Abstract

Virtually everyone knows that Aristotle sometimes lies. His account of the pre-Socratics in the first book of the Metaphysics leaves out of account everything that does not suit his scheme, the gradual disclosure of the four causes, compelled, as he says, by the truth itself. Heraclitus’ fire is there but not Heraclitus’ logos. Parmenides’ Eros is there but not Parmenides’ mind. This triumphant progress, however, comes abruptly to an end at the end of Book I, and Book II begins the crisis of first philosophy. It is the very triumph of Book I that brings about the crisis of Book II, and it is Book II that is first philosophy: it consists of nothing but questions. These seventeen questions could not have been formulated had not Book I preceded it and confirmed that wisdom was the theoretical knowledge of cause. The knowledge of cause, however, does not establish first philosophy; it merely discloses what still must be known, being. Being emerges as the problem of first philosophy through the non-problematic status of the four causes. The emergence of being as the problem is not adventitious to the four causes. There lurks within the four causes one cause that is not an answer but a question, and the question is, What is? Formal cause is the only cause that appears among the categorial predicates, and of these it is the only one that is a question, and whose formulation includes in itself that which the question is about. To ask about being is to acknowledge belatedly that it has come to light as a question about which one asks questions. If, then, first philosophy is first only the second time around, where are we to begin? Aristotle has another name for first philosophy. He calls it theology. Theology is a tainted word. It is first used, as far as we know, by Plato, and he puts it in the mouth of Adimantus, whom Socrates is questioning about what myths are to be told the future guardians when young. Theology, then, is theomythy. It precedes any true account of the gods. Socrates’ theology is set in opposition to the stories of Homer and Hesiod. It is one set of myths against another. Hesiod’s myth, however, is not Hesiod’s but the Muses’, and the Muses tell Hesiod that they speak lies like the truth and they pronounce, whenever they wish, the truth. Before philosophy there are lies like the truth. Before philosophy, we say, there is poetry. Poetry has already divided lies from truth and put them together again. Poetry is not at the beginning but after the beginning, when the speaking about the speaking about things has become part of the speaking. This double speak puts things at a distance from us. The things the Muses speak about are the beginning. We are not at the beginning when we hear from the Muses about the beginning. At the beginning are the Muses who sing about the beginning.