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If Aspasia taught Socrates, Western philosophy begins with a woman.

Socrates holding his cheek
According to Plato, Socrates’ education may have included the occasional slap.

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

Few figures in ancient Greece are as intriguing—or as neglected—as Aspasia of Miletus, the companion of Pericles, the friend of Socrates, and the greatest female intellectual of classical Athens. Although she has been erased from the traditional history of philosophy, there is substantial evidence that she did far more than beguile great men. If that evidence is to be believed, Socrates is rooted not only in Anaxagoras and Pythagoras, but also in Aspasia.

The first piece of evidence comes from no less than Plato’s Menexenus, in which Socrates claims to have learnt the art of rhetoric from Aspasia of Miletus, ‘an excellent mistress… who has made so many good speakers [including] the best among the Hellenes—Pericles, the son of Xanthippus.’

To prove it, Socrates recites a funeral oration that Aspasia recently composed and taught to him. He tells Menexenus that he still ought to remember the speech because, whenever he forgot the words in rehearsal, Aspasia threatened to slap him.

The speech closely resembles—and gently satirises—the famous funeral oration delivered by Pericles and recorded by Thucydides. When Socrates is done reciting, Menexenus marvels that such an oration could have been written by a woman.

The Menexenus is not the Gorgias or the Republic. Even those who do read it tend to skim over this passage or dismiss it as mere fiction or comedy.

But should they? Fortunately, Plato is not our only witness.

The Most Remarkable Woman in Athens

Aspasia emigrated from Miletus to Athens, where she lived as a metic, or resident alien. After his amicable divorce from Deinomache, she became the companion of Pericles, the leading statesman and general of Athens. According to Plutarch, Pericles kissed her every morning before leaving and every evening upon returning.

Owing to her foreign birth, unmarried status, and influence over Pericles, Aspasia became one of the most controversial figures in Athens. Comic poets branded her a prostitute, and in the Acharnians Aristophanes goes so far as to blame her for starting the Peloponnesian War.

This raises an obvious question. Why would Plato have chosen such an infamous woman for the Menexenus? Plato is no Aristophanes, and even his comic touches are generally in the service of his philosophy. Had his intention been merely to parody funeral oratory, he could easily have done so without invoking Aspasia. The more interesting question is not why Plato jokes about Aspasia, but why he mentions her at all.

Socrates’ Teacher

The Menexenus is not the only Platonic dialogue in which Socrates claims to have been taught by a remarkable woman.

In the Symposium, he relates a conversation that he once had with a mysterious priestess, Diotima of Mantinea, who, he says, taught him the true nature of love. This is Plato’s famous ‘Ladder of Love’, by which aching lust can be sublimed into wisdom and virtue.

Armand d’Angour, among others, has argued that Diotima is in fact Aspasia under another name—with Plato, this time, having taken the precaution to disguise her identity.

If so, Plato has presented Aspasia not only as Socrates’ teacher of rhetoric, but also as the source of philosophy’s most influential account of love.

Plato Was Not Alone

Plato was not alone in portraying Aspasia as an intellectual authority.

Besides the two famous ones, Plato and Xenophon, at least another nine of Socrates’ followers wrote Socratic dialogues. Among these dialogues we know of two with the title Aspasia, one by Aeschines and another by Antisthenes.

In the Aspasia of Aeschines, Socrates urges the millionaire Callias to send his son Hipponicus to Aspasia for instruction. Socrates presses his recommendation by citing Aspasia’s credentials in rhetoric and in marriage guidance—precisely the same combination of talents that we find independently confirmed in Plato (rhetoric) and Xenophon (marriage guidance).

A pattern is beginning to emerge. Aspasia is not some isolated anecdote. She is repeatedly presented by various Socratics as someone from whom others—including Socrates himself—could learn.

Aspasia Speaks

A substantial fragment of the Aspasia of Aeschines has come down to us, preserved in Cicero. In it, we can finally hear Aspasia in her own voice.

Aspasia asks a husband named Xenophon whether he would prefer his own horse or a better horse belonging to his neighbour.

“The better horse,” he replies.

Would he prefer his own farm or a better one?

“The better one.”

Would he prefer his own wife—or a better wife?

At this Xenophon falls silent.

Aspasia then asks his wife a parallel series of questions. She too admits that she would prefer finer possessions—and then blushes into silence when asked whether she would prefer a better husband.

Aspasia concludes:

Since each of you avoids answering me that question alone which was the only one which I wished to have answered, I will tell you what each of you are thinking of; for both you, O woman, wish to have the best husband, and you, O Xenophon, most exceedingly desire to have the most excellent wife. Wherefore, unless you both so contrive matters that there shall not be on the whole earth a more excellent man or a more admirable woman, then in truth you will at all times desire above all things that which you think to be the best thing in the world, namely, that you, O Xenophon, may be the husband of the best possible wife; and you, O woman, that you may be married to the most excellent husband possible.

The conclusion is striking enough. More striking still is the method. Aspasia proceeds much as Socrates would: by asking apparently innocent questions, drawing analogies, exposing contradictions, and gently leading her listeners towards a conclusion they reach for themselves. Her conclusion, moreover, echoes that of Diotima. Love’s highest purpose is not pleasure but virtue.

Did Aspasia Teach Socrates the Socratic Method?

According to Plato, Socrates developed his method of questioning, the method of elenchus, after his friend Chaerephon asked the oracle of Delphi whether there was anyone wiser than Socrates. Astonishingly, the oracle replied that there was no one wiser—leaving Socrates, who knew only that he knew nothing, perplexed.

To discover the meaning of the oracle, Socrates questioned several supposedly wise people, and in each case concluded: “I am likely to be wiser than he to this small extent, that I do not think I know what I do not know.” From then on, he dedicated himself to the service of the god of the oracle by seeking out anyone who might be wise and, “if he is not, showing him that he is not.” 

Plato presents the oracle story as the turning point of Socrates’ career. By validating his skeptical stance, it gave him the impetus to develop his own distinctive method of doing philosophy. 

The method of elenchus consists in questioning one or more people about a concept, exposing contradictions in their initial assumptions, and provoking a reappraisal of the concept. As the process is iterative, it leads to an increasingly refined definition of the concept, and, in due course, to a shared recognition that it eludes our understanding—and hence that we know far less than we thought we did.

With our initial dogmatism transmuted into a state of puzzlement and suspended judgement, we are ready to become much more open and subtle thinkers—assuming, of course, that we have not first become angry and resentful. 

But although Socrates may have perfected the method of elenchus, it is unlikely that he originated a mode of conversation that seems so naturally and fundamentally human. Diogenes Laertius, the ancient biographer of philosophers, claims that it was the sophist Protagoras who ‘first introduced the method of discussion which is called Socratic’. In Plato’s Parmenides, the pre-Socratic philosopher Parmenides, who was a generation older than Protagoras, himself uses the method of elenchus on Socrates to undermine Plato’s Theory of the Forms.

It remains that while other thinkers tried to make a show of their knowledge, Socrates tried to make a show of his and everyone else’s ignorance. In contrast to the pre-Socratics and especially to the sophists, he seldom claimed to possess any positive knowledge; whenever he did, it was because he had learnt it from somebody else, or because he had been ‘divinely inspired’. In Plato’s Phaedrus, he compares himself to an empty jar, filled through the ears by the words of others.

Against this background, Aspasia begins to look less like a literary curiosity and more like a plausible influence. In Plato, she teaches Socrates rhetoric. Perhaps she teaches him love. In Aeschines, she employs the very methods later associated with Socrates himself.

Did Aspasia invent the Socratic method? Almost certainly not. Did she influence the man who perfected it? The surviving evidence suggests that the possibility deserves to be taken far more seriously than it usually is.

A Different Beginning

None of this proves that Aspasia was Diotima, or even that she taught Socrates. Ancient history rarely affords such certainty. 

But the evidence does point in that direction. Plato presents Aspasia as Socrates’ teacher—and has her threatening to slap the man he most admired. Other members of the Socratic circle independently portray her as a teacher. The surviving fragments show her employing the same methods, and pursuing the same moral aims, for which Socrates became renowned.

For centuries, the story of Western philosophy has begun with Socrates. It may be that it ought to begin not with Socrates alone, but with the remarkable woman from Miletus who taught him rhetoric, perhaps taught him love, and may even have helped shape the philosophical method that transformed the Western world.

If Aspasia taught Socrates—and perhaps even slapped him—Western philosophy begins with a woman.

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The Freest and Funniest Philosopher of Antiquity

Aristippus at the court of Dionysius I of Syracuse
Aristippus of Cyrene believed that pleasure is best enjoyed by those who remain its master.

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

History has largely forgotten Aristippus of Cyrene (c. 435-c. 356 BCE). It shouldn’t have. A disciple of Socrates and the founder of the Cyrenaic school, he was the original hedonist— far more radical than the better-known Epicurus (341-270 BCE). He was also one of antiquity’s sharpest wits, perhaps even its funniest philosopher. Yet to dismiss Aristippus as funny but shallow would be to miss the point entirely. His philosophy is far deeper—and far more demanding—than first appears.

Before we turn to his celebrated wit, it is worth pausing over philosophy itself.

Ancient philosophy, for all its theoretical underpinnings, was above all an art of living, which aimed, through self-transformation, at controlling the passions, relieving suffering, and attaining wisdom. Philosophy was to the soul as medicine is to the body, and the philosopher, first and foremost, a healer of the soul. In the words of the Roman statesman and philosopher Cicero, ‘Unless the soul is cured, which cannot be done without philosophy, there will be no end to our miseries.’ According to the Roman Stoic Musonius Rufus, ‘We must live like doctors and be continually treating ourselves with reason.’ For the Greeks and Romans, philosophy was not merely something to discuss, but something to be lived.

The conception of philosophy as therapy can be traced back to Socrates. After his death by hemlock in 399 BCE, his closest students each carried away a different aspect of his teaching. Plato inherited his theoretical side and founded the Academy. Antisthenes embraced his ethic of self-sufficiency and laid the foundations for Cynicism. Aristippus, by contrast, established the Cyrenaic school, which taught that the only intrinsic good is pleasure—especially the vivid, immediate pleasures of the present moment.

The Philosophy of Pleasure

Aristippus emphasised present and physical pleasures over distant hopes or abstract ideals. For Aristippus and his followers, pleasure meant not merely the absence of pain but positively making the most of every moment.

Aristippus first encountered Socrates while visiting Athens for the Olympic Games. Captivated by the philosopher, he remained in the city and became one of his closest followers. Yet he was never content merely to imitate his master. Once, he had the temerity to tell Socrates that he preferred living in Athens because it spared him the politics of his native Cyrene—the sort of remark that alienated fellow Socratics such as Plato and Xenophon, who regarded civic duty as an obligation rather than a burden.

Aristippus was also the first of Socrates’ followers to take money for teaching. When he demanded five hundred drachmas from a man for tutoring his son, the man protested, ‘For that much money, I could buy a slave!’ ‘Go ahead,’ replied Aristippus. ‘Then you’ll have two.’

Many stories are told of Aristippus, and even if some are later inventions, they capture something essential about the man.

One day, Diogenes the Cynic was washing the dirt from his vegetables when he saw Aristippus passing by. ‘Had you learnt to make these your diet,’ called Diogenes, ‘you would have no need to pay court to kings.’ ‘And you, Diogenes, had you learnt to associate with men, you would have no need to wash vegetables.’

When someone chided him for his extravagant tastes, he retorted, ‘Wouldn’t you have bought this if you could have got it for three obols? Very well then, it is no longer I who am a lover of pleasure, but you who are a lover of money.’

When someone remarked that philosophers were always to be found at the doors of rich men, he replied, ‘Physicians are always calling on the sick, but no one would therefore rather be sick than be a physician.’

When Dionysius I, the tyrant of Syracuse, asked why he had come to his court, Aristippus answered, ‘When I needed wisdom, I went to Socrates; but now that I am in need of money, I come to you.’

On another occasion, Dionysius spat in his face. When someone reproached him for enduring such an insult, Aristippus remarked, ‘If fishermen are prepared to be drenched in seawater in order to catch a gudgeon, should I not be prepared to be sprayed with spittle in order to take a blenny?’

When Dionysius gave him his choice of three courtesans, Aristippus carried off all three, explaining, ‘Paris paid dearly for preferring one out of three.’

For many years he was intimate with the celebrated courtesan Lais of Corinth, reputedly the most beautiful woman in Greece. Yet he maintained, ‘I possess Lais, but I am not possessed by her.’

The Hidden Depths of Aristippus

By now, Aristippus might seem little more than a witty opportunist devoted to luxury and pleasure. But appearances can be deceptive.

Aristippus was far from amoral. He simply believed that we ought to make the most of every situation. When criticised for his love of pleasure, he replied, ‘It is not abstinence from pleasures that is best, but mastery over them without ever being worsted.’ Pleasure, in other words, is not our master; we are.

One day, as he entered the house of a courtesan, one of the young men with him blushed. Seeing this, he said, ‘It is not going in that is shameful, but being unable to come out.’

Vitruvius, in his treatise on architecture, recounts the story of Aristippus’ shipwreck. Cast ashore on Rhodes, Aristippus made straight for the gymnasium, where he spoke with such eloquence that the Rhodians provided for all his needs. When his companions later prepared to return home and asked what message they should carry back, he bid them tell their children to acquire possessions that could swim with them even out of a shipwreck.

Despite having two sons, Aristippus appointed his daughter Arete to succeed him as head of the Cyrenaic school. Her own son, Aristippus the Younger, would later formalise the principles of Cyrenaicism.

Several later Cyrenaics departed from Aristippus’ original teaching. Theodorus the Atheist (c. 340–c. 250 BCE) placed greater emphasis on mental than physical pleasures, identifying the good with prudence and justice. Hegesias of Cyrene (fl. 290 BCE), perhaps influenced by Buddhist missionaries sent out by Ashoka the Great, argued that happiness is unattainable and that the true goal of life is merely the avoidance of pain and distress. According to Cicero, his book Death by Starvation persuaded so many people that death was preferable to life that Ptolemy II Philadelphus banned him from teaching in Alexandria.

A Philosopher for Our Time

Within little more than a century, the Cyrenaic school had been eclipsed by Epicureanism. Yet Aristippus deserves to be rescued.

Contrary to the caricature, Aristippus did not teach people to become slaves to pleasure. He taught them never to become slaves to anything. He could enjoy wealth without depending on it, luxury without being possessed by it, and the company of tyrants without surrendering his independence. Pleasure, for Aristippus, was never an excuse for self-indulgence. It was a test of self-mastery.

In an age that often swings between thoughtless excess and puritanical self-denial, Aristippus still has something important to teach us. Freedom lies neither in rejecting pleasure nor in chasing it blindly, but in remaining its master. His life looked like a celebration of pleasure. His philosophy was really about freedom.

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How Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle Reimagined Happiness

The Death of Socrates, by David
The Death of Socrates, by David

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

We all say we want to be happy, but the pursuit of happiness often seems like a wild goose chase.

Maybe the problem is not so much with us, or the world we live in, but with the very concept of happiness.

The ancient Greeks had a much better concept. They called it eudaimonia, literally ‘good soul’, ‘good spirit’, or ‘good god’.

Although Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle understood eudaimonia in somewhat different ways, they all regarded it as the highest good, often even the very aim and purpose of philosophy.

What Is Eudaimonia?

Eudaimonia is often translated from Greek simply as ‘happiness’—but that is very misleading. The word ‘happy’, which is related to ‘happen’ and ‘perhaps’, derives from the Norse happ for ‘chance’, ‘fortune’, or ‘luck’. From Irish to Greek, most European words for ‘happy’ originally meant something like ‘lucky’—one exception being Welsh, in which it originally meant ‘wise’.

Another word for ‘happy’ or ‘fortunate’ in Old English is gesælig, which, over the centuries, morphed into our ‘silly’.

Eudaimonia, in contrast, is anything but silly. It has nothing to do with luck and everything to do with hard work. It is a much deeper, fuller, and richer concept than happiness, sometimes articulated in terms of flourishing or living a life that is worthwhile or fulfilling.

Many philosophical schools in antiquity thought of eudaimonia as the highest good, although schools such as Epicureanism and Stoicism conceived of it in somewhat different terms.

What can be said is that, unlike happiness, eudaimonia is not an emotion but a state of being—or even, especially for Aristotle, a state of doing. As such, it is more stable and reliable, and cannot so easily be taken away from us. Although it leads to pleasure or satisfaction of the deepest kind, it does not come from pleasure, but is according to higher values and principles that transcend the here and now.

The idea of eudaimonia evolved over time, especially across the three generations that separated Socrates, via Plato, from Aristotle—the three greatest philosophers of antiquity.

Socrates on Eudaimonia

Socrates, from what we can tell (mainly from his student Plato), equated eudaimonia with wisdom and virtue. In the Greater Alcibiades, he says that he who is not wise cannot be happy; in the Gorgias, that nothing truly bad can ever happen to a good man; and in the Meno, that everything the soul endeavours or endures under the guidance of wisdom ends in happiness.

In the Apology, at his trial, Socrates gives a defiant defence, telling the jurors that they ought to be ashamed of their eagerness to possess as much wealth, reputation, and honour as possible, while not caring for or giving thought to wisdom or truth, or the best possible state of their soul. ‘Wealth,’ he says, ‘does not bring about excellence, but excellence makes wealth and everything else good for men, both individually and collectively.’

Socrates provided the ultimate proof of his principle that ‘nothing truly bad can ever happen to a good man’. When the jurors condemned him to death, they only made him and his ideas immortal—and he did all he could not to prevent that from happening. 

Plato on Eudaimonia

Plato was inspired by the example of Socrates. In the Republic, Plato’s brother Glaucon argues that most people are fundamentally selfish, but maintain a reputation for virtue and justice to evade the social costs of being or appearing unjust. But if a man could get hold of the mythical Ring of Gyges and make himself invisible, he would most surely behave as it suited him:

No man would keep his hands off what was not his own when he could safely take what he liked out of the market, or go into houses and lie with any one at his pleasure, or kill or release from prison whom he would, and in all respects be like a god among men.

We behave justly not because we value justice, but because we are weak and fearful; while the unjust man who is cunning enough to seem just will get the better of everyone and everything.

As part of his lengthy reply to Glaucon, Plato famously conjures up an idealised Republic to help him ‘locate’ (define) justice, first in the state and then in the individual. Plato argues that justice and injustice are to the soul as health and disease are to the body: If health in the body is intrinsically desirable, then so too is justice in the soul. For Plato, an unjust man cannot be happy because he is not in rational and ordered control of himself.

Aristotle embraced much of Plato’s account, but gave eudaimonia a broader and more practical meaning.

Aristotle on Eudaimonia

It is with Plato’s one-time student Aristotle and his Nicomachean Ethics that the concept of eudaimonia is most closely associated.

For Aristotle, a thing is best understood by looking at its end, purpose, or goal. For example, the purpose of a knife is to cut, and it is by seeing this that one best understands what a knife is; the goal of medicine is good health, and it is by seeing this that one best understands what medicine is, or ought to be.

Now, if one does this for some time, it soon becomes apparent that some goals are subordinate to other goals, which are themselves subordinate to yet other goals. For example, a medical student’s goal may be to qualify as a doctor, but this goal is subordinate to her goal to heal the sick, which is itself subordinate to her goal to make a living by doing something useful. This could go on and on, but unless the medical student has a goal that is an end in itself, nothing that she does is actually worth doing.

What, asks Aristotle, is this goal that is an end in itself? This ‘supreme good’, he replies, is eudaimonia, and eudaimonia only.

But what exactly does Aristotle mean by eudaimonia?

For Aristotle, it is by understanding the distinctive function of a thing that one can understand its essence. Thus, one cannot understand what it is to be a gardener unless one can understand that the distinctive function of a gardener is ‘to tend to a garden with a certain degree of skill’.

Whereas human beings need nourishment like plants, and have sentience like animals, their distinctive function, says Aristotle, is their unique and god-like capacity to reason. Thus, our supreme good is to lead a life that enables us to use and develop our reason, and that is in accordance with reason.

By living our life to the full according to our essential nature as rational beings, we are bound to flourish, that is, to develop and express our full human potential, regardless of the ebb and flow of our good or bad fortune.

To put this in modern terms, if we develop our thinking skills, if we guard against lies and self-deception, if we train and master our emotions, we will, over the years, make better and better choices, do more and more meaningful things, and derive ever-increasing satisfaction from all that we have become and all that we have done, and are yet able to do.

Although Aristotle’s account proved the most influential, his was not the last word on the matter. The Cynics, Stoics, Epicureans, and Skeptics all regarded eudaimonia as the highest good, although they conceived of it in somewhat different terms. For the Cynics and Stoics, happiness depended less on flourishing than on living in accordance with nature and reason, and on cultivating an inner freedom that no amount of bad fortune could destroy. The Epicureans sought tranquillity through moderation, friendship, and freedom from unnecessary desires, while the Skeptics argued that peace of mind arises from suspending judgement about matters that cannot be known with certainty.

In recent decades, philosophers and psychologists have rediscovered eudaimonia as an alternative to the modern pursuit of pleasure or subjective happiness. Increasingly, they recognise that a good life depends not only on how we feel, but also on how we live.

‘Happiness’ is something that comes and goes. It is at the mercy of fortune and circumstance. A life well lived, however, is a treasure that no one and nothing can ever take away from you, and that will shine in the eyes of others long after you are dead.

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The first edition of Plato’s Shadow came out 14 years ago, so it was time for a rewrite and refresh.

Plato’s Shadow contains summaries of all of Plato’s dialogues in their approximate order of composition, enabling you to trace the evolution of Plato’s thought (and of his portrayal of Socrates). Along with Aristotle’s Universe, it was one of the books that served as groundwork for The Gang of Three.

In The Gang Three, I outline and comment on five key dialogues: Meno, Phaedo, Phaedrus, Republic, and Theaetetus. But the interested reader might also want to delve into the Laches, Gorgias, Cratylus, Symposium, Parmenides… which is why I released this new edition as an appendix to the Ancient Wisdom series.

Unlike the other books in the series, Plato’s Shadow is aimed more at students and academics than at the general reader. As this group is less apt to judge a book by its cover, I took the risk of designing the cover myself! The real challenge was not the front cover as such, but getting all the measurements right and getting everything to match the other covers in the series.

When I began self-publishing in 2008, I worked with a typesetter, a proofreader, a designer, a printer, a warehouse, shippers, importers, and, of course, bookshops. But in the intervening time, the world has changed so much, and technology has advanced so much, that I no longer need any of these people.

I do worry that, soon, even I won’t be needed.

I hope you’re having a lovely summer, full of flowers, wine, and watermelons. And, of course, books.

Browse the Ancient Wisdom series

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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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