As I embark on a series exploring the ‘prehistory’ of the philosophy of science, it seems appropriate to clarify what I mean by that term. The ‘philosophy of science’ emerged as an independent academic field around the early 20th century, largely attributed to the ‘Vienna Circle’ composed of figures like Schlick, Carnap, and Neurath, along with their periodical Erkenntnis, often cited as a key moment of inception in most historical accounts. However, it is important to note that these scholars were not pioneering a completely new area of thought; various philosophers throughout history have engaged deeply with issues pertaining to ‘science’. Indeed, for many early philosophers, thinking about the essence of science and our capacity to understand it constituted the core of their philosophical inquiries.
Modern academic conventions tend to categorize most discussions of ‘science’ prior to 1900 under a different branch known as ‘epistemology’ (or ‘theory of knowledge’; despite the Greek term epistéme meaning precisely ‘science’ and being historically translated into Latin as scientia). This division has led to a rather unfortunate tendency where contemporary ‘epistemologists’—particularly within the analytic tradition—focus on specific instances of ‘knowledge’, often exemplified by statements like ‘John knows that there are some beers in the fridge’ (a notion that would likely have dismayed Plato if it had been regarded as a case of epistéme), rather than addressing broader scientific claims such as ‘we know that matter consists of atoms’. Consequently, there is a notable disconnect between the inquiries of philosophers of science and those of epistemologists, echoing a parallel disengagement from epistemology within the philosophy of science. It’s worth mentioning that in French philosophy, the term épistémologie has typically been retained to refer to what other traditions label the ‘philosophy of science’.
Rather than trying to combat this perplexing situation outright—although I will explore instances of this conceptual schizophrenia in my series—I will adhere to the established norm of viewing philosophy of science as an exploration of scientific knowledge in the contemporary understanding of the term ‘scientific’. Thus, my exploration of the ‘prehistory of philosophy of science’ will focus on how pre-modern philosophers interpreted concepts of science, largely diverging from our modern perceptions. Therefore, I will begin by outlining the key differences between our current understanding of ‘science’ and those held by ancient philosophers.
First, contemporary discourse automatically associates the term ‘science’ with a social practice that plays a vital role in our societal framework, formalized within the structures of universities, research institutions, libraries, publishers, conferences, educational curricula, documentaries, and the body of ‘knowledge’ this system both cultivates and disseminates. In essence, the figure of the scientist, who actively engages in science, is a product of the 19th century, with the term being popularized by William Whewell (1794-1866), one of the final figures in the narrative I will explore.
It is not that ancient philosophers entirely overlooked the social context necessary for what we now understand as ‘science’; for instance, Aristotle famously—and with considerable pleasure—reflected on slavery as a fundamental condition for the existence of a leisurely class of affluent individuals who had ample free time (skholé in Greek, otium in Latin) for scholarly pursuits. However, their primary philosophical focus was on the (purely intellectual) ‘nature’ of knowledge rather than its (social and economic) ‘nurture’. While one could argue that many in the ‘orthodox tradition’ of contemporary philosophy of science, spanning from Carnap and Popper to Bas van Fraasen and Stathis Psillos, devote scant attention to the social underpinnings of science, I do not intend to equate philosophy of science with the sociology of science; instead, I assert that the subject of contemporary philosophy of science is now commonly acknowledged as an essentially social construction. This stands in contrast to the classical epistemology’s focus on the abstract, isolated intellect. Today, even when philosophy of science (or ‘methodology’, a term often used interchangeably) addresses the methods of acquiring knowledge, the agent engaged in that pursuit is typically viewed as ‘society’, or at least as a ‘social institution’, rather than as a solitary figure akin to Robinson Crusoe. Notably, we have previously examined how Popper himself recognized this dynamic.
Secondly, contemporary philosophy of science lacks the preoccupation, prevalent in earlier philosophical thought, regarding the absolute certainty of scientific knowledge. Following Popper’s critiques of verificationism and in light of Hume’s challenges to induction, science is rarely now perceived (at least among philosophers and increasingly among scientists; the general public has also begun to shift in this regard) as knowledge that is indisputably confirmed.
Scientific theories and laws are regarded as idealized, simplified, approximate, and provisional models, always open to refinement, and in many instances, largely conjectural. This creates an interesting contrast with the understanding of science during the eras of Aristotle or Kant: we are far more aware of the fallibility and limitations of our scientific knowledge compared to their recognition of theirs, despite the fact that we are aware our scientific understanding is substantially more advanced than theirs in virtually every aspect.
Moreover, directly linked to the previous points, we are acutely aware of the immense complexity of science, both regarding the ‘internal’ relationships between various elements of knowledge and a multitude of others, and the ‘external’ links between theoretical and practical aspects (which can either be beneficial or detrimental). In contrast, classical philosophers often reserved the term epistéme for what they considered the ‘purest’, most ‘intuitive’, and least ‘tainted’ forms of knowledge—uncontaminated by ‘practical’ or ‘worldly’ concerns. We understand science as being less of a pyramid and more like a mangle, to borrow Andrew Pickering’s metaphor.
So, what is the purpose of this ‘prehistory of philosophy of science’ as proposed? In essence, my objective is to demonstrate how the development of our contemporary understanding of science can be traced through the contributions of thinkers from before the past century. I aim to show how their ideas may be viewed as ‘philosophy of science avant la lettre’ (though I will occasionally give in to the temptation to adapt them slightly to make the narrative more engaging). Naturally, we will begin from the very beginning, with the earliest surviving text that qualifies as a work on ‘philosophy of science’. This text, of course, was authored by a Greek philosopher over two millennia ago.
Is There a Doctor on Board?
In the prior segment dealing with what we might term ‘the challenge of scientific method’, I referenced Democritus (circa 460-370 BC), whose philosophical systems were fundamentally opposed to those of Plato and Aristotle. His ideas were so transformative that it appears no one in the latter centuries of Ancient Greece took the effort to preserve copies of his more than seventy writings, all of which failed to survive into the Middle Ages. Perhaps the texts titled On the Foreknowledge of the Future or On the Criterion of Thought, mentioned in the catalogue of Diogenes Laertius’ Lives of the Philosophers, contained more elaborate insights into conducting research than the clumsy references made by Aristotle and later thinkers (with Plato never deigning to mention Democritus explicitly). However, it could also be that Democritus’ perspective on acquiring knowledge was too simplistic given the radical nature of his Weltanschauung, which may partially explain the hesitance to embrace his unconventional views on Nature and humanity. Thus, we cannot assume that the father of atomism, who was also a prominent philosopher and skilled mathematician (he was the first to prove the formula for calculating the volume of a pyramid and a cone, laying foundational stones for what would much later evolve into infinitesimal calculus), played a compelling role as a proto-philosopher of science. Consequently, he will not be the central figure in this initial chapter of my narrative.
The distinction of being the first ‘book’ (in truth, a very brief treatise—under twenty pages; it qualifies as a ‘book’ in the historical sense of a work fitting onto a roll of papyrus, or biblion) that we can classify as a predecessor of philosophy of science is attributed to an anonymous pamphlet that would, in contemporary terms, likely be regarded not as a philosophical treatise but as mere propaganda or overt advertising. The dating of this work is comparatively clearer, likely contemporaneous with the mature period of Democritus, around the last third of the 5th century BC, which also coincided with the flourishing of Socrates and the major ‘sophists’ such as Protagoras, Gorgias, and Hippias. This text more closely aligns in style, structure, and content with the sophistic tradition. It survives among the texts known as the Hippocratic Corpus, a collection of approximately sixty short medical writings attributed to the ‘father of medicine’, Hippocrates of Kos, who also lived around the same time as these notable intellectuals. However, most were likely composed by his followers during the final decades of the 5th century and into the early 4th. The concise title by which this work is remembered is On the Art (Perì téchnēs), although it is frequently published or referred to as On Science. The Greek term téchnē encompasses a broad spectrum of practical knowledge ranging from simple crafts to higher arts such as architecture, navigation, military engineering, and certainly including what we refer to as the ‘fine arts’ (sculpture, painting, music, etc.). In this context, the téchnē under discussion pertains particularly to the profession of medicine, and the title is occasionally translated as On Medical Science.
The central debate posited by the anonymous author is whether medicine can be classified as a science (or ‘art’), to which the work decidedly responds in the affirmative. The text bears the unmistakable characteristics of sophistic discourse, leading one to almost envision an equally concise opposing treatise that arrives at the contrary conclusion. Sophists were renowned for their ability to convincingly advocate for any argument, regardless of its nature. Many of the arguments presented in Perì téchnēs appear decidedly flawed (particularly to those of us who are fortunate enough to possess knowledge of a medical science far superior to its ancient form), inviting a perception of sophistry. The criticisms of medical science that the author aims to counter are as follows (it’s easy to picture a preceding text defending these assertions):
- Patients recover by chance rather than due to medical treatment.
- Numerous ailing individuals heal without consulting a physician.
- Certain patients succumb despite receiving treatment.
- Physicians refuse care for patients deemed incurable.
The final objection is perhaps the simplest for the author to address: no art or science possesses infinite power, and all disciplines have boundaries imposed by nature; only the uninformed would expect results beyond those limits.medicine can address any illness; indeed, all humans are mortal, aren’t they? Recognizing when an ailment may overpower the physician’s tools is not a sign of ignorance but rather wisdom. However, this conclusion is somewhat overly simplistic, given the remarkable reality that Hippocratic practitioners often refrained from treating patients deemed “too” ill. Typically, the trajectory of an illness is not strictly ‘deterministic’ (as we might describe it), but often quite unpredictable. Thus, it surprises us that these physicians did not explore a wider array of therapies in hopes that some might yield positive outcomes, at least in certain instances. It is also plausible that the conduct of these physicians was not as harsh towards the seemingly incurable as the texts imply. Many specialists believe the author may not have been a medical practitioner but rather focused on philosophical debate rather than accurately depicting medical practice.
The subsequent three points are more intriguing, though the answers may come as a letdown. Modern readers might anticipate an argument akin to a proto-statistical analysis that compares the likelihood of recovery when treated versus when untreated, suggesting that the probability of healing is greater with a doctor’s care than without (did you not think of something similar while considering points 1 to 3?). However, we find nothing resembling that. It appears the author implicitly concedes that the prospects of recovery with a physician’s assistance are actually not greater than those of spontaneous healing. The responses he provides (assuming the author is male, though this is uncertain) tend to follow this style:
“I do not dismiss the workings of Fortune, but I believe those who receive inadequate care likely face misfortune, while those who receive proper attention enjoy good fortune. (For) what other force but medical skill can be credited for the healing of patients under medical care? (…) (Patients) choose not to rely on the elusive form of Fortune, but on the craft of medicine, (thus) the role of chance is minimized, while that of skill remains significant.
(…) No individual who recovers without a doctor’s assistance can attribute their healing to luck. In truth, upon closer inspection, the concept of chance vanishes: every occurrence will reveal a cause, and if a cause exists, chance can merely be an empty designation.”
Regarding patients who recuperate without a doctor’s intervention, the author states:
“If they find healing, it is because they utilized the same remedy a physician would apply. This serves as substantial proof of the efficacy and importance of the medical arts, especially when we recognize that even those who do not place faith in it still find salvation through it.”
Concerning those who do not recover, despite a physician’s efforts, the author’s reasoning remains entertaining:
“It is far more probable that patients struggle to follow instructions than that physicians prescribe incorrect remedies. Doctors approach cases in optimal health of body and mind, systematically comparing the present symptoms with similar cases encountered previously, thus recalling how cures were achieved before. In contrast, patients lack understanding of their ailments, the underlying causes, potential solutions, and have no personal experiences of comparable situations. Their current discomfort is exacerbated by anxiety about the future. They are mired in illness and deprived; they favor immediate pain relief over a cure that would restore their health. Such is their state when receiving a physician’s care… Is it not more likely they will disregard their doctor’s advice than that the doctors will prescribe erroneous remedies?”
In summary, the author of *On the Art* posits that:
- When medicine intervenes, chance has no role.
- If a patient heals independently, it is due to inadvertently following a doctor’s recommended course.
- Should a patient fail to recover despite treatment, it likely stems from not adhering to their physician’s guidance.
These arguments might be more fittingly discovered today in a lawyer’s defense plea in a medical malpractice case than in a systematic discourse on medical practices. If you were anticipating a more profound example of ancient wisdom regarding the essence of science, you might find yourself somewhat disappointed with the first author reviewed in this series. However, let us not be too harsh on him; as noted, this was likely one of the initial attempts to articulate systematic concepts about scientific workings (or the ‘arts’), and we can be assured that the implicit knowledge possessed by practitioners at the time was significantly more sophisticated than the somewhat clumsy arguments assembled by our anonymous sophist. I’ll conclude by highlighting two insights the author certainly got right:
First, medical science is grounded in facts and not superstition or religion (with no references to deities beyond a mere mention of Fortune, which is ultimately dismissed).
Second, while medical science is far from flawless, the continuous pursuit of research and discovery remains essential.
Introducing Plato
If the preceding section proved somewhat unsatisfactory due to the inelegance and sophistry of the anonymous author associated with the document known as *On the (medical) science* (the first comprehensive text dedicated to the nature of ‘science’ or, in this instance, *téchnē*), we now turn our attention to a far more accomplished and insightful writer, likely from a later generation. This work belongs to none other than the remarkable Plato (427-347 BC), the first philosopher whose complete writings have endured, encompassing around thirty substantial works. Interestingly, the name ‘Plato’ translates to ‘broad’ and is believed to have been derived from his days as a wrestler, with his original name likely being ‘Aristocles.’ Indeed, Plato was a significant figure.
Regardless of your feelings toward Plato’s viewpoints, the undeniable reality is that he stands as one of the few individuals of historical importance (five? ten?) whose contributions remain pivotal.
deserving to be recognized as fundamental pillars of civilization. The musings of earlier ‘philosophers’ often appear as mere conjectures, while in Plato’s texts, we encounter genuine illumination, the utmost clarity and intricacy of philosophical discourse. He presented these ideas in a literary format he specifically developed: the ‘dialogue’, wherein real individuals engage with one another, and with us, maintaining the freshness of a friendly discussion. It is no surprise that the Platonic dialogues were so frequently copied and read throughout Antiquity and the Middle Ages that his works have been better preserved than those of any other Greek writer. Essentially, Plato laid the groundwork for almost all branches of what we now refer to as ‘philosophy’, encompassing ethics, metaphysics, the philosophy of language, political theory, aesthetics, and anthropology; the notable exception being formal logic, which was established by his close disciple, Aristotle, as a refinement of what Plato termed ‘the art of dialectics’. Additionally, Plato can be credited with initiating epistemology as an explicit branch of philosophical inquiry, surpassing the haphazard attempts of a few short-sighted predecessors we previously discussed.
Before delving into Plato’s perspective on ‘philosophy of science’ (epistēmē), it is essential to note that his engagement with science extended beyond his own writings. The Academy he founded became the most influential research center of its time in the ancient world, warranting its consideration as the ‘first university’ in history. Significant advancements in fields such as mathematics, astronomy, and musical theory were made by individuals affiliated with the Academy at various times, including Theaetetus, Archytas, Eudoxus, and Eudemus. Aristotle himself was a student and instructor there during the last two decades of Plato’s life, although the majority of his biological research, which we will explore later, took place thereafter. Plato had a notable interest in ‘the sciences’ (which he often referred to as tekhnái, or ‘arts’) and fostered considerable growth in scientific understanding—greater than any achieved before the establishment of the ‘Library’ in Alexandria nearly a century later. Although his contributions to physics and cosmology, which we will discuss in the next section, were limited, Plato’s influence on the comprehension of science also encompassed the insight that scientific knowledge flourishes best within environments akin to the research centers and scientific communities we recognize today. He was a proponent of the idea that these institutions should receive support from the state (though his own Academy did not, this argument emerges from his portrayal of the ideal state in The Republic) and should welcome individuals from diverse social classes… including women! At least two members of the Academy, Axiothea of Phlius and Lasthenia of Mantinea, are known to have participated.
Regarding Plato’s perspective on the essence of science and knowledge, perhaps the most compelling explanation is found at the conclusion of book VI of The Republic, just prior to the renowned ‘myth of the Cave’ presented at the start of book VII. This section, referred to as ‘the simile of the line’, presents Plato’s hierarchical model of ‘degrees of knowledge’. Modern interpretations tend to understand this as primarily addressing differences in the “level of certainty” associated with various theories, propositions, or hypotheses. However, Plato’s viewpoint diverges from this. He asserts that the variations among types of ‘knowledge’ (for instance, the difference between a mathematician proving a theorem and a couple of individuals gossiping in the shade of the Athenian agora) are fundamentally related to the different types of entities that these items of knowledge pertain to. In summary, ‘higher’ forms of knowledge are considered ‘better’ because they concern ‘superior’ objects. While these ‘higher’ forms of knowledge yield greater certainty, this is merely incidental and reflects the essentially different nature of the objects known. Thus, the relevant question is: what are these ‘things’? Plato addresses this through a visual analogy, which we have illustrated here.
Socrates (the character in The Republic who elucidates this theory to another persona named Glaucon, who in reality was, like Adeimantus, one of the dialogue’s interlocutors and one of Plato’s older siblings) asks us to envision a line ABCD and to divide it into two unequal segments, AB and CD. One segment corresponds to ‘sensible things’, the objects we perceive through our senses (especially sight), while the other segment pertains to ‘intelligible things’, which are graspable only through thought (interestingly, the text does not clarify if the ‘larger’ segment signifies the intelligible or the smaller one, yet tradition has favored the representation chosen here). In addition to the different ways we perceive or comprehend these categories of entities, another critical distinction is that sensible things undergo change, whereas intelligible things are immutable: they are ‘eternal’. Consequently, the knowledge of mutable, sensible things is what Plato denotes as opinion (dóxa), while that of intelligibles constitutes… well… real knowledge (gnosis), or what we might describe as scientific knowledge.
Before we explore what these ‘intelligibles’ might be, let’s pause to examine Socrates’ next step in this explanation: each segment of the line must be divided again in the same proportion. Hence, the segment of sensible things is further divided into two sub-segments, A and B, ensuring that the ratio of A to B matches the same ratio of AB to CD. This serves as a metaphor to illustrate that the relation between the sensible (AB) and the intelligible (CD) parallels the relationship between two types of entities within the sensible realm, which, according to Socrates… or rather, Plato… are the material entities in B (prágmata) and the images in A (éikones, such as those reflected in mirrors, calm waters, pictures, etc.). This should be interpreted as signifying that sensible things act as a kind of ‘images’ or ‘copies’ of intelligible things, a notion we will revisit shortly. Before we proceed, it is important to note that, similar to the larger segments, there are hierarchically different kinds of ‘knowledge’ linked to the two categories of entities or the two modes of ‘epistemic attainment’: to images corresponds imagination (eikasía), while to material things corresponds faith (pistis). In Plato’s time, this term ‘faith’ did not imply a religious conviction in the miraculous, a notion later associated with the rise of Christianity, but instead referred to a broader sense of ‘trusting without definitive proof’ or ‘pragmatic belief’ (since we are discussing prágmata). This pistis could be likened to what some philosophers of science have termed ‘the natural ontological’…attitude (NOA), which refers to the uncritical acceptance of the world around us, or relates to the ‘Lebenswelt’ or the ‘being-in-the-world’ explored by phenomenologists such as Husserl and Heidegger.
In essence, Plato asserts that science does not pertain to material objects; it is merely ‘opinion’. This opinion may be something we trust, but it does so without critical scrutiny or adequate justification. Thus, imagination, particularly illustrated by the nature of d dreams, cannot be classified as ‘science’ or ‘knowledge’ in any legitimate sense. What Plato conveys is that our common understanding of the material realm is akin to a kind of ‘dream’, or rather, it serves as a mere shadow of what constitutes true knowledge, analogous to the difference between dreams and wakefulness.
‘Socrates’ then continues to segment the remaining part of the line in the same ratios, establishing that C is to D as A is to B (or as AB is to CD). Here, C corresponds to mathematical entities, with examples like geometrical entities—circles, lines, etc., that mathematical theorems discuss. However, he does not mention numbers, which prompts speculation on whether he would categorize them in C or D. The inhabitants of D, not surprisingly, are known as ‘Platonic Forms’ (éidē, with the singular being éidos), or ‘Platonic ideas’ in most other languages. The term éidos literally means the ‘aspect’ or ‘(visual) shape’ of something, stemming from the same Indo-European root as the Latin video, meaning ‘I see’; similarly, idea also comes from éidos, retaining almost the same meaning in Greek. The term ‘Form’ in Greek is morphē, a translation Plato might have contested since it was Aristotle’s choice for describing a related concept, which we will explore later in this series. A deeper consideration reveals the need to reject that translation when analyzing the connection between C and D: mathematical objects, such as triangles situated in C, indeed possess a spatial form, a shape. Yet D, the highest realm, does not contain ‘triangleS’, rather it embodies the essence of triangularity—what it means to be a triangle, the notion we conceive (but do not see) when contemplating a figure as representative of a triangle. This essence represents the ‘Form’ of a triangle, not in terms of having this specific geometrical form (like an equilateral triangle, for instance), or that one (such as a scalene triangle), but as the most abstract and universal notion or understanding of triangularity.
Therefore, if C is to D as A is to B, it follows that particular triangles can be seen as copies of ‘the Triangularity’. This also indicates that our knowledge of mathematical entities is not as ‘pure’ as our comprehension of the Forms: ‘thought’ (with ‘discursive thought’, or ‘step-by-step thinking’ being more apt translations for diánoia) can be likened to a kind of ‘dream’ in contrast to ‘intellection’ (nóesis). Consequently, Plato designates the ‘sciences’ within segment C as tékhnai, ‘arts’: mathematics, astronomy, and music (the latter two referring not to ‘empirical’ astronomy and music, but rather their theoretical counterparts, a distinction we shall revisit in future discussions). The only true science mentioned in Plato’s relevant passages in The Republic is what he terms ‘dialectics’ or ‘the dialectical science’ (dialektikē epistēmē), which presents an interesting label for a science, given that ‘dialectics’ translates simply to ‘the art of dialogue’, which is the skill of argumentation. Plato elevates this technique to the highest position in his hierarchy of sciences, perceiving it as an understanding of the logical relationships among various Forms. However, there appears to be a contradiction in criticizing geometry for not qualifying as the ‘purest’ science (given that it operates step-by-step, in an argumentative manner, relying on foundational assumptions designated as ‘postulates’, or in Greek axiómata), while simultaneously arguing that the purest science is derived from the art of dialogue, which similarly unfolds in a step-by-step manner (the prefix dia conveys this precise meaning in both dialektikē and diánoia). This may indicate a conflation of the process of dialectics with its objective, which ultimately is the intellection of pure Forms—akin to an aha! experience tied to understanding something… or more accurately, understanding everything, since to truly comprehend something necessitates grasping its connections to everything else, making a ‘complete’ understanding of a singular ‘slice’ of reality unattainable.
In summary, Plato’s conceptualization of ‘the sciences’ represents the first systematic framework we have regarding their nature and the process of attaining them. He proposes a hierarchy of knowledge, ranging from dreams to vague certainties about material objects, advancing to more sophisticated mathematical constructions and proofs—which, in his view, only qualify as ‘arts’—before culminating in what genuinely earns the title of ‘science’: a profound understanding of ‘the Totality’, which exists within an ontological realm of eternal principles, contrasting with the material world we inhabit, which is portrayed as nothing more than an absurd dream, a flawed reflection, a faint shadow. Naturally, you may be curious about what the two icons at the top of the figure (the Sun and the Good) represent… but this will be the subject of our next discussion.
Image Source: Chinnapong @ Shutterstock
