来源 :易方达基金网 2019-12-13 17:49:52|本港台高手本港台高手论坛



  ATHENS — Aristotle had slender calves. His eyes were small. And he spoke with a lisp, which — according to Plutarch — was imitated by some. He wore many rings and had a distinctive, rather exotic style of dress — a kind of ancient bling.

  I tried to piece together a picture of him as I arrived with my partner at the site of the Lyceum, Aristotle’s answer to Plato’s Academy, where I had visited the week before.

  It is said that Aristotle was a difficult character — somewhat arrogant, thinking he was cleverer than everyone else (quite possibly true) and even criticizing his master of many years, Plato. He was a perhaps a bit of a dyskolos, a grouch, cantankerous, a curmudgeon.

  Aristotle was not much loved by the Athenians. This might have been because he was a tricky customer or because he was a metic: a resident alien, an ancient green card holder; Greek, but decidedly not an Athenian citizen. Given his close ties to the Macedonian aristocracy, which was extending and tightening its military and political control across Greece, perhaps the Athenians were right to be suspicious of Aristotle.

  We do know that after having served as Lector in the Academy and being described as its “Mind” by Plato, Aristotle was not chosen as the latter’s successor. The job of scholarch, or head of the school, went to Speusippus, Plato’s nephew. Aristotle left Athens shortly after Plato’s death and stayed away for around 12 years. Was he angry or disappointed not to have been chosen as head of the Academy?

  Famously, Aristotle was asked by Philip II of Macedon to be the tutor of his 13-year-old son, Alexander. Aristotle set up school in the Macedonian fortress of Mieza, and the young prince was taught together with his companions, who probably numbered around 30 students. A big class. This was a closed school, a boarding school of sorts. A sense of the seriousness with which Aristotle performed his duties can be gleaned from the fact that he composed two treatises in honor of Alexander, “On Kingship” and “On Colonies," as guidebooks for the prince, as well as editing a copy of Homer’s “Iliad” specifically for Alexander’s use — the so-called “casket copy” (presumably because it was kept in a casket).

  Very little is known about Aristotle’s stay in Macedonia, but it is thought that he was there for quite some time, possibly seven years, and became very friendly with powerful members of Philip’s court. In 336 B.C.E., Philip was assassinated (in a theater, of all places), and Alexander was declared king at the age of 20. Sensing the instability of political transition, the mighty city of Thebes rebelled against the new Macedonian king. In order to set an example, Alexander besieged and then wholly incinerated the city, wiping it from the map. Its citizens were either killed or sold into slavery.

  Athens didn’t make the same mistake as Thebes and meekly submitted to the Macedonian pike. It is in this context that Aristotle returned to the city at around age 50. And he came back big time. Because of his metic status, Aristotle was not allowed to buy property. So — as one does — he rented. He took over a gymnasium site sacred to Apollo Lyceus (the wolf-god) and transformed it into the most powerful and well-endowed school in the world.

  Two things hit you when you visit the site of the Lyceum and look at its architectural plans. First, it is a direct copy of Plato’s Academy. And second, it is much, much bigger. The relation between the Academy and the Lyceum is a little like that between a twee medieval Cambridge College and the monumental architecture of the University of Chicago.

  The reason Aristotle was able to do this was simple: money. If Plato was rich, then Aristotle was wealthier than Croesus, right up there with the Jeff Bezos-es of his day. He received the sum of 800 talents from his presumably grateful former student, Alexander, which was an enormous amount of money. (Consider that the Plato’s Academy cost about 25-30 talents.)

  Expressing ancient money values in modern terms presents a perennial puzzle for historians of economics, so I called on my colleague, the economist Duncan Foley, for help. He very roughly calculated that the annual gross domestic product of classical Athens was about 4,400 talents. If that is right, then 800 talents is a vast figure, 32 times the expenditure on the Academy. Foley is somewhat skeptical of the figure, though. Ancient sources for numerical data (like the size of armies) are notoriously inaccurate, so perhaps a excited copyist simply added a zero.

  Whatever the truth of the matter, Aristotle’s endowment allowed him to build a huge research and teaching facility and amass the largest and most important library in the world. During the time of Theophrastus, Aristotle’s successor as scholarch and clearly a very effective college president, there were as many as 2,000 pupils at the Lyceum, some of them sleeping in dormitories. The Lyceum was clearly the place to be, the educational destination of choice for the elites.

  It leads one to ponder the awkward proximity between philosophy and political power. It is unclear whether the school charged fees but, given its vast wealth, it probably didn’t need to. It sounds a little like Harvard, doesn’t it?

  The Lyceum was clearly the intellectual projection of Macedonian political and military hegemony. In 323 B.C.E., when news of Alexander the Great’s death in Babylon at the age of 32 reached Athens, simmering anti-Macedonian sentiment spilled over, and the popular Athenian leader Demosthenes was recalled. Aristotle left the city for the last time, in fear of his life, after a little more than a decade in charge of the Lyceum. Seeing himself justly or unjustly in the mirror of Socrates and fearing charges of impiety, Aristotle reportedly said, “I will not allow the Athenians to sin twice against philosophy.” Aristotle withdrew to his late mother’s estate at Chalcis on the island of Euboea and died there shortly after of an unspecified illness, at age 63.

  Looking now at the beautifully maintained site of the Lyceum, which is comparatively new by Athenian standards (as excavations only began in 1996, and it was opened to the public in 2014), we are only now beginning to form a proper picture of the plan, architecture and function of the Lyceum. A book detailing our knowledge of Aristotle’s school, by the archaeologist Efi Lygouri-Tolia and our constant companion, Konstantinos Sp. Staikos, is currently being prepared for publication.

  But when I was wandering around the ruins, it was something else that caught my eye and tickled my fancy: the garden. In the northeast corner of the Lyceum, there was a garden, which possibly led to the peripatos, or shaded walk from which the promenading Peripatetic school derived its name. Indeed, there were gardens in all the earlier philosophical schools, in the schools of Miletus on the present-day Turkish coast, and allegedly in the Pythagorean schools in southern Italy. Plato’s Academy also had a garden. And later, the school of Epicurus was simply called “The Garden.” Theophrastus, a keen botanist like Aristotle who did so much to organize the library and build up its scientific side (with maps, globes, specimens and such like), eventually retired to his garden, which was close by.

  What was the garden for? Was it a space for leisure, strolling and quiet dialectical chitchat? Was it a mini-laboratory for botanical observation and experimentation? Or was it — and I find this the most intriguing possibility — an image of paradise? The ancient Greek word paradeisos appears to be borrowed etymologically from Persian, and it is said that Darius the Great had a “paradise garden," with the kinds of flora and fauna with which we are familiar from the elaborate design of carpets and rugs. A Persian carpet is like a memory theater of paradise. It is possible that Milesian workers and thinkers had significant contact with the Persian courts at Susa and Persepolis. Maybe the whole ancient Greek philosophical fascination with gardens is a Persian borrowing, and an echo of the influence of their expansive empire. But who knows?

  I am hardly a gardener. In fact, I have always been remarkably insensitive to the pleasures that many green-fingered folk find in their backyards. Voltaire’s advice in “Candide” that “Il faut cultiver notre jardin” (”It is necessary to look after our garden”) always struck me as ironic, flippant and defeatist. But now I am not so sure. Perhaps there is a much closer relation between gardens and philosophical thought than we might at first imagine. At the end of the “Nicomachean Ethics,” Aristotle sees the promise of philosophy as the cultivation of the contemplative life, the bios theoretikos that would be the equal to the life of the gods. What better place for this than a garden? Might not botany be the royal road to paradise, an activity at once empirical and deeply poetic?

  I visited the Lyceum with my partner, who has keener eyes than I. Together we identified thyme, lavender, abundant wildflowers, gigantic rosemary bushes, olive trees, cypress and possibly oregano. A carpet of moss with varying shades of green was framed by the sandy yellow footings of the ruins. The whole site suddenly seemed to be a garden, and one could feel the proximity to the peak of Mount Lycabettus and outward to the mountains that girdle Athens and the open blue sky.

  Very low rope barriers separated off areas that visitors were not meant to visit. I looked around for a guard, saw no one, and stepped onto the green moss and made my way quietly to the location of Aristotle’s library. On my hands and knees, I saw the ground was littered with tiny delicate snail shells, no bigger than a fingernails, scattered like empty scholars’ backpacks. My partner gave me one, and I put it in my pocket. I had it on my desk right in front of me as I was writing this. Inadvertently, I crushed it to pieces under the weight of one of Mr. Staikos’s huge tomes on the history of libraries. There’s probably a moral in this, but it escapes me.

  Simon Critchley is a professor of philosophy at the New School for Social Research and the author of several books, including “What We Think About When We Think About Soccer,” and the forthcoming “Tragedy, the Greeks, and Us.” He is the moderator of The Stone.

  Now in print: “Modern Ethics in 77 Arguments,” and “The Stone Reader: Modern Philosophy in 133 Arguments,” with essays from the series, edited by Peter Catapano and Simon Critchley, published by Liveright Books.

  The Times is committed to publishing a diversity of letters to the editor. We’d like to hear what you think about this or any of our articles. Here are some tips. And here’s our email: letters@nytimes.com.

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  本港台高手本港台高手论坛【萧】【天】【枢】【说】:“【年】【兄】【怎】【么】【样】,【不】【要】【生】【气】【了】,【这】【个】【故】【事】【这】【么】【好】,【在】【我】【跟】【你】【讲】【故】【事】【的】【份】【上】,【你】【就】【不】【要】【和】【我】【生】【气】【了】,【也】【不】【要】【错】【怪】【我】,【刚】【才】【说】【你】【的】【话】【了】【怎】【么】【样】?” 【年】【复】【笑】【道】:“【我】【不】【怪】【你】,【我】【何】【时】【怪】【过】【你】【啊】,【我】【就】【怪】【命】【运】【不】【公】【对】【人】【如】【此】【偏】【袒】,【这】【些】【妖】【精】【也】【没】【人】【管】……” 【萧】【天】【枢】【说】:“【谁】【知】【道】【你】【和】【翾】【楚】,【两】【个】【人】【遇】【见】【的】【这】【些】【妖】


  【魏】【离】【经】【像】【是】【变】【了】【个】【人】【似】【的】,【看】【向】【悬】【浮】【半】【空】【的】【南】【宫】【宁】,【语】【气】【沉】【稳】【而】【缓】【慢】:“【你】【是】……” “【我】【花】【重】【金】【让】【你】【替】【我】【杀】【掉】【她】,【岐】【山】【一】【战】,【你】【为】【何】【手】【下】【留】【情】?【獠】【牙】【君】,【你】【这】【天】【下】【第】【一】【杀】【手】【从】【不】【失】【手】【的】【名】【声】,【难】【道】【是】【假】【的】【吗】?” 【魏】【离】【经】【早】【已】【不】【是】【魏】【离】【经】,【此】【时】【他】【脸】【上】【按】【面】【具】【仿】【佛】【写】【着】“【你】【惹】【不】【起】”【四】【个】【大】【字】。 【开】【口】【之】【音】【更】【是】

  【但】【是】【今】【时】【不】【同】【于】【往】【日】,【慈】【禧】【已】【经】【不】【是】【那】【少】【年】【的】【个】【性】【的】【了】,【但】【是】【一】【听】【完】【安】【德】【海】【的】【分】【析】【和】【脑】【补】,【这】【慈】【禧】【也】【不】【由】【得】【疑】【心】【窦】【起】【来】。 【等】【安】【德】【海】【汇】【报】【完】【毕】,【就】【见】【那】【慈】【禧】【沉】【思】【了】【片】【刻】【之】【后】,【方】【才】【缓】【缓】【的】【对】【那】【安】【德】【海】【说】【道】:“【如】【此】【说】【来】,【你】【这】【番】【话】【倒】【颇】【有】【道】【理】【的】。” 【顿】【了】【一】【下】【子】,【又】【见】【那】【慈】【禧】【淡】【淡】【的】【说】【道】:“【这】【样】【子】【吧】,【你】【先】【去】【那】

  2018/19【赛】【季】【冬】【窗】,【武】【磊】【的】【加】【盟】【让】【西】【班】【牙】【人】【备】【受】【关】【注】。【武】【磊】16【场】【比】【赛】(12【次】【首】【发】)【贡】【献】3【球】2【助】【攻】,【帮】【助】【西】【班】【牙】【人】【获】【得】【欧】【联】【杯】【资】【格】【赛】【资】【格】,【博】【尔】【哈】·【伊】【格】【莱】【西】【亚】【斯】【同】【期】【攻】【入】8【球】,【单】【赛】【季】37【场】【西】【甲】【打】【进】17【球】!本港台高手本港台高手论坛【灵】【希】【看】【着】【这】【朵】【巨】【大】【的】【火】【球】,【捂】【着】【嘴】【痛】【哭】,【所】【有】【的】【东】【南】【盟】【成】【员】【都】【满】【怀】【悲】【戚】。【诺】【一】【将】【灵】【希】【轻】【轻】【的】【抱】【进】【怀】【里】,【安】【慰】【着】【哭】【泣】【的】【她】。【过】【了】【一】【会】【儿】,【指】【挥】【中】【心】【一】【位】【参】【谋】【说】【道】:“【指】【挥】【官】,【你】【看】,【议】【会】【舰】【队】【的】【航】【向】【变】【了】,【他】【们】【在】【撤】【退】!” 【众】【人】【来】【到】【电】【子】【海】【图】【旁】,【发】【现】【议】【会】【舰】【队】【果】【然】【开】【始】【退】【却】【了】,【想】【来】【撼】【山】【平】【台】【必】【然】【遭】【受】【了】【较】【为】【严】【重】【的】

  “【那】【公】【司】【呢】?【我】【已】【经】【离】【开】【了】【公】【司】,【现】【在】【公】【司】【群】【龙】【无】【首】,【他】【肯】【舍】【得】【不】【管】【公】【司】?” “【这】【你】【还】【真】【说】【错】【了】,【你】【知】【道】【吗】,【公】【司】【换】【人】【上】【任】【了】【呢】!” “【什】【么】?”【佐】【言】【听】【到】【唐】【络】【绎】【的】【话】【皱】【了】【皱】【眉】,【换】【人】【上】【任】,【这】【么】【短】【时】【间】【能】【够】【换】【谁】?【他】【连】【自】【己】【的】【公】【司】【都】【不】【要】【了】【吗】? “【这】【个】【人】【你】【认】【识】,【佐】【言】,【就】【是】【你】【的】【助】【理】,【齐】【岱】!” “【你】

  【暮】【洛】【感】【受】【不】【到】【身】【后】【传】【来】【的】【那】【道】【目】【光】,【如】【此】【惋】【惜】【与】【无】【奈】,【似】【乎】【他】【走】【向】【的】【道】【路】【只】【能】【是】【死】【亡】。 【其】【实】【这】【也】【无】【可】【厚】【非】【唯】【有】【普】【罗】【城】【内】【的】【执】【法】【者】【才】【知】【晓】【这】【陌】【生】【人】【要】【面】【对】【的】【是】【什】【么】,【身】【为】【普】【罗】【城】【最】【弱】【一】【位】【执】【法】【者】【的】【他】【都】【险】【些】【不】【敌】,【更】【别】【说】【遇】【到】【其】【他】【更】【强】【者】。 【女】【上】【人】【嘴】【角】【微】【微】【翘】【起】【一】【丝】【弧】【度】,【喃】【喃】【道】:“【你】【又】【被】【人】【小】【瞧】【了】。” 【暮】

  【娄】【夜】【带】【来】【的】【人】【全】【部】【被】【捕】,【包】【括】【他】【在】【耀】【都】【安】【插】【的】【眼】【线】。 【百】【里】【一】【阳】【带】【着】【正】【法】【寺】【的】【人】【蜂】【拥】【而】【上】,【没】【支】【撑】【多】【久】,【一】【个】【个】【就】【被】【娄】【夜】【打】【伤】,【败】【下】【阵】【来】。 【顾】【莫】【沉】【走】【上】【前】【去】,【扶】【起】【几】【人】,【对】【着】【百】【里】【一】【阳】【道】:“【你】【们】【退】【开】。” 【他】【修】【长】【的】【身】【形】【屹】【立】【在】【火】【光】【之】【中】,【右】【手】【执】【剑】,【清】【峻】【卓】【绝】【的】【面】【上】【平】【静】【泰】【然】,【他】【看】【向】【娄】【夜】【的】【眼】【里】【没】【有】【多】【余】

  【从】【肯】【特】【和】【克】【朗】【姆】【入】【校】【后】,【跟】【着】【一】【年】【级】【生】【上】【课】【的】【新】【生】【又】【多】【了】【两】【个】,【只】【是】【这】【两】【人】【怎】【么】【看】【怎】【么】【不】【像】【是】【同】【龄】【人】,【因】【此】【二】【人】【常】【常】【被】【其】【他】【学】【生】【当】【做】【旁】【听】【的】【讲】【师】。 【被】【当】【做】【讲】【师】【的】【两】【名】【萌】【新】,【跟】【不】【上】【讲】【师】【们】【的】【脚】【步】,【又】【没】【有】【学】【生】【敢】【跟】【他】【们】【交】【流】,【所】【以】【自】【入】【校】【以】【来】,【被】【艾】【瑞】【斯】【直】【接】【丢】【到】【一】【年】【级】【的】【肯】【特】【和】【克】【朗】【姆】,【大】【多】【数】【时】【间】【都】【是】【在】【自】【学】,

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