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Unity, Plurality and Sensibility
by Nile Sedgwick
(University of Georgia, Athens)
Nile Sedgwick is a senior at The University of Georgia, majoring in philosophy and minoring in religion. He is interested in metaphysics, particularly with ancient and mediaeval works.
In the following pages, I will attempt to flesh out some of the problems surrounding knowledge of sensible things. The arguments presented in this paper are taken largely from those found in Plato's Theaetetus, as it is there that many interesting quandaries concerning knowledge of sensibles are raised. The discussion here, however, is not limited to an explication of the Theaetetus. This is not a critical analysis of the dialogue. The point is to use the dialogue as a springboard by which one may conduct one's own investigation-- that is, by approaching the material as a project open to whatever conclusion one may arrive at. Instead of trying to offer an interpretation of Plato's doctrine, one may engage in the kind of thinking that is actually emulated in the dialogues. So even as the Theaetetus presents certain problems with knowing sensible things, this paper is not about the Theaetetus, strictly speaking, but about the problems themselves-- and whatever other problems that might come to the surface amidst this investigation.
The problem with knowing sensibles is centered on the difficulty of knowing the ever-changing character of sensible things and the seemingly pluralistic nature of sensible things. Furthermore, while knowing a plurality will turn out to be an impossibility, it might also be that knowing a unity is equally troubling, perhaps revealing an inherent shortcoming of knowledge itself. However, the entire endeavor of this paper rests on the premise that knowledge is possible, and only possible if the object of one's knowing is one thing.
If one has knowledge of something, then one knows what that thing is. What is grasped of the object is its being, for it is something in virtue of its being that something. So in as much as something is that something, one may know that it is that something by grasping that it is that something, namely its being.1
But what is it about the object of knowing that makes it graspable? If something is, in virtue of its being, then what is the nature of being and why is being the only thing that can be grasped? The answer seems simple enough: being never changes. Being is never in a process of becoming, for then it would not be what it is but would be in a state of becoming something else. So if being is never becoming or changing then it remains always what it is: one thing. In virtue of its being one thing is being knowable, for knowledge is knowledge of something, and in as much something is something, it is one thing and not something else.
Since the object of knowledge cannot be any object but only that which is being, and because being never changes it might appear that sensible things do not have being. Sensible things have at times some characteristics and at other times those characteristics are gone or changed. They always seem to be undergoing change. So if sensible things never truly remain the same it seems that they cannot be known, for as being never changes, sensible things may not have being.
But how would one account for the craftsman having knowledge of certain arts, like wagon making. Certainly, it does seem that the one who makes wagons has knowledge of what the wagon is. If the wagon maker is to assemble a plurality of parts, which resemble in no way what a wagon is, into a wagon, then he must know something before the wagon is a wagon so that he can create the wagon. And this knowledge must persist in the wagon maker separately from the disassembled parts of the wagon through to the completion of their arrangement as a wagon. The wagon maker must know that the pieces can be a wagon; he must be able to unify the unassembled parts to exhibit a particular shape.2 So it seems that knowledge of physical things is possible, for without such knowledge one is simply at a loss to explain how the wagon maker makes the wagon from something it was not before.
But how is one to have knowledge of wagons if, in being physical things, they are always in the process of becoming? There must be something in the wagon that is one, that is its being, so that one can know what the wagon is despite its changing characteristics. Its being cannot be found in its characteristics-- it must be somehow separate from the characteristics of the wagon, which never are as one thing but always in a state of flux. The ever-changing character of any sensible thing can be seen, as it is a plurality. If things are in a state of becoming, then they are not one thing which is but always many things becoming something else. The sensible thing then, as it is always in a state of becoming, has a pluralistic and ever-changing character, for in constantly becoming something it was not before it is not one thing. And if it is not one thing which always is, it must be many things which are always becoming.
However, is it not the case that a wagon is a wagon in virtue of its having a certain form and shape? The parts of the wagon are not the wagon if they lie unassembled, but the wagon is said to be when those parts are assembled to maintain a certain shape. As the axle is fitted in a certain way with the wheel and the body is attached in a certain way to the axles, it is only when the parts are ordered in certain proportion that they obtain a unified order. This order and harmony of different parts that coalesce into a whole is the being of the wagon, for a wagon is a wagon in virtue of its being a proportionate whole of parts. And the unity that arises out of the harmony of those assembled parts is what the wagon maker has in mind when he builds the wagon. The harmony is the knowledge that he implants into a given material, into the parts of the wagon. Thus it seems that the unity or being that is known by the wagon maker does in fact exist in characteristics of the wagon, as it is in the form of those characteristics, the appropriate proportion of the parts as a whole,3 which a wagon is said to be a wagon.
But how could the being of the wagon exist in the characteristics if they are always in a state of becoming? The sensible thing, which has physical characteristics, must also have a being or form that never changes if it is to be known. But does this being exist because of the physical characteristics? It might seem that it does, given that without the physical appearance of a thing one could not know that that thing has the being that it does. A shoe, for example, without having the characteristics of being a shoe, could not be said to have the being that makes it a shoe. But it equally seems that the being of the sensible thing cannot be in the physical characteristics if the characteristics themselves are always changing, for being never changes. So if a sensible thing is something it must have being. But at the same time, in being a physical entity it is always in a state of becoming and does not exhibit any quality that always is.
What was previously mentioned might serve as a solution, it might be said that sensible things exhibit a proportionality that gives them the form and shape that they have. All sensible things are what they are in virtue of how their parts fit together to be the whole that they are. Whether it be a tree, whose limbs and bark and trunk are together in a way that forms a tree, or a wagon, whose parts equally are assembled in a proportionate way that exhibits the shape of a wagon, it seems that sensible things have parts that, when they come together in a certain way, coalesce into a unified whole. Thus it is the harmony of the parts that give form to the whole, and it is this harmony that is the being that persists throughout the changing of the sensible thing. So it is the harmony, the proportionality, that is the being of the sensible thing, separate from the characteristics themselves in that it does not change, but in the sensible thing itself as it is the form of the whole comprised of parts which are together in a way proportionate and appropriate to that whole.
However, is it possible that the sensible thing as a proportionate whole is really one thing? Certainly, it seems that a whole is a whole because of its parts, for if a whole had no parts, then it would not be a whole, but either one thing without parts or nothing at all. Since a whole is a whole, it must have parts, and it is the sum of its parts that make it what it is. Thus a whole is all of its parts. But if this is the case, how could a whole be one thing? It appears that a whole is not one thing at all but a conglomeration of many things, and any attempt to identify a whole inevitably leads one to the sum of its parts. But a whole must, on the one hand, be a unity as the form that results from a proportionate configuration of parts. On the other hand, a whole can only be a whole if it is all of its parts. So it seems that only in as much as a whole is a plurality of parts can it be understood as a unity, as one knowable thing.
But of course this is ridiculous. How can a unity be a unity because it is a plurality? The whole must be a plurality, for it is a conglomeration of parts.4 Perhaps the sensible thing that is a whole has also something that is a unity, something that is one. The sensible thing, however, cannot 'have' the unity, as the unity is not an element or constituent of the thing, not a part of a whole. If this were the case, what would unify the parts? If the proportion were just another element of the whole then it could not exhibit the form of the whole but would rather be a part of the whole that is unified with other parts. It must be the harmony of the parts itself that exists with the whole that is the knowable unity.
Thus the sensible thing exhibits the qualities of a plurality and a unity. On the one hand, it is a unity in that it has a form, a certain proportion in which its parts fit together that gives it a unified shape. On the other hand, the sensible thing is a plurality, of course, in that it is a whole comprised of parts.
The sensible thing, then, in being both a unity and a plurality, has a kind of incommensurability to it. As the sensible thing is a whole which is made up of parts it is a plurality. But there is also a unity respective to the thing that is a whole and the thing that is a part. For in as much as each whole has a shape comprised of a proportionate arrangement of parts, it has a unified form. So how can one understand the sensible thing as both a unity and a plurality? How can a thing, which is a whole, but also one thing, be all of its parts that are in a plural relationship? The unity in the thing is not commensurable with the plurality of the thing. They cannot be understood together, for as one thing is one thing it cannot be a plurality and vice versa. However, they are also both undeniably inherent, at least, in sensible things, and cannot be discarded in the endeavor to know what sensible things are.
The incommensurability of the sensible thing exists in its parts as well. Each part of the whole has a particular form to it, as in the wheel and the axle. Each part is itself a whole that is also comprised of a harmonious arrangement of parts, and in being so has a unity to it. So if each part is a unity, how can it exist as a plurality? The part has the same problem as the whole, in that it is a unity with form but composed of plurality of other parts.
As the incommensurability of unities with pluralities can be expressed in thinking of the sensible thing, this incommensurability can be reflexively revealed in one's own knowledge. It seems that, if a thing is a plurality, it would allow for one to be able to give an account of what it is by indicating its parts. If viewed as a complex thing, it can be analyzed in terms of its parts. As each part is a part of the sensible thing as a whole, each part has a certain character that makes it appropriate to the whole. Equally, the particular arrangement of the parts is integral in understanding how the plurality of parts becomes a whole. It is only by knowing the appropriate parts of the whole and how they are arranged to comprise the whole that an account of the whole is possible. Thus it might seem that in being able to give an account of the plurality of the sensible thing is knowledge of that thing possible.5
But there are problems with knowing a thing in virtue of an account of its parts. For if knowledge is only possible if the object of one's knowledge is one thing, an account of a thing's plurality cannot suffice. But the necessity of having an account of what one knows remains. How can one know something if one cannot give an account of how one knows it? If one is simply to attest to the truth of his judgment with no appeal to an account of what the thing one is judging is, how is one to know if that judgment is true? Of course one must be right in one's judgment of a thing if one is to know the thing one judges.6 But even if one were to suppose the truth of a particular judgment and one turns out to be correct, one cannot be said to have any knowledge of the thing he made a judgment about, for one cannot know one is correct until one sees the outcome of what was predicted. If an account can be given as to why one has knowledge, then it would indeed appear that one does have knowledge. So an account seems to be a necessary ingredient in having knowledge.
Perhaps it is possible to give an account of the primary, the unity, that must exist in the sensible thing. Knowledge would surely be possible if one could give an account of one thing. But how is this possible? If a unity is one, what could one possibly say about what it is? There are no constituents appropriate to its composition nor any proper arrangement of parts, for it is simply one thing, not a whole or a sum. Further, there is no real way to express the absolute unity of one thing. Even if one is to present the unity of a thing by saying that 'it is one,' already there exists a plurality of terms which predicate one term to another. A unity has no parts, and strangely enough, is unaccountable. And if no account can be given for a unity, then it seems that knowledge of one thing is impossible. But of course one cannot know something unless it is one thing. So it seems that one would truly be at an impasse if an account were necessary to have knowledge, and that the object of knowledge must of necessity be one thing.
So the incommensurability between a unity and a plurality can be seen both in the impossibility of giving an account of a unity and the impossibility of giving an account of a plurality. On the one hand, an account of a unity would render it a plurality while, on the other hand, as an account of a plurality renders nothing that is one to be known.
After all these considerations into the nature of sensible things the question of whether or not knowledge of these things is possible still stands. One must admit that knowledge is possible, as craftsmen are able to create sensible crafts from what they were not before their creation. But as to exactly what this knowledge is of remains unclear. For as sensible things are ever changing and pluralistic in character it does not appear possible to locate the one thing in them that would make knowledge possible. Even if one is to focus upon the unity that must be in sensible things, any attempt to give an account of what this unity is leads one to a multiple understanding.
Thus it is not only the nature of sensible things that prevents one from absolutely knowing them, but of the fabric of knowing itself, for if knowing requires an account of what it is that is one, then the unity that is necessary for knowing is inevitably reduced to a plurality. The unity that the object of knowing must have if one is to know it is inexorably incommensurable with one's knowing it, as a pluralistic account of that thing is necessary for one's having knowledge of it. But equally, the account, in being pluralistic, does not reveal anything that is one and amenable to one's knowing. And as it is certain why knowing one thing is necessary to have knowledge, it is uncertain what this unity is, for it never appears as a unity but a plurality.
1 Plato, Theaetetus, trans. M.J. Levett, rev. Myles F. Burnyeat (Hackett) 186d-e
3 Plato Greater Hippias, trans. Paul Woodruff (Hackett) 290a-d