Aristotle’s understanding of natural objects as matter-form compounds raises important questions about how this hylomorphic view applies to living beings. More specifically:

1. (1) Is the form of living compounds ‘pure,’ that is essentially independent of matter, or ‘true-gritty,’ that is, essentially matter-involving?

2. (2) In his standard view, the form is prior to matter and the compound. But how can the form of living compounds meet this priority requirement if it is ‘true-gritty’?

3. (3) If, by contrast, the form of living compounds is ‘pure,’ how can it be the principle of material and changeable living compounds?

I argue that in De Partibus Animalium (PA), too, forms of living compounds are ‘true-gritty.’ They are also, however, prior to living compounds and their matter. PA offers evidence for a distinction between the type of matter that is essential to form and that of living compounds, which is not essential to but posterior to the form.

This chapter seeks to trace the history of On the Parts of Animals (hereafter PA) and the impact it had up to the Byzantine era and Michael of Ephesus, the first systematic commentator of Aristotle’s biological works. The first section examines a variety of works and passages until Galen’s time, delving deeper into the case of the ps.-Aristotelian On Breath. The second section focuses on Galen’s On the Usefulness of the Parts: Despite the fact that Galen argues that this treatise is part of the tradition of the PA, it emerges that Aristotelian zoology is discussed in late antiquity and the Middle Ages based on the study of other zoological treatises (or their epitomes) and not of the PA. The third section examines Michael’s commentary and especially his comments on the marrow and the brain. It is shown that Michael’s scholiastic activity contributes genuinely and substantially to the circulation of Aristotle’s thought in philosophical circles of the time.

In this chapter, I argue that the first book of the Parts of Animals (PA) expresses a form of realism about animal species. While the claim that Aristotle was a realist about species may seem obvious to those coming to the PA from the Metaphysics, the current view among specialists is that Aristotle’s zoology was not working with a concept of species. Some have even gone so far as to avoid translating eidos as “species” throughout his zoological writings. In contrast to this, I argue: first, that indivisible species constitute the ousiai of Aristotle’s zoology; and, second, that the aim of Aristotelian zoological division is to identify and organize the features specified in the definition of those species. The latter (epistemological) claim is explicit in the discussion of division in PA I 2–3, while the former (ontological) claim is advanced in PA I 4.

This chapter considers the place of the four books of the Parts of Animals (PA) within Aristotle’s envisaged sequence of biological writings. It argues that PA I belongs integrally with II–IV (rather than being a self-standing theoretical essay) and that the entire project of PA I–IV presupposes key theoretical and factual discoveries made in the Historia Animalium (HA), contra the ‘Balme hypothesis’ according to which HA postdates the explanatory treatises and represents a more advanced stage of inquiry. Finally, it shows that the mantra “being is prior to coming-to-be” (which governs the PA–GA axis) has important implications for our understanding of the explanations in PA II–IV. It concludes with some remarks on the overall structure of Aristotle’s biological corpus.

In PA I.5, Aristotle encourages his audience to engage in a novel kind of philosophy: the scientific inquiry into animals and plants. What Aristotle is exhorting his readers to do, biology, is newly and originally conceived, but the literary technique employed – protreptic speech – is one of the oldest and most traditional kinds of philosophical discourse. In his earlier popular dialogue the Protrepticus, Aristotle had defended and promoted the Academic conception of philosophy and its preoccupation with theoretical and mathematical sciences such as astronomy by discussing the clarity of such sciences and the excellence of their objects. In the later protreptic to biology, he adapted these earlier arguments, arguing that biology also has excellent objects and offers a kind of clarity that may even surpass astronomy. These arguments turn out to be part of a general rhetorical strategy for comparing and rank-ordering sciences that was theorized in the Topics and Rhetoric.

This chapter focuses on those parts of animals that are deformed, useless, harmful, or ‘weird,’ and that thereby challenge Aristotle’s teleological view that the sublunary world and the animals in it are beautiful on the grounds that they are functional, and that they are therefore worthy of our study as well. My account will present three different types of teleological failure that Aristotle identifies in the production processes of animals with such ‘bad’ parts, one of which attributes ‘genuine’ mistakes or oversights to the formal natures crafting these animals. The chapter argues that especially this third type of mistake signals a methodological weakness in the explanatory project of the Parts of Animals as a whole, namely that it overextends Aristotle’s theory of natural teleology to features that could have been explained more satisfactorily by reference to chance or necessity alone.

This chapter argues that Augustine adopts a second-person perspective, which “is characterized by dialogical speech, shared awareness of shared focus with the second person, and an orientation to love that other person.” This perspective shapes his understanding of the moral life; it gives pride of place to second-person relations, whether in the virtuous love of God and neighbor or in the disordered friendship without which Augustine tells us he would not have stolen the pears. Examining three virtues – humility, mercy, and charity – the chapter shows how each of them can be understood only in terms of proper relatedness to some other person. Since these virtues are prominent in the Confessions but altogether absent from the Nicomachean Ethics, a close look at them reveals the considerable differences between an Augustinian and an Aristotelian approach to the virtues. It also sheds light on how to read Thomas Aquinas. Aquinas’ considerable inheritance from Augustine goes largely ignored by scholars focusing on Aquinas’s Aristotelianism. Attention to Augustine is accordingly crucial for a more balanced understanding of Aquinas; it also holds promise for future work in virtue ethics.

One of the conversion stories related to Augustine in the run-up to his own conversion was that of the philosopher and orator Marius Victorinus, who had translated the “books of the Platonists” that Augustine encountered in Book 7. What he does not tell us, however, is how important Victorinus was, not only as an exemplar of boldness in confessing Christ, but in shaping Augustine’s own reading of Plotinus. This chapter compellingly lays out Victorinus’ influence on Augustine’s Trinitarian theology as expressed in a brief and bewildering passage in Book 13. It shows that wherever Augustine departs from Plotinus, he does so in a way that he found in Victorinus; Victorinus also taught Augustine distinctions and arguments from Platonic and Aristotelian metaphysics that he could not have known from other Latin texts available to him. Through Augustine, then, Victorinus had a much larger influence on the history of metaphysics than has been appreciated up to now. Moreover, we find that “Augustine’s common designation as ‘Platonist’ would be more precise if it were revised to ‘Victorine Neoplatonist.’”

This chapter takes up the language-learning passage from Confessions 1.8.13, which Wittgenstein quoted at the beginning of his Philosophical Investigations. “Where Wittgenstein notices an impossible kind of foreignness in Augustine’s confessional account of first language-learning,” it observes, “Augustine negotiates the mystery of the soul’s alienation from God.” Here is another kind of foreignness, and that chapter aims at inducing a kind of perplexity in our consideration of Augustine’s superficially straightforward account of language-learning. Drawing on Augustine’s dialogue On the Teacher, it invites us to puzzle over Augustine’s insistence that language is for teaching – apparently to the exclusion of learning – only to find him concluding that no human being is ever a teacher. The only teacher is the Inner Teacher, the Word, who teaches not by signs but by the realities themselves, with an intimacy and interiority that the infant Augustine longed for but never captured. The Word’s teaching overcomes both the foreignness and the alienation with which Augustine began, though this resolution poses the temptation “to render the whole of the earth, indeed even creation itself, into a place of unlikeness.”

This chapter examines Augustine’s relationship to earlier biblical exegesis. It emphasizes three distinctive preoccupations of Augustine’s exegesis: “the constraints of language, the limits of the human mind’s capacity to know God or the author’s intention, and the habits of the flesh to follow the desires of its senses.” After elucidating Augustine’s approach to these issues – which in itself sets him somewhat apart from his predecessors and contemporaries – the chapter presents two informative case studies. The first concerns Genesis, the topic of Confessions 11–13. Augustine’s exegesis of Genesis is informed from the beginning by his determination to reject the Manichaean dismissal of that book as silly and anthropomorphic, but his engagement with Genesis matures over time: his earliest discussions are far more indebted to Ambrose than his later, more distinctive, exegesis. The second case study concerns the Song of Songs. Here Augustine insists upon the goodness, beauty, and order of the material world, redeeming the five senses as intimations of the divine.

This chapter gives fruitful attention to the role of the sacraments in the Confessions. It delineates the ways in which the sacrament of baptism structures the autobiographical books, with baptism foregrounded in the first book (Augustine’s baptism postponed), the central or hinge book (Book 5, in which Augustine’s baptism is again deferred), and the climactic book (Book 9, in which Augustine’s baptism is recounted, along with many other baptisms, quite a few of which did not take place within the chronological scope of Book 9). The Eucharist, which was for Augustine the other sacrament of initiation and for which baptism itself was a prerequisite, comes into clear view at the end of Book 9 and in Book 10. The exegetical books then treat Genesis as “a model for all of Christian life, and especially that of the church,” a life inaugurated in baptism and sustained by the Eucharist. Contrary to the view of some scholars, who see very few Eucharistic allusions in the Confessions, the chapter shows that many of Augustine’s images – especially of food and of milk – have Eucharistic overtones.

This chapter explores the many uses of Scripture in the Confessions. Augustine draws words, images, and themes from Scripture; he tells the story of his own successive (and sometimes unsuccessful) encounters with Scripture; he invites his readers into a lively relationship with Scripture. Augustine presents himself as living out the stories of Biblical characters – Adam, the prodigal son, Moses, the Apostle Paul – and as speaking the words of Scripture in his own voice, as his own words. Augustine’s extensive appropriation of the Psalms is of particular importance: “The Psalms do more than stage or frame Augustine’s narrative; they shape its presentation and supply its substance.” Scripture proves to be central both for Augustine’s self-dispossession, his casting away of the old life, and for his self-conception, his understanding and inhabiting of the new.

Grace and providence, much like the sacraments (which are instruments of grace), are pervasive in the Confessions. Yet we learn about them, not from any explicit theorizing or argumentation on Augustine’s part, but by examining their role in the dual narrative: the personal narrative of Augustine’s life and the cosmic narrative of creation and redemption. This chapter considers how grace (God’s unmerited favor) and providence (God’s directing of the course of events in the service of his own ends) shape, but do not determine, Augustine’s life. Although there is no explicit consideration in the Confessions of the relationship between grace and free choice, the overwhelming message of the work seems to be that grace is indispensable but not irresistible: God makes Augustine into the kind of person who can accept grace, but not someone who cannot help but accept it.

This chapter investigates spiritual sight alongside the other spiritual senses, most notably hearing and touch. Drawing on the work of Hans Jonas, it offers a taxonomy of the spiritual senses in the Confessions. Spiritual sight is the noblest of the spiritual senses, as literal sight is the noblest of the physical senses, and the language of sight pervades Augustine’s account of his mystical ascent in Book 7. Yet sight is dethroned in the vision at Ostia, which Augustine shares with his mother, Monnica; it gives way to hearing and touch. Why, if sight is the noblest of the senses, is it replaced in this way? The chapter argues convincingly that “the critique of sight in the conf. is expressive of Augustine’s mature theology of the vision of God, which is increasingly critical of Platonic theoria and its attempt to ascend to a vision of the divine apart from the temporal and material modality of grace.” Eschatologically, sight is prior: “When he appears, we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is.” But for now, touch and hearing are “means of arriving at this vision.”

This chapter examines Augustine’s discussion of time in Book 11. The contrast between eternity, in which there is no succession or change, and time, which is nothing but succession and change, is a crucial first step. Augustine uses this contrast to distinguish between ordinary utterances and God’s creative Word, the coeternal Son. Time is itself created, so there is no sense in asking what God was doing before he created, though Augustine’s understanding of the relationship between time and eternity raises difficult philosophical questions that Augustine himself does not address, though recent philosophers of religion have done so. Augustine appears to hold that only what is (temporally) present exists. The most contentious issue is whether Augustine holds a subjectivist theory of time, and if so, what exactly that theory is. After canvasing the merits of possible answers to that question, the chapter concludes that the most charitable reading is that Augustine “does not seem to offer an account of what time is but instead ‘merely’ offers an aporetic examination of certain puzzles concerning time and our experience of it.” This construal is "entirely in keeping with his frequently open-ended and exploratory manner of philosophical investigation.”

The present volume offers twelve new essays by leading scholars working from a variety of interdisciplinary perspectives: theology, both systematic and historical; ancient history and early Christian history; and ancient and medieval philosophy. It is a fitting variety of approaches for a work that emphatically – and sometimes bewilderingly – is not just one thing. The Confessions is an autobiography, a prayer, a song; it is a treatise on God and his providential governance, both of one life and of the whole sweep of history; it is a meditation on Scripture. It is meant to inform, to perplex, but above all to “lift the human heart and mind to God” (retr. 2.6.1). Even the word confessio has multiple meanings: solemn avowal or acknowledgment, the offering of praise and thanksgiving, and the admitting of one’s own sins.