Your Adventures In Philosophy Town

Friends Like These: a short conversation with Aristotle

    ‘Eureka, you say? Why, I like the sound of that.’

    You look around for the source of this jolly voice, craning your neck in the direction of a bench. It sits under the leafy shade patterns of tree branches, a short distance from a sandy waterfront you didn’t even notice was there.

   ‘Ohh, Aristotle, how’re you doing?’ you say, very much in the swing of things now. After Kant, Plato and Ayer, moving in for a handshake with the guy behind the Nichomachean Ethics doesn’t faze you…much.

   ‘I am very well, thank you. Kala and I were just devoting the afternoon to appreciating the tranquility of the ocean.’

   ‘Kala’ apparently refers to a small ginger kitten lounging in the excess folds that flow from Aristotle’s toga. Your own outfit makes you feel overdressed in comparison.

    ‘Would you like me to wrap that up for you?’

    At first you have no idea what he means, but when Aristotle gestures to your legs, your eyes widen: a sizeable scrape paints your knee, raw through the new hole in your jeans. And they’re your favourite pair too…if only you’d actually paid attention when your parents taught you how to sew.

    ‘Ow, I didn’t even notice. That would be great, thanks.’

   It must have happened when you collided with Ayer in the road. You take up the other half of the bench and offer up your knee. Now you feel the sting, but you try and distract yourself by letting Eureka plop down next to Kala the ginger kitten. They assess each other, then rub noses.

   ‘My father was the Royal physician, you know, to King Amyntas of Macedon,’ says Aristotle, as he dabs your scrape with antiseptic (where did that come from?).

    ‘Really? Huh, that’s cool.’

    ‘Yes, it was on that life path that he truly flourished.’

    ‘Flourished?’ you repeat, a fuzzily familiar word hovering in your brain somewhere. ‘As in -’

    ‘Eudaimonia, yes. The active exercise of reason, which is made considerably easier by the presence of good friends.’

   That’s a very fridge-magnet worthy saying, you think, but don’t say, partly because Aristotle may not even know what a fridge is. It’s hard to tell in this place.

   ‘Take you and I, for example,’ he continues, wrapping your knee in gauze (again, this has appeared out of nowhere). ‘Already we find ourselves in a civic friendship.’

   ‘Really?’ you say, unable not to feel flattered.

   ‘But of course, for such a friendship consists of two citizens wanting to wish and do each other well, in spite of there being no other personal connection between them.’

   ‘Sounds nice.’

  ‘Well, certain friendships differ in varying degrees from one another, but ultimately, there can be no happiness or flourishing without them.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s -‘ you pause. A potential loophole in Aristotle’s theory arises in the clutter of your mind. ‘Hang on, what about monks, or…or hermits or recluses? Are you saying that it’s impossible for them to be happy or flourish?’

 Like quite a few of the philosophers you’ve spoken to today, Aristotle takes a moment of slightly awkward silence as he crafts an appropriate response.

  ‘It is my belief,’ he says at last. ‘That no one would choose to live without friends even if he had all the other goods in life.’

  ‘Well…I guess that makes sense, most of the time at least.’ Doubt lingers in your mind all the same, but you avoid mentioning it by acknowledging the good job Aristotle’s done patching you up.

  ‘Thanks very much for that,’ you say, scooping up Eureka, who meows in protest at being removed from their new friend. Kala looks around as if she can’t quite remember what was in front of her just before. You stand, and move to shake hands goodbye.

   ‘It was nice talking to you.’

   ‘And you,’ replies Aristotle. You suddenly notice a sadness in his old eyes, so far removed from the serious and stoic reflection you’re used to seeing in paintings of ancient philosophers.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he sighs, sensing your disquiet. ‘I only stare because, in truth, something about your face, the fresh energy of your youth, reminds me all too well of my son, who perished in battle: Nichomachus, may his soul be at peace with the gods.’

  ‘Oh…’ is all you can come up with. Needless to say, it’s difficult for your brain to form an acceptable consolation when Aristotle has just compared you to his dead for two millennia Greek son. You can only nod sympathetically, wave goodbye, and continue walking along the waterfront.

   If you ever do get back to York, you’ll never really look at the Nichomachean Ethics in the same way again.