited by Herodotus (3.38, fr. 3) and by Plato, Gorgias 484b (Unknown authors, fr. 2), who quotes the first five lines and summarizes part of the remainder (cf. Laws 680b). About forty lines of the poem have been reconstructed from a recently discovered papyrus and other sources, but the original meaning is increasingly uncertain after line 20. Pindar's point appears to be that, despite the apparent injustice of Heracles' violent treatment of his two victims, the traditional glorification of Heracles' labors makes this behavior just.

The Nomos–Basileus fragment (S 169)

This short piece is preserved with a group of hymns attributed to Homer, but most probably date from the seventh or sixth centuries. Hephaestus is the smith-god; in the Iliad he forges Achilles' elaborate new armor.

Sophocles lived 496–406. In addition to his poetic activity, he held a minor, hereditary priesthood, and he was elected general, perhaps more than once. His first production was in 468 and we are told that he wrote about 120 plays during his career. He was victorious eighteen times with his plays at the Greater Dionysia (i.e. with seventy-two individual plays).

Antigone

Chorus (332–375)

This choral passage, often called the “Ode to Man,” follows a long speech by Creon in justification of his decree forbidding the burial of Polyneices on the grounds that he was a traitor to the city. Earlier Antigone had affirmed her intention to bury him. Creon asserts that the primary duty of a king is to uphold law and order in the city. In view of the tragic turn of events, there is undoubtedly irony in the optimistic view of the progress of human civilization expressed in this ode. Antigone was produced about 442, and the ode is one of the earliest surviving expressions of the progressive anthropology developed during the sophistic period. Compare Aeschylus' Prometheus (frs. 1–3), Protagoras' Myth (fr. 8), Euripides, fr. 4, Critias, fr. 5, and Democritus, fr. 1.

The passages printed in this book are for the most part short, and many of them are fragmentary. They have all been the subject of far more scholarly research than can be aired in this format. We have tried to provide sufficient explanatory material for students to reach a basic understanding of the texts. Those who wish to go further may consult the Bibliographical Note. All readers should be warned that nothing presented here is beyond controversy.

We have been generous in our selection of texts. Some texts of doubtful authenticity that nevertheless represent pre-Platonic political thought have been included. Some texts have been chosen not because of what they say about political theory, but for the light they shed on other texts that are directly relevant to our themes. Questions of authenticity are mentioned in the notes when they arise. We have arranged our texts by genre, with the sophists at the end. We exclude texts representing the thought of Socrates, who will be the subject of another volume in this series. For a chronology of authors and events, see below, pp. xxxii–xxxv. Unless otherwise indicated, all our dates are bce.

The translations aim at clarity and accuracy, and for the most part follow the structure of the original Greek. Translations of Greek verse are roughly line-for-line, and verse passages are provided with the Greek line numbers for convenient reference.