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Clay Spence

Prof. Jim Kreines

Metaphysics

4/29/2015

Is the Contemplative Life Best?

What sort of persons ought we to be? In the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle takes the

reasonable view that we ought to be happy; that happiness is our ultimate aim. He outlines two

kinds of wisdom – practical wisdom and philosophical wisdom – corresponding with two kinds

of lives: the moral life and the contemplative life. Ultimately, Aristotle thinks that the

contemplative life is best; that contemplation makes us happiest. This essay argues that

Aristotle’s arguments fall short in justifying this conclusion. While contemplation may play a

crucial role in living a happy life, it isn’t necessary to live happily. Instead, conducting oneself in

a morally virtuous manner towards other human beings is of primary importance in living the

good life. I conclude that human beings are inescapably drawn to some species of the moral life

as best.

Aristotle provides two standards for determining the end at which we ultimately aim:

completeness and self-sufficiency. Completeness here means something like “finality” or

“intrinsic goodness” – our ultimate aim must inhere in an end which is an end-in-itself. If we aim

at an end “A” that is actually a means to another end “B,” then A could not be the ultimate object

of our aim. It would instead be a means to our ultimate goal, or an intermediate aim. Aristotle

writes, “If there is some one thing that is complete in itself, this would be what is being sought…

the simply complete thing, then, is that which is always chosen for itself and never on account of

something else” (11).1 Aristotle defines self-sufficiency as “that which by itself makes life

1 All quotes are from the Bartlett and Collins translation unless specified otherwise, which is the most recent translation.

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choiceworthy and in need of nothing” (11). Aristotle thinks that our ultimate aim inheres in a

singular end rather than a multiplicity of ends. In order for there to be a singular object of our

ultimate aim, that object must stand independent of other possible ends – that is, it must be self-

sufficient.

In light of the completeness and self-sufficiency standards, I find it useful to conceive of

Aristotle’s Ethics as a hierarchical “tree structure” – with a series of conceptual divisions

branching off from a singular starting point or idea. Aristotle identifies this starting point as

eudaimonia, which means “happiness” but connotes “flourishing” and “living well.” For

Aristotle, happiness is the complete and self-sufficient end at which we ultimately aim.

Happiness fulfills the completeness criterion: “honor, pleasure, intellect, and every virtue…we

choose them also for the sake of happiness, because we suppose that, through them, we will be

happy. But nobody chooses happiness for the sake of these things, or, more generally, on account

of anything else” (11). Aristotle thinks happiness also fulfills the self-sufficiency criterion –

when faced with a choice between happiness and some other conflicting aim, Aristotle thinks we

will do what makes us happy. This second point sounds controversial, but it is important to bear

in mind that eudaimonia is something different than pure pleasure (hedonia). Aristotle isn’t

suggesting that we should always choose the most pleasurable option, but rather that we should

ultimately choose what makes us happy. Moreover, it is important to bear in mind that the

subject of Aristotle’s ethics isn’t particular ethical acts, primarily – Aristotle is trying to discern

which form-of-life taken as a whole is ethically best. Aristotle thinks that we should choose a

lifestyle which makes us happy over any other kind of lifestyle.

This of course raises the question: what sort of lifestyle is conducive to happiness? What

does happiness involve or consist in? Aristotle’s answer comes in the form of his famous

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“function argument.” For Aristotle, we come closest to realizing our ultimate aim if we act (and

exist) in accordance with our distinct function as human beings, which is the activity of the soul

in accordance with virtue. The argument goes like this: A flute player aims at playing well

because that is her distinct function and her good as a flute player. Similarly, a carpenter aims at

doing good carpentry because that is his distinct function and good as a carpenter. These

examples justify the general principle that each thing aims at its distinct function and good, and

therefore the particular conclusion that human beings aim at living a human life well because

that is their function as human beings. What is distinctive about the human life is our capacity to

reason, since nutrition-fueled growth is a quality we share with plants, and sensory perception is

a quality shared by animals. Since “what is peculiar to human beings is being sought,” by the

process of elimination the reasoned life must be the lifestyle most conducive to happiness (12).

By “the activity of the soul in accordance with virtue,” Aristotle thus means something like “the

reasoned life” (13).

Now obviously this argument moves too hastily – grooming children for sexual abuse is

also a distinctly human characteristic, but nobody would go so far as to say that the happiest

human lives involve that kind of morally repulsive behavior. Yet Aristotle’s argument does have

serious intuitive appeal, particularly since we’re still living in Kant’s shadow. For one thing, a

capacity for reason is a distinctively human character trait that is almost universally shared

amongst human beings2, whereas a proclivity for pedophilia is not. For another, shared

rationality seems to be an explanatorily much deeper feature of human nature than pedophilia –

after all, it seems as though we do almost everything we do for reasons...even pedophiles have

reasons. In light of these considerations, I am game to accept Aristotle’s function argument and

2 Or universally shared, depending on your view. It’s hard to imagine an account which holds that very few human beings are ‘rational’ in any meaningful sense of the word.

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see where it gets him. At the very least, it is interesting to flesh out Aristotle’s account of

rationality in order to see where his argument leads.

Since the “activity of the soul in accordance with virtue” turns out to mean “the reasoned

life,” we must investigate the virtues of the rational part of the soul – namely, the intellectual

virtues. In the Nicomachean Ethics Aristotle defends moral virtues (e.g. liberality, moderation) in

addition to the intellectual virtues. However, my suspicion is that an analysis of the moral virtues

comes most naturally after a discussion of the virtues of the intellect. In any case, it is necessary

to tease out the intellectual virtues in order to determine what sort of rational stance a person

ought to take with regards to the moral virtues, that is, how to understand them. The remainder of

this paper will endeavor to do so.

Aristotle spends much of the Nicomachean Ethics discussing two major intellectual

virtues: phronesis and sophia. These words are tough to translate. Bartlett and Collins translate

phronesis as “prudence,” but this move is somewhat misleading. While the word “prudence”

may connote “shyness” or “pragmatism instrumental to self-interest,” phronesis properly

understood involves neither of these. I instead favor WD Ross’ translation of phronesis as

“practical wisdom.” Practical wisdom might be understood as “ethical know-how,” or the ability

to make concrete ethical judgments – an ability that needn’t involve theoretical knowledge. As

Aristotle writes, “[practical wisdom] is bound up with action, and action concerns particulars.

Hence even some who are without knowledge – those who have experience, among others – are

more skilled in acting than are others who do have knowledge” (124). Practical wisdom is a

perceptual skill one acquires through one’s upbringing, analogous to the skill of telling good

wine from bad based on taste. With respect to sophia I think a fair translation is “philosophical

wisdom.” While sophia transliterates as “wisdom” (and appears as such in Bartlett and Collins’

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translation), it connotes abstract, theoretical thinking of the kind a philosopher engaged in.3

Aristotle writes, “we suppose that there are some wise people who are wise generally and not

partially, or in some other respect…The wise person, therefore, ought not only to know what

proceeds from the principles but also to attain the truth about the principles” (122-123).

Philosophical wisdom involves two kinds of thinking: intuitive reasoning out of bedrock truths,

and the fleshing out of those truths via ‘scientific’ inquiry.4

Aristotle writes that “if there are several virtues,” then the human good is the activity of

the soul “in accord with the best and most complete one.” We now have two candidates on the

table: practical wisdom (phronesis) and philosophical wisdom (sophia). Each virtue corresponds

with a kind of lifestyle. Practical wisdom corresponds with what I will call “the Moral Life.”5

The moral life is the life of virtuous action in accordance with practical reason, and it is therefore

no surprise that statesmen – great politicians and generals – are exemplars.6 Aristotle writes,

“[practical wisdom] is a true characteristic that is bound up with action, accompanied by reason,

and concerned with things good and bad for a human being…On account of this, we suppose

Pericles and those of that sort to be prudent – because they are able to observe the good things

for themselves and those for human beings” (120). By contrast, the contemplative life is

concerned with knowing rather than doing. Bartlett and Collins describe contemplation as “the

act of looking upon something so as to understand it, an understanding that is sought as an end in

itself and hence without regard to any subsequent doing or making” (307). Naturally, the

3 This connotation explains the etymology of the word “philosopher” from philia (lover) and sophia (wisdom).4 Where, of course, the word “science” had a wildly different meaning for Aristotle than it does for us. In Aristotle’s day, all knowledge was basically scientific, including philosophical knowledge.5 This term is imperfect, but it is visually symmetrical with “the Contemplative Life” in a nice way. I will try to be explicit enough about what “the Moral Life” involves to avoid any confusion.6 Or in the case of Pericles, both. Pericles was the incredibly charismatic populist political leader and military strategist who ushered in a golden age for the arts and sciences in Athens.

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representative for this sort of lifestyle is Socrates, who died rather than give up his pursuit of

philosophical wisdom.7

Which is better: the moral life or the contemplative life? In book X of the Nicomachean

Ethics Aristotle argues that it is the latter. His argument consists in a familiar appeal to the self-

sufficiency and completeness standards introduced in the discussion on happiness. With respect

to self-sufficiency, Aristotle argues that the contemplative life can be lived virtually alone since

all it requires is for you to engage with your thoughts – though he concedes that “it is perhaps

better to have those with whom [one] may work…” (224). By contrast, the moral life necessarily

requires other persons to be virtuous to; a politician like Pericles needs discord to overcome, and

a just man needs injustice to fight. My sense is that Aristotle’s argument is unsound. Aristotle

wants to know which kind of life (moral or contemplative) is best for a human being, and human

beings do not exist in a vacuum. Instead we are constitutively members of a species. As Aristotle

remarks in Book I, “We do not mean by self-sufficient suffices for someone by himself, living a

solitary life, but what is sufficient also with respect to parents, offspring, a wife, and in general,

one’s friends and fellow citizens, since by nature a human being is political” (11). Aristotle’s

application of the self-sufficiency standard to the life of the individual is thus a strange departure

from the logic of the function argument, which inquires into the function of a human being as a

representative of the human species, taken generally. And it looks to me like a feature of human

nature and human fragility is that there will always be others who need ethical concern, such that

the moral life is a self-sufficient way of being. As Madison wrote in the Federalist #51, “if men

were angels, no government would be necessary.” But men are not angels and, consequently,

there will always be a demand for practically wise individuals to solve human problems.

Madison’s view does have its discontents – on a Marxist interpretation of Hegel, when we arrive 7 For Aristotle, and for many modern philosophers and political theorists.

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at the end of history men will start to act something like angels. In Marx’s utopia, individuals

will peacefully exercise their artistic impulses in harmony with other members of their

commune. Nonetheless, we have not reached the endpoint of Marx’s teleology, and the lesson of

history thus far has decisively been: perpetual peace is unlikely, and human conflict is

omnipresent. In light of these considerations, I think that while the contemplative life may

plausibly eke out a slight win in this category, it certainly does not do so in a decisive way.

With respect to the completeness standard, Aristotle argues that the contemplative life is

more final than the moral life because while virtuous actions are means to the end of virtuous

states of affairs (justice, peace), contemplation does not aim at anything other than itself. For

Aristotle, contemplation is pure leisure, and the pleasures of wisdom are “pure and stable”

because they are independent of most worldly concerns (224). To me, this seems like intellectual

gerrymandering rather than substantive argument on Aristotle’s part. After all, isn’t

contemplation a striving after a state of wisdom or knowledge of the truth? Perhaps Aristotle

means that the contemplative life is conducted by those who already know the truth. He writes,

“those who are knowers conduct their lives with greater pleasure than do those who are seeking

knowledge” (224). But what does this cryptic line mean? One interpretation is that contemplation

is just a consideration of multiple angles on a singular truth-object, such that as long as you have

one good angle on the object, you know ‘the truth.’ However this interpretation cannot sustain a

completeness argument on this front because it makes contemplation seem extraneous and

maybe even meaningless. What is the purpose of contemplation if one already understands the

truth? Moreover, this interpretation would probably collapse the distinction between the moral

life and the contemplative life. Surely ordinary people have some understanding of the truth.

Instead, I think a more reasonable interpretation of the contemplative life is to think that the life

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of contemplation involves a continual striving after the truth, after wisdom. Unfortunately, this

makes it look like the life of contemplation is just as incomplete as the moral life.

Aristotle’s last card to play is an argument that the contemplative life is the most god-

like, since our rational capacity is the most divine part of our nature. He writes, “It is strange if

someone supposes the political art or [practical wisdom] to be most serious, if a human being is

not the best of things in the cosmos” (123). Aristotle suggests that the gods live a strictly

contemplative life, as they are too perfectly peaceful to need the moral virtues. This move marks

a return to the function argument: man’s good is determined by his nature, which is to strive after

godliness. A number of problems plague this stance. In the first place, Aristotle’s view in Book

X that we should cultivate our divine nature seems inconsistent with the function argument as

articulated in Book I. If you will recall, Aristotle’s argument for defining happiness as the

reasoned life was that man ought to live in accord with his distinctive, rational nature rather than

in accord with his animal or plant functions. From this perspective, it looks like a striving after a

godly life may be a striving after too much. Man may be better off cultivating practical wisdom

in himself, and living a virtuous life in relation to his fellow human beings. As Aristotle writes,

“The activities that accord with [phronesis] are characteristically human ones: it is in relation to

one another that we do what is just, courageous and whatever else accords with the virtues”

(226).

This is confusing stuff, and seems obviously contradictory. One possible response for

Aristotle is to suggest that man is made in god’s image such that part of human nature is to try to

realize our divine aspect. Judeo-Christian theology strongly makes this move, and (for

Christians) God’s love for us – his mortal simulacra – is most exquisitely articulated in the

sacrifice of himself as the Christ, who was both fully human and fully divine. Yet this raises the

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question of what our divine nature consists in, exactly. Ironically, it looks like on the Christian

view the moral life is actually best. On this account, God’s nature is to spread the good news of

peace and ethical concern for fellow man in the form of Jesus’ pacifistic ministry, and in the

ultimate symbolic act of Christ’s death upon the cross. Of course, one needn’t be a Christian. But

a similar problem arises in other traditions as well. Who is Aristotle to say that the gods exist in a

state of contemplation? On eastern mystical views God is in fact so perfect that he doesn’t even

contemplate – in Buddhist tradition God exists in a nirvanic state of unconscious bliss, freed of

all earthly concerns and one with the universe. And indeed, if God or the gods have perfect

knowledge, it seems like they would not have anything left to contemplate. Secular people like to

say, “Really it is man that creates God in his own image” – and this may be true. But if it is,

there is an open question of whether that nature is to be practically or philosophically wise.

Finally, Aristotle’s argument about godliness raises a variant of the Euthyphro dilemma: is the

contemplative life good because the gods live that way, or do the gods live that way because it is

good? Aristotle spends the bulk of the Nicomachean Ethics embracing the latter, rationalist horn

of the dilemma and trying to reason out what the human good is. It is thus surprising when he

jumps ship and goes for Euthyphro’s approach in Book X. In light of these considerations, I

propose that we don’t take Aristotle’s godliness argument very seriously.

Where does this leave us? Having finished the Nicomachean Ethics it looks like the

moral life is, in fact, best. While the contemplative life may be slightly more self-sufficient, it is

equally incomplete to the moral life. Moreover it looks like the function argument rules out a

striving after godly contemplation as a suitable form of life for a human beings or at least begs

the question (per the Euthyphro dilemma) and cuts against the grain of most of Aristotle’s text. I

am hard pressed to rehabilitate any of Aristotle’s arguments for the contemplative life as best.

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Now, you might think that practical wisdom requires philosophical wisdom; e.g. you can’t have

one without the other. This would generate the conclusion that the best human life will involve

both practical wisdom and philosophical contemplation. This subtext certainly seems to be at

play in Aristotle –I believe Aristotle would characterize himself as a representative of each kind

of wisdom. The bulk of the Nicomachean Ethics engages with intermediate ethical principles

(about the mean relative to us for the 11 virtues) and specific examples, but the work as a whole

tries to unify Aristotle’s ethical theory in an abstract way (culminating in the highly theoretical

Book X). It may be that in order to really know how to do the right thing in a concrete situation,

you need a command of more theoretical ethical principles; that to say that we cultivate virtue in

young people through upbringing is strangely vague since what we really do is try to teach

children abstract ethical principles like the Golden rule. Moreover, you might think that

philosophical wisdom must be acquired and transmitted by learning from others and teaching

younger people in turn. This kind of information transmission is certainly interpersonal enough

to qualify as an ethical act – so it looks like the contemplative life is a kind of moral life. Coming

at the issue from the other direction, you might construe the moral life as a kind of “lived

wisdom.” I would suggest that we say the Dalai Lama is wise not, primarily, because he is very

learned, but more because he radiates general spiritual well-being and genuine ethical concern

for others. This would suggest that wisdom is more of an attitudinal state, or a happiness

baseline. Isn’t wisdom about knowing how to live well, ultimately? But none of these

considerations justify the conclusion that the contemplative life is best. On this view, the

contemplative life is either instrumental to the pursuit of the moral life, a species of the moral

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life, or identical with the moral life. But none of these arguments justify the contemplative life as

best, and seem instead to ground the value of contemplation in moral virtue.8

These arguments do, however, carve out a role for contemplation as a possible

component of the good life, perhaps even for the contemplative life as a possible good life. This

is good news if, like me, you are academically inclined. But at the end of the day, it looks like

the moral life is best. Doing philosophy is good. But it’s only good if you share it with others,

and if you realize that other modes of virtue (e.g. the life of a Pericles) are minimally just as

good and likely even better than the life of the scholar. If we take Aristotle’s function argument

seriously, it looks as though the moral life is the best sort of life we can live. We are “all too

human,” and permanently cloistering ourselves away from others to grapple with philosophical

questions is, for almost all of us, an unsustainable and unhappy way to live.

Bibliography: 8 Moreover, the view that the moral life and the contemplative life are identical come at the cost of failing to justify the kind of academic contemplation Aristotle clearly had in mind in book X.

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Aristotle, “Nicomachean Ethics.” Trans. Robert Bartlett and Susan Collins. U Chicago P. London, 2011. Print.

Aristotle, “Nicomachean Ethics.” Trans. WD Ross. Oxford U.P., 1980. Print.