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The Psychology and Philosophy of Intuition

a spider's web: a metaphor for how intuition operates
Intuition often reveals the connections that reason has yet to trace.

By Dr Neel Burton — Psychiatrist, philosopher, and wine writer; Fellow of Green Templeton College, University of Oxford; author of over twenty books.

Intuition is one of humanity’s highest cognitive faculties. Yet it has never been more neglected or devalued than in our rational-scientific age.

At a wine bar in Corsica, I ordered a glass of Vermentino and got chatting about wine with the sommelier who brought it to me. After a time, I ordered another glass, and we spoke again. I like testing my intuitions, so I said, at point blank, “You write poetry, don’t you?” The chap, taken aback by my sorcery, confirmed that he did indeed write poetry, and even that some of his poems had been published.

An intuition is a disposition to believe formed without hard evidence or conscious deliberation. I say ‘disposition to believe’ rather than ‘belief’ because an intuition is usually held with less certainty or firmness than a belief; and ‘believe’ rather than ‘know’ because an intuition is not justified in the normal sense, and not necessarily true or accurate.

It is not just that intuition is arrived at without hard evidence or conscious deliberation, but that these can impede it. ‘I am not absentminded,’ wrote the polymath GK Chesterton, ‘it is presence of mind that makes me unaware of everything else.’

Intuition vs Instinct

Intuition is often confused with instinct. Instinct is not the same as intuition. Whereas intuition is a disposition to believe without conscious reasoning, instinct is an innate tendency towards a particular behaviour. Instinct is not a sense about something, but a tendency to do something. ‘Anna stepped back, intuiting that the dog would follow its instinct and attack.’

Although we ordinarily associate instincts with animals, human beings also have quite a few, even if they are, or can be, strongly modified by culture, temperament, and experience. Examples of human instincts include any number of phobias (fear of heights, fear of spiders, fear of snakes…), territoriality, tribal loyalty, and the urge to procreate and rear their young. These instincts are often modified, redirected, or sublimed: for example, tribal loyalty may find an outlet in sport, and the urge to procreate may take the more rarefied form of romantic love.

In the Rhetoric, Aristotle adds that human beings have an instinct for truth, and in the Poetics, that we have an instinct for rhythm and harmony. Obviously, he hadn’t seen my dancing.

The Psychology and Philosophy of Intuition

If intuition is not instinct, how does it operate?

An intuition involves a coming together of facts, concepts, experiences, thoughts, and feelings that are loosely linked but too disparate and peripheral for deliberate or rational processing. As this reflection is sub- or semi-conscious and the workings are hidden, an intuition appears to arise ex nihilo, out of nothing and nowhere, and cannot, or at least not readily, be justified.

What makes an intuition so hard to support and argue for is that it is founded less on arguments and evidence than on the interconnection of things. It hangs, delicately, intricately, and invisibly, like a spider’s web.

Many of humanity’s greatest insights seem to have arisen in this way. Archimedes is said to have leapt from his bath crying, ‘Eureka!’ after discovering how to determine the purity of a gold crown. Socrates attributed many of his most important decisions to his daimonion, an inner voice that warned rather than reasoned. After struggling for months with a mathematical problem, Henri Poincaré suddenly saw its solution while stepping onto a bus. The chemist August Kekulé dreamt of a snake swallowing its own tail before recognising the ring structure of benzene. Srinivasa Ramanujan attributed many of his astonishing mathematical discoveries to dreams sent by the goddess Namagiri. Such breakthroughs seem sudden only because the mind has been quietly at work beneath the surface.

The surfacing of an intuition, which can also occur in dream or meditation, is often mingled with a concordant feeling such as joy or fear, or simple pride and pleasure at the supreme cognitive and human achievement that an intuition represents.

How to Invite Intuition

If this is how intuition works, we can cultivate it by expanding the range of our experiences, and by tearing down the barriers—such as biases, fears, and inhibitions—that prevent them from coalescing.

We should also give ourselves more time and space for free association. My own intuitive faculty is sharpest when walking, showering, travelling, or otherwise daydreaming, and when I am well rested.

The more richly furnished the mind, the more deeply it can intuit. There is no such thing as wasted knowledge.

Finally, we should acknowledge the place and power of intuition. We have micro-intuitions all the time, about what to eat, what to wear, what road to take, whom to talk to, what to say, how to respond, and so on. I call them micro-intuitions because they rely on a great number of subtle variables and largely escape conscious processing. But what about the macro-intuitions?

Never in the history of humanity has the intuitive or mystic faculty been more neglected or devalued than in our rational-scientific age.

Perhaps our greatest error has been to pit intuition against reason. They are not rivals, but partners. Intuition points the way; reason clears the path.

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Why speakers shouldn’t always pander to their audience.

In the Rhetoric (4th century BCE), Aristotle identified the three modes of persuasion, or persuasive appeals, that are in: the character of the speaker (ethos), the emotions of the audience (pathos), and the argument itself (logos).

Ethos, pathos, and logos are referred to as artistic means of persuasion, and contrasted to non-artistic means, that is, to hard evidence, such as laws, witnesses, and contracts.

Ethos and decorum

In a speaker, ethos is also a matter of agreeability and meeting the expectations of the audience in terms of appearance, diction, and comportment. The Romans referred to this aspect of ethos as decorum.

Anything that grates with the audience, or sets you apart from it, is a violation of decorum. What this might be varies from audience to audience. For example, an audience of academics would expect some jargon, which, however, would jar with a general audience. Boastfulness and vulgarity can be a violation of decorum, as can be, unfortunately, complexity and subtlety.

In the Rhetoric, Aristotle remarks that it is their simplicity that makes the uneducated more effective than the educated before a general audience:

It is this simplicity that makes the uneducated more effective than the educated when addressing popular audiences—makes them, as the poets tell us, “charm the crowd’s ears more finely.” Educated men lay down broad general principles; uneducated men argue from common knowledge and draw obvious conclusions.

When to break decorum

The rhetorician Quintilian (d. c. 100 CE), author of the Institutes of Oratory, points out that what might de decorous in the eyes of an audience might be repugnant under the aspect of eternity, that is, in the eyes of God.

In example, Quintilian cites the trial of Socrates: how would this paragon of virtue be remembered today if, instead of standing up to them and rebuking them, he had sought to meet the expectations of the jurors by shedding tears, resorting to prayers and supplications, and bringing forth his young children?

Today in America, many politicians are grappling with just this problem in addressing their base. It is much easier to be decorous before an audience that is itself decorous.

How to break decorum

So how to go about telling an audience something that it doesn’t want to hear?

One strategy is to appear to have reached your conclusion reluctantly, driven only by the overwhelming force of the argument. You might even use a technique known as the dubitatio, which involves expressing doubt or uncertainty about what to say.

Another approach is to make your conclusion seem like a concession in the face of an even greater evil, such as inflation or recession.

And the third thing is to make your stance seem in line with the orthodoxy, as when Elon Musk (himself a South African) defended the skilled immigrant visa as “American”.

These techniques work for politicians and public figures, and they will also work for you.

Neel Burton is author of How to Think Like Plato and Speak Like Cicero

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Ever Met a Clever Fool? Why Intelligence Alone Is Not Enough

Caspar David Friedrich: Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog
Caspar David Friedrich’s Wanderer above the Sea of Fog (c. 1818). Greater perspective is the beginning of wisdom.

By Dr Neel Burton — Psychiatrist, philosopher, and wine writer; Fellow of Green Templeton College, University of Oxford; author of over twenty books.

Every time I utter the word ‘wisdom’, someone giggles or sneers. Wisdom, more so even than expertise, does not sit comfortably in an egalitarian, anti-elitist society. In an age dominated by materialism and consumerism, science and technology, and specialization and compartmentalization, it is too loose, too grand, and too mysterious a concept. With our heads in our smartphones and tablets, in our bills and bank statements, we simply do not have the time or mental space for it—or even the idea of it.

But things were not always thus.

The word wisdom features 222 times in the Old Testament, which includes all of seven so-called ‘wisdom books’: Job, Psalms, Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, the Song of Solomon, the Book of Wisdom, and Sirach.

Here is Ecclesiastes 7:12:

For wisdom is a defence, and money is a defence: but the excellency of knowledge is, that wisdom giveth life to them that have it.

The word philosophy literally means ‘the love of wisdom’, and wisdom is the overarching aim of philosophy—or, at least, ancient philosophy.

In Plato’s Lysis, Socrates tells the young Lysis that, without wisdom, he will be of no worth to anyone:

And therefore, my boy, if you are wise, all men will be your friends and kindred, for you will be useful and good; but if you are not wise, neither father, nor mother, nor kindred, nor anyone else, will love you.

The patron goddess of Athens, the city in which the Lysis is set, is none other than Athena, goddess of wisdom, who sprang out from the skull of Zeus. Her symbol, and the symbol of wisdom, is the owl, a bird of prey which cleaves through darkness.

Indeed, wisdom derives from the Proto-Indo-European root weid-, ‘to see’. In Norse mythology, Odin gouged out one of his eyes and offered it to Mimir in exchange for a drink from the well of knowledge and wisdom, symbolically trading one mode of perception for another, higher one.

Is Wisdom the Same as Knowledge?

People often speak of ‘knowledge and wisdom’ as though they might be closely related or even the same thing. So one hypothesis is that wisdom is knowledge, or a great deal of knowledge. But if wisdom is knowledge, then it has to be a certain kind of knowledge, or else learning the telephone directory, or the names of all the rivers in the world, might count as wisdom.

Nor can it simply be scientific or technical knowledge, or else every contemporary person would be wiser than the wisest of ancient philosophers. Any twenty-first-century school-leaver would be wiser than a Seneca or Socrates.

Remember: the Delphic oracle pronounced Socrates the wisest of all people not because he knew everything, or even very much, but because he knew the extent of what he did not know.

Still, there seems to be more to wisdom than mere ‘negative knowledge’, or else I could simply be super-sceptical about everything and count myself wise.

Or maybe wisdom consists in having high epistemic standards, that is, in having a high bar for believing something, and an even higher bar for calling that belief knowledge. But then we are back to a picture of wisdom as something like science…

So Is Wisdom Simply Correct Opinion?

In Plato’s Meno, Socrates notices that people of wisdom and virtue seem remarkably poor at imparting those qualities. Themistocles was able to teach his son Cleophantus skills such as standing upright on horseback and throwing the javelin, yet no one ever credited the poor wretch with anything like his father’s wisdom—and the same could also be said of Lysimachus and his son Aristides, Pericles and his sons Paralus and Xanthippus, and Thucydides and his sons Melesias and Stephanus.

If wisdom cannot be taught, how, asks Meno, did good people come about? Socrates replies that right action is possible under guidance other than that of knowledge. A person who has knowledge of the road to Larisa (a city-state in Thessaly) may make a good guide. But a person who has only correct opinion about the road, despite never having travelled it, might make an equally good guide.

Knowledge and correct opinion can therefore lead to the same destination.

Since wisdom cannot be taught, it cannot be knowledge; and if it cannot be knowledge, it can only be correct opinion—which explains why paragons of wisdom such as Themistocles, Lysimachus, and Pericles were unable to impart their wisdom even unto their own sons.

Wise people, says Socrates, are no different from soothsayers, prophets, and poets, who say many true things when they are divinely inspired but have no real knowledge of what they are saying.

Or Is Wisdom the Same as Understanding?

Aristotle gives us another clue in the Metaphysics, when he says that wisdom is the understanding of causes. None of the five senses are regarded as wisdom because, although they provide the most authoritative knowledge of sensible particulars, they are unable to discern the more distant causes of anything.

Similarly, we suppose artists to be wiser than artisans because artists know the ‘why’ or cause, and can therefore teach, whereas artisans do not, and cannot.

In other words, wisdom is the understanding of the right relations between things, which calls for more distant and elevated perspectives, and perhaps also the ability or willingness to shift between perspectives.

In the Tusculan Disputations, Cicero cites as a paragon of wisdom the pre-Socratic philosopher Anaxagoras, who, upon being informed of the death of his son, simply said, “I knew that I begot a mortal.”

For Cicero, true sapience consists in preparing oneself for every eventuality, so as never to be taken—or overtaken—by surprise. And it is true that wisdom, the understanding of causes and connexions, has forever been associated with both insight and foresight.

What, Then, Is Wisdom?

Wisdom is not so much a kind of knowledge as a way of seeing, or ways of seeing.

When we take a few steps back, like when we stand under the shower or go on holiday, we begin to behold the bigger picture. In common parlance, ‘wisdom’ has two opposites: ‘foolishness’ and ‘folly’, which both derive from the Latin follis (‘bellows’, ‘bag’) and involve, respectively, lack and loss of perspective.

In cultivating a broader perspective, it helps, of course, to be knowledgeable, but it also helps to be intelligent, reflective, open-minded, and disinterested—which is why we often seek out and pay for independent advice.

Above all, it helps to be courageous, because the view from on high, though it can be exhilarating, and ultimately liberating, is at first terrifying—not least because it conflicts with so much that we have been taught or enculturated to think.

Courage, said Aristotle, is the first of the human qualities, because it is the one which underwrites all the others.

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Learn the Six Classical Parts of Discourse Used by Cicero

Cicero speaking in the Roman Senate
Cicero (106–43 BCE), Rome’s greatest orator and one of the principal architects of classical rhetoric.

By Dr Neel Burton — Psychiatrist, philosopher, and wine writer; Fellow of Green Templeton College, University of Oxford; author of over twenty books.

Every good speech and essay has a structure. Yet few students are ever taught one.

For more than two thousand years, great speakers have relied on a simple six-part structure—a framework that stretches from Cicero to Churchill and remains just as useful today. Many Oxford students have told me that no one had ever taught them these six parts of discourse, despite years of essay writing. Yet, until surprisingly recently, they formed part of every educated person’s rhetorical training. Today, few people have even heard of them.

The six parts of discourse are, of course, just as useful for structuring essays as they are for composing speeches.

Table of the Six Parts of Discourse

Introduction (Exordium)

The exordium introduces your subject and purpose. It may also establish your authority for speaking or writing.

Above all, it should capture your audience’s attention. You might begin with a striking fact, an intriguing question, or a sense of urgency—but whatever your approach, make your audience want to hear more.

Keep it brief and clear. Never bore, confuse, or test your audience, and certainly not in the opening lines.

Winston Churchill’s first speech as Prime Minister begins:

I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat.

In just twelve words, he captures attention, establishes the gravity of the moment, and prepares his audience for what is to come.

Narration (Narratio)

The narratio provides the background your audience needs to understand the issue.

How did the problem arise? Why does it matter? What has already been tried? What does the evidence suggest? Have similar situations arisen before?

Important: Although the narration appears objective, it is also your first opportunity to frame the debate. The facts you include—and the order in which you present them—shape everything that follows.

Consider the difference between saying, “Taxes have risen by 2%” and “Investment in schools and hospitals has increased by 2%”. The facts may be identical, but the way you present them shapes how your audience understands them.

Division (Divisio)

The divisio is the turning point in your speech.

In effect, the division says:

This is the issue. This is why it matters. And this is how I intend to address it.

Like the introduction, the division should be brief. If it becomes too elaborate, it begins to feel contrived.

The rhetorical handbook Ad Herennium (c. 80 BCE) illustrates division with this dilemma from Greek mythology:

Orestes killed his mother, Clytemnestra; on that everyone agrees. But was he justified in doing so? That is the real point in dispute.

Proof (Confirmatio)

The proof is the heart of your speech. Here you present your arguments and support them with examples and evidence.

Aristotle distinguished between technical proofs, such as logical arguments (logos), and non-technical proofs, such as laws, contracts, witnesses, and authoritative testimony.

In the Rhetoric, he observes that ‘witnesses’ need not be living people. Homer, Hesiod, Solon, proverbs, and received wisdom can all serve as ‘ancient witnesses’. Today, we do much the same whenever we quote recognised experts or respected authorities.

Ancient witnesses can be appealed to indirectly, as when Barack Obama echoed Martin Luther King, who in turn echoed Abraham Lincoln, who echoed the King James Bible in the opening line of the Gettysburg Address of 1863:

Four score and seven years ago [i.e. 87 years ago] our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Refutation (Confutatio)

A persuasive speech anticipates objections.

The confutatio acknowledges opposing arguments before answering them. Ideally, it does so fairly and convincingly, though in practice speakers often exaggerate or caricature an opponent’s position.

Modern political campaigns often do exactly this. Terms such as ‘death tax’ or ‘dementia tax’ deliberately reframe an opponent’s proposal before it can be considered on its merits.

One particularly effective technique is concession (concessio). By conceding a limited point, you appear reasonable and fair while strengthening your larger argument:

Yes, that’s true. But the real question is…

Far from weakening your case, a well-judged concession often makes it more persuasive.

If your proof is weak, you might instead begin with a forceful refutation in the hope that no one notices the lack of argument. It is a trick as old as rhetoric itself—and one that is still surprisingly common.

Conclusion (Peroratio)

The peroratio brings your speech or essay to a memorable close.

It usually summarises your main arguments before ending with an emotional appeal or call to action.

President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s famous Day of Infamy speech, delivered the day after the attack on Pearl Harbor, ends with precisely such a peroration:

Hostilities exist. There is no blinking at the fact that our people, our territory, and our interests are in grave danger.

With confidence in our armed forces, with the unbounding determination of our people, we will gain the inevitable triumph—so help us God.

I ask that the Congress declare that since the unprovoked and dastardly attack by Japan on Sunday, December 7th, 1941, a state of war has existed between the United States and the Japanese empire.

When to Break the Rules

Many great speeches follow this six-part structure, whether consciously or intuitively. But the framework should never become a formula.

Once you’ve mastered its principles, they can also be broken.

Cicero himself ignored his own advice in the opening of the First Catilinarian, launching immediately into a passionate attack:

When, O Catiline, do you mean to cease abusing our patience? How long is that madness of yours still to mock us? When is there to be an end to that unbridled audacity of yours, swaggering about as it does now?

Nor must every speech contain every part. Aristotle regarded only two as essential: statement (narratio) and argument (confirmatio). Everything else is optional.

The six parts of discourse are not rules but tools. They provide a framework within which clarity and originality can flourish.

The aim is not to sound methodical but natural. Techniques such as using simple language, expressing uncertainty (dubitatio), or correcting yourself aloud (epergesis) can all help create the impression of sincerity and spontaneity.

Craft is something that you learn; art, that you unlearn.

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Sun, Sex, and Sea: How Aristotle Invented Science on Lesbos

Aristotle and Theophrastus on Lesbos

By Dr Neel Burton — Psychiatrist, philosopher, and wine writer; Fellow of Green Templeton College, University of Oxford; author of over twenty books.

Article substantially revised on 9 August 2026.

Long before there were laboratories, microscopes, or indeed scientists, Aristotle spent two happy years on the Greek island of Lesbos studying animals. He dissected specimens, questioned fishermen and beekeepers, and observed everything from the mating habits of octopuses to the development of chicks. Some of his conclusions were far off the mark; others would not be confirmed for more than two thousand years. In those two years, Aristotle did not merely invent science and biology. He developed a way of looking at the natural world that would transform his philosophy—and, ultimately, ours.

Aristotle remained at Plato’s Academy for nearly twenty years, only leaving after Plato’s death in 347. The reasons for his departure are unclear: he may have felt slighted at being passed over for the scholarchship of the Academy in favour of Plato’s nephew, Speusippus; or he may have fled, possibly even before Plato’s death, for fear of the growing anti-Macedonian feeling.

In 351, the orator Demosthenes had delivered his First Philippic denouncing Philip II’s imperial ambitions, and in 348, the year before Plato’s death, Philip had razed Athenian ally Olynthus to the ground.

Then in his thirty-seventh year, Aristotle travelled with fellow Platonist Xenocrates of Chalcedon to Assos (in the Troad, Asia Minor) to join the court of Hermias of Atarneus, who had studied at the Academy. Aristotle may or may not have gone to Assos as an ambassador of Philip, who wished to have Hermias for an ally.

In either case, it seems that he exerted a moderating influence on Hermias, who softened his harsh tyrannical rule—enabling him, in short succession, to win over neighbouring peoples and expand his territory.

In 344, Hermias was captured by a mercenary in the service of Artaxerxes III of Persia and tortured for information about the invasion plans of his ally Philip. But Hermias held his silence, his dying words being that he had done nothing shameful or unworthy of philosophy. Aristotle honoured the memory of his perfect friend with a statue at Delphi and a still extant hymn to virtue.

At around this time, he married Hermias’ niece and adoptive daughter, Pythias, who helped him in his work and bore him a daughter, also Pythias.

After the death of Hermias, Aristotle and his student Tyrtamus crossed over to Lesbos to research the flora and fauna of the island and its remarkable lagoon, then known as the Pyrrha lagoon, now known as the Gulf of Kalloni. Tyrtamus went down in history as Theophrastus [‘Divinely-speaking’], the nickname given to him by Aristotle.

Supposedly, the more empirical Theophrastus concentrated on the flora while the more speculative Aristotle concentrated on the fauna, so that the one is remembered as the father of botany and the other as the father of zoology. In fact, Theophrastus also wrote on animals, and Aristotle on plants, but these works have been lost, as have almost all of Theophrastus’ wide-ranging works.

Lebos aerial view
Lesbos and the inland Gulf of Kalloni (left of the picture)

Aristotle’s Biological Works

Aristotle’s biological works constitute the first systematic study of the living world and, in many respects, the beginning of science as we know it. These works are usually ignored, though they make up a quarter of his extant corpus, and were revered by naturalists such as Georges Cuvier and Charles Darwin—who, in the year of his death, 1882, wrote to William Ogle that ‘although Linnaeus and Cuvier have been my two gods … they were mere schoolboys to old Aristotle.’

Although Linnaeus and Cuvier have been my two gods … they were mere schoolboys to old Aristotle. —Charles Darwin

Aristotle accompanied his History of Animals (a somewhat misleading title, cf. ‘natural history’) with a now lost book of anatomical drawings. His other biological writings are the Parts of Animals, Movement of Animals, Progression of Animals, and Generation of Animals, as well as On the Soul and seven shorter works collectively known as the Parva Naturalia.

On the Soul may seem out of place, until one remembers that the very word ‘animal’ [anima] means ‘having breath’ or ‘having soul’. The soul, says Aristotle, is the principle of life, and the knowledge of it contributes greatly to our understanding of nature and truth in general. On the Soul includes a detailed discussion of the senses and established our notion of the ‘five senses’, with Aristotle explicitly stating that ‘there is no sixth sense in addition to the five enumerated’.

In his biological works, Aristotle outlines more than five hundred species, some in more detail than others. He describes the chambered stomachs of ruminants, the social organization of bees, and the embryological development of a chick. He notices that some sharks are viviparous, and that whales and dolphins differ from other fish in breathing air and suckling their young. He infers that brood size decreases with body mass, whereas gestation period and overall lifespan increase.

In a playful by-the-way, he remarks that ‘after drinking wine, the Indian parrot becomes more saucy than ever’.

For centuries, some of Aristotle’s accounts seemed too fanciful to be true, for instance, that the young of a dogfish grow inside their mother’s body, that the male of the river catfish guards the eggs for forty or fifty days after the female has left, or that male octopuses have a sperm-transferring tentacle that sometimes snaps off during mating. Each of these wonders of the world had to wait until the nineteenth century to be confirmed.

Unlike Plato, Aristotle privileged observation over speculation. Like our scientists, he began with a careful gathering of data, from which he attempted to infer explanations and make predictions. He carried out dissections and even rudimentary experiments such as cutting out the heart of a turtle to discover that it could still move its limbs for a surprisingly long time.

However, he did not carry out anything like modern case-control studies, and relied uncritically on the lay testimony of beekeepers, fishermen, travellers, and the like. His lack of rigour led to some embarrassing errors, such as the claim that lions copulate back-to-back, while bears adopt the missionary position and hedgehogs stand on their hind legs to face each other. Or the claim that the female of several species has fewer teeth than the male.

Among these species, he included humans, when he could simply have looked into Pythias’ mouth (wife or daughter).

Biology as Philosophy

Aristotle was not simply doing biology for the sake of biology, but for the sake of philosophy. Like Plato, he was searching for universals, but this time from the ground up. ‘We should,’ he said, ‘venture on the study of every kind of animal without distaste; for each and all will reveal to us something natural and something beautiful.’

An animal gives birth to the same animal because of its form [eidos] or ordering pattern—an idea that resonates with modern genetics. The male supplies the form, which is also the soul, in his semen, while the female provides the material in her menses. When the semen meets the menses, they congeal into an egg or embryo ‘like fig juice which curdles milk’. If the semen fails to ‘master the menses’, a female is born.

The soul is not superadded or even supervenient, but corresponds to the animal’s ordering pattern and dynamic processes. Aristotle’s interest in biology informs his theory of the form, which in turn informs his entire physics and metaphysics.

All beings, from minerals to plants and animals, have a form, the potential of which determines their position on the eleven-rung scala naturae, or great chain of being. The Church adapted the concept of a great chain of being, which later helped to justify slavery, colonization, and evangelization. Plants have a vegetative soul, capable of growth and reproduction. Animals, as well as a vegetative soul, have a sensitive soul, capable of sensation and movement, and hence of desire and imagination.

Humans, uniquely, also have a rational soul, capable of thought and reflection. Contra Plato, the soul inheres in the organism, and dies with it—except for the rational soul, which, being a part of God, is immortal. Thought cannot die, since, unlike all else, it is not the function of a particular organ—the brain and the lungs being, in Aristotle’s view, mere radiators for the heart, which is the site of the internal fire and the seat of intelligence, motion, and sensation.

The Great Chain of Being, or Scala Dei

Although he held that all beings have a form, and that the form is injected by the male (a male being defined as ‘an animal that breeds inside another’), Aristotle also believed that many lower animals spontaneously generate: that eels grow out of mud, and insect maggots from putrefying flesh, even though Homer had said otherwise—when, in Iliad XIX, Achilles fears that flies will ‘breed worms’ in the corpse of Patroclus.

To be fair to Aristotle, he had observed that eels have no gonads, and could hardly have guessed that they only develop them in the course of their epic migration to the Sargasso Sea. The earliest challenge to spontaneous generation came as late as 1668, when Francesco Redi covered jars of rotting flesh with gauze and found that only the controls, that is, the uncovered jars, grew maggots.

Aristotle was not a Darwinist nor even a creationist, but an eternalist who believed that the plants and animals before him had always existed and would always exist. One argument that he gives for eternalism is that, if motion had a beginning, this beginning must itself have resulted from a movement, which is a paradox.

Although he privileged observation over theory, his eternalism, albeit logically held, blinded him to the significance of the petrified forest of Lesbos, which would have confronted him with fossilized trees from millions of years ago.

Such are the main lines of Aristotle’s biology and associated philosophy. Many of his inferences have not stood the test of time. Salacious animals do not age more quickly than continent ones. Hair is not grown at the expense of semen, even if women and eunuchs don’t grow bald. And it is not because they lack fatness that bloodless animals are shorter lived than sanguineous ones.

But was the beginning of science not bound to look like this? And is it not remarkable that we today can still read its record?

Aristotle spent no more than two years on Lesbos. In 343, King Philip commissioned him to tutor his son Alexander, who was then around thirteen years old, promising in return to rebuild his native Stageira and repatriate its former citizens.

Aristotle would go on to teach the future conqueror of the known world, but on Lesbos he had begun conquering another world altogether: the hidden world beneath his feet.

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