The problem of binaries in Aristotle

Maybe it’s because I did so poorly in high school science, but I tend to gravitate toward Plato’s notion of truth over Aristotle’s more empirical view. While Aristotle’s invention of logic has served science well and gives rise to reason when making an argument or coming to a scientific proof, I can’t help but think of the barriers that were also constructed (and, as noted, remained unchallenged for some time because of his Aristotle’s own ethos). The systemization that logic provides, creates a hierarchy that allows rhetors to more easily navigate arguments and go about setting up and proving their claims. The Rhetoric flow chart on page 174 does a nice job summarizing Aristotle’s method. The system facilitates clear reasoning, but also promotes agonistic argument. Several times in Rhetoric, Aristotle sets up this hierarchy of logic by presenting binaries. (And, if examining the chart you’ll note that every choice is an either-or with the exception of “Artistic Proofs”—which allows Maxim to fall under enthymeme...) For example, at the onset of Book I, Chapter IX, Aristotle considers “Virtue and Vice, the Noble and the Base” where he defines them as “objects of praise and blame” (197). By starting with the duality of Virtue and Vice, Aristotle is able to define certain traits are virtuous based on their value in society (which includes productiveness). The definition of all things base takes less imagination since Aristotle simply defines the negative traits as opposite of those deserving praise. I choose this passage simply because of the sheer number of binaries in such a small space; however, it is not an anomaly. Aristotle frames most of his topics with binaries: Accusation and Defence (200), Pleasure and Pain (202), law and universal law, supporting and opposing political measures (213), virtue and vice (217), Possible and Impossible (220), genuine and non-genuine syllogisms (232). The list goes on.

            Given the profound effect Aristotle had on Western culture it should be little surprise to me that so many first year students cannot break out of the dichotomous either-or type of reasoning. Yes, it’s a great way to organize thoughts and argument, but is it constructive for generating new thought? If I were to set up a binary of my own between Plato and Aristotle, I’d have to choose Plato—he seems like he asks questions to expand thinking, not channel it. As history has shown, changing this sort of thinking is difficult. (This is not to say that Plato and Socrates did not partake in this binary building. Swearingen notes that Plato is often interpreted as dualist (31).

            In Burke’s piece for this week, he realizes more latent forms of rhetoric whereby we “spontaneously, intuitively, even unconsciously persuade ourselves” (301). The conscious choice to differentiate between this or that is simply not present—the decision is something more mystical, more in the Platonic view.  Burke breaks down the binary between Rhetoric and Poetics, acknowledging areas of overlap—areas that can further our understanding of each subject on its own. This way of understanding really isn’t a departure from the dialectic set out by Socrates and perpetuated by Plato—really it’s a different way of hearing the dialogue. Instead of two opposing sides bantering back and forth at each other (like the more agonistic moments of the Gorgias), the two sides are made to converse, to come to some sort of common ground. (I know I’m jumping ahead of classical rhetoric a bit here.) Once the dialogue opens up to a wider, and more participatory, audience, the hierarchy Aristotle sets up becomes less applicable. As Burke notes we have to look toward forms of rhetoric that combine these dualities to arrive at new truths. 

Plato and Bob Dylan and flattery

Note: So I started writing this after seeing Dylan play in Cincy last night. The blog seemed much more organized in my head. But as I’ve thought about Plato, I’ve also been thinking that applying the classical view of rhetoric to the MA paper I begin talking about would add a lot. Suggestions are certainly welcome. (I should also note that I am presenting on its current interation at MPCA conference this October.)           

As an MA I wrote a paper about the changing rhetoric in Bob Dylan’s various renditions of “Tangled Up in Blue.” The paper was premised on this ridiculous notion that I might be able to sift through each lyrical and musical reimagining, juxtapose them with the period of my life they came to represent (since I heard and understood them un-chronologically) and somehow I could arrive at ultimate Truth. In hindsight this view hewed more closely to the Platonic view of art (mimesis) than the other theoretical frameworks I was imposing on Dylan’s work. Each rendition of the song after all was really just an imitation (or as I called them, “reimaginings”) of the original—and what’s more, the original is an imitation of the Dylan’s real life divorce. (He famously said the song took him ten years to live and two years to write.) Add these layers of imitation to the idea that I am trying to apply this to the construct of my life and you’re nowhere close to Truth.

            If nothing else, I guess it’s flattering for Dylan to have people think so highly of his work. The old adage does state that imitation is the highest form of flattery. (So, I guess, logically speaking, Dylan actually flatters himself quite a bit.) Through all of the conversations Socrates has with Gorgias, Polus, and Callicles flattery seems to be the driving force. Plato (through Socrates) defines flattery as “a part of a certain business which has nothing fine about it” and eventually as “base” (97). Plato elaborates, saying that rhetoric is not art but a habitude or knack—it’s what cookery is to medicine (98). It’s what the Real Live version of “Tangled” is to the Blood on the Tracks version. But to look at Plato’s view of art as an imitation really doesn’t add a whole lot to my understanding. He did, after all, illustrate his point quite well in his parable of the cave. What I want to look at specifically is the degree of imitation and to what end.

            Flattery—a feigning of interest or being impressed—is an imitation. Plato’s use of flattery in both the dialectics of Gorgias and Phaedrus expose the true forms of the thought. In the former, weakness of definition is exposed, while in the latter true intentions are made clear. To rely on Plato’s idea of the cave once more, we are able to see form only by projection; but we know it is only a projection because of the form. Rhetoric becomes a necessary thing to understand philosophy.

            On top of everything else we also have to consider that Socrates is, in a literary sense, an imitation put forth by Plato—he is merely a shadow of Plato’s thoughts and intentions. This is flattery on a whole different level, one that supposes ethos, but also asks on a deeper level for the audience to take a quasi-historical and literary view of Socrates as not just a person, but as a symbol. It’s flattering for Socrates, but it also adds, as Burke puts it, “the delight[s] of symbolic interaction... increased by the imitation of grave and serious conflicts” (298). The conflicts in neither Gorgias and Phaedrus aren’t really all that grave or serious; however, given Socrates as a symbol with which to synthesize Plato’s ideas, the true form becomes more apparent.

            To bring it all back home to Dylan it seems to me that the best way to get at truth is to look at the multitude of projections and how they are layered. We understand the irony and the humor and the rhetoric behind such phrases as “Sweet Polus” (96) or Socrates calling Phaedrus charming (140); however, that is only one dimension of it. In order to gain a greater understanding, we have to consider the person saying it and to whom they are speaking. This interaction is at its core, symbolic (which in the case of fictionalized dialogues is even more so). At one point in time we have to look at the interaction from a different point of view—or, while we can’t step into the same river twice, we can step in at the same spot and understand more about our initial encounter. (Insert clever Bob pun about watching the river flow here.) 

Audience as defined by mode

            My argument for defining audience is similar to my previous post where I explored how rhetoric is defined. In this entry I am trying to look less at overarching societal movements and more at a specific thing—modality. In looking at how audience is perceived it becomes obvious that the imagination is really what defines notion of who is listening. And more importantly is the idea that our imaginations can only perceive what we have witnessed and experienced. As we accumulate experiences (and add to our collective memory), the modes of communication become more diverse and the audience becomes more abstracted. Aristotle expands his binary view of active and passive audiences into an engaged audience—a product likely born of early democracy. Later, the indifference and scorn of the author is also explored in the work of literary artists (Porter 46). Perhaps the passage that best illustrates what I’m getting at here is when Porter says that the managerial view of rhetoric is “based on a telecommunications metaphor” that likens the rhetor-audience relationship to that of a telephone interaction.

            This is how audience is defined—by the communication techniques and technologies available at the time. Going back to Aristotle, it seems obvious that his view of audience would be shaped by the conversations, debates, and speeches of the time. Similarly, without the invention of the printing press and subsequently the fiction novel, the idea of indifference and scorn for an audience is nearly unthinkable. For a while scholars were able to draw distinctions between types of audience (as Covino and Joliffe outline in their explanation of primary and subsidiary audiences on page 12). The roles of rhetor and audience (though there were now more audiences) remained defined. That has obviously changed a great deal with the dawn of the digital age, namely web 2.0.

            Porter goes on to mention the postmodern concept of audience as it becomes quite a bit messier with communities being defined in more complex ways. This brings up the chicken-or-the-egg question from class the other day—does audience define the mode of communication or does the communication define the audience? In the age of social networking it’s getting harder to sort that out. We tend to think less of venues for publishing or being heard, but more of launch points to achieve what Ridolfo and DeVoss term as rhetorical velocity. Audience is a thing that develops, not a gathering of people to be engaged. The audience is bigger and farther away than ever. The mode of discourse in effect defines the audience, a view that jibes with the postmodern definition of community offered by Porter. And it’s these communities that we develop a collective imagination that expands how we perceive audience. As Covino and Joliffe mention, Walter Ong is one such person who saw the trends in communication and anticipated the dissolution of audience in an increasingly multimodal and interconnected society (14). But this was nothing new; audience had been less about people since people stopped being the primary tool for communication.

Defining Rhetoric

I think it’s almost trite to say that the definition of rhetoric is contested. Of course it’s a point of contention—the very definition of rhetoric relies on how we use it (ie. The argument in Gorgias over true and false rhetorics). As the multitude of what-rhetoric-is statements at the beginning of Covino and Joliffe’s piece demonstrate, the rhetor is often the one who first defines rhetoric—and this, in itself, is a rhetorical act. But rather than simply saying that people all have different definitions of rhetoric that they use to their advantage, I’d say that different historical and sociopolitical climates shape how individuals come to understand and define rhetoric. Early on there are few definitions of rhetoric—granted, the profession was burgeoning and the availability of print only allows some rhetorical traditions to survive across time.

            Just as Quintilian’s notion of “a good man speaking well” bespeaks a time when the popular format of rhetoric came through declamations (RT, p. 37), so does Covino and Joliffe’s predilection for telling us what rhetoric is not (“Rhetoric is not logic,” “Rhetoric is not dialectical,” and “Rhetoric is not poetics” [pg. 8]). The former notion of rhetoric is shaped by the imperial Roman government as much as it was by Quintilian. The patronage system and power of imperialistic rule forces rhetoricians—as well as other notable professions—to define themselves in a positive light. A good man who speaks well fits the bill. Still, it’s not that simple. The definition Quintilian offers is a rhetorical response: He, as a rhetorician, is a good man—no threat to the empire and deserving of patronage. But more important is his facility as an orator. With the written word having a less prominent role at the time, speaking becomes the tool of the trade. If I were to be more crass, I’d say that Quintilian’s definition essentially says, “I’m no harm to the empire and I’ll be useful.” Similarly, George Campbell analyzes the 18th century audience to arrive at the conclusion that rhetoric is a way of manipulating people's mental faculties to evoke a particular response (45).

            Once the twentieth century arrives, the field has amassed a significant number of rhetoric definitions. In a move toward postmodernism, which began to see rhetorical acts in a multitude of places, rhetoric had to be defined in the negative. Since everything is rhetorical, what is itself not rhetoric? Logic. Dialect. Poetics. Again, rhetoric is a response to the times—the social and political pressures. What can be made of the multivariate definitions and definitions of not? Well, power is not as centralized in the current political and social ecology. The culture is different; we are less concerned with trying to define the world. Rather we try to piece what we know of the world together. Part of this pursuit to understand the world comes through the defining of certain discourse communities and our attempts to put them into conversation with one another (as mentioned in Covino & Joliffe, page 13). How the communities define rhetoric, in a sense, reflects how they define themselves politically and socially—and when looked back upon, they also give a sense of history/memory.