Against Anaxagoras

Now let us examine, too, the "homoeomeria" of Anaxagoras, the name the Greeks use for it—the poverty of our ancestral speech does not allow us to say it in our own tongue—though the thing itself is easy enough to set out in words. In the first place, according to what he calls the homoeomeria of things, bone, he holds, is generated out of tiny, minute bits of bone, and flesh out of tiny, minute bits of flesh, and blood is created from drops of blood, many of them converging together; gold, he thinks, can be constituted out of grains of gold, and earth can grow compact out of small particles of earth, fire out of fires, moisture out of moistures; and all the rest he frames and believes by the same sort of reasoning.

And yet he does not allow that there is any void in things, on any side, nor that bodies have a limit to their dividing. So it seems to me that he goes astray on both counts at once, just as those did of whom I spoke before. Add, too, that he fashions first-beginnings far too frail: if they are first-beginnings, they are endowed with a nature like the things themselves, and equally they toil and perish, with nothing to hold any one of them back from destruction. For what among them would endure under so heavy a crushing as to escape death, from beneath the very teeth of doom? Fire, or moisture, or air—which of them? Blood or bone? Nothing, I judge, when all things alike will be in their depths as mortal as those we see plainly with our own eyes perish, overcome by some force. But that things can neither fall back into nothing nor grow out of nothing, I call the matters already proved to witness.

Moreover, since food increases and nourishes the body, we may learn that our veins and blood and bones are fed by it[…]; or if they say that all foods are of a mingled body, holding within them small bodies of sinews and bones and, in a word, veins and portions of blood, it will follow that every food, dry and liquid alike, must be held to consist of things of foreign origin, mixed out of bone and sinew, out of gore and blended blood.

Moreover, whatever bodies grow out of the earth, if they are in the earth, then the earth must of necessity consist of foreign things, which rise up out of the earths. Transfer the argument the same way—the very words may serve: if flame and smoke and ash lie hidden in logs, then logs must consist of foreign things; and again the earth, which nourishes and increases whatever bodies, must consist of foreign things, which spring up out of the logs.

There remains here a certain slight means of retreat, and this is what Anaxagoras lays hold of: that all things lie hidden mingled in all things, while that alone appears which has the most mixed in of anything, and which lies more to the fore, set on the very front of the thing.

Yet this is driven far from the true account; for it would follow that grain, too, when it is crushed beneath the menacing strength of a rock, should often send forth some sign of blood, or of something else that is nourished in our body. Likewise, when we rub stone upon stone, blood ought to ooze out; and by a like argument the herbs, too, ought often to give off sweet drops of liquid of the same flavor as the milk in the udder of the wool-bearing ewe; and of course, when clods of earth are crumbled, kinds of herbs and grains and leaves ought to be seen scattered in minute particles, lying hidden through the earth; and finally, ash and smoke ought to be seen in logs when they are broken in pieces, and minute fires lying hidden within. Since manifest fact teaches that none of these things comes to pass, we may know that things are not so mingled in things; rather the seeds, mingled in many ways, common to many things, must lie hidden within things.

"But it often happens on great mountains," you say, "that the topmost summits of tall trees, standing close together, are rubbed against one another, strong south winds forcing the thing, until at last they flash out with the bloom of flame leaping up." But surely, then, fire is not inborn in the trees; there are many seeds of heat, and when these have converged through the rubbing, they beget fires in the forests. But if flame were once made, hidden away in the forests, the fires could not be concealed for any moment of time: they would consume the woods outright and burn up the groves.

Do you not see, then, how what I said a little before is of the greatest moment—that it matters immensely with what others the same first-beginnings are often joined, in what arrangement they are held, and what motions they give one another and receive in turn; and that the same elements, changed a little among themselves, create fire and wood? Just so the words themselves are changed one against another by a slight shift in their elements, when we mark wood and fires with distinct sounds.

Finally, whatever you now see happening openly in things—if you think it could not come to pass unless you supposed the bodies of matter to be endowed throughout with a like nature—by that reasoning the first-beginnings of things are lost to you: it will come about that they themselves, shaken with trembling laughter, burst into guffaws, and wet face and cheeks with salt tears.

Now let us take a close look at Anaxagoras's "homoeomeria" as well. The Greeks use that name for it, but the poverty of our native speech doesn't let us say it in our own tongue. Even so, the thing itself is easy to explain in words. First, then: what he calls the homoeomeria of things comes to this. He holds that bones are made from very tiny, minute bones, and flesh from very tiny, minute pieces of flesh; that blood is created from many drops of blood running together; that gold can be built up out of grains of gold; that earth grows from small crumbs of earth; that fire comes from fires, and moisture from moistures; and he shapes and supposes everything else by the same line of reasoning. Yet he doesn't allow that there is any void anywhere in things, or that there is any limit to how far bodies can be cut apart. So he seems to me to go wrong in both respects at once, just like the thinkers I dealt with before.

Add to this that he imagines first-beginnings that are far too weak. If the first-beginnings have the same nature as the things themselves, then they struggle just as much and perish just as much, and nothing holds anything back from destruction. For what would hold out under a hard blow and escape death, sitting right under the very teeth of destruction? Fire, moisture, or air? Which of these? Blood, or bones? None, I believe, once everything alike will be just as mortal as the things we plainly watch die before our eyes, worn down and killed by some force. But I appeal to results already proved: things cannot fall back into nothing, and they cannot grow out of nothing.

Next, since food makes the body grow and keeps it fed, we can tell that the veins, the blood, and the bones are fed and built up by it too. Or suppose they say that every food is a mixed body, and carries tiny bodies of sinew inside it, tiny bones, veins, and bits of blood; then it follows that all food, dry and liquid alike, has to be thought of as made of things of foreign origin—a mixture of bone, sinew, gore, and blood.

Next: all the bodies that grow out of the earth—if they are in the earth—then the earth must itself be made of things of foreign origin, the very things that spring up out of the earth. Carry the same step over; you may use the very same words. If flame, smoke, and ash lie hidden in wood, then wood has to be built up out of foreign things; and the wood, in turn, which the earth feeds and makes grow, must be built up out of foreign things—the very things that spring up out of wood.

There is one thin way of escape left to him here, and Anaxagoras takes it: he supposes that all things lie hidden, mixed into all other things, and that only one thing shows—the one whose parts are most numerous in the mixture, the one that sits most in the open and is placed first on the surface. Yet this is pushed a long way from the truth of the argument.

For on this view it would have to follow that grain, too, when it is crushed under the menacing weight of a stone, would often give off some sign of blood, or of something else that our own bodies are fed on. In the same way, when we grind stone against stone, blood would have to ooze out; and again, grasses would often have to send up sweet liquids, drops with the same taste as the milk in a sheep's udder. And of course, when clods of earth are crumbled time after time, it should look as if kinds of herbs and grains and leaves lie hidden there, scattered in tiny pieces through the earth. Last of all, ash and smoke should show up in wood when the wood is snapped apart, and tiny fires should lie hidden in it.

Since plain fact teaches that none of these things happen, you can know that things are not mixed into things that way. What has to be true instead is that seeds, mixed in many different ways, lie hidden in things—the same seeds shared by many different things.

"But it often happens on great mountains," you say, "that the tops of tall trees, growing close together, rub against each other, when strong south winds force them to, until they finally flash with a burst of flame." True enough—and yet fire is not planted in the wood. What is there is a supply of seeds of heat, and when those seeds flow together through the rubbing, they raise fires in the forests. But if flame were actually hidden in the woods, the fires could not stay hidden for any length of time. They would eat through the forests everywhere and burn up the groves.

Do you see, then, what I said a little while ago—how much it matters which things the same first-beginnings are often joined with, in what arrangement they are held, and what motions they give to one another and take from one another? The same elements, changed only a little among themselves, make fire and make wood. It works the same way with words themselves: their letters differ from one another only a little, and yet we mark off "wood" and "fires" with clearly separate sounds.

Finally, take whatever you see happening openly in things: if you think it can't happen unless you suppose that the bodies of matter have the same nature as the thing they make up, then by that line of reasoning the first-beginnings of things are done for. It would turn out that they burst out laughing, shaken with trembling laughter, and wet their lips and cheeks with salt tears.