ANCIENT WOMEN PHILOSOPHERS

Despite the common misconception that ancient philosophy was the

domain of male thinkers, sources confirm that women engaged in
philosophical activity in antiquity. Bringing together a collection of
essays on ancient women thinkers, with special focus on their ideas
and contributions to the history of philosophy, this volume is about
the earliest women philosophers, their breakthroughs, and the
methods we can use to excavate them. The essays survey the meth-
odological strategies to approach the surviving evidence, retrieve the
largely unresearched thought and the original ideas of ancient women
philosophers, and carve out a space for them in the canon. The broad
focus includes women thinkers in ancient Indian, Chinese, and
Arabic philosophy as well as in the Greek and Roman philosophical
traditions. The volume will be valuable for a wide range of
researchers, teachers, and students of ancient philosophy.

 . ’ is Assistant Professor of Philosophy at

Toronto Metropolitan University. Her research areas include moral
psychology in the Ancient Greek and Roman traditions and ancient
women philosophers, particularly in the Hellenistic schools.
 ò is a Research Fellow at the University of Geneva
(SNSF Ambizione). She has published Pythagorean Women ()
in the series Cambridge Elements on Women in the History
of Philosophy.
ANCIENT WOMEN
PHILOSOPHERS
Recovered Ideas and New Perspectives

     
KATHARINE R. O’REILLY
Toronto Metropolitan University

CATERINA PELLÒ
University of Geneva
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For our sons, Filippo and Jack.
 Contents

List of Contributors page ix

Acknowledgements xi
List of Abbreviations xii

Introduction: The Value of Women Philosophers for the

History of Philosophy 
Caterina Pellò and Katharine R. O’Reilly
 Beyond Gender: The Voice of Diotima 
Frisbee C. C. Sheffield
 Sulabhā and Indian Philosophy: Rhetoric, Gender,
and Freedom in the Mahābhārata 
Brian Black
 Women’s Medical Knowledge in Antiquity: Beyond
Midwifery 
Sophia M. Connell
 Ancient Women Epicureans and Their Anti-Hedonist Critics 
Kelly Arenson
 Arete of Cyrene and the Role of Women in Philosophical
Lineage 
Katharine R. O’Reilly
 Women at the Crossroads: Life and Death for the Stoic Wife 
Kate Meng Brassel
 Pythagorean Women and the Domestic as a Philosophical
Topic 
Rosemary Twomey

vii
viii Contents
 Perictione, Mother of Metaphysics: A New Philosophical
Reading of On Wisdom 
Giulia De Cesaris and Caterina Pellò
 Not Veiled in Silence: The Case for Macrina 
Anna B. Christensen
 Women Philosophers and Ideals of Being a Woman
in Neoplatonic Schools of Late Antiquity: The Examples
of Sosipatra of Ephesus and Hypatia of Alexandria 
Jana Schultz
 Reappraising Ban Zhao: The Advent of Chinese
Women Philosophers 
Ann A. Pang-White
 The Reception of Plato on Women: Proclus,
Averroes, Marinella 
Peter Adamson

References 
Index 
 Contributors

 , Professor of Late Ancient and Arabic Philosophy, the

Ludwig Maximilian University of Munich
 , Associate Professor of Philosophy, Duquesne University
 , Senior Lecturer in Politics, Philosophy and Religion,
Lancaster University
  , Visiting Assistant Professor of Classical Studies,
University of Pennsylvania
  , FWO Postdoctoral Fellow, KU Leuven, De
Wulf-Mansion Centre for Ancient, Medieval and Renaissance
Philosophy
 . , Assistant Professor of Philosophy, Central
College
 . , Senior Lecturer in Philosophy, Birkbeck College,
University of London
 . ’, Assistant Professor of Philosophy, Toronto
Metropolitan University, and Visiting Research Fellow in Philosophy,
King’s College London
 . -, Professor of Philosophy and Director of Asian
Studies, University of Scranton
 ò, Research Fellow at the University of Geneva (SNSF
Ambizione)
 , Postdoctoral Researcher, Humboldt University Berlin

ix
x List of Contributors
 . . , Associate Professor of Classics, University of
Cambridge
 , Assistant Professor of Philosophy, Queens College,
City University of New York
 Acknowledgements

We are grateful for the support of the Footnotes Writing Circle, Lea
Cantor, Alesia Preite, Joachim Aufderheide, Gábor Betegh, Brian Black,
Sophia Connell, Voula Tsouna, M. M. McCabe, Ursula Coope, Charis Jo,
Diane Enns and the Society for Women of Ideas, Robert Murray, Hilary
Gaskin at Cambridge University Press, and Louise Chapman at Lex
Academic. We would also like to thank Thornton Lockwood, Sandra
Wawrytko, Laura Viidebaum, Nonnie Suso, the participants at the
Women Intellectuals in Antiquity Symposium, and the contributors to
this volume. We are especially grateful to Peter Adamson for his encour-
agement of this project from its inception. The project was supported by
the British Society for the History of Philosophy, King’s College London,
the University of St Andrews, the Office of the Dean of Arts at Toronto
Metropolitan University, University College London, the University of
Nottingham, and the Harvard Center for Hellenic Studies.

xi
 Abbreviations

Aristotle (Ar.)
Apo. Posterior Analytics
Apr. Prior Analytics
Cael. On the Heavens
EE Eudemian Ethics
EN Nicomachean Ethics
GA Generation of Animals
HA History of Animals
MA On the Motion of Animals
Met Metaphysics
Mete. Meteorology
PA Parts of Animals
Phys. Physics
Protr. Protrepticus
Resp. On Respiration
Sens. On Sense and Sensibles
Top. Topics

Damascius
In Parm. On Plato’s Parmenides
In Phd. On Plato’s Phaedrus
Isid. Life of Isidorus
Procl. Life of Proclus

Epicurus
Ad Men. Letter to Menoeceus
Diss. Diatribes
VS Vatican Sayings

xii
 List of Abbreviations xiii

Gregory of Nyssa
De An. et Res. On Soul and Resurrection
Ep.  Letter 
VSM Life of Saint Macrina

Hippocrates (Hp.)
Carn. On Fleshes
Decent. On Good Manners
Dieb. Judic. On Critical Days
Ep. Epidemics
Foet. Exsect. On the Excision of the Foetus
Genit. On Generation
Loc. Hom. On the Places in Man
Mul. On the Diseases of Women
Nat. Mul. On the Nature of Women
Nat. Puer. On the Nature of the Child
Oct. On the Eight-Month Child
Praec. On Preconceptions
Steril. On Sterile Women
Superf. On Superfetation
VM On Ancient Medicine

Iamblichus (Iamb.)
DCMS On the Common Mathematical Science
De Myst. On the Mysteries
Protr. Exhortation to Philosophy
Theolog. Arithm. Theological Principles of Arithmetic
VP Life of Pythagoras

Plato (Pl.)
Grg. Gorgias
Leges Laws
Men. Meno
Parm. Parmenides
Phd. Phaedo
Phdr. Phaedrus
Phil. Philebus
xiv List of Abbreviations
Pol. Statesman
Prt. Protagoras
Rep. Republic
Symp. Symposium
Th. Theaetetus
Tim. Timaeus

Plutarch (Plu.)
Mor. Moralia
Non Posse That Epicurus Actually Makes a Pleasant Life Impossible

Porphyry (Porph.)
Marc. Letter to Marcella
VP Life of Pythagoras

Proclus (Procl.)
In Alc. On Plato’s Alcibiades
In Cra. On Plato’s Cratylus
In Phil. On Plato’s Philebus
In Rep. On Plato’s Republic
In Tim. On Plato’s Timaeus
Inst. Elements of Theology
Theol. Plat. Platonic Theology

Ps-Archytas (Ps-Arch.)
De Vir. Bon. On the Good and Happy Man
Intell. On the Intellect and Sense Perception
Univ. Log. On the Universal Logos
Wisdom On Wisdom

Seneca
Aga. Agamemnon
Ben. On Benefits
Const. On the Firmness of the Wise Person
Ep. Moral Epistles
Helv. On Consolation to Helvia
HF The Mad Hercules
 List of Abbreviations xv
Ira On Anger
Marc. On Consolation to Marcia
Tro. The Trojan Women

Synesius
Ad Pae. On an Astrolabe
Ep. Epistles

Other authors
Alcin. Didask. Alcinous, The Handbook of Plato
Cic. Off. Cicero, On Obligations
Clem. Strom. Clement of Alexandria, Stromata
Cod. Vat. Gr. The Codex Vaticanus
D.L. Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Eminent Philosophers
Ecph. De Regn. Ecphantus, On Kingship
Eur. Her. Euripides, Heracles
Euryph. Life Euryphamus, Concerning Human Life
Eus. PE Eusebius, Preparation for the Gospel
Gnom. Vat. Gnomologium Vaticanum e Codice Vaticano
Graeco 
Hippol. Ref. Hippolytus, Refutation of All Heresies
Jer. Adv. Iovin Jerome, Against Iovianus
Liv. AUC Livy, Ab Urbe Condita
Olymp. In Alcib. Olympiodorus, On Plato’s First Alcibiades
Origen Cels. Against Celsus
Perict. Harm. Wom. Perictione, On the Harmonious Woman
Phint. Moderation Phintys, On the Moderation of Women
Phot. Bibl. Photius, Bibliotheca
Plin. Ep. Pliny, Epistles
Plotinus, Enn. Ennead
S.E. PH Sextus Empiricus, Outlines of Pyrrhonism
SSR Socratis et Socraticorum Reliquiae
Stob. Flor. Stobaeus, Florilegium
Strab. Geog. Strabo, Geography
SVF Stoicorum Veterum Fragmenta
Tac. Ann. Tacitus, Annals
Theag. Virt. Theages, On the Virtues
Xen. Mem. Xenophon, Memorabilia
 Introduction
The Value of Women Philosophers for the History
of Philosophy*
Caterina Pellò and Katharine R. O’Reilly

Including Women in the Picture

Thales of Miletus is commonly taken to be the first philosopher to write in
Greek: Aristotle, for example, introduces him as the first ancient thinker to
dedicate himself to natural philosophy (Met. b). Rarely is it
acknowledged that Thales was a close acquaintance of Cleobulina, herself
a philosopher, known for authoring riddles. Cleobulina is one of the
figures who prompted us to work on this volume: ancient female thinkers
whose breakthroughs and contributions have long been left out of the
history of philosophy.
Our sources suggest that in antiquity there were women engaging in
philosophical activity alongside men. However, with the only – and very
contested – exceptions of the Pythagorean women from the first century
 and the Confucian writer Ban Zhao in the second century , almost
no direct evidence and no writings by these thinkers have survived. We are
left with a list of names and sparse information about these women’s lives
and intellectual activities, all of which has been written by men. As a result,
the ideas of female ancient philosophers remain unrecorded and untaught.
This book is about ancient women philosophers, their ideas and con-
tributions to the history of philosophy, and the methods we use to retrieve
and re-evaluate them. In what follows, we outline the objectives and key
questions of the volume. We devote a substantial section to the specific
challenges in the study of ancient women philosophers, with special focus
on source issues. We also discuss the methods our contributors have

*
Our title is an homage to Antognazza (). We dedicate this chapter to her memory.

See Cantor () for an important troubling of the assumption that the Ancient Greeks shared
this view.

D.L. .. Diogenes writes that Cleobulina was given an education (.). Plutarch lists her among
the most prominent women thinkers of antiquity (Mor. e – see also Clem. Strom. ..–)
and writes that Thales admired her wisdom (Mor. d). For recent work on Cleobulina’s riddles, see
Plant (: –), Hueso (chapter ) and Potamiti (chapter ) in Chouinard et al. (: –).


  ò   . ’
adopted to face the challenges and approach these thinkers philosophically.
We argue that the study of ancient women philosophers has a special value
for our understanding of the history of philosophy. While at first a
daunting enterprise, work on this unique set of thinkers and the available
evidence both enriches our insight into the methodology of the history of
philosophy and re-introduces philosophical contributions that would oth-
erwise be lost.

This Book: Rationale, Scope, and Objectives

We start by asking three questions to problematise the very title of this
volume. The book is about a broad range of thinkers, who lived at different
times and in different places, and discussed a wide variety of topics. They
share three features: they are women, philosophers, from antiquity. Each
of these features, however, raises further questions.
The first question is whether it matters that these thinkers are women
and, if so, why. Should we be interested in these figures insofar as they are
women? Do we ever think of Plato and Aristotle as men doing philosophy?
Our answer is yes, it matters, to some extent. Our aim is not to argue that
in ancient philosophy we come across female-specific ways of thinking, sets
of issues, or approaches and solutions to puzzles. This book makes no
essentialist claims about women’s ways of reasoning and doing philosophy.
On the one hand, then, the answer to the question of whether it matters
that these philosophers are women is no. While some women philoso-
phers, such as the authors of the Pythagorean letters and Ban Zhao, write
about topics traditionally associated with the female gender, such as
motherhood and married life, this book shows that ancient female thinkers
discussed a much wider range of questions, from home economics to
rhetoric; from ethical theories about pleasure, the self, and renunciation
to theoretical doctrines about the structure of the cosmos and the knowl-
edge of first principles; and from gynaecology to the fate of the soul
at death.
There is, however, at least one reason why it does, and should, matter
that these thinkers are women. One of the aims of this volume is ‘repara-
tory’: we redress a historical wrong and reclaim a place in the history of
philosophy and the philosophical canon for those thinkers who have not
received enough academic attention. The reasons for this exclusion range
from the lack of primary sources to the fragmentary and dubious nature of
the available evidence. Yet we suspect that at least part of the reason why
 Introduction 
women thinkers have been overlooked is because they were women. For
example, insofar as in their own time women had a less direct access to
philosophical practice or because some of them discussed female-coded
topics, which modern scholars did not consider worthy of philosophical
investigation. Since these figures were partly disregarded because they were
women, it is partly as women that we now propose to reintroduce them in
the scholarship.
That said, we are primarily interested in these female intellectuals insofar
as they are philosophers and had philosophical ideas. This leads us to our
second, more challenging, question: what does it mean for a woman, or for
any ancient thinker, to be a philosopher?
Scholars have proposed various criteria to decide which ancient female
intellectuals should be classified as philosophers: women are called phi-
losophers (i) when they are referred to as such in the sources, (ii) when
they author philosophical texts, (iii) when they live with and study
under other (male) philosophers, and (iv) when they have philosophical
ideas. For the purpose of this book, we are interested in philosophical
ideas. Specifically, we focus on women philosophers either insofar as they
contribute original arguments to ancient philosophical debates or
because the study of these thinkers offers new perspectives to the under-
standing of our philosophical history. As detailed in the next section,
most of the existing studies on women philosophers focus on their lives.
In a sense, therefore, our volume aims to give a philosophical, rather than
historical and biographical account of these figures and their intellectual
contributions.


This criterion is discussed by Waithe (). For a recent overview of the criteria for women
philosophers, See Bonelli (chapter ) and O’Reilly (chapter ) in Chouinard et al. (: –).

This criterion is especially strict, for male thinkers such as Pythagoras and Socrates are commonly
referred to as philosophers and nonetheless did not leave any written works. The criterion is used by
Waithe (b), who lists sixty-five women philosophers from Greece and Rome, and Snyder
(), who lists only eight women writers.

The first to divide women by philosophical schools is Gilles Ménage in his Historia Mulierum
Philosopharum ().

For a more inclusive list of criteria, see Warren (: ). For a discussion of the issues each criterion
raises, see Pellò in Bonelli (: –).

It should be noted that these approaches are not always at odds with each other, for certain traditions
conceive of philosophy as a way of living. On how the historical milieu in which a philosopher lived
sheds light on their arguments, see Hutton (). This is discussed further in the ‘Biographical
Focus’ section. We also want to clarify that we do not view these other approaches as less valuable.
While our focus is recovery of the philosophical ideas and novel contributions of women
philosophers, we recognise that the importance of their place in the history of philosophy extends
well beyond ideas and their novelty.
  ò   . ’
Finally, one may ask, which period counts as ancient in the history of
philosophy?
Another limit of the existing literature on ancient women philosophers is
that it is focused on ancient Greek and Roman women. As such, current
scholarship risks promoting the narrative according to which philosophy
was first invented by the Greeks in the sixth century  with thinkers like
Thales. This raises several difficulties: first, there is evidence that philoso-
phy was not an exclusively Greek phenomenon and that the Greeks
themselves acknowledged the influence of other philosophical traditions.
Second, in the case of female thinkers, the argument that philosophy was
invented by the Greeks seems less relevant, as most of these figures are not
described as philosophers in the sources. Third, it is unclear how one
might draw boundaries between what counted as Greek or Western in
antiquity and what did not, especially when we consider figures such as
Hypatia of Alexandria, who lived in Egypt but wrote in Greek. Not all
studies are as Eurocentric: Buxton and Whiting’s recent book Philosopher
Queens () includes women thinkers like Ban Zhao and Lalla, and
Waithe and Boos Dykeman are currently working on a volume on women
philosophers outside the Greek, Roman, and Judaeo-Christian tradition.
Finally, more work on non-Western women thinkers has been done by
scholars of Indian and Chinese philosophy, but this work has been largely
ignored in Hellenic studies. By bringing women philosophers from the
ancient philosophical traditions in India and China into dialogue with
those of ancient Greece and Rome, our book aims to contribute to the
ongoing work of decentring ancient philosophy.
As a result, the volume comprises women from various philosophical
traditions. Different traditions, however, have different periodisation and
different ways to date antiquity. We cover women who count as ‘ancient’
within their culture and consistent with the categories operative within
those traditions. For example, ancient Greek and Roman philosophy is
dated approximately between the Archaic Age in the sixth century  and
the spread of Christianity in the fifth century . Yet Indian philosophy


On the Eastern influence on Greek philosophy, see, for example, West (); Burkert (); and
Whitmarsh and Thomson (). Challenging the Western philosophy narrative and the belief in
the Greek invention of philosophy are Lloyd (); Park (); and Allais (), as well as a
forthcoming volume by Lea Cantor and Josh Platzky Miller.

It is not entirely irrelevant, of course, since Ancient Greeks had a concept of ‘philosophy’, and
female thinkers were understood to occupy a position relative to this. But the disciplinary lines are
blurred, in ways we discuss in the ‘Job Title and Genre’ section.

On women in ancient Indian philosophy, see, for example, Brodbeck and Black (). For
Confucianism, see Mann and Cheng () and Lui et al. ().
 Introduction 
begins around the eighth century  with the composition of some of the
earliest philosophical texts from antiquity – namely, the Upanishads – and
Chinese philosophy extends into the fifth century .

Status Quaestionis: Previous Scholarship from Ménage to

the Philosopher Queens
The attempt to include women thinkers in the history of philosophy is not
unprecedented. In recent years, the scholarship on women philosophers
has been expanding and attracting growing academic attention. The initial
trend has been to recount the lives of women philosophers – to name, date,
and place ancient female thinkers. This was an essential first step, which
laid the foundations for current work on women philosophers and enabled
researchers to go beyond biography and engage with these thinkers’
philosophical ideas. We should then start by recognising our debt of
gratitude to those scholars who first raised the questions of what role
women played in the history of philosophy and why their voices had
mostly been silenced, and by so doing, put ancient women philosophers
on the academic agenda.
In Europe, modern engagement with ancient women philosophers starts
in s France with the publication of Historia Mulierum Philosopharum
by Ménage. After reading Diogenes Laertius’ Lives of Eminent Philosophers,
Ménage compiled his own philosophical history focused on women phi-
losophers to challenge the assumption that there had been none up to the
early modern period. The result is a list of sixty-five names, divided by
schools: Platonists, Academics, Cyrenaics, Cynics, Peripatetics, Stoics, and
Pythagoreans. The focus is exclusively on women philosophers from
Greece and Rome.
Recent scholarship on ancient women philosophers can be grouped
according to two trends: scholars interested in what philosophers said
about women and scholars who focus on ancient women who were
themselves philosophers, but who primarily give biographical accounts of
these thinkers.
More attention has been given to ancient philosophical theories about,
rather than by, women, and concerning gender, family life, and the female
role in society: notable examples are Tuana’s Feminist Interpretations of
Plato (), Freeland’s Feminist Interpretations of Aristotle (), Pang-
White’s Handbook of Chinese Philosophy and Gender (), and Howard’s

For a timeline of ancient Indian and Chinese philosophy, see Harrison (: Appendix ).
  ò   . ’
Handbook of Indian Philosophy and Gender (). The advantage of
these studies is showing that ancient thinkers considered women and other
topics traditionally linked to the female gender, such as home economics,
to be philosophically valuable. Yet this approach leaves the canon itself
unaltered. Our aim is to include women philosophers in the philosophical
canon alongside Plato, Aristotle, Buddha, and Confucius.
In , Waithe published her History of Women Philosophers. The first
volume of this anthology, Ancient Women Philosophers  BC– AD,
focuses on Greek and Roman philosophers. Waithe’s approach is optimis-
tic and charitable. Despite the several and challenging source issues we
discuss in the next section, she argues that the available evidence shows
that through history there have always been women doing philosophy.
After Waithe’s epoch-making anthology, scholars turned their attention to
women philosophers. Further examples are Kersey’s Women Philosophers
() and Warren’s Unconventional History of Western Philosophy
(). The former is a biographical dictionary of women thinkers.
The latter puts women philosophers in conversation with better-known
male philosophers by comparing their theories and arguments. Both
strategies succeed in including women in the existing canon. Yet they risk
conveying the idea that either we cannot engage with these women’s ideas
or that women are philosophically interesting only when in dialogue with
men. Our aim is to show that women are philosophers in their own right.
Subsequent to Ménage and Waithe, only a few article-length works
engaged with the ideas of ancient Greek and Roman women: for example,
Wider’s ‘Women Philosophers in the Ancient World’ (), Hawley’s
‘The Problem of Women Philosophers in Greece’ (), and Deslauriers’
‘Women, Education, and Philosophy’ (). More work has been done
on Indian and Chinese women philosophers, both historical and fictiona-
lised, such as Blackstone’s Women in the Footsteps of the Buddha (),
Wang’s Images of Women in Chinese Thought and Culture (), and
Lindquist’s ‘Gender at Janaka’s Court’ (). Recent and forthcoming
publications include studies of female thinkers throughout the history of
philosophy, such as Philosopher Queens by Buxton and Whiting (),
Women’s Perspectives on Ancient and Medieval Philosophy by Chouinard
et al. (), and a forthcoming book on teaching women philosophers by
Hagengruber and Hutton. Others look at women both as authors and as


On Plato, see also Blair (). On Aristotle, see Connell () and Trott (). For feminist
interpretations of ancient philosophy, see Bar On (); Ward ().

See also Acker ().
 Introduction 
subjects of philosophical investigations: for example, Filosofe, Maestre e
Imperatrici by Bonelli (), and the new Routledge Handbook on Women
and Ancient Philosophy by Brill and McKeen (forthcoming).
Our book complements and builds upon these works. The original
contribution we hope to make to the ongoing conversation about ancient
women philosophers is threefold. First, we introduce new figures to the
academic discourse, such as the Cyrenaic Arete and the Pythagorean
Perictione. Second, and related, we do not restrict antiquity to Graeco-
Roman philosophy. Rather, we include chapters about the ancient Indian,
Chinese, and Arabic philosophical traditions. Third, and most impor-
tantly, we pay special attention to these women’s philosophical achieve-
ments, their novel arguments and, where extant, their writings. As argued
in the next section, this enquiry takes different shapes in different schools
and different stages of the history of philosophy, and ranges from close
argument analyses of philosophical texts to studies of ancient philosophical
communities that include women, as well as philosophical readings of
ancient biographies, medical treatises, novels, and poems.
This leads us to our final remark: while this book aims at including a
wide variety of figures, ideas, themes, and scholarly approaches, it is not
exhaustive. The panorama of female intellectuals in antiquity is much
wider, and there are more figures, traditions, and methodologies one could
discuss. Our hope is that the chapters in this volume will encourage new
scholarship in the field of ancient women thinkers, globally.

Challenges and Approaches

In this section, we discuss the methodological challenges we face when
we attempt to learn more about the philosophical ideas of ancient
women. These can be divided into two groupings: those that impact
the recovery of women’s ideas where we have texts written by women, and
those that impact the recovery where we have no texts. We include
women covered in the chapters of this volume, as well as some others
(Figure ).
We include in each discussion a defence of the approaches our contrib-
utors have taken to make use of the sources notwithstanding these issues.
Looking across these case studies, we have found that engagement with
ancient women philosophers raises questions that have wide-ranging impli-
cations for the methodology of the history of philosophy. We begin by
describing the general state of the source material.
  ò   . ’
Texts No Texts

Lost Pseudonymity Job Title and Genre Male Authorship

(Hippocratics, Hipparchia,
(Hypatia, Arete, (Pythagorean (Ban Zhao, Murasaki, Arete, Hypatia, Macrina,
Theano) Women) Hippocratic women) Epicureans, Sosipatra)

Great Minds vs. Historicity

Communities (Diotima, Sulabhā, Hypatia,
(Pythagoreans, Vedic Schools, Monica, Macrina,
Epicureans, Cyrenaics, Stoics) Hippocratics, Megara)

Biographical Focus

(Hipparchia, Arete,
Pythagoreans)

Figure  Methodological Challenges

The Source Issue

It is difficult to overstate the challenge we face regarding sources for the
philosophical thought of ancient women. After all, in the Greek and
Roman philosophical traditions, there is not a single surviving text incon-
testably ascribed to a woman philosopher. On the face of it, you might
think that would, or should, sink a project like ours before it even gets
started. We want to begin the discussion of challenges and approaches by
facing up to the source issue and discuss how it is that there is material for
a book on ancient women philosophers at all. We feel it crucial to be frank
about the state of the evidence, the significant challenge it poses, and the
ways we (and our contributors) have found to engage with the ideas of
ancient women notwithstanding these.
There are a few different source categories. Outside of the Greek and
Roman traditions, we find a comparatively rich set of sources. However
limited, this is one of the many benefits of widening the scope of this
volume to the degree that we have. We have direct evidence for Ban Zhao
in the Confucian tradition, for instance. Though work on Ban Zhao faces
other challenges (e.g., the Job Title section, below), her voluminous
writing, across a number of genres, is well preserved.


See Chapter . Other examples might include Murasaki Shikibu, a Japanese philosopher and
novelist of the (late ancient) Heian period. See Wawrytko ().
 Introduction 
Some women left writings that are now lost. This includes Hypatia of
Alexandria, Arete the Cyrenaic, and possibly Theano the Pythagorean.
Others, such as the group known as Pythagorean women, are credited with
writing letters and treatises, but their philosophical status, authenticity,
and dating is now contested. We will discuss these rich yet challenging
texts in the Pseudonymity section.
The bulk of our evidence of ancient women philosophers (e.g., the
Hippocratic women, Hipparchia the Cynic, Arete, the Neoplatonists
Hypatia and Sosipatra, Macrina, the sister of Gregory of Nyssa, the
Epicurean women) is to be found in works authored by men. These are
more often accounts of their lives than their doctrines (e.g., Hipparchia,
Arete, Hypatia). In some cases, it includes men’s reflections on women’s
ability to practise philosophy (e.g., in Plato and Aristotle, but also Musonius
Rufus in the Stoic tradition). Within the group of women whose evidence
is all via male-authored works, there is then a category of fictional or
fictionalised women – where the latter are representations of historical women
philosophers (e.g., the Hippocratic women, Hypatia, Macrina, as well as
Augustine’s mother Monica) or of those who may have been real (e.g.,
Diotima, Sulabhā). Finally, there are depictions of fictional women in the
works of men that are nonetheless evidence of the role of women in ancient
philosophical communities (e.g., Megara in the Stoic tradition).
The situation is complex, and there is a question of how to approach
each of these types of evidence. We have found that doing so requires both
specificity and generality: each case needs to be researched carefully and
considered contextually. At the same time, it is helpful to look up from the
specifics to the landscape of ancient women’s philosophical engagement
and the sources to draw some general methodological conclusions. In the
rest of the introduction, we aim to provide some of this latter perspective.

Challenges with Texts

Lost Texts
Bridging our main groupings (Texts and No Texts, Figure ) is the
category of lost texts – that is, instances where we know of the work of

On Arete and Hypatia, see Chapters  and . There is evidence in the Suda that Theano may have
written books (s.v. Theano [theta ]).
  
See Chapters –. See Chapters , –, –. See Chapters  and .

See Chapters –, .

See Chapter . Macrina may also fit under this category, since she is historical, but her philosophical
abilities are believed to be fictionalised and to be properly attributed to her brother. For a defence of
Macrina’s philosophical independence, see Chapter .
  ò   . ’
some ancient woman, usually only by title, but this has been lost. Sources
like Diogenes Laertius are full of lists of lost works from male philosophers.
Thus, we should perhaps not be surprised that so many works by ancient
women failed to survive. Yet, when we look across the oeuvre of ancient
women generally, we think it is – and should be – shocking how little
direct evidence of their thought is available to us. To dismiss this worry too
quickly by pointing out that many works by men are also missing too
prevents us from enquiring further into the historical and cultural forces
that have resulted in the current loss. We urge scholars not to shy away
from this issue. In the chapters of this volume, many of our contributors
find interesting ways of dealing with lost texts, including considerations of
what information can be gleaned from a title, speculations regarding the
content of lost works, and reflections on the reasons why certain works
have failed to be preserved. We can also step back and consider the wider
question of why so few texts by ancient women have reached us, which is a
question worth asking in both research and teaching contexts.

Pseudonymity
The sole texts allegedly by women surviving within the ancient Greek
tradition are the Pythagorean texts a collection of ten letters and five
treatises ascribed to named Pythagorean women. The dating of these texts
is debated, though the prevailing view places them between the first
century  and the first century . These texts have not received the
sustained scholarly attention one might expect of the only surviving works
by ancient women philosophers in the Western tradition. This is, princi-
pally, for two reasons: their content and authorship.
The letters are written by women to other women, and many discuss
female-coded topics such as female virtues, the married life of wives,
childcare, household management, and the role of women in society.
This has led to them being perceived as non-philosophical. In our volume,
Twomey makes the case for reading them as philosophical, especially when
considered against some of Aristotle’s remarks about home economics
(Chapter ). Doing so demands a broadening of what is considered a
properly philosophical topic, including re-thinking the philosophical con-
cerns that can emerge in practical ethics in the domestic sphere. We
consider this outcome a philosophically provocative one, whose impact
goes beyond these specific texts. Furthermore, not all of the texts are
concerned with female-coded issues. For instance, Aesara’s On Human
Nature concerns the make-up of the human soul. In Chapter , Pellò and
De Cesaris discuss Perictione’s On Wisdom, which concerns metaphysics,
 Introduction 
epistemology, and the value of wisdom. Even by the standards of the
traditional canon, the questions these women raise would be
considered philosophical.
The second reason why these letters and treatises have not been wel-
comed into the dominant philosophical discourse is controversy over their
authorship. It is not clear whether they are written by the named authors
(i.e., the women from ancient Pythagorean societies), by a group of
Neopythagorean women using the names of their predecessors, or, most
problematically, by men using female pseudonyms. There are contempo-
rary arguments from scholars on either side, and there is, in our view, still
doubt. We will say more about the sense in which this doubt matters in
discussing male authorship. Regarding pseudonymity, we find that the
debate over authorial attribution has eclipsed philosophical engagement
with the content of these texts. While we think it is important to take up
the issue of the gender of the authors, we are also of the view that this
should not be a barrier to our engagement with the philosophical signif-
icance of the writings ascribed to the Pythagorean women. These texts
purport to express the views of ancient women on philosophical issues.
Rather than starting from the pseudonymity debate, we condone our
contributors’ focus on the content and philosophical arguments of
these writings.

Job Title and Genre

A further reason why women philosophers have been excluded from the
historical narrative involves the question of who counts as a philosopher
and what counts as a philosophical text. We have already discussed the
shifting criteria for who counts as an ancient woman philosopher. In terms
of disciplinary association, women philosophers have continually been
branded, instead, as hetairai/courtesans (the Epicurean women); mystics,
prophets, or Saints (Diotima, Macrina); or poets (Ban Zhao, Sappho).
Alternatively, they have been excluded from the realm of the professional
by being depicted primarily as daughter, mother (Arete, Perictione), sister
(Macrina), wife (Hipparchia, Theano, Sosipatra) or similar, in relation to
male thinkers. Sometimes both moves are made: for example, Macrina is
both Saint and sister, to the exclusion of philosopher. This is, of course,
not an issue for women alone. Not all ancient male philosophers, especially
outside of the Greek tradition, are referred to as philosophers. Therefore,
though this issue is especially prevalent with women, the approaches we

See Chapter  for an overview of this debate.
  ò   . ’
take to circumvent it could be relevant to our recovery of other
philosophers, too.
We approached this volume with an awareness of this issue, sometimes
known as ‘coat-tailing’, in which women thinkers are situated not accord-
ing to their ideas or even their philosophical allegiance but rather are
subsumed under and identified by their association with some male
relation or teacher. One solution has been to refer to these women as
the more generic ‘thinker’ or ‘intellectual’. While this might be pragmatic
in certain contexts, for this project we want to resist this move. We feel it is
important that these women be recognised as philosophers. There are
several reasons for this, one of which is that we would like them to be
included in philosophy curricula. We want to restore them to the canon of
philosophy, which better reflects their historical and intellectual status.
Our contributors resist this deflationary trend through their close con-
sideration of these women, the assessment of their ideas, and a refusal to
limit our description of them in this restrictive and gendered way. In many
cases, they can show that, in their own time, these women were indisput-
ably considered philosophers. Many figures resist rigid categorisation and
prompt us to question attempts to create a dichotomy between, for
example, sex worker and philosopher or mother and educator. Though
there are lingering issues with criteria, these are challenges that pertain to
all genders. If we want to be stricter, we might sooner be excluding
Milesian ‘natural scientists’, for example, than some of these women.
A related issue is genre. While some ancient women philosophers write
philosophical treatises, others write letters, journals, poems, or communi-
cate their commitments through lifestyle. While there are examples of
male philosophers doing the same, it is particularly common in our
evidence to see women using non-mainstream genres. And there is reluc-
tance, then, to accept these works as philosophical. For example, Pang-
White spends a stretch of her chapter on Ban Zhao defending her status as
a philosopher despite a tradition of resistance to reading her works of
fiction and advice to women as such (Chapter ). Here again, our view is
that we ought to first engage earnestly with the content of the work, then
determine its philosophical merits, rather than seeing genre as a barrier to
engagement. Our contributors confront this issue as it pertains both to


On which see Hawley (); Waithe (); and Hutton (: –). The latter identifies the
same issue in early modern philosophy.

See Chapters  and , respectively
 Introduction 
individuals and groups of women, and in doing so encourage greater
general reflection on the issue of labelling and its justification.

Challenges without Texts

Male Authorship
How should we approach evidence of ancient women philosophers that
exists only in male-authored works? This issue raises a dilemma, because,
on the one hand, in an effort to recover and engage with the philosophical
ideas of ancient women, our general approach involves an open-
mindedness to different types of source. We would frankly cripple our
ability to work on these figures at all if we were to exclude evidence of their
thought that is written by men. In this volume, Adamson writes that ‘there
is no sharp contrast between studying ancient women philosophers and
reading what ancient men said about women philosophers’ (Chapter ).
That said, there is a potential clash between this open-minded approach
and our motivation. In addition to concerns about bias, distortion, mis-
representation, and invention, cases where our only evidence of an ancient
woman’s thought is in the writing of a man, or where a man writes in the
guise of a woman, are particularly problematic if one of the principal
reasons we are interested in this material is the gender of the author. We
might seem to undermine the aims of the project by including – and
indeed relying heavily upon – male-authored works. What if all these
sources tell us is what a certain ancient audience would have accepted as
being the philosophical perspective of a woman, without them accurately
reflecting the work of any particular historical woman philosopher? Would
we still consider them valuable?
Consider the parallel with Presocratic philosophy. McKirahan (: ix)
summarises the state of our evidence as follows:
Not a single work of any of the ‘Presocratic’ philosophers has been pre-
served from antiquity to the present . . .. We are confronted instead with a
variety of quotations and paraphrases of their words, summaries of their
theories, biographical information (much of it fabricated), in some cases
adaptations and extensions of their views, and also parodies and criticisms.
These materials come from a wide range of authors who write with different
purposes and biases, and whose reliability and philosophical and historical
acumen vary enormously. These circumstances have led some scholars to
despair of the possibility of reaching the truth about the early philosophers.
But of course, scholars have not given up engaging with Presocratic
philosophers, or Hellenistic philosophers, for that matter.
  ò   . ’
The parallel between the evidence for Presocratic and ancient women
philosophers is not a perfect one. We have more instances of reports of
Presocratic ideas, for instance, than we do for ancient women, even if these
reports are problematic in their own ways. Like the Presocratics, however,
much preliminary work goes into assessing the reliability of the sources and
whether we have additional evidence to corroborate their claims. And like
for the Presocratics, we have reasons, still, to engage with the available
evidence, with all the caveats required to do so in a responsible way.
A different version of this question is raised in the Indian tradition,
which includes important canonical texts that are not attributed to a single
author but are rather the product of an intellectual community. The
natural result of this is less emphasis on individual authorial attribution in
general, and more focus on the identity of particular characters or speakers.
The inclusion in this volume of work from this tradition thus prompts a
question: does the example of a communally authored text emphasise the
‘male authorship’ issue and make it more pressing, or does it provide a way
of making it less urgent, via a focus on representation rather than authorial
attribution?

Historicity
We mentioned the landscape of real vs. fictional vs. fictionalised women.
This is a thorny issue for this kind of project because if one wants to
exclude any fictional or fictionalised woman from the study of ancient
women philosophers, we are down to very slim pickings. We also lose
some of our most interesting examples, such as Diotima. This is the kind
of loss which, if applied to male equivalents, would not be acceptable. If we
were to exclude Socratic dialogues from our research and teaching because
Plato fictionalises Socrates, for instance, or the Analects because they were
composed by Confucius’ disciples, the impoverishment that would result
would be keenly felt.
And of course, when we teach Socrates, Plato, Cicero, and the Buddha,
this is not what is done. We do not take the divide between fiction and
history as a reason not to engage with their philosophy. This comparison
helps justify our inclusion of fictionalised women. Yet it does not dissolve
the issue of fictional women, where there is no historical basis. Moreover,
there is the added burden of gender. The question therefore remains: to
what extent are we entitled to use fictional or fictionalised figures as
evidence of the thought of ancient women philosophers? Should the lack

For the Upanishads, see Cohen (, ).
 Introduction 
of historical evidence prompt us to reject these figures and sources as
inauthentic?
To aid consideration of this question, we observe three interpretive
trends in the scholarship and some advantages and disadvantages of each.

Artifact This view is developed by Dutsch in relation to the debate

regarding the Pythagorean women (: ). It contends that, given the
impossibility of establishing historicity, a different approach is required.
One such approach is to consider women as icons, to abandon hope of
connecting specific women to texts, and to focus instead on texts as
cultural artifacts. An advantage of this view is that we avoid what can be
a distracting focus on the historicity debate, which can draw us away from
the works and ideas themselves. It also encourages open-mindedness
regarding the forms an intellectual legacy can take. The major disadvantage
is that this view detaches too much from the importance of the fact that
there existed women philosophers throughout antiquity.

Literary This is the kind of ‘bite the bullet’ view where we accept that the
fictional and fictionalised is all we have and work within that frame. The
major advantages of this approach are that, like the Artifact view, it avoids
being taken over by the historicity debate. It also facilitates the attribution of
value to fictional accounts of women. The existence of literary women philos-
ophers itself can be an argument for the existence of real women philosophers
inspiring these characters. Minimally, it can tell us what a certain audience
would accept as the view of an ancient woman philosopher. In addition, it
raises the possibility that in novels, authors can do more with women philos-
ophers and give them more argumentative strength. The major disadvantage
of this view is that, again, it can underestimate the importance of the connec-
tion to real, historical women: if part of our motivation is to engage with the
philosophical ideas of ancient women philosophers, how can we be satisfied
with evidence that has or may have no connection to these women? We must
at least do more to articulate what information this evidence gives us about
existing ancient women philosophers.

Strong Historicity This view argues that our default position should be to
trust the evidence for ancient women philosophers and implicitly shifts the
burden of proof to those who reject it. Where other approaches require
strong positive evidence that works originate with or provide evidence
  
See Chapter , for example. See Chapter . See, for example, Waithe (b).
  ò   . ’
from historical women, this view says that this requirement is too strong in
part because it would result in the elimination of ancient women from the
canon. The advantage is that this forces us to reconsider what the threshold
of evidence ought to be. The disadvantage is that it may seem unduly
optimistic. We find it imperative to be honest about the source issues, and
we consider some of the value of working on these figures to come from
this transparency, where this view tends to suppress or downplay the
challenges. We also feel the exclusively historical aim is too high. It
undervalues the fictional and the role it plays in informing us of real
women philosophers in antiquity.
We think of these approaches as on a continuum. Our position is not to
force a generalisable choice on this spectrum. Rather, we recognise that
each philosopher and source demands a nuanced approach, and encourage
close consideration of the costs and benefits of the approach one takes to
categorise the evidence.

Biographical Focus
One of the ways we distinguish our project from previous studies is our
focus on the philosophical ideas of ancient women, as opposed to their
lives. This distinction is a troubled one because, in some cases, all we have
as evidence for some ancient women philosophers really is biographical.
The question is whether, in some cases, it is possible to use the biograph-
ical as evidence for the philosophical. We are of the view that we can, and
in fact that we ought to, especially in cases where ancient women are
members of schools whose doctrines are best displayed in their lifestyles.
We have at least two examples of this in the book: the Pythagorean
women and Arete the Cyrenaic. These schools are distinguished by their
practical bent: they were insistent that their followers not only ascribe to
certain core ideas but also live a certain lifestyle reflecting the shared values
of the school. Other such examples may be the renunciate communities in
ancient India, of which the character Sulabhā in the Mahābhārata is a
spokesperson, the Epicureans, and the Cynic school, of which Hipparchia
was a member. Learning about the lives of male and female adherents adds
to the wider picture of these philosophical communities and the ideas
behind the lifestyle, as well as to our understanding of what philosophically
informed lives looked like within these traditions.

‘Great Minds’ vs. Communities

Several chapters in this volume urge us to reconsider what kind of unit we
ascribe philosophical ideas to, both in ancient philosophy and, quite
 Introduction 
possibly, more broadly. Some of our most direct evidence of ancient
women philosophers reports them as members of philosophical commu-
nities without ascribing to them original or independent philosophical
ideas. Yet we know a lot about the doctrines of these communities.
The general strategy in history of philosophy has been to focus on the
great minds to whom we can more confidently ascribe particular philo-
sophical ideas – for example, Pythagoras and Epicurus – and discuss
philosophical communities as a kind of outgrowth of the thought and
influence of these prominent figures. The focus (in both the ancient and
contemporary scholarship) is often on student-teacher chains generating
lines of individuals. These trends suppress the role of philosophical
communities and especially those members whose individual contributions
are not independently recorded.
An alternative approach is to think more holistically about the develop-
ment of philosophical theories and the role we can attribute to those of any
gender identity. We could focus on school doctrines rather than individual
authorship, like scholars already do, for example, with Stoicism. If women
were active members of philosophical communities, we should resist the
assumption that their presence was merely as passive followers. We should
instead consider the evidence to the contrary – for example, in the
Pythagorean, Cyrenaic, Vedic, and Epicurean traditions. Even where we
lack the specifics, we have evidence that women contributed to forming
and developing the ideas ascribed to these schools. What happens, then,
when we reframe the unit of emphasis from individuals to communities
and acknowledge the full membership of these communities? Why should
we restrict our interest to those who create, rather than inspire or preserve,
philosophical ideas? Once again, these are wide-ranging methodological
questions that concern philosophers of any gender identity, tradition, and
stage in the history of the discipline.

Philosophical Contribution from Sulabhā to Lucrezia Marinella

We now revisit our overarching proposal that there is a unique value to the
study of ancient women philosophers that benefits our understanding and
practice of the history of philosophy. In this final section, we want to

Our dependence on biographers such as Diogenes Laertius, who is known to emphasise and even
construct these familial and pedagogic chains, partly explains this. See Warren (). According to
Bernasconi (: ), the lack of identifiable teacher-pupil lineages was used to exclude non-
Greek traditions from the philosophical canon. Once again, non-Greek traditions may make the
Great Minds narrative less pressing.
  ò   . ’
support this thesis by highlighting some of the original philosophical
contributions of ancient women philosophers that the chapters bring to
light and some of the methodological questions the work on women raises.
Each chapter in this book revolves around an individual philosopher, or
a group of thinkers, focusing on their ideas and novel contributions.
Broadly, each chapter addresses three questions: (i) What is our evidence,
and what methodological challenges do we face when learning about this
figure’s ideas? (ii) What strategies and approaches could one use to engage
with this figure philosophically? (iii) What are the original philosophical
takeaways from the study of these women thinkers?
The chapters are organised chronologically. The book opens with two
studies on the general question of whether philosophical activity is gendered
or genderless and whether women have their own distinctive way of doing
philosophy. The first two chapters address this issue with examples from two
different ancient philosophical traditions in Greece and India. Chapter  is
about Diotima, the priestess from Mantinea and Socrates’ teacher from
Plato’s Symposium. The scholarship has so far primarily focused on the
question of whether Diotima is a historical figure and why Plato chose
to ascribe his philosophical theories about love and beauty to a woman
philosopher. Frisbee Sheffield, by contrast, leaves the question of Diotima’s
historicity aside and argues that this episode in the Symposium shows that
according to Plato philosophical activity goes beyond gender. Similarly,
Chapter  focuses on the Sanskrit epic Mahābhārata and, in particular, the
episode featuring a debate between King Janaka and the woman philosopher
Sulabhā concerning good speech and the ethics of renunciation. Once again,
Brian Black does not focus on the question of whether Sulabhā was a historical
figure. Rather, he considers the implications of gender identity on moksa,
enlightenment. Like Diotima, Sulabhā’s arguments show that philosophical _
activity is believed to lie beyond the dualities of gender distinctions.
Chapter  moves on to another group of female intellectuals from
antiquity: women physicians. We previously mentioned that one should
be broadminded as to what counted as philosophy in the ancient world
and which genres should be considered as philosophical. Sophia Connell
introduces a new source of evidence for Greek philosophy: the medical
treatises from the Hippocratic school. Specifically, Connell shows that
medical texts include references to women who both practised medicine
and held theories about the human body and human health. Women’s
medical expertise included both topics related to the female gender such as
fertility and gynaecology, and genderless discussions of the nature of
disease and pharmacology.
 Introduction 
The book then turns to the issue of philosophy as a way of life and the
philosophical value of ancient biographies. The next three chapters focus
on Hellenistic philosophy and the role of women in the Hellenistic
schools: Epicureanism, the Cyrenaics, and Stoicism. Chapter  focuses
on Epicurean women. As previously mentioned, most women thinkers
from antiquity are not referred to as philosophers in our sources.
Specifically, the Epicureans are portrayed by Epicurus’ critics as hetairai
and prostitutes. Kelly Arenson counters this narrow picture by focusing on
what the available doxographical evidence can tell us about these women’s
intellectual achievements: for example, Leontion is reported to have writ-
ten a book refuting Theophrastus. In Chapter , Katharine O’Reilly
analyses the available evidence for Arete, who is the daughter of the
founder of the Cyrenaic school Aristippus, and the mother and most
importantly the teacher of Aristippus the Younger. There is limited
evidence for Arete’s life and no direct evidence of her philosophical
activity. Nonetheless, her son Aristippus was oddly known as
mētrodidaktos, mother-taught. This leads O’Reilly to consider what ancient
biographies have to say about Arete’s role in setting and continuing the
Cyrenaic philosophical tradition. Finally, Chapter  looks at the position
of women in Stoic theory and narrative. Kate Meng Brassel proposes to
interpret the dramatisation of a woman’s moral choice in a Senecan
tragedy as a stand-in for the lost voices of historical women Stoics.
The next two chapters revolve around the Pythagorean women, the
best-known and most debated case of female engagement with ancient
Greek thought. The question is what makes the letters and treatises
ascribed to Pythagorean women philosophical. We mentioned that, so
far, the scholarship has primarily debated whether these texts were in fact
authored by women rather than men writing under female pseudonyms.
In contrast, these chapters focus on their content. In Chapter , Rosemary
Twomey analyses the letters and treatises about female-coded topics, such
as family life and home economics. Her argument is twofold: first, since
these topics are also addressed by canonical philosophers and in canonical
texts, such as Aristotle’s Politics and Plato’s Republic, we should not
question that domestic life was considered worthy of philosophical inves-
tigation. Second, and more importantly, these texts add to Plato and
Aristotle’s social and political philosophy by considering how we are to
apply these theories to the private sphere inside the household. In
Chapter , Caterina Pellò and Giulia De Cesaris analyse a treatise titled
On Wisdom and ascribed to the Pythagorean woman Perictione. In On
Wisdom, Perictione distinguishes different kinds of things that are and
  ò   . ’
three different sciences to study them. Wisdom is introduced as the highest
form of human activity, for it enquires about universals. This shows how
the texts of the Pythagorean women contribute novel arguments and
original philosophical theories.
In Chapter , Anna Christensen analyses the arguments about the
nature and immortality of the soul, which Gregory of Nyssa ascribes to
his sister Macrina. Once again, the authorship of these doctrines is con-
tested. Christensen argues for Macrina’s intellectual independence from
her brother and reclaims for her the title of philosopher. In Chapter ,
Jana Schultz gives an overview of the best-known Neoplatonist women,
such as Hypatia and Sosipatra. The focus is again on the available evidence
for their lives and intellectual activities. The challenge is to determine what
our sources can tell us about both these women’s ideas and the way in
which they exemplify Neoplatonic philosophical ideals of womanhood and
femaleness. In Chapter , Ann A. Pang-White analyses the philosophical
ideas of Ban Zhao, a Confucian thinker who writes about pedagogy and
women’s education. While Ban Zhao is traditionally seen as a poet and
historian, Pang-White shows that her numerous writings include philo-
sophical theories about gender, women’s roles in society, and the value of
harmony in the household. We close with a synoptic study of the reception
of women’s philosophical potential. In Chapter , Peter Adamson inves-
tigates how Plato’s theory about women being able to rule and philoso-
phise in the Republic is received by the Neoplatonist Proclus, in the Islamic
tradition by Ibn Rushd, and by the early modern feminist Lucrezia
Marinella. While the fifth book of the Republic includes arguments written
by a man about women doing philosophy, the way in which these theories
are interpreted by Plato’s successors is influenced by the historical evidence
for real women philosophers.
This is far from the end of the study of ancient women philosophers.
What we hope to show, nonetheless, is that philosophical traditions from
the ancient world include a wide and diverse range of women thinkers,
which is as diverse as the discipline itself.
  

Beyond Gender
The Voice of Diotima
Frisbee C. C. Sheffield

Introduction
In the Symposium, Plato’s great work on eros (passionate love, or desire),
the central insights are gleaned from a wise woman (d, d,
a), from whom Socrates learnt the single thing to which he laid claim
to expertise, ta erotika (Symp. d; Phdr. a; Lysis b; Xen. Mem.
..). Since there is a widespread view that Plato stands at the head of a
tradition of philosophical thinking in which women are eclipsed, or
marginalised, this fact has been seen as significant. That Diotima’s gender
has been the subject of such scholarly interest speaks volumes about the
assumptions we make about gender and its importance; it is not clear
whether and how Diotima’s gender is significant for the philosophy of the
Symposium, however. Gender categories are an explicit feature of this text,
but Plato’s playful and provocative use of them is not just a dialectical ploy
to provoke reflection on the social norms around sexuality and gender that
held sway in his day; toying with them exposes both the contingency of
gendered categories and, ultimately, their irrelevance to a philosophical
account of eros. It is in fact doubtful whether any of the images, or
vocabulary employed by Diotima, or even Diotima’s status as a ‘woman’
itself are, properly speaking, ‘gendered’ in any straightforward way. One of
Diotima’s central insights is that eros is a mediator between binary oppo-
sitions; eros is a non-binary facilitator. This explains a number of features
of the supposedly gender-polarised vocabulary and imagery in this text,
which fluctuates between (Plato’s) contemporary associations of the male


Lovibond (: ): ‘The most influential theme during this period has been that of the
masculinism of ancient thought – its assumption, explicit or otherwise, of the centrality and
superiority of the male point of view.’ The seminal paper on the significance of Diotima’s gender
is Halperin (). See also Saxonhouse (); Brown (); du Bois (); Nye (); Tuana
and Cowling ().


  . . 
and the female and the gender-muddled portrait of Diotima herself, fused
with her ‘feminised’ Socratic counterpart. Platonic eros seems genderqueer
insofar as it does not subscribe to conventional gender distinctions. One
lesson learnt from Diotima is that human beings are needy, incomplete,
and markedly indeterminate creatures; any determination we may ulti-
mately find is up to the individual and the work they are prepared to do,
which, ideally here, takes them beyond gender. Plato challenges the gender
categories of his day in a way that serves as a timely reminder of their
contingency; in doing so, he ‘de-center[s] the importance of gender’ in
philosophy. From that perspective, such interest in Diotima’s gender
reveals how far we are from that goal.

The Question of Diotima’s Gender

Determining whether Diotima’s gender is significant is made difficult by
the following features: (a) the difficulty of establishing whether Diotima
is evidence for the thinking of any historical woman (the consensus has
been negative, in which case she has little historical significance); (b) the
fact that Socrates speaks her truth so that her presence is eclipsed, or at
least mediated, by a man (in which case she is thin evidence for a
vindication of the female voice); (c) the fact that Plato elsewhere
attributes insights to certain ‘men and women who are learned in divine
matters’ (sophoi peri ta theia pragmata, Meno, a–b) – which may make
Diotima seem less unusual and minimise the significance of gender by
making it parasitic on a relationship to the divine. It is worth noting,


I take the phrase ‘de-center[s] the importance of gender’ from Faucette (: ) who outlines this
as part of the work of non-binary activism and those who identify as ‘genderqueer’. Faucette (:
–) argues that ‘non-binary activism brings something valuable . . . because it questions the logic
behind rigid gender norms, hierarchies, and the state’s use of gender as an unnecessary control
mechanism. This questioning benefits people of all genders, not only non-binary people.’ Compare
Olson et al. (); Griffin ().

For a historical reading of Diotima, see Waithe (a: –) and D’Angour (: ), who
argues that Aspasia of Miletus stands behind the figure of Diotima; she was the ‘intellectual
midwife . . . whose ideas helped to give birth to European philosophy’. Attempts at a historical
grounding for Diotima go back to Rettig (: ). For scholarship on Diotima’s ‘historical
authenticity’, see Halperin (:  n. ).

On the ‘male embodiment of the voice of a woman’, see Irigaray (: ).

Compare Aspasia in the Menexenus. We are told three things about Diotima: she is a foreigner, a
priestess, and a woman. For an explanation of Diotima’s gender in terms of ‘prophetic temperament’
see Bury (: ). Compare Nye (: ): ‘In historical context . . . it is neither surprising nor
anomalous that Diotima would appear in the authoritative role as the teacher of Socrates. As
prophetess/priestess she was part of a religious order that had maintained its authority from
Minoan/Mycenaean times.’ Evans (: ) argues that: ‘The dialogue, including Diotima’s
 Beyond Gender 
though, that Diotima gives arguments and proposes a philosophical
theory here and does not just supply a premise for an argument as those
who are learned in divine matters do in the Meno. Diotima is one of the
few named female interlocutors we witness engaged in philosophical
thinking. So, despite the fact that this chapter will not approach
Diotima as a historical woman philosopher, the dialogue nonetheless
promises to show what female figures can tell us about gender dynamics,
and their significance or lack thereof, in Platonic philosophy. The ques-
tion is not whether Diotima the woman philosopher existed, who she
was, and what she thought – but rather what this figure, the way Plato
describes her, and the arguments ascribed to her, teach us about the
significance of gender in Plato’s philosophy.
Three features have lent urgency to the question of Diotima’s gender:
the context, the topic, and the imagery used to explore eros. I take each in
turn. Diotima’s ‘presence’ is situated in an all-male context (a symposium).
This fact alone will not do much work because any female voice anywhere
in the Platonic dialogues falls into that category (e.g., Sappho in the
Phaedrus, Aspasia in the Menexenus). This need not be indicative of any
deep-seated misogyny on Plato’s part; the dialogues represent the cultural
contexts of his day in dramatic form. Plato recognises the importance of
embedding his philosophical thinking within ‘socially articulated spaces’,
dominated by men though they were. This ‘situatedness’ allows for greater

speech, contains mystical language, some of which specifically evokes the female-centred celebrations
of Demeter.’ Further,
just as the Demeter tradition celebrated at Eleusis allowed individuals to reconstruct their
conception of the divine and its relation to the human social and political structures inherent
in the polis, so Plato in Diotima’s speech presents a different conception of human
experience and its relative distance to and difference from the divine. Centred on the
experience of the divine mother and daughter, the Eleusinian Mysteries allowed initiates,
both male and female, to experience the divine immediately and with their own eyes during
the night ritual in the Telesterion at Eleusis. Likewise, Diotima the mystagogue leads
Socrates to realise that initiates into her rites of love will, in loving their beloved, see
Being and thereby enter into a new, mutual relation with the divine and become theophiles,
both loving the divine and beloved of the divine. ()
For Evans, then, Diotima’s gender is explained in terms of the Eleusinian mystery cult, which,
though based on the female experience of birth and nurturing, bestowed blessings on all human
beings ‘regardless of gender and civil status’ (). It is this feature, rather than anything distinctively
‘female’ that is to the fore here. Halperin argues that focus on her role as a prophetess should not
detract attention from her being a woman (: ). It is the latter issue that forms the focus of
this paper. Though religion was one of the few areas beyond the household in which women could
hold roles of authority, I agree with Halperin that the gendered language and imagery used here
bolsters the question of Diotima’s gender, which makes it difficult to reduce her gender to her role as
a priestess, rather than to features of the theory under discussion.
  . . 
scrutiny of existing prejudices around class and gender, for example, by
encouraging awareness of the extent to which knowing subjects are not
‘innocent and waiting outside the violations of language and culture’. The
characters, along with their social status, gender, contextual situation, and
the speech practices that are tethered to those, are brought to the fore in
the Symposium and elsewhere, along with the social and political implica-
tions of this foregrounding. Plato nowhere professes to speak from a
position of supposed neutrality; such devices serve as reminders of the
embeddedness of his thinking in a particular time and place and expose the
extent to which the gender of the participants and the dominance of their
voices arise from, and are perpetuated in, particular social structures, such
as those that dominated at the symposium. Whether Plato endorsed the
kind of structures that are in evidence at this all-male gathering of the
intellectual elite is another matter altogether. Diotima has been seen as one
way in which Plato destabilises the gendered hierarchy of those structures,
as he was to do elsewhere by providing a wholescale reform of society
underpinned by argument for the equality of the sexes.


See Haraway (: –) on ‘situated knowledge’ and the claim that knowing subjects cannot
be treated as straightforward, pre-theoretical entities, ‘innocent and waiting outside the violations of
language and culture’. See also Fricker and Hornsby (: ): ‘The space of reasons is a socially
articulated space, so that all conceptual activity is understood as activity within a setting in which
people adopt attitudes towards each other.’ A virtue of this position is taken to be that ‘they speak of
something ineluctably related to other such subjects’, and ‘when the knowing subject is treated as a
social being, testimony assumes its place as a fundamental mode of knowledge acquisition, attention
is given to epistemic practices, and relations between knowers are brought to the fore’. This gets
past ‘the neutralism of traditional philosophy’ to ‘acknowledge located-ness’ ().

The latter of which is made vivid by the dramatic date of the work set in  , just before the
doomed Sicilian expedition, in which one of the participants played a central role, and the affair of
the Mysteries in which three participants were implicated.

Though notice that the depiction of the golden age symposium-style gathering in the city of pigs in
Republic  is not gendered or hierarchical (b–c).

See Peter Adamson in this volume (Chapter ). Republic .d–e: ‘There is no pursuit of the
administrators of the city that belongs to women because she is a woman or to a man because he is a
man. But the natural capacities are distributed alike among both creatures, and women naturally
share in all pursuits and men in all.’ Whether that is sufficient to make Plato a feminist depends in
part on what his motivations are for postulating such an idea, on which see Annas () with the
riposte by Lesser (). See also Vlastos (). Though there are debates about how far the
proposals go, the Republic seems to continue what there is good reason to believe is a Socratic
tradition of thinking about virtue as gender neutral (Meno a–c). As El Murr (: ) has
argued, in the Politics (..a–), Aristotle takes this to be the view of Socrates and ‘it is
safe to assume that the beginning of the Meno and this passage from Aristotle’s Politics echo a debate
whose Socratic background should not be overlooked’. El Murr cites further evidence in support of
this view from Xenophon, Aeschines of Sphettus, and Antisthenes. It is also worth noting that the
provision of state-run nurseries in the Republic to free women to engage in higher education and
allow them to stand as Philosopher Queens shows sensitivity to the kinds of issues raised time and
again in feminist political philosophy (e.g., Okin ()). Okin (: , ) gives Plato his due as
 Beyond Gender 
One feature that differentiates Diotima’s presence in the Symposium
from other dialogues where Socrates takes a female voice (e.g., Sappho in
the Phaedrus, Aspasia in the Menexenus) is that Socrates introduces
Diotima after women have been explicitly excluded from the discussion
by the symposiarch (Eryximachus, e). This is certainly a transgression
of the rules of this particular symposium, as are the attempts at dialectic
instead of rhetoric in discussion with Agathon (Phaedrus has to remind
Socrates of the rules). Eryximachus’ move, by dismissing the flute girl,
marginalises physical eros from the gathering, to focus on ‘theoretical’ eros,
which suggests that within this social circle women were not considered to
be part of any such discussion; anything that is noble and valuable (i.e.,
educative) in eros belongs to paiderastia. Socrates’ transgression does not
consist just in introducing a woman (who usually did take part in male
symposia, i.e., as prostitutes or flute girls) but both in giving a woman the
role of a wise discussant, which was traditionally assigned to men, and in
making her knowledgeable on this particular topic.
This is the second feature that has been thought to give Diotima’s
gender prominence: Diotima is responsible for insights on eros. Would it
be more or less surprising if the insights of a woman had informed the
topic of, say, false statements in the Sophist? The issue is not that ‘love’ as
opposed to ‘negation’ is a topic particularly suited for women – certainly
not in ancient Greece, where the erotic paradigm was homoerotic. The
issue is that a woman schools men in a topic for which the paradigm was
homoerotic, to orthos paiderastein (b–). The extent to which Plato
was committed to that focus is not clear, however. This is for two
reasons. First, Plato’s interest in homoerotic relationships takes us to the
heart of his interest in moral education; relationships of the sort discussed

a pioneer with his argument for the equality of the sexes but argues that since this is tethered to the
‘communism’ of Book  it has limited appeal for a modern feminist).

I thank Christian Keime for discussion of this paragraph.

Though here one could find historical precedent. The Muses, after all, are female sources of wisdom
and inspiration on various subjects. Athena is the patron god of the arts, skill, wisdom, etc. And,
perhaps closer, Parmenides’ poem has the kouros instructed by an explicitly female divinity.
Pythagoras was reputed to have been educated by a priestess Themistoclea (D.L. ., on the
evidence of Aristoxenus), but the evidence for this is post-Platonic.

No less is the issue that love is a marginal topic for Platonic philosophy and so a member of a
marginalised group will do. The repeated characterisation of philosophy as itself a form of eros in a
number of dialogues (Symposium, Republic, Phaedrus) is indicative of the kind of value wisdom is for
Plato and the role he wants it to play in our lives. See Sheffield ().

There are those who speculate on Plato’s own sexual proclivities here, which seem impossible to
substantiate (e.g., Wender (: ); Plass ()). It remains to be shown whether such
speculation reveals anything interesting about Plato’s philosophical commitments.
  . . 
here, to orthos paiderastein, which took place at symposia such as this one,
were a central way in which virtue was transmitted to the young. At their
best, they had an educational function. The question, then, is whether
there is evidence that Plato supposed moral education to be the preserve of
men (i.e., one should not make the assumption that Plato had any deep
investment in the institution of Greek pederasty for its own sake and take
the significance of Diotima’s gender from there). The fact that in the
Republic Philosopher Queens, along with their male counterparts, have
responsibility for civic education shows at least one context where moral
education is not exclusively male. This is a context in which the moral
education of men as well as women is not the exclusive concern of men. It
would have been less unusual to think that women might be responsible
for the moral education of other women.
Second, though in this context most speakers evidently do hold the view
that such educational practices are male, the speech of Socrates-Diotima
shows little investment in to orthos paiderastein as a male–male practice;
this forms the context in which this discussion takes place (for reasons given
above), but the content of the account of eros is not tethered to servicing
this goal. The account of eros, with all of its educational aspirations, applies
to all human beings (pantes anthropoi, c–), who are pregnant in both
body and soul and enabled by eros in their creative endeavours as they
strive to create a life worth living, be that as parents, educators, poets,
lawmakers, or philosophers. The account applies to human beings regard-
less of gender (anthropoi e, al, b; thnetes, e), and it is
nowhere stated or implied that women are less good than men at the
higher cultural pursuits described in the Highest Mysteries
(e–a). The single line that could be so used is widely misun-
derstood. This is where Socrates describes those (presumably men) who
are pregnant in body and turn to women to produce children, supposing


That pederasty was an important social institution in Classical Athens is now a commonplace of
Classical scholarship, on which, see Dover (, ); Foucault (); Calame (). On the
educative function of the symposium, see Bremmer (); Calame ().

See Evans (: ) and Nye (: ): ‘Diotima, as any good teacher, uses homosexual
examples relative to her audience’s experience and refers to her potential initiate, who is in fact
Socrates as male. There is nothing, however, in the content of her teaching that makes a sexual
distinction necessary. We are all pregnant, she says, both in body and in soul. The generality of this
conception can only be discounted if one is determined to accommodate Diotima’s teaching with
the gynophobia of several of the preceding speakers. It is not comprehensible that Diotima, taking
the authoritative tone that she does on the subject, would think her own sex incapable of practicing
her advice.’

E.g., Irigaray (: ), who argues that love between men is superior to love between men
and women.
 Beyond Gender 
that this will supply them with memory and eudaimonia for all time to
come (e–). The target is those who are pregnant in body and who
suppose that producing physical offspring is sufficient for eudaimonia. This
is a demand that we (all human beings) be culturally (particularly, philo-
sophically) creative and not just biologically so. However much joy parents
find in their children, Plato (along with many feminist thinkers) is surely
persuasive in urging one to broaden aspirations beyond physical reproduc-
tion (leaving aside the obvious burden it brings to children to make them
bearers of our eudaimonia). Nor is there anything here that tethers the
female to being the beautiful ‘object’ that inspires creative work (unless
one falls into the category of those who suppose that eudaimonia is had by
the production of physical offspring). It is in the presence of another
beautiful person (anthropon, b) that one can give birth, and those
who give birth to ‘wisdom and the rest of virtue’ (b) are also described
by the inclusive ‘humans’ (anthropoi). The speech is consistent with the
Republic’s proposal that ‘there is no pursuit . . . that belongs to women
because she is a woman or to a man because he is a man’ (d), and it is
consistent with other accounts of gender-neutral virtue (e.g., Meno a–c).
Such a reading might bolster the significance of Diotima’s gender. If
Plato’s contemporaries thought that such educational practices were the
preserve of men, then there is value in showing us the ‘singularly fecund’
association between Socrates and Diotima to exemplify the inclusive tone
of the speech. True education is revealed to be a form of reproduction, a
point that suggests that the female voice needs to be incorporated – on the
assumption that there is something distinctively female about this experi-
ence. From the perspective of the other symposiasts, the presence of a
woman may well serve as a dialectical provocation, useful for the purposes
of disrupting norms (e.g., those set by Eryximachus at e). So argues
Halperin (: ): ‘By the very fact of being a woman, Diotima signals
Plato’s departure from certain aspects of the sexual ethos of his male
contemporaries and thereby enables him to highlight some of the salient
features of his own philosophy.’ Whether Diotima’s gender moves
beyond such provocation, what it provokes specifically, and whether it
emphasises ‘salient features’ of Plato’s own philosophy – which I take, for


The phrase is taken from Wardy (: ). For other scholars who argue that the introduction of a
woman lessens the focus on the homoerotic in particular, see Nussbaum (: ); Dover (:
); Evans (: ).

Compare Saxonhouse (: ): Plato ‘has found in women – those who give birth, those who are
different from the males, those who are closer to the private realm – a symbol that becomes useful
for his critique of an Athenian society devoted to the political life of ambition, money, war’.
  . . 
reasons I cannot defend here, to be best (albeit not exclusively) expressed
in the speech of Socrates-Diotima – are further questions. In Halperin’s
view (: ): ‘Diotima underscores the specifically feminine character
of her purchase on the subject of erotic desire by means of the emphatically
gender-polarised vocabulary and conceptual apparatus she employs in
discussing it.’ This third feature, which is how the topic is treated here,
has been seen as the most promising way to promote the significance of
Diotima’s gender. To that I now turn.

Mixing Things up
The seemingly gender-polarised vocabulary is included in the following
account of eros. It is argued that the aim of eros is to secure the good things
we suppose will bring us eudaimonia (d). Since we are mortal, and
subject to flux and change (–), we cannot secure anything without
productive work; human beings have to be productive in a way that gods
do not (c–b). This explains the productive work (ergon) of eros, which
is giving birth in the beautiful (b), as the distinctively mortal way to
secure those good things thought to be constitutive of eudaimonia.
According to Halperin, the fact that the work of eros is procreation in the
beautiful (b–c) and that the text is rife with images of pregnancy, birth
pangs, and nourishing offspring ‘serves to thematize two of the most
distinctive and original elements of Plato’s erotic theory’. More specifically:
In Plato’s conception (male) eros, properly understood and expressed, is not
hierarchical, but reciprocal; it is not acquisitive, but creative. Plato’s model
of successful erotic desire effectively incorporates and allocates to men, the
positive dimension of each of these two Greek stereotypes of women,
producing a new and distinctive paradigm that combines erotic responsive-
ness with (pro)creative aspiration. (Halperin : )
In this way, ‘Diotima’s gender . . . is a condition of her discourse’.
Evidently, here the ‘feminine’ (which Halperin makes clear refers to what
is constructed by the social group or historical culture in question) is
playing a central role.
The reading assumes two things: (a) that the female (however con-
ceived) can be located and (b) that it is then positively deployed, appro-
priated, or incorporated, in the account of ‘(male) eros’. The first
assumption is in fact fraught with difficulty. Consider the gender-polarised

For the ancient Greek sexual norms for male desire that this picture disrupts, see Winkler
(: ).
 Beyond Gender 
vocabulary. A translation of the crucial passage by Robert Wardy brings
out the ambiguities:
Whenever the [neuter] pregnant [kuo = ‘in pres. and impf., of females,
conceive; in aor. act. ekusa, causal, of males, impregnate’ (LSJ s.v.)]
approaches what is beautiful, it becomes gracious and in its enjoyment
relaxes and produces [tikto = ‘of the father, beget; of the mother, bring
forth’ (LSJ s.v.)] and generates [gennao = ‘causal of gignomai, mostly of the
father, beget’ (LSJ s.v.)], but whenever it approaches what is ugly, it turns
away and curls up and does not generate, but rather is in travail because it
retains the embryo. That is why what is beautiful occasions much excite-
ment in the pregnant and already swollen: either [taking ton echonta as
subject and ‘understanding’ to kalon] because he who has beauty releases the
pregnant from great pangs [wdis = ‘pangs of the birth of childbirth’ (LSJ, s.
v.)]; or [taking to kalon as subject and ton echonta in one sense as object]
because beauty releases him who has the embryo from great pangs; or [again
taking to kalon as subject, but ton echonta in another sense as object]
because beauty releases him who has great pangs from them. (d–e;
translation with notes taken from Wardy [: -])
Many of the key terms in Greek do not have a meaning that is gender
specific. For example, kueo (al, a, bl, b, c) can mean ‘conceive’ in
the sense that a woman conceives a child and becomes pregnant; but with
a male subject, it has a causal meaning, ‘impregnate’. Tikto (a, b, c)
can mean ‘bring into the world’ and ‘engender’; used with a female subject,
it means ‘bear’, and with a male subject, ‘beget’. Gennao is used mostly
with male subjects but can also be used with female. As Evans (: )
argues: ‘It becomes clear that these words in Greek cover semantic ground
the corresponding English words do not. In English, beget and conceive
are thought to be conceptually different, one used solely of the male, the
other solely of the female; but in Greek, each single verb covers the role
that both genders play in procreation. Verbs like kueo and tikto are, in a


It should be noted that all the manuscripts have τὸ κυοῦν (i.e., the participle of κυέω), which never
means ‘impregnate’ but always ‘conceive’ or ‘be in travail’ (Liddell et al. () and other
dictionaries). Only κύω (non-contract) can mean (very rarely) ‘impregnate’, but its participle
would be τὸ κῦον: it is this verb (not κυέω) that we find in the example from Aeschylus’ Fr. 
(‘ὄμβρος . . . ἔκυσε γαῖαν’). The aorist of κυέω would be ἐκύησε. I thank Christain Keime for
drawing attention to this.

Noted by Dover (: ); Halperin (:  and ff.); Wardy (: -); and Evans
(: –, n. ), who cite examples of kueo meaning ‘conceive’ or ‘be pregnant’ are found in
Hesiod Theogony ; Iliad ., .; Herodotus .. The causal meaning ‘impregnate’ that
applies to the male is attested in the aorist tense in Aeschylus’ Fr.  (a fragment from the Danaids).
In Homer, tikto is used of both men and women: of men, for example, Iliad ., . of Phyleus
and Glaucus; of women, for example, Iliad ., . of Polymele and Hecuba. Gennao is the
causal form of gignomai, become, be born. See, for example, Sophocles, Electra .
  . . 
sense, gender neutral.’ Plato did not invent this male paradigm of
procreation, which was well attested in early Greek mythology and
thought. From the perspective of a gender binary at least, the language
seems muddled on the issue. The question is why that is.
Let us first note that there is no reason to take this language as
metaphorical. It is only if we are already assuming that pregnancy, birth,
and procreation are exclusively female activities, and their salient expres-
sion is physical, that we then suppose that their application beyond the
sphere of the female is metaphorical. There is no evidence that Plato made
this assumption, however; on the contrary, the text is emphatic that all
human beings are pregnant in body and soul – in which case ‘it is no
accident that the pregnant one is expressed by a neuter participle, to kuoun,
to avoid a choice between masculine and feminine gender: the grammar is
not casual’. Pregnancy is categorised by us as female, but the philosophical
point (supported by, and perhaps giving philosophical expression to, the use
of kuein and cognate terms more inclusively by poets and philosophers who
applied such terms to males) is that physical pregnancy is but one species of
a much larger phenomenon, which covers human creativity of all kinds
(b–c). The same point, which is grounded in clarifying genus and
species correctly, is made more explicitly about eros (d–): there is no
‘sublimation’ in this account of sexual eros onto eros for knowledge and so
on; nor is eros for the intelligible form a metaphor. ‘The whole’ of desire for
good things and happiness is eros (d–): ‘But those who direct them-
selves to it in all sorts of other ways, in business, or in their love of physical
exercise, or in philosophy are neither said to be in love nor to be lovers, while
those who proceed to give themselves to just one kind of love have the name
of the whole love’ (d–). This is a mistake; just as it is to suppose that
pregnancy comes in just the one physical, female, form.
Now, if it is the case both that the language is muddled (from the
perspective of a gender binary at least) and that this is not a metaphorical
usage of terms that apply properly and exclusively to women, then we
cannot make assumption (a) that the ‘female’ can be located; nor then can
we suppose, as (b) urges upon us, that Plato is ‘appropriating’ or ‘exploit-
ing’ the female for his own ‘purely masculine philosophical and


For example, consider Zeus pregnant with Athena and Dionysus. See Leitao ().

Contra Evans (: ): ‘Diotima’s phrase “birth . . . in both body and soul” (b) clearly
points to a metaphoric usage.’ Rowe (: ): ‘All of human life is seen – for the moment – in
terms of a metaphorical (or sometimes, where real sex is involved, actual) process of reproduction.’
Rightly seen by Wardy (: ): ‘It is vital to realize that Diotima is not speaking metaphorically’.

Wardy (: ).
 Beyond Gender 
reproductive process’ or that he ‘effectively incorporates and allocates to
men, the positive dimension of each of these two Greek stereotypes of
women’. There is nothing distinctly female about procreation, or its
accompanying reciprocity and nurture, at all. That, I submit, is the
philosophical point exemplified by the ambiguous language. Those who
insist that this is no more than male ‘appropriation’, or ‘eclipsing’, of the
distinctively female reveal themselves either to be stuck in a retrograde
essentialism (if this is a biological claim) or to be entrenched in a gender
binary (even if socially and historically constructed) that Plato is evidently
at pains to resist.

Beyond Binary Thinking

The picture is both more confusing and more promising. Consider
Diotima herself. Though introduced as a woman (d), her portrayal
is muddled by the fact that she exemplifies characteristics of eros that were
previously associated with a male character. To appreciate this, we need to
turn to the story of Eros’ parentage, which describes the nature of eros
(b–a). According to this story, the gods held a feast to celebrate the
birth of Aphrodite. Penia (who becomes Eros’ mother) is needy and
lacking, uninvited to this feast and associated with the mortal. Being aware
of this state, she seeks out the resourceful and divine Poros to fulfil her
lack. As a result of this union, Eros was conceived. Though some of this
story seems to exploit relatively conventional gender-associations, even
here there is disruption: the apparently resourceless Penia schemes, show-
ing the resourcefulness associated with Poros, to make up her lack with an
active seduction, while Poros, drunk on nectar, passively sleeps while being
taken advantage of by Penia. Such scheming, as it is inherited by Eros in
the story, is owed to the father, Poros, and his ‘resource’. This mixed
parentage enables Eros to be ‘a schemer after the beautiful and the good,
courageous, impetuous and intense, a clever hunter, always weaving new
devices, both passionate for wisdom and resourceful, philosophising
throughout his life, a clever magician, sorcerer and sophist’ (d–).
The central point, though, is that Diotima is described in terms of Eros’
father Poros and Socrates in terms of Eros’ mother Penia. Socrates sought
out Diotima because he was aware of his need (c), just as the
experience of need motivated Penia to find her Poros in the story;
Diotima is presented as ‘wise’ (d) and sophistes (c), like Poros
 
As du Bois argues (: , ). Halperin (: ).
  . . 
(d–, d), and her Mantinean origins suggests a relationship to the
divine, which is the preserve of Poros, invited to dine with the gods.
Diotima, in other words, embodies the euporetic aspect of eros, which is
figured in the story, at least, as coming from the father, even though he
falls short of any straightforwardly gendered characteristics by failing to
perform the assigned attributes, which are exemplified better by Penia’s
‘resource’ and ‘scheming’. If Diotima is a ‘woman’, and aligned with Poros,
it is simply not clear what associations this brings.
The story, which gives us the tools to appreciate the characteristics of
Socrates and Diotima, takes us to the heart of Diotima’s concern with the
notion of the metaxu, from which it takes its lead (e–a) and to which
it returns immediately after the tale is told (a–b). Consider the very
first thing that Socrates learnt from Diotima, which was a lesson in how to
move beyond binary thinking. Socrates, much like Agathon, had assumed
that eros is beautiful and good. Diotima refutes this view, on the grounds
that eros desires what it lacks, either now or in the future. Since eros desires
what is beautiful and good, eros cannot be beautiful nor good (d–
c). Socrates then wonders whether this commits him to supposing that
eros is the opposite of these things. Once he has grasped the difference
between contraries and contradictories, he sees that something can be not
beautiful and good, without being ugly and base. Binary thinking is
evidently not helpful when understanding the phenomenon of eros.
What follows is an elaboration of this point with an account of eros as
intermediate (metaxu) between opposites (e–b) – for example,
beautiful and ugly, good and base, knowledge and ignorance, divine and
mortal, which culminates in an account of eros as an intermediary daimon
(e–a), and which is then given further expression in the story of
Poros and Penia. Once the story is completed, Diotima returns to her
central point about the metaxu with the example of those who philosophise
(b–b), explaining that it is due to the characteristics inherited from
Poros and Penia that Eros is in this intermediate state (b–). Elaborating
the metaxu structures this entire section.


On such grounds, Wardy concludes that: ‘Despite appearances, Diotima is not a woman, and her
towering presence in the depths of the interior of the dialogue is no vindication of the female’
(: ). He relays various characteristics that are more commonly associated with males that are
ascribed to Diotima, as well as pointing out that it seems that Socrates has been ‘impregnated’
by her.

For the importance of this see Irigaray (: ); Frede (: –), with Wardy (: ),
who argues that ‘beyond her speech, intermediaries, intermediates, and liminal characters are salient
in the dialogue.’
 Beyond Gender 
The notion of the metaxu requires unpacking. It could mean that eros is
a combination of opposite qualities, or it could mean that eros oscillates
between opposite qualities, such that a desiring agent is never properly
determined by either. In the story of Poros and Penia, the suggestion is
that Eros is intermediate in a dynamic sense, which is to say that he
fluctuates between a variety of opposite characteristics; eros mediates
between opposites (e–b). For example, from his mother Eros has
need as his constant companion, but in virtue of his father Eros is a
resourceful schemer after the beautiful and the good. Eros’ nature is neither
that of a mortal nor an immortal; rather he lives and flourishes whenever
he finds resources but then dies again because those resources are always
slipping away from him (e–), though he has the ability to ‘come
back to life again’ (e). From this description, it seems that Eros at least
temporarily manifests the properties of the one parent, then that of the
other, and so on. The story of Eros is evidently designed to explicate
human eros, and it suggests that eros is a dynamic experience. This coheres
well with the description of mortal life in a constant state of flux and
change (b–c). According to this, moral beings are indeterminate
creatures, unlike the gods who have a fixed identity that persists through
time (a). Described as the best helper for human nature (b–),
eros is the engine, or energy of self-constitution, which assists in the task of
self-determination. This occurs through creative effort, which is geared
towards reproducing the value seen in the world and to capturing it in a
life of one’s own, as a parent, poet, legislator, or philosopher, depending on
how one conceives of value and the creative efforts one deploys to secure it.
This explains the emphasis on stability and fixity at the apex of the ascent
(a–b). We are seeking a creative environment – a beauty – which
inspires an act of self-creation that speaks not only to our aspiration for the
good but for stable determination in a world of flux. This is the world in
which eros not only operates but brings to our attention in the experience
of desire, as we sense that lack and neediness, coupled with a forceful urge
to overcome it.


Allen argues as follows: ‘Plato uses the term intermediate in at least two distinguishable senses.
Sometimes intermediates are described as having a share of opposite qualities; if eros were
intermediate in this sense, it would be both good and bad, ugly, and beautiful, mortal and
immortal. In another sense, intermediates instead of possessing both opposites possess neither . . .
the intermediate character of eros is of this kind’ (: ). Compare Gorgias e–: ‘Is there
anything which is either good nor bad, or what is in between these, neither good nor bad?’, which is
later elaborated as ‘such things partake of the good, sometimes of the bad, and sometimes of neither’
(a). See also Lysis c; Prt. d.
  . . 
Viewed against the backdrop of the notion of the metaxu, the interaction
between Socrates and Diotima not only exemplifies the interaction between
Poros and Penia but the complexity of eros’ nature in the delivery of this
speech. Any collapse of gendered polarities into a more fluid picture is very
much to the point. The upshot is not that desiring agents exhibit a kind of
psychic hermaphroditism in the experience of desire but rather that they
dynamically fluctuate between any perceived binary, including that between
genders. Socrates is both the ‘beautiful’ student who allows Diotima to
‘give birth’ to wisdom (the speech of which Socrates is the recipient), and
Socrates, in turn, due to encountering this ‘beautiful’ wisdom gives birth to
wisdom of his own (dialectical enquiries of which Diotima’s theory gives the
inspiration). Are these gendered? Not any more than they were earlier,
where attention to the language suggests it is decidedly genderqueer (e.g.,
d–e). The lesson from Diotima is that eros is a non-binary facilitator and
we create ourselves anew as desiring beings who are ‘self-determining and
fully participate in the development of’ whatever self-determination we
suppose will deliver eudaimonia. Though the discussion of the metaxu is
general enough to accommodate gender binaries, notice that they are not
explicitly included in this list of beautiful and ugly, good and base, knowl-
edge and ignorance. Perhaps gender categories exist, just as knowledge and
ignorance, or beauty and ugliness, but if so, how they are conceived remains
an open question. Or it could be the case that they are not included in this
list precisely because, unlike the good and the bad, or the mortal and the
divine, gendered characteristics are not objective or relevant opposites. Or
they might be objective (like ‘tall, short’) but not relevant, which is the
important criterion here (cf. the Republic . d–e). Whatever the answer
to that question, eros’ relationship to (real or perceived) binaries is surely
clear; desiring agents will never be determined by them. The genderqueer
vocabulary and portrayal of Socrates and Diotima works beautifully to
illustrate that point.
The determination eventually advocated in the ascent, where eros is
envisaged to reach its telos, is markedly inclusive (anthropoi e, al,
b; thnetes, e) and beyond gender. The cultural pursuits of the
Highest Mysteries are neither shaped nor determined in any significant
way by gender. Diotima is not sure whether Socrates can follow them, but


The position of psychic hermaphroditism I once entertained, was taken up by Wardy (: ),
who rightly raises the question of whether the disparity between genders disappears in this mix.

I adapt the phrase from Grant (: ), whose humanist vision for feminism argues that ‘the
aim of feminist politics is the end of gender and the creation of new human beings who are self-
determining and fully participate in the development of their own constantly evolving subjectivity’.
 Beyond Gender 
that is not because he is a man who has failed to grasp ‘female’ truths but
because they are difficult, and it is not clear how far he has come at that
point. The ‘entry criteria’ such as they are, concern whether one is willing
and able to engage in the reflective activity characteristic of the ascent,
which involves a turn away from the body (kataphronein, b). Lest we
suppose that the denigration of the body brings with it a denigration of the
female, it should be noted that there is no association of the female with
the body here: all human beings are pregnant in both body and soul
(pantes anthropoi, c–), where that means, on the psychic level, that
women no less than men carry ‘wisdom and the rest of virtue’ (c).
Those (presumably men) who are pregnant in body and turn to women to
produce children are denigrated not for turning to women but for doing so
with the sole purpose of physical reproduction in mind, supposing that
this will bring them memory and eudaimonia for all time to come
(e–). The privileged relationships are not gendered, entered into
by gendered beings, on account of their gender difference. It may be true
that the disdain for the body shown in Diotima’s speech is indicative of
somatophobia, as Spelman argues (), on the grounds that bodily
identity is not indicative of who we are, but this is not (as Spelman argues)
tethered to misogyny because there is no association of the female with the
bodily here. As she rightly argues later, ‘it doesn’t make any difference,
ultimately, whether we have a woman’s body or a man’s body’; or rather, it
does not make any difference for these purposes, or for ethical evaluation
more generally. That is not to say that Plato was unaware of the
disfiguring effects for society as a whole that existing categorisations place


See, for example, Spelman (: ): ‘[Plato’s] misogyny is part of his somatophobia: the body is
seen as the source of all the undesirable traits a human being could have, and women’s lives are
spent in manifesting those traits’; ‘[Plato] depicts women’s lives as quintessentially body-
directed’ (). Compare Saxonhouse (: ) on the body in the Republic.

Spelman (: –):
Plato insists, over and over again in a variety of ways, that our souls are the most important
parts of us. Not only is it through our souls that we shall have access to knowledge, reality,
goodness, beauty; but also, in effect, we are our souls . . . our bodies are not essential to our
identity . . . if we are our souls, and our bodies are not essential to who we are, then it
doesn’t make any difference, ultimately, whether we have a woman’s body or a man’s
body . . . if the only difference between women and men is that they have different bodies,
and if bodies are mere incidental attachments to what constitutes one’s real identity, then
there is no important difference between men and women.
It seems unlikely that Plato supposed immortal souls had a gender; in which case, Spelman is surely
right that gender differentiation is a facet of embodiment. Notions of metempsychosis prior to Plato
do not usually restrict souls to embodiments of just one gender. Empedocles claims to have lived
various human and non-human lives and to have been individuals of different genders.
  . . 
upon those who are physically capable of bearing children; Republic  is
evidence to the contrary. It is to say that in this text at least, only those who
are enslaved to the body have to take heed of gender difference (e–).
Those who suppose that eudaimonia is satisfied in physical reproduction
have to adhere to a gender binary, for the simple fact that in this instance at
least it is indeed the case that ‘a woman bears and a man begets’; but if we
move beyond the body then we are liberated from attaching such relevance
to this simple fact; it becomes as relevant as the fact that some people have
hair and some are bald (Rep. c). The body can be played with, along
with whatever gender markers others may bring to that: Socrates can
‘beautify’ himself for Agathon (a); he can show endurance and
hardiness through his body if he chooses (a); he can use his body to
pursue or to be pursued. Do we wish to gender that behaviour? And why?
There is little value attached to the body or to any of the gender markers
we (or the ancient Greeks) may apply to it. Since the body continues to
invite the constraints of gendered categories, this is surely all to the good. If
the question is not ‘Does this text reflect female experience in the use of
Diotima?’, but ‘Does Diotima assist not just the liberation of women
(however conceived), but all those who question the relevance of gendered
categories?’ (of which the non-binary movement is now the stellar exam-
ple), then Diotima is surely an ally.

Conclusion
It is a curiosity of the age that we are being invited to reflect on whether we
can identify with the authors we study. Perhaps this only seems curious
from the vantage of a philosophy characterised by strangeness and provo-
cation. If prompted to reflect as a woman (conceived by my culture and
time), then I find that identifying with Plato’s dialogues is not difficult.
One can find recognition of the experiences our own age continues to
gender as female (birth, pregnancy, midwifery). The drive to acknowledge
a care-centred component of rationality associated with feminist thinkers
(Gilligan []; Kittay and Meyers []) is not news to any reader of
Plato, for whom caring interpersonal relationships form a crucial part of his


Particularly those in the non-binary movement who identify as genderqueer, on which see, for
example, Faucette (: ): ‘Non-binary activism is not about taking away others’ gender
identity; rather it’s about questioning the unique pedestal on which gender stands as a system of
classification and an identity marker, and especially the heavy use of a classification system that is
based on assumptions rather than consent.’
 Beyond Gender 
ethical outlook. And the ‘morality of responsibility’, associated with
Gilligan () is foreshadowed in the ethics of the Republic, in which
philosophers have responsibilities to others they would otherwise not have
had because they stand in a relationship of friendship and care for those
others. Membership of a community plays a constitutive role in self-
identity. While both Plato and Gilligan value an ethics of care and
responsibility to others in our communities, unlike Gilligan, Plato does
not take this trait to be gendered. For those who resist attaching such
weight to the gendering of these laudable characteristics, it is the provoc-
ative Plato with whom one identifies, who provides a liberating dialogical
space that recognises the social markers of his time, ‘outs’ them as mere
contingent playthings of the age time, shows sensitivity to the political and
philosophical dangers their associations can bring, and invites us to con-
ceive new imaginative possibilities. Perhaps this overlooks the casual
sexism that litters certain dialogues. Arguably, this is the price we pay
for the acknowledgement that Plato meets interlocutors on their own
terms in these ‘situated’ dialogical spaces (Phdr. d–b); this means
using the language and associations of his time and place. As for philo-
sophical commitments, more persistent are accounts of virtue as gender
neutral, a gender-neutral soul, and an inclusive appeal to all human beings
to take up philosophy. From that perspective, why there continues to be so
much investment in Diotima’s gender is one question Plato invites us to
entertain.


Ruddick (); Gilligan (). Compare MacIntyre (: ) who cites feminist thinkers as allies
in acknowledging dependence and the importance of social relationships in human development.
 
On this, see Sheffield (). See Benhabib (/).

For resistance to the vindication of the ‘female’, see Simone de Beauvoir (/: ): women’s
demand is ‘not that they be exalted in their femininity; they wish that in themselves, as in humanity
in general, transcendence may prevail over immanence’, cited in Spelman ().

For the association of women with weakness and emotional incontinence, see Rep. d–e: ‘A
woman, young or old, wrangling with her husband, defying heaven, loudly boasting, fortunate in
her own conceit, or involved in misfortune or possessed by grief and lamentation, still less a woman
that is sick or in labour.’ Compare Rep. c–d: ‘When in our lives some affection comes to us you
are aware that we pride ourselves . . . on our ability to remain calm and endure, in the belief that this
is the conduct of a man and giving in to grief that of a woman.’ Compare the description of the
tyrant, who ‘must live for the most part cowering in the recesses of his house like a woman, envying
among other citizens anyone who goes abroad and sees any good thing’ (Rep. c). In the Timaeus,
incarnation into a woman is a degeneration (Tim. b–c; e; a).

Thanks to Christian Keime and James Warren for comments.
  

Sulabhā and Indian Philosophy

Rhetoric, Gender, and Freedom in the Mahābhārata
Brian Black*

Introduction
In a well-known scene from the Mahābhārata, the female renunciate
Sulabhā engages in a philosophical debate against King Janaka. This
chapter will examine Sulabhā’s arguments and method of articulating
them, as well as show that she makes important contributions to philo-
sophical discussions that are going on throughout the text. I will do this by
focusing on three aspects of her argument in particular: () her formula-
tion of what constitutes a good speech, () her articulation of moksa-
dharma – the ethics of renunciation – which is a major innovation of
the Mahābhārata, and () her characterisation of the highest knowledge as
beyond the dualities of gender distinctions. In developing these arguments
together, I will show that Sulabhā makes original contributions to ongoing
debates about rhetoric, ethics, and ontology in Indian philosophy. This
chapter will also address the thorny question of whether or not Sulabhā
should be understood as a woman philosopher or as a literary character
most likely constructed by male authors. As I will argue, despite the
ultimate unanswerability of this question, Sulabhā articulates an under-
standing of enlightenment (moksa) that is as available for women as
for men. _

The Mahābhārata as a Philosophical Text

The Mahābhārata, composed in Sanskrit and most likely compiled in the
first centuries of the Common Era, is a multi-genre text that defies
categorisation. The main story is about two sets of rival cousins – the
*
I would like to thank Naomi Appleton and Emily West for reading a draft of this chapter and
offering helpful feedback.

For a discussion of scholarly debates about the composition of the Mahābhārata, and other textual
issues, see Sullivan ().


 Sulabhā and Indian Philosophy 
Pāndavas and the Kauravas – who both claim to be legitimate heirs to the
_ _ The narrative follows these two sets of cousins from their birth to
throne.
their emerging rivalry as adolescents to their young adulthood, when a full-
scale war breaks out between them. Because Western scholars have tended
to approach the text as narrative, myth, and epic, its philosophical dimen-
sions have been undervalued.
As I have argued elsewhere, when reading the Mahābhārata philosoph-
ically, we need to pay particular attention to its use of the dialogue form
(Black a: –). In addition to being framed by two conversations, at
the very beginning of the text, many of the crucial scenes in the main
narrative unfold as verbal exchanges, with the central characters discussing
and debating among themselves about how they should act in a number of
difficult and morally ambiguous circumstances. Many of these dialogues
reflect upon the central ideas of Indian philosophical and religious tradi-
tions, such as morality (dharma), enlightenment (moksa), causality
(karma), discipline (yoga), truth (satya), fate (daiva), human _ agency
(purusakāra), non-violence (ahimsā), ultimate reality (brahman), the self
_ and devotion (bhakti). _
(ātman),
Moreover, the dialogue form itself often contains embedded arguments,
as characters articulate reasons in their attempts to persuade each other to
think or act in particular ways. In addition to the specific arguments made
by individual characters, there are often philosophical implications in the
ways that discussions unfold. Hans-Georg Gadamer, in his engagement
with Plato’s work, has perhaps explored this implication of the dialogue
form as much as anyone. Gadamer was drawn to Plato’s dialogues because
he saw philosophical dialogue itself – the conversations we have with
others about shared concerns – as fundamental to how we experience
and develop understandings of the world we live in. In his readings of
Plato, Gadamer rejects the search for an overall meaning or hidden
doctrine. Rather, he pays close attention to the ‘directions of questioning’
between Socrates and his interlocutors (: ). Similar to Gadamer’s
approach to Plato’s dialogues, I have argued elsewhere that much of the
philosophical import of the Mahābhārata is expressed through how dia-
logue unfolds throughout the text (Black a: ). In this chapter, I will
not only look at the philosophical implications of a specific dialogue in the
Mahābhārata, but I will also pay particular attention to how a woman’s


For further discussion, see Black (a), as well Matilal () and Dalmiya and Mukherji ().

For an excellent discussion of the dialogue form in philosophy throughout the Western tradition, see
Hösle ().
  
voice is represented through dialogue, as well as what she says about
dialogue itself.

Recovering the Voices of Women Philosophers

Many scholars have addressed the unique challenges in finding authentic
voices of women philosophers from the ancient world. One of the major
difficulties is that very few surviving texts are attributed to women. In the
context of classical Mediterranean philosophy, Marguerite Deslauriers
points out that works attributed to women often do not have ‘independent
evidence to establish the existence of the women in question’ (: ).
Another problem, also noted by Deslauriers, is that ‘the most extensive
evidence we have about women in ancient philosophy and the issues
around women is found in men’s philosophical treatises’ (: ).
Similar problems emerge when trying to find the voices of women
philosophers in an ancient Indian context. The only text attributed to
female authors from ancient India is the Therigathā. Although this attri-
bution is not uncontested, the Therigathā nevertheless is widely regarded as
the oldest extant book in the world composed entirely by women. Even in
cases where texts are attributed to male authors, there are many instances
of women participating in philosophical discussions. The Upanisads, for
example, which are often considered the first philosophical texts _ from
India, include some notable women discussing philosophical issues.
Most famously, Gārgī, who appears in the Brhadāranyaka Upanisad,
challenges the eminent brahmin Yājñavalkya _ in the _ court of King _

Janaka. Gārgī does not win this debate, but she distinguishes herself from
the other interlocutors by giving Yājñavalkya his strongest rebuke, after
which she declares him the victor. The Upanisads also include Maitreyī,
_
who is described as a knower of brahman (BrahmavāŒdinī) (BU ..)
and who engages in a conversation with her husband Yājñavalkya about
the nature of the self (ātman) (BU ..–).
In addition to the Upanisads, the Mahābhārata also includes several
_
women who make notable contributions to philosophical and religious


See also the chapters in this volume about the Pythagorean women (Chapters  and ).

The Therigathā is a collection of poems composed by Buddhist nuns, which offers invaluable insights
into the emancipatory potential of the Buddhist path for women. For an excellent translation of the
Therigathā, see Charles Hallisey ().

For brief introduction to the Upanisads, see Black (b).

For further discussion of Gārgī, see _Black (a: –)

For further discussion of Maitreyī, see Black (a: –).
 Sulabhā and Indian Philosophy 
debates. Most famously, Draupadī, the major heroine of the text, makes
dharma-based arguments to secure her own freedom after being staked by
her husband in a dicing match. Other women who display their learning
and knowledge in discussions about dharma and other central ideas
include Śakuntalā, Sāvitrī, Gāndhārī, and Ulūpī. Although these and other
women in the Mahābhārata have not always been recognised as philoso-
phers, their knowledge and wisdom – particularly in relation to their male
interlocutors – has been widely acknowledged. As Stephanie Jamison has
noted: ‘In story after story women see what needs to be done, take
command, and order the bewildered, hand-wringing male participants
into their supporting roles – and the enterprise fails only when one of
these ninnies messes up his part of the woman’s plan’ (: ).
One of the challenges of assessing the philosophical views of these
women in the Mahābhārata, including Sulabhā, is that we have no way
of knowing whether their words are representative of the views of real
women. To what extent can we interpret the words of female characters as
expressing the philosophical views of women in a text likely composed by
men? As is clear in the chapters throughout this book, this is a question
facing scholars of women philosophers in many contexts from the ancient
world. In the case of Sulabhā, since we lack conclusive arguments for or
against her historicity, I find it more fruitful to focus on her philosophical
arguments, what they contribute to our understanding of philosophy in
the Mahābhārata, and why they are ascribed to a woman philosopher.
Because readers of this book are more likely to be familiar with ancient
Greek philosophy than ancient Indian philosophy, it is worth noting some
similarities and differences between Sulabhā in the Mahābhārata and
Diotima in Plato’s Symposium. Similar to Diotima, Sulabhā is a woman
who offers a prominent argument in a text likely composed by men. An
important difference, however, is that whereas we know that the
Symposium was composed by Plato, the authorship of the Mahābhārata
is a topic of considerable debate. The text itself attributes its authorship to
the male sage Vyāsa, but most scholars today assume that many composers
contributed to the redacted text, whether that took place over several
centuries or by a committee over a shorter period of time. Considering
the fact that we do not have any evidence about who might have contrib-
uted to authoring the text, I do not think we can discount the possibility


For further discussion of Draupadī and other female characters in the Mahābhārata, see Falk
(); Jamison (); Hiltebeitel (); Malinar (); Patton (); Dhand (); Black
(, a, and b); and Chakravarti ().
  
that women participated in its composition, whether directly or indi-
rectly. Indeed, despite prohibitions against women learning sacred scrip-
tures and receiving a formal education, many women depicted in the texts
display their knowledge of traditional sources and reveal their educational
backgrounds. In the same way that female characters, such as Gārgī in the
Upanisads and Sulabhā in the Mahābhārata, appear in literary depictions
_
of philosophical debates, there might have been women participating in
the discussions about the redaction of the texts. In the case of Sulabhā,
although we cannot assume that her words represent an authentic female
voice, we cannot rule out that possibility either.
Nevertheless, like Diotima, we only know about Sulabhā as a literary
character, as there is no external evidence indicating that her personage is
based on a real woman. Indeed, the name ‘Sulabhā’ suggests that she is
more allegorical than real. Arindam Chakravarti describes her name as
ironic. Sulabhā, as he points out, means ‘“Easy-to-Get” because she
remained so hard to get for Janaka, in every sense of “getting”’ (:
). Moreover, unlike Diotima, who appears in a work in which the
historicity of most of the other characters – such as Socrates, Aristophanes,
Agathon, and Alcibiades – is corroborated by other sources, there is no
evidence for the historicity of most of the characters in the Mahābhārata.
Rather than disqualify the Mahābhārata as a philosophically insignificant
text, however, I think the lack of historical verifiability challenges us to
consider whether historicity should be a criterion for philosophical merit.
Just as we should take the arguments of all characters in the Mahābhārata
seriously, regardless of not being able to establish their historical authen-
ticity, so should we with Sulabhā.
A further parallel between Sulabhā and Diotima is that both characters
seem to reveal their text’s anxieties about the authority of the speech of
women. Indeed, a striking similarity between them is that their voices are
mediated by several male narrators within their respective texts. Diotima
does not appear in the main episode of the Symposium, but rather her views
are narrated by Socrates when he is delivering his speech at Agathon’s
house. Meanwhile, the account of the banquet itself is narrated by
Apollodorus, who was not present but who had heard a first-hand descrip-
tion of the episode from Aristodemus, who was in attendance. Keeping in
mind that Plato, as author of the text, is a narrator as well, then Diotima’s


A number of scholars have indicated the possibility of women contributing to the authorship of the
Mahābhārata, in one way or another. See, for example, van Buitenen (: –); Hiltebeitel
(: –); Mary Brockington (in Ram-Prasad :  n. ); and Black (a: ).
 Sulabhā and Indian Philosophy 
views are mediated through the narration of four men. Intriguingly,
Sulabhā’s voice is also mediated through four male narrators. Her debate
with King Janaka is narrated by Bhīsma, whose dialogue with Yudhisthira
is narrated by Vaiśampāyana, whose_ dialogue with Janamejaya is narrated__
_
by Ugraśravas who tells Śaunaka. It is not entirely clear who narrates the
Ugraśravas dialogue, but the Mahābhārata tells us that its author is Vyāsa.
Although it is certainly a coincidence that the voices of both Diotima
and Sulabhā are filtered through exactly four male narrators, in both cases
the multiple levels of narration bring up interesting issues related to the
authority and veracity of the words of women. Modern historical sensibil-
ities are likely to see the words of Diotima and Sulabhā as less authentically
female because they are so heavily mediated through male narrators.
However, once again, it is worth considering whether the demand for
historicity is the most useful lens through which to make sense of
Diotima’s and Sulabhā’s filtered words. We might entertain the possibility
that the very need to have their views authenticated by male narrators
indicates that their words and teachings were strongly associated with
female perspectives.
Finally, while Diotima is somewhat of an anomaly in Plato’s work,
Sulabhā is one of many strong female characters who participate in
philosophical dialogues in the Mahābhārata. Another compelling reason,
then, for taking Sulabhā’s characterisation as a woman seriously is because
her views intersect with and amplify the views of several other female
characters. As we will see, Sulabhā’s arguments explicitly address issues
related to her experiences as a woman, many of which overlap with the
experiences of other women in the text. Although we cannot naïvely
assume that the speech of female characters consists of the actual words
of historical women, at the same time Sulabhā’s arguments genuinely
challenge and rethink the explicitly misogynistic views about women in
other places in the text. Whether or not her character is based on a real
person and whether or not her character was composed by a man, we will
see that what she says offers a genuinely female perspective and has
important implications for how we understand women philosophers in
an Indian context.

The Sulabhā/Janaka debate (Mahābhārata, .)

Now that we have addressed the issue of Sulabhā as a woman philosopher,
let us look more closely at what she argues in her debate with Janaka and
the philosophical contributions she makes to the Mahābhārata as a whole.
  
The debate between Sulabhā and Janaka appears in the Moksa-dharma
_
section of the Śānti Parvan, which is the twelfth of the Mahābhārata’s
eighteen books. It is narrated by the patriarch Bhīsma to the recently
_
crowned king Yudhisthira as part of the dharmic instructions to prepare
_ _
him for assuming the throne. Although this is Sulabhā’s only appearance in
the Mahābhārata, Janaka – the legendary philosopher king from the late
Brāhmanas and early Upanisads – features in several episodes, particularly
_
in the Śānti _
Parvan. Indeed, King Janaka is the character from the
Upanisads who appears the most in the Mahābhārata. Like in the
_
Upanisads, here he engages in a philosophical discussion about renuncia-
_
tion. But rather than the wise and approachable philosopher king of the
Upanisads, here Janaka is represented as arrogant and petulant. Another
_ difference from his portrayal in late Vedic literature, where he is
significant
depicted as a single individual who is king of Videha, is that in the
Mahābhārata Janaka is the name of a number of different kings, all of
whom are in one way or another related to Janaka of the Brhadāranyaka
Upanisad, but many of whom have identities that seem to be distinct from
him.
At the beginning of her debate in the Mahābhārata, Sulabhā is a
wandering ascetic who hears reports from other renouncers that King
Janaka has achieved moksa without giving up his kingdom. Doubtful of
these claims, she uses her _ yogic powers to put on an immaculately
beautiful body and travel to the court in the wink of an eye, to find out
for herself about Janaka’s claims to be enlightened (see below for more
details about the special abilities afforded by yoga). When she arrives, after
accepting the King’s hospitality, she challenges him to a debate in front of
the assembly. At this point, she uses her knowledge of yoga to inhabit his
body, where she dwells for the remainder of the discussion.

Sulabhā on Rhetoric
As I have argued elsewhere (Black a: –, –), the dialogue form
of the Mahābhārata not only portrays philosophical discussions between
interlocutors within the text but also provokes philosophical reflection by
compelling its readers to contemplate its numerous moral dilemmas,

For further discussion about the several episodes featuring Janaka, see Black ().

For a discussion of Janaka across Hindu, Buddhist, and Jain literature, see Appleton (:
–).

A renouncer is someone who has given up a life of marriage and children in favour of the solitary
pursuit of enlightenment (moksa). See below for further discussion.
_
 Sulabhā and Indian Philosophy 
unresolved debates, and ambiguous arguments. Sulabhā makes an impor-
tant contribution to this understanding of dialogue in the Mahābhārata by
outlining how to engage in a philosophical conversation with someone
who holds different views. Chakrabarti, who also discusses the dialogical
features of the Mahābhārata, describes the Sulabhā/Janaka dialogue as ‘the
most philosophical of all the conversations reported in the text because it is
designed to be self-reflexive – a conversation about how to converse well and
how not to converse in public’ (: ). Although I hesitate to agree
that it is the most philosophical of all the conversations in the
Mahābhārata, it is nevertheless significant that in a text in which dialogue
has such profound philosophical implications, Sulabhā is one of the few
characters to theorise about dialogue itself.
Sulabhā’s dialogue with Janaka is not presented as a back-and-forth
exchange but rather as an argument and counterargument, with each
interlocutor speaking just once. Janaka speaks first, posing a series of
questions to Sulabhā about her social identity:
Whose are you? And where are you from? . . . I cannot get a clear sense of
your learning, of your age, or of the ethnic group you were born in, so
please convey answers to these matters in this assembly of the good.
(..–)
Janaka returns to these questions throughout his argument, challenging
Sulabhā’s claim of achieving moksa by questioning her social identity in
terms of class, family, and gender._ As we will see, some of his accusations
are explicitly sexist. In addition to challenging Sulabhā’s ability to be
enlightened, Janaka vehemently defends his own claims to have attained
moksa.
_
Despite his positive portrayal in the Upanisads and other episodes in the
_ episode – portrays Janaka
Mahābhārata, here Bhīsma – the narrator of this
_
negatively. At the beginning of the dialogue, Janaka is referred to as
dharma-dhvaja, which can mean ‘hypocrite’ or ‘impostor’ (..).
Also, during his argument Janaka repeatedly insults Sulabhā, calling her
a wicked woman and accusing her of using her yogic powers as a poison
(.., ). Moreover, after Janaka concludes his argument, Bhīsma
__
describes the king’s statements as ‘unpleasant’ (asukha) and ‘inappropriate’
(ayukta) (..). It is also noteworthy that Janaka speaks first, because
in many dialogical episodes in ancient Indian literature speaking first in a


Translations are from Fitzgerald (). In some cases, I have slightly modified translations to leave
key words, such as moksa, untranslated, or to convey a more literal rendering.
_
  
philosophical discussion can be an indicator that the speaker is too proud
and/or has incomplete knowledge.
Despite Janaka’s aggressive tone and insulting words, Sulabhā begins her
response by outlining the characteristics of a proper argument:
King, a ‘speech’ is said to have an appropriate meaning, to be free of the
eighteen faults that spoil words or thought, and to be endowed with the
eighteen virtues; and a ‘speech’ has sophistication, careful discrimination,
clear order, the presentation of a conclusion, and motivation – all five of
these are aspects of the meaning to be conveyed. Listen to a careful
description – in terms of sentences, words, and the meanings of words –
of each one of these items, sophistication and the others, that occur over
and over again. When there are several discrete things to be known, but the
knowledge of them forms an undivided whole, the extraordinary under-
standing in that is ‘sophistication’. When, in regard to whatever subject he
has in mind, one weighs the good and bad points according to the divisions
of the subject matter, that is ‘careful discrimination’. The experts on speech
say that speech is ‘clearly ordered’ when one considers what one wants to
say with ‘This should be said earlier,’ and ‘This should be said later’.
(..–)
Here, Sulabhā argues that words must be used precisely and that points
must be ordered correctly for a speech to convey meaning. She then
describes five aspects of speech: subtlety (sauksmya), deliberation
(saṁkhyā), clear order (krama), a conclusion (nirnaya), _ and purpose
_
(saprayojana), in each case giving an example to illustrate her point.
Next, she explains how she will articulate her speech, promising not to
say too much or too little, not to say anything off topic or untrue, adding
that she will not be affected by her emotions: ‘I shall say nothing whatso-
ever out of love, anger, fear, greed, desperation, vulgarity, shame, pity, or
haughtiness’ (..). She then talks about the interaction between
speaker and hearer, explaining that when they agree, meaning arises; but
when a speaker disrespects the hearer, then the speaker only speaks for his
own sake, or the speech is simply useless for the other.
Beginning her rebuttal by outlining how to make a proper argument,
Sulabhā brings attention to her own philosophical training, while char-
acterising Janaka’s entire case as unsophisticated and confused.
Chakrabarti, who describes Sulabhā’s discourse as ‘a formal meta-discourse
on the ethics of discourse’ (: ), draws some interesting parallels
between the requisites of proper speech that she lists here and the rules of


See Black (a).
 Sulabhā and Indian Philosophy 
debate as outlined in the Nyāya Sūtra (: –). In other words,
Sulabhā’s argument here resonates with practices that the Indian philo-
sophical tradition adopted as formal rules for interlocutors to follow in
public debates. One of Sulabhā’s main points is that an argument should
have a proper structure: ‘The experts on speech say that speech is “clearly
ordered” when one considers what one wants to say with “This should be
said earlier”, and “This should be said later”’ (..).
The way that Sulabhā structures her own speech is to work from the
general to the specific, from the impersonal to the personal. After intro-
ducing her rebuttal by instructing how to make an argument, she then
responds to the king’s questions about her identity. As we will see below,
she first addresses Janaka’s questions indirectly, by offering what we might
characterise as a scientific or biological explanation of human identity. But
gradually she builds towards her concluding remarks, when she reveals her
family lineage, educational lineage, and her name. As Chakrabarti com-
ments: Sulabhā ‘structured her speech very cleverly, starting with a meta-
discourse on discourse, and ending with a self-introduction’ (:
–). By the end, she answers all of Janaka’s questions, but by con-
textualising them in the process, she exposes them as indications of his
ignorance. In contrast, both the way she argues and her arguments
themselves demonstrate her enlightened status.
Despite adhering to her own guidelines for proper disputation, the
agreement between the speakers – which Sulabhā claims constitutes mean-
ing – never happens. Nonetheless, Sulabhā emerges victorious. This is
indicated by the fact that she gets in the last word, which is often a marker
of superiority in narrative accounts of debate. Also, Bhīsma describes
Janaka as silenced at the end. James Fitzgerald interprets this_ as another
sign of Sulabhā’s victory: ‘As Janaka was reduced to silence by Sulabhā’s
rebuttal, we can safely conclude that the author of the text intended to
proclaim Sulabhā’s rebuttal an effective refutation of Janaka’s claims’
(: –). Moreover, Bhīsma portrays Sulabhā favourably, describ-
_
ing her as ‘lovely’ and her argument as ‘even lovelier’ (..).
Chakrabarti sees Bhīsma’s words here as highlighting Janaka’s inability
_
to focus on her argument instead of her appearance: ‘The text thus teases
us to make sure we focus on her logic rather than on her looks, which is
something that Janaka, the typical male philosopher, apparently has a hard
time doing’ (: ).


The Nyāya school of Indian philosophy is credited with formalising the rules of philosophical
debate in ancient India. The Nyāya Sūtra was the Nyāya school’s foundational text.
  
Although she wins her argument, Sulabhā’s views remain in tension
with the views of other speakers in other sections of the text, which
support Janaka. Indeed, Janaka’s lineage and philosophical perspective
align him with a number of authoritative figures in the Mahābhārata. At
the beginning of his argument, for example, he claims that his teacher is
Pañcaśikha, who is from the same family lineage (gotra) as Parāśara.
Interestingly, this would connect him to Vyāsa, the reputed author of
the Mahābhārata, who is the son of Parāśara. As we will see in the next
section, Janaka’s argument, which is a defence of karma-yoga, resonates
with Krsna’s teaching in the Bhagavad Gītā, which, in addition to being a
__ _
well-known text independently, is a crucial episode within the
Mahābhārata. Furthermore, Janaka’s views are similar to those expressed
by Bhīsma, whose own stance throughout his post-war instruction to
_
Yudhisthira – despite his apparent endorsement of Sulabhā’s view when
_ _
narrating this story – is more in line with the doctrine of karma-yoga.
Taking all this into consideration, the text seems to endorse both argu-
ments: within the context of the dialogue itself, Sulabhā is the clear winner
of the debate; yet within the context of Bhīsma’s instruction to
Yudhisthira, Janaka’s views seem to be preferred. _
_ _ out further, when we consider the Mahābhārata as a whole, the
Panning
views of Sulabhā and Janaka remain in unresolved tension with each other.
In this way, the inconclusive dimension of this debate is in keeping with
the Mahābhārata’s general tendency to put contrasting views into playful
juxtaposition (see Black a). In a text that is so thoroughly dialogical,
one of Sulabhā’s greatest contributions, then, is to offer one of the most
explicit accounts of how to engage in dialogue with others. By doing so,
she not only points towards an ethics of conversation but also demon-
strates that how one makes an argument is part of what measures one’s
knowledge claims. As Sulabhā points out, Janaka’s emotional and unstruc-
tured accusations are an indication that he is not enlightened. In contrast,
Sulabhā’s own speech – from her dispassionate delivery to the structure of
her argument – is a demonstration of her enlightened status. In this way,
Sulabhā, despite advocating non-attachment in human relationships,
argues that how one engages with others is the true measure of whether
one has achieved the highest knowledge.

Sulabhā on Renunciation
One of the major issues that is explored in the dialogue between Sulabhā
and Janaka is the tension between householder and renunciate ideals.
 Sulabhā and Indian Philosophy 
These ideals are often understood in relation to the concepts of pravrtti
and nivrtti. Broadly speaking, pravrtti refers to the teachings that focus_ on
dharma,_ morality, whereas nivrtti _refers to those teachings that focus on
moksa, enlightenment. While prav _ rtti centres on fulfilling one’s duties and
responsibilities according to caste,_ family, gender, stage in life, and other
_
factors, nivrtti focuses on severing one’s ties to family and society to
_
practise a contemplative life in pursuit of the ultimate goal of final release
from the ongoing cycle of rebirth. The competing values of the house-
holder and the renunciate had already been in tension with each other for
centuries, but no text explores their relationship as extensively as the
Mahābhārata.
Moreover, the Mahābhārata offers innovative doctrines that propose
possible compromises between these ideals. Its great contribution to the
pravrtti ideal is the doctrine of karma-yoga, which brings the ascetic
_
practices of mental discipline into the everyday life of the householder.
The most famous articulation of the karma-yoga doctrine is Krsna’s teach-
ing in the Bhagavad Gītā, when he reveals his cosmic form,_ _as_ he urges
Arjuna to fight a war against his own family members. In response to
Arjuna’s initial refusal to fight, Krsna argues that he can avoid any negative
karma if he fights disinterestedly,_ _ if_ he is not attached to the fruits of his
actions. One of the implications of this teaching is that by disciplining
one’s own desires and emotions while performing one’s daily tasks, even
the householder can achieve the highest soteriological goals, ones that were
otherwise confined to religious specialists. In this way, karma-yoga can be
seen as part of what Arti Dhand describes as ‘the Mahābhārata’s larger
extension of religious franchise to embrace all people, to dislocate piety and
virtue from being the exclusive preserve of the priestly class’ (: ).
Conversely, but in parallel with the ideal of karma-yoga, the
Mahābhārata also offers the doctrine of moksa-dharma, a teaching that
brings some aspects of the householder ideal_ to the life of a religious
renouncer. In particular, moksa-dharma circumscribes the life of the
_
renouncer within the realm of dharma, emphasising that even the solitary
ascetic has duties and obligations towards others and that there are
certain social practices expected of those who have achieved the
highest knowledge.
The tension between pravrtti and nivrtti is a central concern of the
debate between Sulabhā and_ Janaka. Janaka _ is clearly a proponent of
pravrtti, as his philosophical argument is that one can achieve enlighten-
ment_ without renouncing the world. He claims to be beyond karma,
because his knowledge keeps his actions from producing results, like a
  
seed that has been roasted can no longer germinate (..). Janaka
argues that moksa is not achieved by renouncing possessions but rather
through knowledge _ that releases one’s bonds with the world. As we can
see, this argument is an articulation of the doctrine of karma-yoga.
In contrast, Sulabhā follows nivrtti ideals, living a solitary and itinerant
lifestyle. She is depicted as adept_ at yoga and as one who has attained
moksa. An intriguing aspect of her encounter with Janaka is that she uses
_
her knowledge of yoga to enter into the king’s being (sattva) with her being
(..). Sulabhā, thus, conducts her entire argument while dwelling
within Janaka’s body. As indicated by the Yogasūtra and other sources, the
ability to inhabit another’s body was widely accepted to be a power
attained through the practice of yoga. We can see, then, that an impor-
tant implication of Sulabhā residing in Janaka’s body is her demonstration
of her yogic abilities.
Sulabhā rejects Janaka’s arguments in favour of the view that one must
live the life of a renouncer in order to achieve enlightenment. She brings
attention to the various ways in which the life of a king is dependent upon
those around him:
The king is always dependent upon others, he himself attends to just a small
part of things. How could the king be completely in control when making
treaties and waging war? He is never completely in control, even when
spending time in play with his wives. How could he be completely in
control when he meets his councillors for advice. He is said to be in control
when he commands others, but even there he is made to act without being
in control, as he attends to this or that detail. (..–)
Here, Sulabhā argues that Janaka cannot be free because of the many ways
he, as king, is necessarily immersed in social relations as part of the day-to-
day business of ruling his kingdom. Specifically, Sulabhā brings up war and
sex as activities in which Janaka cannot maintain complete control over his
own actions and emotions, not to mention the actions and emotions of
others. Sulabhā then contrasts the king’s presumption to control others
through his royal commands, with the mundane reality of a king’s life in
which ‘others are always telling him what to do’ (..).
While rejecting the conceit of karma-yoga, that householders can
achieve the religious ideals of nivrtti, Sulabhā tacitly concedes that as a
_

‘By loosening the cause of bondage, and by knowledge of the passageways of the mind, the mind
can enter into the bodies of others’ (., translation Bryant). As White points out, many medieval
texts also describe the technique for entering into a foreign body, including the Yogavasis tha,
Hemacandra, and Yogaśāstra (White : ). __
 Sulabhā and Indian Philosophy 
renouncer she adheres to social conventions circumscribed by dharma
(moksa-dharma): ‘I hold firm to the practices of my own dharma (sva-
_
dharma). I do not waver in my promises; I do not speak without careful
examination’ (..–). In making these claims, Sulabhā acknowl-
edges the social codes by which the life of a renouncer is regulated.
In addition to challenging Janaka, her interlocutor within this dialogue,
Sulabhā’s argument has important resonances with other sections of the
Mahābhārata. Indeed, we might see Sulabhā’s speech as one of the
Mahābhārata’s most robust counterarguments to Krsna’s teaching in the
Bhagavad Gītā. As noted above, Krsna characterises_ _karma-yoga
_ as acting
_ _ _
disinterestedly, or action without desire (niskāma-karma). Janaka’s claim
to have achieved moksa while retaining his_ position as king, as we have
seen, is a reassertion of_ Krsna’s position. It is also worth mentioning that in
the Bhagavad Gītā Krsna_ _ _refers to Janaka as an exemplar of karma-yoga
__ _
(.). Sulabā’s repudiation of karma-yoga, then, is not merely a dismissal
of Janaka’s arguments but is also, as Sutton describes it, ‘a rejection of the
Gītā’s notion of niskāma-karma’ (: ). As Sutton explains: ‘For
Sulabhā, the compromise_ offered by Janaka and the Gītā is trite and
specious, at best an attempt to serve two masters, at worst, as clearly
hinted at in this passage, a sop to the vanity of kings who wish to enjoy
the delights of power and still claim superiority over members of ascetic
orders’ (: ). When we see the tension between pravrtti and nivrtti
as a dialectic that unfolds throughout the Mahābhārata,_ then we _can
appreciate Sulabhā as one of the most articulate and innovative advocates
of the ideals and practices of renouncers.

Sulabhā on Gender
In addition to her contribution to debates about rhetoric and renunciation,
Sulabhā makes original arguments about gender that have far-reaching
implications on other sections of the Mahābhārata, as well as beyond the
text. As we have seen, at the beginning of the episode Sulabhā decides to
test the king’s claim of achieving moksa by using her yogic powers to
appear young and beautiful. As Bhīsma_ describes it: ‘By her yoga power
she cast off her body and put on a _flawlessly beautiful one’ (..).
We do not know what Sulabhā looks like before she changes her appear-
ance, but presumably she transforms into a young, attractive woman as
part of testing the king’s claim to be detached from worldly pleasures.
This tactic seems to work, as throughout his argument Janaka is
preoccupied with Sulabhā’s identity as a woman. Indeed, his very first
  
questions, as we have seen, are about her gender and social identity:
‘Whose are you? And where are you from? . . . I cannot get a clear sense
of your learning, of your age, or of the ethnic group you were born in, so
please convey answers to these matters in this assembly of the good’
(..–). As noted above, Janaka returns to these questions on
several occasions, challenging Sulabhā’s claim of achieving moksa by ques-
tioning her social identity in terms of gender, caste, and lineage._ Although
Janaka claims that he no longer sees things as pairs of opposites
(..), much of his argument rests upon setting up binary opposi-
tions between himself and Sulabhā, including brahmin/ksatriya and house-
holder/renunciate. Janaka focuses on the gender differences _ between
Sulabhā and himself, raising doubts about her ability to attain moksa:
‘Your delicacy and your form, your preeminent beauty and your youth_ –
you have all of these and asceticism too? I wonder’ (..). At the very
end of his diatribe, he instructs Sulabhā that the power (bala) women have
is their beauty, youth, and charm (..). If we were to take Janaka’s
view to its logical conclusion, not only is Sulabhā not enlightened, but she
could not possibly be enlightened because she is a woman. Some of his
accusations are explicitly misogynist: in addition to questioning how she
can be an ascetic when she is so young and beautiful (..), he calls
her ‘wicked’ (dus tā) (..). Here we see that Sulabhā not only
__
encounters the gendered prejudices of her male interlocutor but also has
to endure his sexist insults.
In particular, Janaka is preoccupied with the gender implications of
both of them inhabiting the same body during their discussion. Janaka
accuses Sulabhā of joining herself inappropriately with a man from a
different social order, claiming that she has crossed distinctions of both
caste and clan. Furthermore, Janaka argues that one who is unenlightened
should not be joined with one who is enlightened and that Sulabhā should
not give herself to another man if she already has a husband (..).
In all of these accusations, Janaka suggests that there is a physical dimen-
sion to her inhabiting his body. Further on, he alludes to a sexual dynamic
of their interaction, arguing that one who is a renouncer should not still
love and comparing their encounter to a man and a woman who desire
each other (..).
As we have seen, Sulabhā begins her rebuttal dispassionately, not
responding to any of the king’s accusations or insults directly but by
outlining how to make a proper argument. Then, when she responds to
Janaka’s questions, Sulabhā refers to her identity from a radically different
perspective. Rather than speak of herself in terms of social roles, she talks
 Sulabhā and Indian Philosophy 
about herself from a psycho-physical point of view. Using what we might
describe as biological terminology, she discusses twenty components that
are responsible for the origination and passing away of beings, explaining
that there is an unmanifest nature (prakrti) that becomes manifest in these
twenty components. Within this scheme,_ the ‘sex mark’ that distin-
guishes ‘female’ from ‘male’ is just one component (..). As
Chakravarthi Ram-Prasad explains: ‘Sulabhā recognizes the morphological
role of sex-properties that mark the developing human being, but gives it
just one, contingent place in development’ (: ). Here we see that
Sulabhā recognises a physical difference between men and women but does
not characterise this difference as essential to one’s overall identity.
More generally, Sulabhā argues that if Janaka were truly enlightened, he
would not have been concerned about her social identity. In other words,
Sulabhā is answering Janaka’s initial question about who she is from the
point of view of an enlightened person, explaining that her identity can
only be discussed in terms of the combination of the twenty components,
in the context of which anatomical differences are just one component
within a complex matrix that characterises a human being.
She then summarises this discussion of the twenty components by
making an analogy with fire:
Just as fire comes to be from the combination of the sun, a crystal lens, and
some twigs for tinder, so beings come to be from the combination of
their components. (..)
At this point, Sulabhā poses a crucial question:
Since you see yourself within yourself by means of yourself, why do you
not, in exactly the same way, by means of yourself, see yourself in
someone else? (..)
This question has generated considerable debate among scholars. Ruth
Vanita interprets Sulabhā’s question as making an argument for gender
equality based on the doctrine of the universality of the self. According to
Vanita, Sulabhā’s point is that ātman ‘is one and the same in all beings,
regardless of the body’s gender’ (: ). Fitzgerald, however, suggests
that Sulabhā’s words here do not seem to fit with other claims she makes.
As he points out, taking her words here as an articulation of a monistic
ontology ‘clearly contradicts Sulabhā’s later statement of the “singleness
and separateness” of the soul (jña) at .’ (: ).

Many of these components feature in standard lists of the Sāmkhya philosophical school. See
Fitzgerald (: –).
  
Taking Fitzgerald’s suggestion into consideration, Ram-Prasad inter-
prets Sulabhā’s question as pointing out the inconsistency between
Janaka’s claim to enlightened status and the way that he treats others.
In other words, Ram-Prasad takes Sulabhā’s words as highlighting a
contradiction between the king’s words and actions but not as represent-
ing her own commitment to an ontology of the self. As he explains:
Sulabhā’s ‘interest is not in the metaphysics, but in the psychological
consequences that would result from a freedom that treated everyone as
the same’ (Ram-Prasad : ). Ram-Prasad further asserts that
Sulabhā is ‘altogether rejecting the doctrine that absolute freedom con-
sists of the realization that one is fundamentally a neutral self (ātman)’
(: ).
Despite Fitzgerald’s and Ram-Prasad’s reservations, I have argued else-
where that there are good reasons to take Sulabhā as positing a universal
self that is beyond gender (Black a: –). As I point out, Sulabhā’s
use of the fire metaphor leading up to her question does imply some sense
of an ātman behind the twenty components that constitute a human
being. A few passages before asking Janaka this question, Sulabhā asks
rhetorically: ‘What is the connection between beings and the components
that make them up?’ (..). Then, in the fire analogy that imme-
diately precedes her question, Sulabhā – as Fitzgerald points out – empha-
sises ‘the theme of unifying a plurality (samudaya)’ (: ). With this
in mind, it would make sense if she saw the twenty components as unified
in the ātman in the same way that she saw the sun, a crystal lens, and twigs
for tinder as unified in fire.
Although I stand by this argument, here I want to emphasise that,
regardless of whether of we accept Vanita’s or Ram-Prasad’s interpretation
of the ontological implications of Sulabhā’s words, the fundamental point
she makes is the same: that the gendered assumptions made by Janaka are
an indication of his ignorance. In other words, regardless of her own
ontological commitments, Sulabhā is clearly making the case that if
Janaka were truly enlightened he would not make arguments based on
gender distinctions, nor would he treat her the way that he does. In
making this case, Sulabhā takes the innovative position that one’s views
on gender can serve as a litmus test of whether or not one has achieved
moksa.
_
Furthermore, in response to Janaka’s arguments that there is a physical
dimension to inhabiting his body, Sulabhā maintains that her yogic powers
afford her the ability to dwell inside him without touching him, and,
consequently, that there is no actual mixing or merging going on:
 Sulabhā and Indian Philosophy 
I am not touching you, king – not with my hands, nor my arms, nor my
feet, nor my legs, nor any other parts of my body. (..)
Subsequently, she systematically challenges Janaka’s arguments about her
social identity: she claims she is not a Brahmin but a ksatriya; she is not
unfaithful because she has no husband; she is the one _who is enlightened
because, if he were enlightened, she would not be able to inhabit his body;
and finally, if Janaka were truly enlightened these class distinctions would
not matter anyway. Sulabhā’s inhabitation of Janaka’s body, then, actively
demonstrates her philosophical point – despite bodily appearances and
social constructs, there is no ontological distinction between them.
Finally, when Sulabhā reveals her name, her family, and educational
lineage – thus responding to the king’s initial questions – she refers to
herself as abiding by the nivrtti ideals of a solitary, itinerate lifestyle:
_
Since there was no husband suitable to me, I was trained in moksa-dharma,
_
so, all alone, I live according to the hermit (muni) way of life. (..)
Here, Sulabhā portrays moksa-dharma as a way of life that is communi-
_ teacher to student. Although it is pursued
cated as part of a tradition from
alone, it has implicit social practices and obligations associated with it.
Moreover, by describing her renunciate lifestyle as the result of her not
finding a suitable husband, Sulabhā characterises moksa-dharma as an
option that could be available for women as an alternative_ to marriage.
In this way, Sulabhā makes an important contribution to the nivrtti ideal
_
by presenting it as a way of life in which women can live independently,
not to mention have the possibility of attaining the highest knowledge.
Throughout both her arguments and her actions, then, Sulabhā articulates
an understanding of enlightenment that is beyond the dualities of gender
distinction and, therefore, as available for women as for men.

Conclusion
In this chapter, we have seen that Sulabhā makes innovative contributions
to several philosophical discussions that reverberate throughout the
Mahābhārata, as well as in other forums of ancient Indian philosophical
discussion. Sulabhā offers an understanding of dialogue in which interloc-
utors are urged to engage respectfully with the views of others; she
contributes to the Mahābhārata’s innovative doctrine of moksa-dharma
_

This term, which is often translated as ‘warrior’, is better understood in this context as something
like ‘aristocrat’ or ‘member of the ruling class’.
  
by offering it as a superior alternative to karma-yoga; and she articulates an
understanding of moksa that is beyond gender and available for women.
_
Although her historicity is doubtful, I have argued that we have much to
gain by engaging with her arguments as a woman philosopher. Sulabhā is
not a literary character who just happens to be female, as if what she
argues, how she acts, and what she experiences has nothing to do with her
gender. Rather, from the very beginning of her encounter, she confronts
the gendered prejudices, words, and behaviour of her male interlocutor.
Recognising her as a woman philosopher not only gives us a fuller
appreciation of her own textual and cultural contexts but also has the
potential to enrich philosophy today, as it challenges us to look at reso-
nances between her arguments and current debates, particularly those
within feminist philosophy. In this way, engaging with Sulabhā is not
merely an attempt to add her to the philosophical canon but also to suggest
that her arguments provide ‘resources to address contemporary issues that
feminist philosophers confront’ (Schott : ).
In suggesting that Sulabhā might provide resources for feminist philos-
ophers, I am not claiming that Sulabhā herself should be considered a
feminist. One clear way that Sulabhā differs from many modern feminist
thinkers is that she does not set out to make arguments in favour of gender
equality. Sulabhā’s initial reason for challenging Janaka seems to be for
defending the superiority of the renunciate path, rather than anything
having to do with gender. Despite her initial intentions, however, Sulabhā
responds to the explicitly gendered abuse she endures by making argu-
ments from a distinctly female perspective and explicitly interrogating
traditional gender biases. In this way, her arguments are compatible with
feminist concerns. Sulabhā not only refuses to be defined in terms of her
relations to any man, but she demonstrates that she can achieve ultimate
freedom completely on her own. Speaking from an enlightened perspec-
tive, she proclaims that distinctions based on gender are merely indications
of an unenlightened point of view. Sulabhā makes a major contribution to
Indian philosophy by portraying enlightenment as beyond the dualities of
gender distinction and as available for women as for men.
  

Women’s Medical Knowledge in Antiquity

Beyond Midwifery
Sophia M. Connell

Introduction
This chapter will argue that women doctors participated in a philosophical
tradition of thought in classical antiquity. One might wonder why in a
volume on ancient women philosophers, there is a chapter on women
doctors. The answer is that there was a significant and widely recognised
overlap between medicine and philosophy in ancient Greece. The
fact that women had medical knowledge and expertise suggests that they
were also involved in the philosophical aspects of the domain. This
makes ancient medicine a particularly rich field to look for women
doing philosophy.
Gathering evidence for women’s medical and attendant philosophical
expertise is challenging. There are two main difficulties: the lack of direct
evidence and the fact that the sources that we do have are written by men.
There are no extant writings by women doctors or scientists of this period;
it is not clear that they ever wrote anything at all. My proposed solution is
to consider carefully the sources that we do have that hint at what women
knew and theorised about; this is then, an ‘argument from silence’. The
second related strategy is to assess other doctors’ and philosophers’ views
about women’s knowledge in the field of medicine.
In making this investigation, I propose to discover what I can about the
nature and content of women’s knowledge and theories to do with health
and fertility. With respect to the nature of the knowledge, one must not
assume that women practitioners were purely practically minded and that
only male doctors had an intellectual perspective. There is evidence that


The overlaps between medicine and philosophy in the period will be discussed in the third section.

For a general account of the debate about women medical writers in the Roman period, see
Flemming ().

These two techniques are suggested by King (: ). I expand the second one of ‘what doctors
say about women’s knowledge’ to include philosophers as well, particularly Plato and Aristotle.


  . 
both male and female doctors had aspects of theory as part of their practice
and aspects that would seem to us more like nursing or attending to the
sick. The second part of the enquiry concerns what female doctors
actually thought. A picture can be reconstructed of expertise not only
about the female body and its functions and cycles but also a broader
understanding of health, disease, fertility, and their relationship to nature.
It is possible that women’s expertise and knowledge was not confined to
female health; there is evidence of a more general understanding of the
nature of disease and how to mix and create medicines. Even within the
confines of female medicine, it was only from a cosmological perspective
that one could hope to make sense of ‘what a woman is’. And women’s
knowledge of the place of reproduction in nature related to the generation
of male as well as female children.

Women as Doctors in Antiquity

The available evidence for female doctors in antiquity includes the
Hippocratic treatises on women’s diseases, which are among the oldest
Greek prose writings we possess. In these works, women doctors are
sometimes present in the sick room and a feminine version of the word
for doctor (iatros) – that is, iatraousa – is employed. Some speculate that
these are midwives (maiai). We learn more about this particular field of
expertise from Plato, who has Socrates give an account of the skills of his
own mother, Phaenarete.
Midwives can bring on the pains of labour, and make them milder if they
want to? And they can make women who are having a difficult labour give
birth? And if they see fit to cause a miscarriage when the embryo is young, they
do so? . . . And have you also observed this characteristic of theirs: they are the
cleverest of match-makers, in that there are no gaps in their wisdom as regards
knowing which sort of woman should consort with which sort of man in order
to produce the best possible children? (Th. c–d, trans. MacDowell)


King (: ).

The medical texts of this period point out that medical knowledge, crucial for successful practice,
involves knowing what a man is (e.g., VM , ..– L. = Loeb .–.–). For those
practitioners that specialised in treating women, it would presumably require knowing what a
woman is.

Dean-Jones (: ; ).

Iâtros and iâtreuousa are spelled differently in the dialect used in the Hippocratic works on women’s
diseases. Akestridas, healers, is used for women assisting a birth in Fleshes  (.. L. = Loeb
.). The term is rare in the Hippocratic corpus but occurs in other literature, such as Sophocles
Oedipus at Colonus .
 Women’s Medical Knowledge in Antiquity 
This passage suggests that maiai had a broader basis of practice and theory
than modern midwives, including administering drugs, causing abortions,
and being knowledgeable about theories of reproduction to aid concep-
tion. Socrates’ implication is that midwives do not just know how to
bring about children but can produce the best children, suggesting a degree
of knowledge and control over the general natural processes that
underlie conception.
One piece of physical evidence that women took on the role of ‘doctor’
(and not just ‘midwife’) is a funerary monument from the fourth century
that reads: ‘Phanostrate, a midwife and doctor (iatros), lies here. She caused
pain to none, all lamented her death.’ Striking here is the use of the
masculine for doctor, iatros. While ‘rational’ medicine existed before the
Hippocratic corpus, the extensive articulation of this outlook, which places
emphasis on the authority of the disembodied ‘doctor’, can be seen as a
transitional moment, where medicine asserts itself as an intellectual and
philosophical subject. This woman is clearly part of that movement.
Furthermore, it seems unlikely that Phanostrate was the only female iatros;
one surviving funerary monument indicates that there were many simi-
lar. One can also note that the idea of the medical art aiming to ‘cause
pain to none’ is found in one gynaecological work.
Do this gently and without violence in order to prevent anything from
being unnaturally stretched and thereby provoking an inflammation.
(Superf. , ..– L. = Loeb ..–, trans. Potter)
That a woman doctor was remembered as ‘causing pain to none’ might
indicate her own rational practice, based on the principle of helping nature
gently along rather than more vigorous interventions.
Other evidence for ancient women doctors comes from Plato’s Republic
where Socrates argues that women can be rulers of the state. This is
something that his audience finds hard to imagine; in order to make it
more palatable, he has to begin with an acceptable female job. If a man and
a woman can both be suited to be doctors, then they can also be suited to
being cultured, warlike, and philosophical. Thus, they can both be rulers
of the state. The audience readily accepts that women are already doctors
(.d).

 
Lefkowitz and Fant (: –). Holmes ().

By the Roman period, surviving monuments of this sort are more numerous (Lefkowitz and Fant
: –).
 
And in the Epidemics. See Totelin (). On this passage, see Pomeroy ().
  . 

The Nature of Women’s Medical Knowledge

There are at least two pieces of evidence that women had theoretical
knowledge. The first is that they presented themselves as knowledgeable
and the second is that they were treated as competitors by male theoretical
doctors. The idea that male doctors in ancient Greece were the real
purveyors of the medical art, whereas women doctors are folk healers,
without any rational basis for their practice, relying on superstition or the
mindless repetition of traditional cures is questionable. Certain medical
texts provide evidence of an awareness of the importance of presentation.
The performance of being a doctor with a cure would have been crucial:
‘For some patients . . . regain their health simply through their content-
ment with the goodness of the doctor’ (Praec. , ..– L. = Loeb
..–). It seems likely that both men and women doctors would
have had to present themselves as knowledgeable in order to convince their
clientele. This suggests that women would have been able to convince
others of having a rational basis for treatment. In the case of curing
women of what ailed them because they are women, it would have been
harder for male practitioners to convince women patients to trust their
knowledge. The female practitioner would presumably add to her theory,
the knowledge she has of her own bodily experiences. Plato uses this well-
known fact in his discussion of female medical expertise in order to
pronounce that: ‘Human nature is too weak to acquire skill in matters of
which is has no experience’ (Th. c).
While the profession of theoretical knowledge in the performance of
medical practice does not definitely prove that women possessed such
knowledge, the way in which their theories were taken seriously as rivals
to male positions provides stronger evidence. One problem with using
information about women doctors in ancient medical writings is that these
women are presented in a negative light so as to convince the clientele of


Lloyd posits that Hippocratic doctors writing about women’s medicine desire ‘to turn the practice
of healing into a technê’ (: ), assuming that it was not already a technê, which in the case of
the female medical tradition on which these women built, is unfounded. See Dean-Jones’ idea that
male ‘scientific theories’ replaced women’s ‘traditional therapies’ (: ). And Rousselle: ‘Male
doctors . . . used logical reasoning to construct a male science of the female body, incorporating all
the facts gathered patiently over the year by women who had built up an empirical science’
(: ).

King (: ch. ).

‘In the ancient tradition words were very important; practitioners were expected to present their
theories and explanations fluently . . . when the client needed to be persuaded of the healer’s skill’
and ‘taking the prescribed medication is less important than giving meaning to the patient’s
experience of illness’ (King : ).
 Women’s Medical Knowledge in Antiquity 
the male medical writers’ own superior knowledge. In this context, we
cannot trust accusations of quackery. For example, when the author of
Diseases of Women  remarks that the medicines prescribed by women are
‘irritating’, this is in the context of them as competitors for the client’s
attention (Mul. ., .. L. = Loeb ..). In another case, male
doctors pit themselves against women theorists on the relation between
foetal health and the length of gestation. Women hold the view that
stillbirths occur at eight months of gestation. One Hippocratic author
questions the veracity of these reports.
You should not distrust women about their giving birth, for they always say
the same thing and they say what they know; they are not to be persuaded
by either fact or argument to believe anything contrary to what they know
is going on inside their own bodies. Although there may be some who wish
to assert something different, in fact women who possess judgement and
who furnish the most convincing arguments on this subject always say
explicitly that they give birth in the seventh month, the eighth month, the
ninth month, the tenth month, and the eleventh month, and that of these
children, those born in the eighth month do not survive, whereas the
others do. (Oct. , ..–. L. = Loeb ..–.)
The passage might appear to begin disparagingly, suggesting a certain
stubbornness in women who do not listen to fact or argument.
However, it also indicates that these women ‘know’. Although that knowl-
edge might seem at first to be solely empirical, the passage ends by
indicating that this is the basis for theory: ‘women of judgement’ convinc-
ingly argue for their position on the prospects of these children. The
Hippocratic author proclaims, with some notable caution, that these
women are wrong that only eight-month-old foetuses suffer because some
on either side of the eighth month are also in danger. This doctor is
quibbling the details but generally accepts the correctness of these women’s
theory. That theory is of course wrong, but to conclude that male
doctors construct rational theories and women do not is too hasty.
Consider that in this same work, there is a theory that foetuses fight their
way out of the womb rather than the women’s body doing the work
(Oct. , ..– L. = Loeb ..–.; Nat. Puer. , ..–
L. = Loeb ..–.). On the basis of this view, it is recommended
that women be strapped to beds and ladders and bounced up and
down during a difficult labour (Mul. ., ..–. L. = Loeb


For a fuller discussion, see Lloyd (: –) and King (: ch. ).
  . 
..–.; Foet. Exsect. , ..–. L. = Loeb I–).
Elsewhere, male doctors recommend tying up one or the other testis before
sex in order to determine the sex of offspring (Ep. .., ..–
L. = Loeb .). It is clear in these instances and others that the theories
associated with what women say are often no more arbitrary or folklorish
than any others we find in these ancient texts. There is no trustworthy
testimony that women did not have a theory and practice just as viable as
any others available at the time.
In fifth and fourth century Greece, medical knowledge was considered
to require a theoretical basis. This could be articulated as knowing types
rather than particulars – that is, types of people and types of illness – as
well as discerning the underlying causes of or principles governing dis-
ease. In Metaphysics ., Aristotle distinguishes between experience and
technical knowledge (technê) using a helpful medical example. Experience
is judging what would benefit a particular person, such as Callias, who
suffers from a disease; technical knowledge is to understand what benefits
all persons of a certain type who suffers from certain sorts of disease
(a–). Women practitioners were called on to treat any number of
different women and would have applied a general theory of what ails
them. Thus, both male and female doctors, indeed anyone who treats a
number of people, will have this technical knowledge. When Aristotle
distinguishes between practical (and technical) knowledge, under which
medicine would fall, and theoretical understanding, he takes the latter to
be necessary for the former. He also explains that those with technical
knowledge in general know the theory (kata to logon) and the causes (tas
aitias; b–), and so they are also in possession of theoretical knowl-
edge (epistêmê) (b–). A key sign of this is the ability to teach others
(b–), which women practitioners would have done.
Finding the philosophical content of the ideas that come from women
doctors presents numerous challenges, some at the conceptual level and


For an analysis of the passage, see Totelin (: ). For fuller discussion, see Lloyd (:
–).

VM ,  (.–. L.; ..–. L.); Plato Rep. .c–e; Phaedrus d–d.

While male doctors would sometimes treat women’s ailments, there is less clear evidence of whether
women doctors ever treated men. Even if they did not do so systematically, medicine required a
theory of the body that applied to all people. Medical women were most often responsible for the
treatment of both male and female children.

On theoretical knowledge underpinning as necessary for ethical practice, see especially Henry and
Nielsen ().

There is no direct evidence about the training of medical women in ancient Greece, but we can
infer from later history that midwifery was a skill passed from woman to woman.
 Women’s Medical Knowledge in Antiquity 
others at the practical. Does the concept of philosophy include what
doctors theorised about? If it can be seen that medicine includes philo-
sophical ideas, is it also possible to discover that women doctors developed
theories of this kind? Determining whether a doctor is also a philosopher
requires an understanding of what is encompassed by ‘philosophy’. The
concept is hotly debated in fifth- and fourth-century Greece. While certain
thinkers, such as Isocrates, argued that philosophy must be practical, and
include the skills required for contemporary political life, Plato urged that
philosophy is the pursuit of abstract truth about reality. Aristotle agreed but
included natural knowledge: meteorology, botany, and zoology (PA .; Mete.
.). He sees a significant overlap between medicine and philosophy, since
both involve the study of nature (Sens. .a–b, Resp. .b–).
Within the Hippocratic corpus, many writers make the discipline of
medical expertise part of, or dependent upon, philosophy. Early philosophical
speculation, of which we have only fragments, generally sets out an account
of the nature and workings of the cosmos and of human beings as part of, or
a reflection of, that cosmos. The Hippocratic works Fleshes and Places in Man
are clearly part of a similar tradition. One of the most famous Hippocratic
works, On Ancient Medicine, presents a challenge to this view by arguing that
medicine ought to supplant philosophy as a way of understanding ‘the nature
of the human’. And yet, this author is clearly writing about natural philos-
ophy too and discussing natural topics, such as what human beings are
composed of and how bodies react to the environment. It is this sort of
philosophy that one can find in the Hippocratic works and that lies behind
much of rational medical practice. A medical practitioner will have a theory
of health that presupposes an understanding of the nature of the cosmos.
Since there were women doctors, who worked almost exclusively with
the bodies of female patients, it is reasonable to suppose that some, if not
most, would have also had a particular understanding of the body and the
cosmos into which that body fit. One possible objection is that what
women practitioners thought about while practising healing arts could
not be philosophical because it is not proclaimed in writing. We must first
keep in mind that writing about medicine was only one small part of the
discipline and practice in antiquity. While various ancient medical writers
promote their ‘books’, other thinkers, including some philosophers of
the period, urge what seems somewhat obvious: that one cannot become a


Bartoš ().

Dieb. Judic. : ‘A large part, I believe, of the medical art consists in being able to examine correctly
its writing’ (..– L. = Loeb ..–).
  . 
doctor by reading about medicine. That women doctors did not write
about their theories does not mean that they did not have such theories.
And yet one still might attach importance to written articulation. While
the Hippocratic author writes ‘the nature of the body is the starting point
of medical reasoning’ (Φύσις δὲ τοῦ σώματος, ἀρχὴ τοῦ ἐν ἰητρικῇ λόγου,
Loc. Hom. , .. L. = Loeb ..–), ‘the doctor who is a philos-
opher is equal to a god’ (ἰητρὸς γὰρ φιλόσοφος ἰσόθεος, Decent. ,
.. L. = Loeb ..–) and similarly abstract statements, it might
be supposed that a women doctor who does not write down such thoughts
cannot be thinking philosophically. But if one thinks it possible that the
male doctors who did not write (which must have been the majority of
them) had a philosophical basis for their practice, then there is no good
reason to exclude doctors of the other gender. We ought to be cautious
about patrolling the borders of ‘philosophy’ too strictly since there is a
continuing tendency to exclude marginalised groups from the discipline.
In any case, it ought to be accepted that theories and practices do not
have to be written down in order to be philosophical. There has been
much recent progress towards making philosophical sense of oral tradi-
tions. The ethnophilosopher can discover rational ways of structuring
individual and social life that counts as philosophical, even without
written texts. This technique has been useful in helping to understand
African philosophy. When it comes to medico-philosophical theories of
women in antiquity, we do not have anything that we can currently listen
to. It is clear, though, that an oral tradition existed and clues about its
content can be found in the Hippocratic corpus and in works by Plato
and Aristotle.

The Content of Women’s Medical Knowledge

We have no guide written for women by women doctors who specialise in
the knowledge of their ailments. This means that we have no direct

Plato’s Phaedrus c: ‘They would say, I think, that that man is mad because he has heard
somewhere from a book or happened to fall upon some remedies, and he thinks he has become a
physician, understanding nothing of the art’, cited in Totelin (: ). See also Aristotle EN
..b–.

For Holmes, it is the act of fifth-century medical writing that produces the idea of the body as ‘part
of inquiry into nature’ (: ).

On these difficulties for the modern concept of ‘philosophy’ as exclusionary and biased, see Dotson
()and Haslanger ().
 
The life of Socrates is a case in point. Outlaw ().

There is scope to compare female medical practices in traditional cultures around the world today.
 Women’s Medical Knowledge in Antiquity 
evidence of what exactly women knew or professed to know or theorised as
the basis of their practice. The general technique in this section is to put
forward a series of arguments from silence in order to conclude that certain
parts of the information we find in works by men about women’s medicine
came from women. This knowledge falls into four key areas: (i) bodily
experience, (ii) theories of the female body, (iii) pharmacology, and (iv)
theories of reproduction.

The Bodily Experience of Women

Women hold ultimate knowledge of the frequency and duration of
menstruation (Mul. ., ..– L.; Mul. . ( L.), .. L.)
and of various subjective perspectives, such as what it feels like to be
pregnant and to experience female varieties of sexual desire or pleasure.
Male doctors could only ascertain such facts through ‘question and answer’
and interrogation (Steril. , .. L. = Loeb .., .–;
Mul ., ..– L. = Loeb ...). It does not seem a stretch to
think that there were certain women in the community who were known
to have special knowledge of the collective experiences of women.
In the Historia Animalium (), not a medical work but a collection of
facts useful for the development of scientific explanations, Aristotle sets out
a good deal of this sort of information including what period pains,
premenstrual syndrome, conception, pregnancy, and labour pains feel like
(HA ()..a, b, .a, .a). He refers to women in
the plural throughout; although this information could have come from
women in his household, it is more likely to have come from women
experts. Some women are marked as authorities in the Hippocratic
corpus, for example, with respect to the length of gestation (Oct. ,
..–. L.). In addition, ‘women of experience’ (epistamenêsin)
can instruct about signs of pregnancy (Carn. , ..– L. = Loeb
..–).

Dean-Jones (: –; ). See also Aristotle GA ..a–, ..a; HA 
()..a, aff, aff.

Dean-Jones assumes that Aristotle ‘would have had access to fewer women’s bodies than the
Hippocratics . . . his wife, concubine, and slaves’ (: ). But it is much more likely that this
information comes from women experts, probably women doctors and maiai. Aristotle’s method in
this treatise is to gather information from experts, such as herdsmen, fishermen, and beekeepers
(Leunissen ).

This could refer to any woman who has the experience of having been pregnant, for example, the
courtesans discussed earlier, it seems more likely that this refers to those women who attended and
advised them on reproduction.
  . 
The possibility that Aristotle is informed by women with expertise is
strengthened when, immediately after this section, he gives several techni-
cal terms that he notes are ‘what the women call’ them – first of all, the
amniotic fluid, which ‘the women call the forerunner’ (.a), and
then the excrement of newborns, which ‘the women’ call meconium
(.a). When he refers to information from ‘the women’, he implies
that there are women experts who hold this sort of knowledge.
When it comes to women’s own experiences, these are not mere first-
hand accounts but theories based on shared information. Recall that
Aristotle defines medicine as a technê in Metaph. I. on the basis of the
ability to specify types of people who suffer from certain ailments; he
further specifies that this knowledge counts as theoretical (or scientific)
knowledge when the holders of it can teach another. The Hippocratic
author of On Fleshes, in discussing signs of pregnancy, explicitly acknowl-
edges his debt to the teachings of women, writing: ‘It is to the extent
that these women have instructed me that I know about these things’
(ᾗ δέ μοι ἔδειξαν, κατὰ τοῦτο δὴ καὶ ἐπίσταμαι εἰδέναι, Carn. ,
..– L.). In this, there is evidence that medical women had
theories that they not only taught each other but that were also available
to men who bothered to ask.

Theory of the Body

For the Hippocratic writers, male medicine is general medicine; it does not
usually focus on the reproductive parts and functions of men. But female
medicine is almost exclusively focused on their reproductive functioning.
One must not imagine from this that the role of female medicine is being
downplayed. The philosophically dense and complicated theories of how
humans (and other animals) reproduce are firmly in the province of
philosophy at this time. It is the woman’s body that supplies the young
with what they are composed of, as this medical writer makes clear: ‘So
long as a human lives he manifestly has all these elements always in him;
then he is born out of a human being [i.e. a woman] having all these
elements’ (Nat. Hom. , ..–. L. = Loeb ..–). One writer
even proposes that after ‘the divine’, the nature of women is the most

An exception would be On the Nature of the Bones, which describes how semen is produced in the
marrow and carried from the head down the spinal column to the penis. See Craik (: ).

Dean-Jones (: , ).

This is very evident in Aristotle’s dialectic with other philosophers and philosophical doctors in his
On the Generation of Animals.
 Women’s Medical Knowledge in Antiquity 
important topic to consider (Nat. Mul. , ..– L. = Loeb .).
When it comes to knowledge about women, male doctors were not the
experts. For this author at least, women medics were in a privileged
position, since they hold the key to the most important type of knowledge
after the divine sort.
For Hippocratic medicine, the health of women is fundamentally
different from that of men. Male doctors are attempting to take over
women’s province. While it is tempting to suppose that women doctors are
midwives who are only in charge of normal births while male doctors are
brought in to deal with any complications, one must guard against this
anachronism. This is how modern medicine operates and is a legacy of a
division that began in late antiquity and was later fiercely enforced. But it
is not a correct way to understand ancient practices. Women practitioners
are noted to be present at quite a few of the male interventions, while male
medical writers would have had access to births that did not require
extraordinary measures. Socrates says that medical women are able to
deal with difficult births through to the end. Aristotle states of the female
doctor that she must ‘not only be able to help over difficult births with her
dexterity, but she must also be quick-witted in dealing with contingencies’
(HA ()..a–). In any case, there is no reason to assume that
men had to have come up with some of the life-saving procedures detailed
in the Hippocratic writings, in particular, the extraction of dead foetuses
and the turning of babies being born in awkward positions. Many of
these techniques could well have been taken over from women doctors’
practices, since women initially had the expertise involved through an oral
tradition and their experience of assisting in birth. Indeed, this may be the
reason why On Diseases of Women II makes clear that during a procedure
in which two men are present, it is the woman doctor (iatreousa) that
must remove the dead foetus and the placenta (Mul. ., ..–
L. = Loeb ..–).
There is ample evidence in these Greek gynaecological works that male
doctors are not entirely in control of any aspect of the care of women’s

 
Dean-Jones (: ). Blundell (: ).

For a fuller account of this modern bias, see King (: ch. ). Soranus strictly delimits the domain
of the midwife (Temkin : –). By the mid-seventeenth century, a woman could be burned as
a witch if she dared practice any medicine other than helping with birth (Donnison : ).

E.g., Mul. . (.– L. = Loeb. .–); Aristotle HA ().. See Dean-Jones (: );
King (: ).

Plato Th. a. See King (: ).

Mul. .– (.– L. = Loeb. .–); Superf.  (..– L. = Loeb. .), Foet.
Exsect.  (.– L. = Loeb .–).
  . 
ailments or childbirth. Almost all references to examination of the cervix
use feminine participles. Although these Hippocratic works sometimes
place the male doctor at centre stage, they also show that women were still
partly in charge. Women themselves are said to know about their own
bodies and to cooperate in or even initiate the administration of drugs and
other treatments. The woman patient applies most of the medicines on her
own, as instructed by the doctor. For example, ‘have the patient draw their
cervix aside with a finger’ and ‘have her remove the suppository’ (Mul
., .. L. = Loeb ..; Mul. ., ..– L. = Loeb
..). While there is the speculation that a sense of impropriety was
what led male doctors to insist that women inspect themselves, this is
probably anachronistic; it was certainly a trend in the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries, but we have very little direct evidence of such qualms
in antiquity. Instead, we find that women’s knowledge of their own
bodies was respected by male doctors and even trumped their own level of
expertise. In one case, the woman, after independent internal self-
examination, discovers her own ailment and reports this to the doctor
(Mul. ., ..–. L. = Loeb .). There are various mentions
of women doctors being present when the male doctor is attending to
women. At another point, the male medical writer recommends picking
and choosing from the women doctors’ medications:
Try the medicines of the women and have the patient take the most
appropriate one. (Mul. . ( L.), ..– = Loeb ..–)
Women’s own knowledge and experience is evident in these works.
Given that male doctors are taking over the treatment and care of
women’s ailments, it is improbable that they came up with an entirely
new set of theories of the female body distinct from those that were already
formulated by women. Women preferred to be treated by female doc-
tors. In their attempt to attract women clients, male doctors had to
present a medical theory that fell in line with women’s views of their own


E.g., Mul. . (..– L.); Nat. Mul.  (..–. L.); Mul. . (.. L.); Mul.
. (.. L.); Mul. . (..– L.); Mul . (.. L.); Superf.  (..– L.).
See Totelin (: –) for further references.

On these more recent trends, see Doyle (: ch. ). For speculation about ancient practices, see
Dean-Jones (: –), who concluded that despite one comment advising male doctors to act
judiciously with women and girls, it was common for male doctors to treat female patients and so,
in general, sexual impropriety was not a worry for them.

‘The woman doctor (iâtreuousa) should gently open the cervix’ (Mul. ., ..– L. = Loeb
..–).

King (: –); Lloyd (: –).
 Women’s Medical Knowledge in Antiquity 
bodies, arguably held collectively. Consider how the author of the
Hippocratic work On Diseases of Women advises on women’s ailments.
Doctors may err in not inquiring carefully about a disease’s cause, and
in treating them like diseases in men: indeed, I have seen many women
perish in such cases. Rather you must question a patient immediately and in
detail about the cause; for there is a great difference in the treatment
of women’s diseases and those of men. (Mul. ., ..–
L. = Loeb ..–)
The (trainee?) doctor is instructed here to ask the woman patient to supply
the causes, rather than to try to discern these himself; knowledge of the
basis for women’s diseases is still considered to be a feminine area of
expertise. Thus, the Hippocratic gynaecological works give us some clues
to the views of women doctors and their patients about the rationale behind
their treatments. Many illnesses affecting the rest of the body are taken to
be connected to the patient being a woman – through two key mechanisms:
the need to purge blood from the body, on the one hand, and the motility of
the uterus, on the other. The general idea is that a woman’s body retains
excess blood that must be periodically voided. This blood can be used up on
nourishing a foetus if she becomes pregnant and is converted into milk
during lactation (Nat. Puer. –, .– L. = Loeb .–). The
texture of the female body is much spongier and softer than the male one,
which allows for the absorption of more fluid (Mul. .–, .-
L. = Loeb .–). To ensure health, the doctor must help the female
body to discharge the right quality and quantity of blood; if retained, it can
cause disease and pain. Thus, therapies concentrate on either bringing about
regular menstruation or facilitating pregnancy, as pregnancy uses up the
blood and anchors the uterus. Signs of health for a woman include desire
for and pleasure in sexual intercourse.


As Dean-Jones puts it: ‘The treatment offered to women [by male doctors] . . . must have been
acceptable to them and have squared with their view of their own physiology’ (: ).

‘The models of the female body in the Hippocratic Corpus are the product and the common
property of society, women as well as men’ (Dean-Jones : ).

King (: ).

The needy womb can cause extreme physical and psychological illness according to Virg. 
(..– L. = Loeb ..–). Where such ideas originally came from is unknown.
Emphasis on regulating menstrual cycles and keeping the uterus in place are available in the very
earliest medical texts, such as the Kahun or el-Lahun gynaecological papyrus dating from  
Egypt, during the reign of a female pharaoh, Soberkneferu (Smith ; Bose ).
Ethnopharmacology tells us that in some contemporary African cultures, medicines, and
techniques not dissimilar to those described in the Hippocratic treatises persist (Steenkamp
: ).

Thumiger (: –).
  . 
Male medical authorities in antiquity may have somewhat adapted and
changed women’s theories or attempted to incorporate aspects of their own
theories. However, it is a fair assumption that the basic picture of how
women’s reproductive systems and interconnected body parts operate was
already in place by the time male doctors began to encroach. In terms of
the maintenance of health through regular menstruation, it is probably
part of a women’s collective experience to judge that healthy women tend
to have regular periods. Since only women have regular discharges of
bloodlike fluid and also gestate and lactate, health was quite reasonably
considered to require the regular flow of materials around the body.
It may be that women were the first to think of the uterus as motile.
Some recommended procedures are based on the view that the uterus is
attracted to pleasant smells and retreats from the unpleasant. In HA ,
using information from women, pseudo-Aristotle says that the uterus can
be ‘thirsty’ (.a). This idea of uterine agency could have been
developed by male doctors, but it is just as likely to have originated with
women doctors to ground their practices. Indeed, the cervix can be felt to
recede and move down, and this often coincides with certain parts of the
menstruous cycle. Women also experienced uterine prolapse. A theory of
the uterus as sentient may strike us as unscientific, but for the ancients, it
had a certain logic. Plato says that the uterus is like an animal, as is the
penis, presumably because of its self-motion (Tim. a–c).
Some have felt that the theories about women’s health found in the
Hippocratic works reveal only male concerns, since they often focus on
fertility and recommend sex and pregnancy as cures (Mul. ., , , ,
, , ). But it is very possible, indeed highly probable, that fertility


Places in Man – explains the interconnection of all parts of the body similar to Mul. . ( L.)
(..– L. = Loeb ..–): ‘All of the parts [of the body] will be involved in the disease to a
greater or less degree.’ The importance of different complexions is part of the theory in Aer. and VM
and is mentioned in Nat. Mul. , . L. = Loeb ..

In some pre-scientific cultures, such as the Rungus of Borneo, menses are viewed by women as
fluids that need to be evacuated (Appell ). A recent study in the BMJ concludes that regular
menstruation is indeed a sign of health (Wang et. al. ).

King (: ) also thinks it possible that women themselves held a model of the female body in
which reproductive function and fluids could affect every other part.

Loc. Hom.  (.– L. = Loeb .–); Mul. . ( L.) (.– L. = Loeb .–);
Mul. . (.– = Loeb .–).

Manuli () argues that the motile uterus is entirely a male construct designed to control women.
It is also possible that women came up with this idea independently, developing many of the
complex pharmacological procedures we find in the Hippocratic corpus.

King suggests that this is the origin of the idea of a motile uterus (: n. ). Cf. Dean-Jones
(: ).
 Women’s Medical Knowledge in Antiquity 
was a top priority in the minds of women of this period. Women’s
province was the care of the home and family; producing healthy children
would bring prestige and the sort of power accorded to women. Within
the Hippocratic texts, it is evident that women still held the main episte-
mic authority around these events as the author of On Diseases of Women
remarks: ‘It requires much attention and knowledge (epistêmê) to bring
a child to term and provide for its nourishment in the uterus, and then
to give birth to it’ (Mul. ., ..– L. = Loeb ..–).
Knowledge about giving birth to a child is something that only a woman
could have.

Pharmacology
The Hippocratic writings on women contain more recipes than the entire
rest of the corpus combined. Much of the pharmaceutical practice, and
the theory behind it, is thought to have come from women healers. These
doctors must have been party to an extensive oral tradition. There is a
tendency to classify the administration of drugs as less scientific and more
folklorish than other practices, such as dietetics (Hanson ). But there
is no strong case for this. In fact, some of the medicines employed would
have been effective, particularly as abortifacients, especially pennyroyal and
hellebore. Furthermore, pharmaceutical practices show aspects of ratio-
nal engagement. What the recipes we find in the Hippocratic corpus lack is
any detailed account of the instruments required and procedures to
procure, prepare, and apply the medicine. A practitioner with knowledge
of an underlying rationale for the use of certain medicines would have been
able to take these very general recipes and adapt them, often finding similar
substitutes for certain ingredients. The use of materia medica, then,
requires the mastery of complex theories of measurement, effective powers,
and the results of their combinations under various conditions. It may

 
Lloyd (: ); Dean-Jones (). Dean-Jones (: ); Totelin (, ).

The Hippocratic gynaecological texts are compilations, which show signs of having been updated
via written and oral traditions (Totelin ). There are many references to methods used by
women themselves (Hanson : ).

Riddle () argued for the efficacy of many of the drugs, particularly abortifacients, used in the
Hippocratic gynaecological treatises. King () refutes his case. Totelin () defends Riddle’s
general position, emphasising the continuity of many ingredients.

This is convincingly argued in Totelin ().

A work attributed to the Hellenistic Cleopatra provided complicated charts of relevant weights and
measures, indicating an awareness of the importance of calibration in chemical compounds. See
Pseudo-Galen, De ponderibus et mensuris , in Hultsch (: –) and Totelin ().
  . 
well be that this theoretical knowledge was guarded by women who would
have passed this on orally to each other. It seems likely that the lists found
in the Hippocratic texts indicate that in the background are experienced
women practitioners with such knowledge.
In writing these ingredients down without enough instruction, the
medical writer might be trying to take over this part of female medical
expertise, but he is more likely to be showing off his knowledge – a
knowledge gained from female practitioners and those they bought the
ingredients from. This display of prowess had potentially very dangerous
consequences; many of the ingredients mentioned are highly toxic, partic-
ularly ‘squirting cucumber’ (ecballium). In very small quantities, it can
have a beneficial effect, but if given without extreme care, this could well
end the life of the woman. If too many women died under the ‘care’ of a
male doctor from his ill mixing, this would only reinforce the need for a
more experienced female mixer to intervene.

Knowledge of How Reproduction Works

It seems probable that women doctors entertained theories about how
reproduction works, a matter of great importance to their patients.
Compared with men, women were in a better position to judge some
aspects of these processes, for they had their own and other women’s direct
experiences to draw on – experiences of sex and conception. It seems likely
that female expertise included a store of information from the collective
experience of women about how to aid (or prevent) procreation. The
medical texts all agree, at least for humankind, that sex and male ejacula-
tion are necessary for conception. Many also note the need for parallel
female seed produced during sex (Genit. , .– L. = Loeb .–;
Mul. ., . L. = Loeb .–; Mul. ., .– L. = Loeb .;
Mul. ., .– L. = Loeb .–). Diseases of Women, the text that
we have already seen to contain so much information from women
themselves, often mentions that in order for conception to occur women
need to feel desire for and pleasure in sex (e.g., Mul. ., . L. = Loeb
.–; Mul. ., .– L. = Loeb .; Mul. ., .–
L. =Loeb .–). While this is untrue, it reveals an interest in female
experience that is sometimes absent from more male-centred accounts.
The theory that there are two parallel seeds, both released at sexual climax,
shows awareness of female orgasm.
 
Totelin (, , ). See Totelin on ‘root-cutters’ and ‘drug-sellers’ (: ).
 Women’s Medical Knowledge in Antiquity 
This theory is not necessarily equalitarian, however. In the most com-
prehensive written account of it we possess, in a work entitled Generation,
it is said that women always cease to feel pleasure as soon as men do. Here
the perspective is a male one, making much use of the first-person plural. It
is about what ‘we’ (as men) experience.
A man’s seed falling into the uterus extinguishes a woman’s warmth and
pleasure. In fact, a woman’s pleasure and warmth leap up at the moment
the seed falls into her uterus, but then ceases. (Genit. , ..–.
L. = Loeb ..–)
Another medical text, the pseudo-Aristotelian HA .–, is more women-
centred. This author is careful to listen to women, noting their experi-
ences of erotic dreams in particular (HA ..b, .a). His own
theory depends on this testimony, although he cannot help providing the
caveat ‘if the women are telling the truth’ (HA ..a), admitting that
in fact women hold the upper hand and can choose to withhold or distort
information about their bodies and experiences.
The resultant theory of generation is different from that found in
Generation because it posits that women have their own independent
sexual rhythm.
For if it is true that the woman too contributes to the seed and the generation,
plainly there is need of equal speed (isodromêsai) on both sides. Therefore, if he
has completed quickly while she has hardly done so (for in most things women
are slower), this is an impediment. (HA ..b–)
This theory is disputed by Aristotle in his On the Generation of Animals.
The counter-theory also requires information from women about their
own experiences, in this case, that they can become pregnant even when
they feel no pleasure (GA ..b–, ..a–).
At the same time, the nature of the female contribution was being
debated, and these texts hint that women with expertise about

One text recommends violent sex for the production of a male child (Superf. ., ..– L. =
Loeb ..–). For use of the first-person plural to signal male solidarity, see Thumiger (:
–).

The idea that women could not feel pleasure after the male had climaxed is a male-centred
perspective. Another description of sex that leaves out the female experience can be found in
Plato, who characterises desire for physical intercourse as ‘giving birth in beauty’, which brings to
mind male ejaculation into an attractive partner but not the female experience of satisfying sex.

Dean-Jones () argues that the first five chapters of HA  ought to be called On the Failure to
Generation (Non Genit.) and are ‘embedded endoxa’ that Aristotle copied out from a medical expert.
As Dean-Jones notes, the work pays a ‘great deal of attention to women’s testimony about their
sexual experience’ (forthcoming).

Connell (: –).
  . 
reproduction had their own views. It would be too simplistic to imagine
that all women had the same theory of generation. Some portions of the
Hippocratic corpus reveal women’s concentration on retaining male seed
(HA .; Cf. Steril. [ L.], .– L. = Loeb .–). As the
author of The Nature of the Child says, this is the ‘sort of thing women say
to each other – that when a woman is going to conceive, the seed remains
inside her and does not fall out’ (Nat. Puer.  [ L.], ..– L. = Loeb
..–). While this is compatible with their contributing their own
seed during sex, it does not require it, and some wise women, perhaps
those Aristotle spoke to when composing the GA, may have had another
way to understand what women contribute.
What they are likely to have agreed about, and which no right-minded
scientist would deny, is that women provide a generative contribution. HA
 tells the story of a woman who tries to prove this through a zoological
experiment.
There was once a woman who, capturing some singing grasshoppers while
they were still young, kept them to see what would occur. And when they
had grown, they became pregnant spontaneously. It is clear from these
things that every female contributes to the embryo even if this is evident in
only one type of animal. (HA ..b–)
Aristotle may have concluded that this theory is inductively invalid. He
himself noted two species of fish where no male could be found but
thought that there was not enough evidence to come to any conclusions
about the possibility of parthenogenesis (GA ..a–b, ..b,
HA ..a). In any case, this budding female natural scientist only
hoped to show that the female animal contributes something toward
generation. Parthenogenesis is an overdetermining case and may indicate
a desire in this thinker to counterbalance the idea of the autogenetic male,
which appears only in myth and never in nature.


Rousselle’s view that the account in the HA  was a theory held by women seems possible. She
perhaps goes too far, however, in declaring that advances in science ‘destroyed the traditional basis
of reciprocal pleasure in heterosexual intercourse’ (: ).

Rousselle assumes that the parallel seed theory found in some Hippocratic works is ‘the theory held
by women’ (: ).

Aristotle complains that Democritus makes a general conclusion about hybrids on the basis of only
one sort, mules (GA ..a–). A similar complaint is also found at GA ..a–: ‘Our
friends base their study on a few instances and think the same holds good for all.’ And again, later in
the GA Democritus is accused of assigning ‘a cause to apply generally although he has not
undertaken an exhaustive investigation of the facts’ (..b–). On the general complaint,
see Lloyd (: ).

For example, Zeus produces Athena without a woman (Homer, Iliad .).
 Women’s Medical Knowledge in Antiquity 
In the area of reproductive theory, both matchmaking and related time
keeping were associated with women. Matchmaking in the ancient world
was undertaken exclusively by women. This explains why Socrates’
attempt to say how he matches young interlocutors to sophists (Th.
d) is so amusing: he is playing a feminine role, a source of great hilarity
to the Greeks. Bio-medical authors seem to wish to share in knowledge
about matching the right men to the right women in order to produce
viable children (Genit. ). For the author of HA , and his female
influenced theory, fertility is lessened when the man and woman do not
keep the same pace in love making and so do not ejaculate simultaneously
(HA ..b–). That male and female must be harmonious
(sunarmosthe) fits other aspects of contemporaneous reproductive theory.
Aristotle notes that ‘it happens to many women and men that they cannot
produce children in union with each other but can when apart from each
other’ – that is, with other partners (HA ..b). For Aristotle, the
combination of female menses and male semen must be correctly balanced
or proportioned.
Keeping track of time periods was another sort of knowledge assigned to
women. There is a theory, based on several bone artifacts, that counting
the days of the menstrual cycle sparked early human interest in abstract
numbers and cosmic cycles. This is highly speculative. Yet in the era we
are examining not only did women count the timings of their ‘monthlies’
(katameniai), but they were also thereby (to the ancient mind) keeping
track of the circular movements of at least one prime heavenly body, the
moon. Aristotle links the moon’s force on nature to menstruation
(GA ..a–; Cf. Oct. , .– L.); this is part of the more general
effect that the heavenly bodies have on generation (GA ..b–).
Women also measure the length of human gestation. As part of his
philosophical science, Aristotle meticulously documents gestational
periods in all animals (HA .–). In the case of humans, women hold
the key to this knowledge. Aristotle readily accepts the women’s theory of
variable gestational periods, as mentioned above, and asserts it to be a
special feature of humankind.

 
Noy (). See also Mul. ., Loeb .–.

Aristotle says that ‘proper blend’ (summetria) ‘is the reason why it happens that many couples fail to
effect generation with one another, but if they change partners, they succeed’ (GA ..a–).
See also GA ..a–, ..a–. See Connell (: –).

The ,-year-old Lebombo bone, and a later artifact, show notches that add up to monthly
periods of time. See Marshack (); Zaslavsky (); Darling ().

GA ..b–. See Connell (:  n. ).
  . 
In human affairs, then, time periods, measurements, and calculations of
cycles in nature belong to the province of female expertise and can be
joined to their knowledge of correct sexual mixing. This may be part of
the reason why Plato’s rulers (tois archousi), who are eugenic matchmakers,
combine the expertise of men and women in their ranks (Rep.
.e–a). Matching the right men with the right women in ‘mar-
riages’ is, for Plato, a case of timing. If and when knowledge of the
correct measurements of time periods for matching and mating people
wanes, the whole civilisation suffers a decline.
Not only for plants that grow from the earth but also for animals that live
upon it there is a cycle of bearing and barrenness for soul and body as often
as the revolutions of their orbs come full circle . . .. And when your
guardians, missing this, bring together brides and bridegrooms unseason-
ably, the offspring will not be well-born or fortunate. (Rep. .a–d)
Female expertise in measuring, mixing, and matchmaking continues to
hold sway later on in antiquity, when treatises on alchemy and pharma-
cology are attributed to women. In that context, women were taken to
have the sort of knowledge required to transform through proper blending,
which is likened to marriage and procreation. While women doctors
often focused on issues of particular importance to women, such as
preparing medications that would be dangerous in the hands of others,
they also speculated about matters of more general import, such as the
cycles and timings of birth and death.
In conclusion, this chapter has shown how information from women
doctors permeates male medical and biological writings and includes
theoretical constructs. In a culture in which a woman’s word was worth
much less than that of a man, it is striking that on the subject of expertise
about the body and nature’s cycles, women had a certain authority.
Given how ubiquitous women’s health and reproduction were, women’s
philosophical contributions in this field of inquiry were arguably more
widespread than in any other area of intellectual activity in antiquity.


Female knowledge in this area would also include knowledge about the birth of male children and
so is not confined entirely to the female sex.

In Plato’s Symposium, it is crucial that Diotima be a woman since among women lies the ultimate
knowledge of physical pregnancy and birth and the cycles of the natural world more generally.

The connection between sexual generation and metallurgy can already be found in Empedocles who
likens the mixture of donkey and horse semen to a too dense mixture of bronze and tin (GA
..a–b).

Berthelot (). One famous alchemist, Maria, spoke of the ‘marriage’ of metals (Plant :
–; Patai : –). Another alchemist, called Cleopatra, employed reproductive
metaphors to explain how materials transform (Lindsay : ). See Connell ().
  

Ancient Women Epicureans and Their

Anti-Hedonist Critics
Kelly Arenson

Introduction
Very little is known about ancient women Epicureans, and most of what
we do know comes from sources who were hostile to Epicurean hedonism,
such as Cicero and Plutarch. Some information is found in the doxography
of Epicurus provided by Diogenes Laertius, who was not unsympathetic to
Epicureanism, but Diogenes is at times a frustrating source since his habit
was to report all manner of accounts on his subject rather than to
determine their veracity. It was usually the case that ancient authors
mentioned women Epicureans in order to embarrass the school by depict-
ing its men as crude hedonists, who (so the slander goes) kept the women
around for sexual gratification rather than intellectual stimulation.
It was not uncommon for ancient accounts of women philosophers to
emphasise a woman’s sexual status rather than her intellectual abilities or
achievements, and such was certainly the case for ancient accounts of
women Epicureans. However, much of the misogyny directed at women
Epicureans was noteworthy insofar as its main goal seems not to have been
to undermine the women themselves (even if this was an inevitable
consequence) but to reject the school’s main ethical tenets; in other words,
anti-hedonists used misogyny often as a tool for philosophical criticism. In
addition, there is evidence that some critics and lampooners of
Epicureanism believed that the women of the school had a negative effect
on the quality of its intellectual activity: the women supposedly distracted
the men, resulting in a philosophy that was less robust and coherent than it
might have been in an all-male environment.
In what follows, I consider how accounts of Epicurean women were
sexualised by critics who were intent on undermining hedonism, and
I provide case studies of ancient Epicurean women, focusing especially


Relevant here is Hawley (: –).


  
on a hetaira (usually translated, controversially, as ‘courtesan’) known as
Leontion and a woman named Themista. Since our extant accounts of
Epicurean women are rather sparse, it is difficult to be choosy in our
methods for evaluating the evidence. Since we know nothing about the
philosophy of the Epicurean women – we have neither their own texts (if
they wrote any) nor any accounts of their own philosophies – we cannot
evaluate the intellectual quality of their contributions. Despite the scarcity
of philosophical source material, there is still much to be gained by
investigating the extant biographical accounts of Epicurean women: we
stand to deepen our understanding of the place of women in the school,
particularly our knowledge of how they were viewed by other members, as
well as our understanding of the polemical tactics employed by ancient
critics of Epicurean hedonism.
My strategy for engaging with the figures philosophically is multi-
pronged. First, I attempt to separate the sexualised content from the
intellectual content in polemical accounts of Epicurean women, and
I consider how material from Epicureans themselves sheds light on the
women’s social status and philosophical roles in the school. This prong of
my strategy operates under the assumption that the polemical accounts
probably tend to exaggerate, or at the very least overemphasise, the extent
to which the school’s women and men desired, engaged in, or otherwise
thought about sex. The goal here is to uncover as much as possible the bare
‘data’ regarding the women – evidence of their philosophical contribu-
tions, official relationships with others in the school (e.g., marriages),
documented communication, etc. – while stripping away as much as
possible any polemical chatter that may bias the data. This will be difficult
given that so much of our information regarding the women comes from
polemicists, but we will do well to consider why a critic is choosing to
sexualise his account of Epicureanism: what is the critic’s motivation for
reporting the sexualised material, and is he targeting some aspect of the
school’s philosophy, the integrity of its members themselves, or some
combination of these? Again, my underlying assumption will be that the
sexualised content of the polemical reports needs to be separated from the
‘data’ because it is plausible that such reports distort the truth about who
Epicurean women were and what their roles may have been in the school.
While the first prong of my strategy assumes that we need to view
Epicurean women through a lens unclouded by anti-hedonism, the second
prong operates under no such assumption: what if many, if not most, of
the Epicurean women we know about were indeed prostitutes or hetairai,
as many polemicists report, and what if the women did in fact have sexual
 Ancient Women Epicureans 
relations, perhaps in their capacity as sex workers, with one or more
members of the school? If this were true, how would it affect our under-
standing of the ways in which sex and women factored into Epicurean
ethics? This formulation of my strategy relies on the view that it was not
necessarily a problem for the women to be viewed both as intellectual
contributors to the school and as sex objects. Indeed, we may do the
women a disservice if we insist that chastity must have been a prerequisite
for involvement in the school, as if there were something morally
unsavoury about an intellectual woman engaging in sexual activity or
attracting sexual attention. Nevertheless, given that philosophy and sexual
promiscuity were often understood to be poor bedfellows in Epicurus’
time, we need to envision how Epicureans might have responded to
polemical charges that the presence of women in the school rendered its
philosophy contemptible and its members disreputable.

Epicureanism and Its Critics

Epicureans were easy targets in antiquity because of their claim that the
goal of life is pleasure, but this was frequently misunderstood – often
wilfully, it seems – by their critics. Epicureans defined pleasure as the
absence of pain in the body (ataraxia) and trouble in the soul (aponia), and
they pursued a life focused on the fulfilment of natural and necessary
desires, the enjoyment of friends, and a proper understanding of nature. In
contrast to the Cyrenaics, another school of prominent ancient hedonists,
whose goal was to achieve the most pleasure in the present moment,
Epicureans claimed that not all pleasures are choiceworthy all the time;
although all pleasures are good in themselves, sometimes one should forgo
a present enjoyment if doing so will bring oneself more pleasure later (Ad
Men. ). The Epicureans thought of their own philosophy as ‘serious,
restrained, and sober’, to quote the Epicurean spokesperson Torquatus in
Cicero’s De Finibus (.).
Around / , Epicurus located his school – known as the
‘Garden’ because of its attached green space – outside the main gate of
Athens, not far from Plato’s Academy. That Epicurus and many of his
followers lived together in the Garden no doubt provided grist for the mill


For more on women in the Cyrenaic school, see Katharine O’Reilly’s chapter on Arete in this volume
(Chapter ).

Translations in this chapter are mine except where otherwise noted.

On the Epicureans’ life in the Garden, see (Clay : –).
  
of his many critics, who imagined the place as a sort of hedonist frat house.
And imagine they must have: unlike the Stoics and members of other
Hellenistic schools, the Epicureans did not cultivate much of a public
persona, preferring to keep to themselves in their Garden. Social isolation
was consistent with their goal of pursuing pleasure and avoiding pain:
Epicurus writes in Principal Doctrines , ‘the purest security comes from
solitude and withdrawal from the many’. There are few extant, non-
satirical accounts of the behaviour, dress, or physical appearance of the
Epicureans, probably because they spent so much time out of the public
eye. There were ample statues of Epicurus in antiquity – which is how we
know he had a beard and a long face – but these were often erected by his
followers in private spaces such as villas, where the figures could be
venerated by members of his school. As Caizzi notes: ‘No living image of
Epicurus as a person was presented day by day to the Athenians’ eyes, and
what came out of the school was just one word, “pleasure”: something
apparently very easy for everybody to understand and attack.’ If the facts
about the Epicureans’ lifestyle were not well known outside the school,
critics’ imaginations were free to concoct all sorts of salacious details about
the habits of the Garden’s resident hedonists.
According to Cicero, Epicurean habits are informed by Epicurean
philosophy. In De Finibus, he claims that the Epicureans have no argu-
ment against the view that we should indulge in pleasure as much as
possible. He accuses them of using philosophy as a justification for over-
indulgence – ‘Epicurus appears to be looking for disciples, so that those
who wish to be dissolute first become philosophers’ – and quips that their
work should be assessed by censors rather than philosophers (.). Much
of Cicero’s basis for this attack is a passage Diogenes Laertius attributes to
Epicurus’ lost text On the Telos. The fullest version of the passage is quoted
by Cicero in the Tusculan Disputations: ‘Indeed, I do not know how to
understand the good, if you take away the pleasures that are experienced
through taste, and the pleasures experienced in sex, and the sweet motions
which are experienced by the ears through music and by the eyes through


For more on the public image of Epicureans and Stoics, see Caizzi (: –).

See, e.g., Vatican Sayings : ‘They must release themselves from the prison of common affairs and
politics.’ According to Diogenes Laertius (D.L. .), Epicurus claimed in his lost text On Life
that the sage will not take part in politics. (See also Cicero, ad Atticum .). Diogenes also wrote
that Epicurus ‘was reasonable to such an excessive degree that he did not engage in politics’
(D.L. .). In the Reply to Colotes, Plutarch accuses the Epicureans of freeloading: they enjoy
the advantages of living in society without ‘paying their share’, and they attempt to persuade others
to avoid taking part in government and making public speeches (e).

Caizzi (: ).
 Ancient Women Epicureans 
forms, and the other pleasures which are generated in the whole person by
any of the senses’ (.). In Cicero’s mind, this passage shows that
Epicurus has no idea what the highest good really is: on the one hand, it
is sensory pleasures such as those from sex and taste, but on the other, it is
the absence of pain. According to Cicero, Epicurus’ philosophy is confus-
ingly two-faced: it condones the pursuit of sensory pleasure to excess but
also insists that the highest good is tranquillity and painlessness. In
Cicero’s eyes, Epicurean hedonism is not only immoral and therefore
unsuitable for a virtuous Roman community, which should not be spend-
ing its time pursuing pleasure instead of virtue, but it is also logically
flawed insofar as it equivocates about the meaning of ‘pleasure’ itself.

Prostitutes in the Garden?

Epicureans were easy targets not only because they were hedonists but also
because they freely admitted women (and slaves) into their school. Ancient
sources report the names of several women who philosophised in the
Epicurean Garden, most while its founder was still alive. Among them
were Batis, Leontion, Themista, Mammarion, Hedeia, Boidion, Erotion,
Nikidion, and Demetria. Some of their names are so comical as to sound
fake: in the modern parlance suggested by Nussbaum and Snyder,
Mammarion is ‘Tits’, Hedeia is ‘Sweety’ or ‘Sweety-Pie’ (Gordon argues
for ‘Pleasing’ and claims that the name was not uncommon in Greek
culture, yet Clay claims that the name suggests she was a prostitute),
Boidion is ‘Ox-eyes’ or ‘Little Heifer’, Erotion is ‘Lovey’, Nikidion is
‘Little Victory’, and Leontion is ‘Little Lioness’. Both Nussbaum and
Gordon consider that many of the names may indeed have been fake
and that the only real women Epicureans were Leontion and Themista
(‘Righteous’). It is of course possible that many of the women never
existed given that most of the extant references to them appear only in
polemical works against Epicureanism, such as Plutarch’s Non Posse
(c, b) and a work called Delights authored by Timocrates, a
disgruntled Epicurean who supposedly left the school despite the fact that
his brother Metrodorus was one of Epicurus’ main disciples (D.L. .).

Nec equidem habeo, quod intellegam bonum illud, detrahens eas voluptates quae sapore
percipiuntur, detrahens eas quae rebus percipiuntur veneriis, detrahens eas quae auditu e
cantibus, detrahens eas etiam quae ex formis percipiuntur oculis suavis motiones, sive quae aliae
voluptates in toto homine gignuntur quolibet sensu. Trans. Graver (), modified.
 
Snyder (: ). Clay (: ); Gordon (: ).

Nussbaum (:  n. ); Gordon (: ).
  
However, as Gordon points out, the later Epicurean Philodemus of
Gadara, from the first century , mentions several of the women –
Hedeia, Nikidion, Mammarion, and Demetria – which makes it less likely
that all of them are pure fictions.
In our extant evidence, the disgruntled Timocrates was the first to
report that many Epicurean women were hetairai (D.L. .), a position
that modern historians have tended to describe as a high-class courtesan
who was hired for companionship, entertainment, and usually sex. Ancient
authors gave the impression that hetairai were something akin to prosti-
tutes: Plutarch, for instance, remarks sarcastically that Epicurus settled
himself in his Garden ‘making babies with the hetaira from Cyzicus
(παιδοποιούμενον ἐκ τῆς Κυζικηνῆς ἑταίρας)’, who it has been suggested
was Hedeia. In their lexicon, Liddell and Scott specify that ‘hetaira’ is
opposed to both ‘pornē’ (prostitute) and ‘gametē’ (married woman, wife),
indicating that hetairai belonged to a class of women who were unable to
marry, perhaps because of lack of citizenship or lack of dowry. It has been
thought that hetairai were educated, often foreign women who were
expected to provide conversation, not just physical enjoyment, to male
companions. Hetairai were known to have been well dressed and to have
had control of their own money. Athenian men may have found hetairai to
be more interesting than their wives, who were kept within the home and
might therefore have been less cultured. It has been thought that many
hetairai were former slaves from outside Athens, which meant they lacked
many of the liberties of Athenian citizens. For instance, many scholars
believe that a fourth-century  law prohibited non-citizens from mar-
rying citizens, although scholarly interpretation of this law remains
controversial.
However, in recent years, scholars’ description of hetairai as what
amounts to high-class, non-citizen escorts has come under scrutiny, a fact
which is important if we wish to consider Epicurean hetairai as more than
mere sexual companions to Epicurus and his friends. Interestingly, one of
the most famous hetairai of the ancient world, Aspasia, was an educated
and cherished companion of the Athenian statesman Pericles, and she too
was called a prostitute, perhaps, it has been suggested, in order to slander


Gordon (: ).

Non Posse b. For the reference to Hedeia, see Usener (: , col. ) (listing for Polyaenus).
There is no evidence that Epicurus himself had any children.

The scholarly literature on the fourth-century  law supposedly prohibiting marriages between
Athenian citizens and metics, cited at Demosthenes ., is vast. For a recent rundown of the
debate, see chapter  of Kennedy ().
 Ancient Women Epicureans 
Pericles. Kennedy has argued that the name ‘hetaira’ originated in the
late sixth and early fifth centuries  and designated women who were
elite, educated, sometimes foreign and sometimes citizen, who participated
in symposia and enjoyed luxurious lifestyles. These women were not
necessarily prostitutes – many of them definitely were not, as proven by
the fact that some were married to Athenian nobles. It is not until the
fourth century , she argues, that the behaviour exhibited by hetairai
from the late sixth and early fifth centuries came to signify a woman who
was not marriage material, and from then on hetairai and matrimony
appear to have been sharply polarised, creating what Kennedy calls ‘the
wife-whore dichotomy’. Kennedy challenges the standard scholarly view
that a woman who was a non-citizen or lacked a dowry in classical Athens
must have been a sex worker: at the time, some women who were without
dowries were indeed citizens, though many others were freed slaves or non-
resident aliens. What such women had in common was not a career in the
sex industry (since some were not working in such an industry at all) but
their singlehood, which was forced on them because of their financial and/
or political circumstances. Over time, the many different uses of the term
‘hetaira’ were combined, most notably in the second and third centuries 
by the rhetoricians Alciphron and Athenaeus, leading to ‘a confusion of the
woman’s behaviour (party going) and status (unmarriageable) with one
potential occupation (sexual labour)’. If hetairai were not necessarily
prostitutes or high-class escorts, this makes more sense of the fact that
several of the Epicurean women, such as Leontion and Themista (who
may or may not have been a hetaira), were in long-term, stable relation-
ships with men of the school. Although we know that these women in
particular were not Athenian citizens, nothing suggests that they were sex
workers of any sort – either common or elite. The Epicurean women may
have been labelled ‘hetairai’ because they were engaged in behaviour that
was unusual and possibly perceived as scandalous in their time, such as
philosophising along with men. Or, they may have been guilty of the
‘scandalous’ behaviour of simply existing while poor and without male
relatives.


See Henry (). Plutarch describes Pericles as being weak and out of his mind for allowing
himself to be manipulated by a prostitute (Life of Pericles, .).
 
Kennedy (: –). Kennedy (: ).

There is also evidence that many Pythagorean women were described as prostitutes. See Dutsch
().

See Gordon (: ); Kennedy (: ).
  
The presence of women in the school factored significantly into ancient
polemical accounts of Epicureanism. Cicero, one of the Epicureans’ most
ardent critics, chastises them for studying women instead of great men
such as Solon and Lycurgus: he remarks in De Finibus, ‘Would it not be
better to talk of them than to devote countless volumes to Themista?’
(.). We unfortunately do not have much idea in what sense the
Epicureans were in reality ‘studying women’ other than the little that is
mentioned in the doxography: male Epicureans exchanged letters with
women and in some cases dedicated works to them. In any case, Cicero
clearly has no interest in discovering anything about the women who
supposedly took up so much of the Epicureans’ time; rather, he calls
attention to the presence of women in the Garden merely to lampoon
the school. We see something similar with Plutarch, who mentions
Epicurean women in order to undercut Epicurus’ claim that one should
live outside the public eye. With tongue in cheek, Plutarch remarks in his
polemical work Live Unknown that concealing oneself from others is
indeed necessary if one wants to enjoy certain indiscretions: ‘By all means,
if I am to live with Hedeia the hetaira and spend my life with Leontion and
“spit on what is fine” and put the good “in the flesh and in ticklings” –
these goals require darkness, these goals require night, for forgetting and
ignorance’ (b).
Ancient comic writers also had a hand in inventing scandalous stories
about the women of the Garden. Alciphron, a second/third century 
rhetorician, wrote a fake letter from Leontion to her friend and fellow
Athenian hetaira Lamia, in which Epicurus is depicted as a jealous lover,
old and decrepit, who threatens to set his posse on Leontion if she
continues to refuse to give up her lover, Timarchus of Cephisia.
‘Leontion’ exclaims that this ‘lice-ridden and sickly man . . . is controlling
me, criticising everything, suspecting everything, writing me incompre-
hensible letters and chasing me out of his garden’. Perhaps the worst of
the insults appears later in the letter, when ‘Leontion’ considers whether
she should stay with Epicurus when ‘he may even take what I have, and


Nonne melius est de his aliquid quam tantis voluminibus de Themista loqui?

Πάνυ μὲν οὖν, ἂν μεθ᾽ Ἡδείας βιοῦν μέλλω τῆς ἑταίρας καὶ Λεοντίῳ συγκαταζῆν καὶ “τῷ καλῷ
προσπτύειν” καὶ τἀγαθὸν “ἐν σαρκὶ καὶ γαργαλισμοῖς” τίθεσθαι∙ ταῦτα δεῖται σκότους τὰ τέλη,
ταῦτα νυκτός, ἐπὶ ταῦτα τὴν λήθην καὶ τὴν ἄγνοιαν.

Epistles, . [.] (trans. Granholm ).

Alciphron, Epistles ..– [.]. οἷά με Ἐπίκουρος οὗτος διοικεῖ πάντα λοιδορῶν, πάντα
ὑποπτεύων, ἐπιστολὰς ἀδιαλύτους μοι γράφων, ἐκδιώκων ἐκ τοῦ κήπου.
 Ancient Women Epicureans 
teach others’. So not only is Epicurus a dirty old man, but he’s also a
plagiariser, borrowing philosophical doctrine from his hetairai.
In addition, Diogenes Laertius reports in the doxography of Epicurus
that Diotimus, a Stoic from around  , ‘hostilely slandered
[Epicurus] with the most cruel statements, producing fifty salacious letters
as written by Epicurus’ (D.L. .). The Greek rhetorician Athenaeus
reports in his third-century  work Deipnosophistae (Dinner Sophists/
Experts) that Diotimus was made to answer to Zeno the Epicurean for
the forged books and was killed. Nothing remains of Diotimus’ fabri-
cated letters, but, given Zeno’s reaction to them and Diogenes Laertius’
account, it would be surprising if they lacked salacious and embarrassing
stories of the Epicureans’ relations with the women of their school. Again,
we have no reason to believe that ancient polemicists had any interest in
describing the lives and accomplishments of the women themselves; the
women were useful as mere tools for mocking Epicurean men, whose
personal depravity served as evidence of the depravity of their philosophy.
But even if the critics were mistaken about the facts – perhaps the
women were not high-class escorts, common prostitutes, or mere sexual
distractions – we still find within the anti-hedonist polemic several signif-
icant details about the role of women in Epicurus’ school. For starters, we
learn from the critics that women were indeed members of the school,
which is no small fact. In addition, we know that many of the women were
very close to Epicurus and his main disciples – close enough to be given
nicknames and special enough to have works dedicated to them. In
addition, if many of the women were hetairai in the sense that Kennedy
understands the term, they may very well have been educated and highly
cultured. Perhaps this meant that the Epicureans were not terribly con-
cerned about the social status of their fellows, which makes sense of the
fact that they admitted slaves as well as women. One can speculate that
what mattered more was that followers wholeheartedly committed to the
school’s lifestyle and were intellectually capable of mastering its philoso-
phy. Even if critics believed that the presence of women in the school
discredited Epicurean philosophy and tarnished the reputation of its
practitioners, it is nevertheless the case that women took part in the life


Alciphron, Epistles ..– [.]. λαβέτω καὶ ἃ ἔχω, διδασκέτω δ ̓ ἄλλους.

Διότιμος δ᾽ ὁ Στωικὸς δυσμενῶς ἔχων πρὸς αὐτὸν πικρότατα αὐτὸν διαβέβληκεν, ἐπιστολὰς φέρων
πεντήκοντα ἀσελγεῖς ὡς Ἐπικούρου.

Athenaeus, Deipnosophistae .b. Διότιμος δ᾽ ὁ γράψας τὰ κατ᾽ Ἐπικούρου βιβλία ὑπὸ Ζήνωνος
τοῦ Ἐπικουρείου ἐξαιτηθεὶς ἀνῃρέθη.
  
of the school, perhaps even as philosophers, as is suggested by other
evidence that I turn to in what follows.

Women Epicureans: The ‘Data’

What in fact do we know about Epicurean women? We have the most
evidence concerning Leontion and Themista, much of it from polemical
sources. Regarding Leontion (also known as Leontium), we have the
following collection of facts from Diogenes Laertius, whose evidence
comes from all manner of sources: she lived with one of Epicurus’
brothers, whom hostile sources described as a pimp (προαγωγεύειν: one
who prostitutes) (D.L. .); she exchanged letters with Epicurus, who
sometimes shared them with the rest of the school (D.L. .); Epicurus’
main disciple Metrodorus was supposedly quite fond of her and took her as
his mistress (παλλακίς) (D.L. ., .). Plutarch wrote that
Metrodorus and Leontion were actually married (Non Posse b): the
groom’s mother and sister were said to be elated (ὑπερχαίρω) about the
union. This bit of information is puzzling: it is unclear how they could
have married given that Leontion was not a citizen, unless there were no
laws prohibiting unions between citizens and aliens at the time. Diogenes
reports that Epicurus joyously replied to her in a letter, ‘O Lord Apollo,
my dear little Leontion, we were filled with such loud applause when we
read your little letter’ (D.L. .). Philodemus too reports that Leontion
wrote to Epicurus. Athenaeus states that she had a daughter, Danae, who
was also a hetaira, associated with Sophron, the governor of Ephesus in the
middle of the third century . It is reported that Danae informed
Sophron of a plot against his life by Laodice I, the former wife of the
Hellenistic king Antiochus II. Upon learning that Danae had warned
Sophron of the threat, Laodice supposedly threw Danae off a cliff. In
addition, Athenaeus reports that the third-century  poet Hermesianax
of Colophon dedicated a three-book poem to Leontion, who was said to be
his lover (ἐρώμενος).

ἔν τε ταῖς ἐπιστολαῖς πρὸς μὲν Λεόντιον Παιὰν ἄναξ, φίλον Λεοντάριον, οἵου κροτοθορύβου ἡμᾶς
ἐνέπλησας ἀναγνόντας σου τὸ ἐπιστόλιον.

Philodemus, Herculanensium Voluminum quae supersunt. Collectio altera (VH) ..
 
Athenaeus, Deipnosophistae .b. See Laale (: –).

Athenaeus, Deipnosophistae .a. I think there is good reason to be suspicious of the veracity of
these reports given that they are poorly documented (e.g., that concerning Danae) and/or come
from comic sources (e.g., Athenaeus). I include the reports to show that many Epicurean women
(and, evidently, their daughters) were depicted in antiquity as ‘loose’, even if this might not have
been the case in reality.
 Ancient Women Epicureans 
Several sources report that Leontion practised philosophy. In On the
Nature of the Gods, Cicero criticises Epicurus and his followers for letting
women philosophise in the Garden, while at the same time Cicero com-
pliments Leontion’s facility with Attic Greek and notes that she authored a
work against Theophrastus, the head of the Aristotelian school: ‘Was it
dreams like these that emboldened not only Epicurus and Metrodorus and
Hermarchus to speak against Pythagoras, Plato and Empedocles, but even
dared the little prostitute (meretricula) Leontium to write against
Theophrastus? She is certainly skilled at Attic discourse, but nevertheless –
so great was the licence in the Garden of Epicurus’ (De natura deorum
.). Pliny the Elder, in his Natural Histories, reports the same but does
not name Leontion: ‘I am truly not unaware that a woman no less wrote
against Theophrastus, a man whose eloquence was so great that the name
he acquired signified the divine, and from this was born the saying,
“choosing a tree from which to hang” and that from this came the
expression, “choosing one’s tree for hanging oneself”.’ The idea here is
that in writing her refutation of Theophrastus, Leontion demonstrated her
own lack of skill. Usener, in his compilation of Epicurean material,
includes the work ‘Against Theophrastus’ among the books by Epicurus,
which Gordon claims is an indication that Usener believed Leontion was
not actually its author. However, I think Usener’s intention is not
entirely clear: he does not explicitly doubt Leontion’s authorship; includes
the two known references to ‘Against Theophrastus’ (namely, those of
Cicero and Pliny), both of which attribute the work to Leontion; and
notes that Clitomachus the Carneadean ‘followed the rumours of others’
and attributed the books against Theophrastus to Leontion rather than to
Epicurus. Usener remarks elsewhere in his compilation that Leontion
was thought to be the author of the work against Theophrastus owing to


Istisne fidentes somniis non modo Epicurus et Metrodorus et Hermarchus contra Pythagoram
Platonem Empedoclemque dixerunt, sed meretricula etiam Leontium contra Theophrastum
scribere ausast—scito illa quidem sermone et Attico, sed tamen: tantum Epicuri hortus
habuit licentiae.

Book , Preface . Ceu vero nesciam adversus Theophrastum, hominem in eloquentia tantum ut
nomen divinum inde invenerit, scripsisse etiam feminam, et proverbiam inde natum suspendio
arborem eligendi.

Usener (: –); Gordon (:  n. ).

Usener : : ‘hinc colligas Clitomachum h.e. Carneaden aliorum famam secutum libros
contra Theophrastum non Epicuro sed Leontio tribuisse’. When Usener says ‘you may infer
(colligas) . . .’, he might mean that you would be wrong to do so (i.e., Clitomachus is mistaken in
his attribution of the works to Leontion), but unfortunately it is not entirely clear.
  
her reputation as a learned woman. Perhaps he means that she was
mistakenly given credit for work that was not her own, but that would
be odd given that he never claims that the several sources who attribute the
work to her are mistaken. If Epicurus did put his name on a work written
by Leontion, it strikes me as unlikely that Cicero, if he knew about it,
would not have wasted an opportunity to point out another example of
Epicurus’ depravity. Pliny also mentions two paintings of Leontion, one of
which may provide some proof that she philosophised. Pliny writes,
‘Theodorus (or Theorus) painted “Epicurus’ Leontion thinking”
(Leontium Epicuri cogitantem)’. Of the other painting, there is very little
description: ‘Aristides painted “Epicurus’ Leontion (Leontium Epicuri)”.’
Notice that Pliny says that she was Epicurus’ when he might have said
instead ‘the Epicurean Leontion’ or ‘a follower of Epicurus’.
Further evidence that some Epicurean women may have occupied
positions of prominence in the school is a Roman copy of a Greek statue
depicting Leontion or perhaps Themista, which for many years was
thought to depict St Hippolytus. The figure wears a long tunic and is
seated in a sort of throne, the bottom of which is decorated with the head
and feet of a lion. Guarducci compared the statue, particularly the throne,
to similar specimens in antiquity and discovered that leonine thrones of
this sort were rather unusual in Imperial Rome and western ancient
Greece, but several were found in Athens depicting Epicurus and some
of his main disciples. For several reasons, Guarducci concluded that the
statue bears the head of St. Hippolytus, which was added during restora-
tion, and the body of a woman, who is very likely an Epicurean. Guarducci
claims that the most likely candidate is Themista, but Frischer argued in
the early s that Guarducci exaggerated the significance of Themista in
the school, and the figure most likely represents Leontion. Frischer based
this view on the fact that references to Leontion in ancient literature appear
more frequently than do those to Themista and that it would make sense
for a statue of Leontion to serve as the inspiration for later paintings of her,
such as those noted by Pliny. In any case, the point is that some women
Epicureans – whether Themista, Leontion, or someone else – were prom-
inent enough in the school to be immortalised in stone along with
Epicurus and his other main people.


‘Famosa erat ut docta mulier, adeo ut Epicuri aduersus Theophrastum libri ab ea scripti
crederentur.’ Usener (: ).
  
Natural Histories .. Natural Histories .. See Guarducci (: –).
 
Frischer (: ). Frischer (:  n. ).
 Ancient Women Epicureans 
Other evidence regarding Leontion is even more slanderous than that
supplied by Cicero and Plutarch. Athenaeus has the character Myrtilus
remark in the Deipnosophistae, ‘Did not this same Epicurus take Leontion
as his lover, who had become notorious for being a hetaira? When she
began to philosophise she did not stop being a hetaira, but had sex with all
the Epicureans in their gardens, even right in front of Epicurus, with the
result that he fretted about her quite a bit, and wrote this in his Letters to
Hermarchus’ (.b). Athenaeus depicts not only Leontion but all of
Epicurus’ followers in the Garden as the worst kinds of hedonists and
perhaps in more ways than even Athenaeus realises: his point seems to be
that Epicureans are indulging their excessive and baseless desires for sex,
but notice that, were this true, they violate their own hedonism by causing
themselves mental anguish by somehow ‘fretting about’ their relationships.
Unfortunately, we cannot say for certain in what sense, if any, Epicureans
were overly fixated on their lovers, but the fact remains that the passage
from Athenaeus does add to the evidence that Leontion practised philos-
ophy (φιλοσοφεῖν) in some way.
Boccaccio’s fourteenth-century work Concerning Famous Women
includes some choice jabs at Leontion, which were based on the writings
of Latin authors and his own imagination. Boccaccio writes the following:
If I am right, Leontium was a Greek woman who achieved fame perhaps in
the time of Alexander the Great, king of Macedonia. If she had preserved
her matronly honour, the glory attached to her name would have been
much more radiant, for she had extraordinary intellectual powers. According
to the testimony of ancient authors, Leontium so excelled in the study of
literature that, prompted either by envy or feminine temerity, she dared to
write an invective against Theophrastus, a famous philosopher of that period.
I have not seen this work. But its fame has lasted throughout the centuries down
to our own age: hence we cannot say that the work was a trifle or showed a lack
of ability, although it is a clear sign of an envious disposition.


οὗτος οὖν ὁ Έπίκουρος οὐ Λεόντιον εἶχεν ἐρωμένην τὴν ἐπὶ ἑταιρείὰ διαβόητον γενομένην; ἣ δὲ
οὐδ’ ὅτε φιλοσοφεῖν ἤρξατο ἐπαύσατο ἑταιροῦσα, πᾶσι δὲ τοῖς Έπικουρείοις συνῆν ἐν τοῖς κήποις,
Έπικούρῳ δὲ καὶ ἀναφανδόν· ὥστ’ ἐκεῖνον πολλὴν φροντίδα ποιούμενον αὐτῆς τοῦτ’ ἐμφανίζειν
διὰ τῶν πρὸς Έρμαρχον Έπιστολῶν.

Trans. Brown (: ). Leuntium, si satis bene arbitror, greca fuit mulier et forsan Alexandri
magni, macedonici regis, evo conspicua. Cuius, si matronalem pudicitiam servasset, cum ingenii
eius permaxime fuerint vires, longe fulgidior nominis fuisset gloria. Veterum enim testimonio
tantum in studiis literarum valuit, ut aut invidia percita, aut muliebri temeritate inpulsa, in
Theophrastum, celeberrimum ea tempestate phylosophum, scribere invehendo ausa sit: quid, ego
non vidi. Sane postquam per tot secula in etatem usque nostram fama devenit, non minimum fuisse
nec etiam parve facultatis inditium existimare possumus, esto invidi animi sit
certissimum argumentum.
  
Like the account provided by Athenaeus, Boccaccio’s treats Leontion’s
intellectual talent as a liability rather than an asset: given her intelligence,
she should have been able to do something better with her life than
prostitute herself to Epicurean men. It seems she cannot win no matter
what: she is either unintelligent or too smart to be a consort to Epicureans.
She fares no better in the rest of Boccaccio’s account: ‘Living in the
brothels among pimps, vile adulterers, and whores, she was able to stain
Philosophy, the teacher of truth, with ignominy in those disgraceful
chambers, trample it with wanton feet, and plunge it into filthy
sewers . . ..’ In Boccaccio’s opinion, Leontion should have stayed away
from philosophy altogether, no matter how proficient she may have been
at it. Nevertheless, if we strip away the slanderous and prejudicial aspects
of the account, we are left with more evidence that Leontion was indeed an
Epicurean and an intellectual.
We know even less about the other Epicurean women than we do about
Leontion. In addition to her and Themista, we have the names of several
others, whom I mentioned earlier: Mammarion, Hedeia, Boidion,
Erotion, Nikidion, and Demetria. Castner observes that it is possible that
four of these women made dedications to certain healing gods. The
names Mammarion, Hedeia, Nikidion, and Boidion appear in ancient
inscriptions recording the dedications, which may have been made before
the women became members of the Epicurean school (if they are indeed
the same women and not other, non-Epicurean women of the same
names): it would have been unlikely for Epicureans to have paid much
attention to any deity, owing to their view that the gods take no interest in
human activity. In Non Posse, Plutarch mentions several of the women
while he is in the process of ridiculing hedonists for requiring too many
costly things to support their so-called philosophy, ‘and not only this, but
young and attractive women (γυναῖκας), like Leontion, Boidion, Hedeia,
and Nikidion, who grazed (ἐνέμοντο) about the Garden’(d–e). Note
Plutarch’s phrasing: the women ‘grazed’, an activity that is of course
fitting for those named after heifers and other animals.
There are a few additional details regarding Themista. Among Epicurus’
works listed in Diogenes Laertius’ doxography, one was dedicated to her: a
work called ‘Neocles’, who was one of Epicurus’ brothers (D.L. .).


Trans. Brown : . Inter lenones impurosque mechos et scorta atque fornices versata, potuit
magistram rerum phylosophiam inhonestis in cellulis et ignominiosis deturpare notis atque
impudicis calcare vestigiis et cloacis immergere fetidis . . ..
 
Castner (: –). From νέμω, to pasture or graze.
 Ancient Women Epicureans 
Diogenes also reports that Themista was married to Leonteus, a disciple of
Epicurus, a fact also reported by Clement of Alexandria. She and
Leonteus had a son, whom they named after the master himself
(D.L. .). At some point, Epicurus too may have been friendly with
Themista, judging by a letter he wrote to her, as reported by Diogenes: ‘To
Themista, the wife of Leonteus, I am able to say that if you all invite me,
I will be easily influenced to rush forth to wherever you and Themista
should summon me’ (D.L. .). In addition, Diogenes mentions her in
his catalogue of prominent Epicureans: ‘There is also Leonteus of
Lampsacus, and his wife Themista, to whom Epicurus wrote letters
(πρὸς ἣν καὶ γέγραφεν ὁ Ἐπίκουρος)’ (D.L. .). This passage is
significant because it would be surprising for the wife of a distinguished
member of any school to receive special mention unless she made some
contributions to the school in her own right. It is also significant because
Diogenes’ syntax indicates that Epicurus sent his letters to her individually
(πρὸς ἣν).
Clement also reports that Themista and several other women were
intellectuals: ‘Themista too, of Lampsacus, the daughter of Zoilus, the
wife of Leonteus of Lampsacus, philosophised about Epicurean things, just
as Myia the daughter of Theano the Pythagorean, and Arignote, who
wrote the history of Dionysius.’ This may seem like praise, especially
coming from Clement, who despises Epicureanism, but Gordon contends
that Clement’s phrasing is not necessarily complimentary: Themista is not
described as a philosopher herself but as one who ‘philosophised Epicurean
things’ (τὰ Ἐπικούρεια ἐφιλοσόφει), meaning that she might have been a
student rather than a philosopher. This might be plausible if there were
some difference between being a philosopher and studying philosophy, but
those are not necessarily mutually exclusive. Even if the phrase in
question is rendered as ‘philosophised Epicurean things’, it may neverthe-
less mean she was an Epicurean philosopher because she lived Epicurean
philosophy – that is, she understood its doctrines and put them into
practice in her daily life. Further evidence for the claim that Themista
was something of an intellectual comes from Lactantius, an early Christian


Clement of Alexandria, Stromata ..

πρὸς δὲ Θεμίσταν τὴν Λεοντέως γυναῖκα οἷος τε φησίν εἰμί, ἐὰν μὴ ὑμεῖς πρός με ἀφίκησθε, αὐτὸς
τρικύλιστος, ὅπου ἂν ὑμεῖς καὶ Θεμίστα παρακαλῆτε, ὠθεῖσθαι.

Clement of Alexandria, Stromata .. ναὶ μὴν καὶ Θεμιστὼ ἡ Ζωΐλου ἡ Λαμψακηνὴ ἡ Λεοντέως
γυνὴ τοῦ Λαμψακηνοῦ τὰ Ἐπικούρεια ἐφιλοσόφει καθάπερ Μυῖα ἡ Θεανοῦς θυγάτηρ
τὰ Πυθαγόρεια.
 
Gordon (:  n. , ). I thank Phillip Sidney Horkey for pointing this out to me.
  
from the third/fourth century , who writes in his Divine Institutes that
although many philosophers, such as the Epicureans and Stoics, tried to
introduce philosophy to the ignorant multitudes, those philosophers failed
to include women, with one exception: ‘In all of memory, no one ever
taught any women besides Themista to philosophise.’ It is odd that he
does not mention Leontion or any other women philosophers and perhaps
odd too that Plutarch says not a word about Themista.
A more shadowy figure among ancient women intellectuals is
Theophila, from the fourth-to-third centuries . Martial, a Roman poet
from the first century , describes her in an epigram to Canius Rufus, a
poet and friend. Referring to a portrait of Theophila, who is described as
the fiancé of Canius, Martial writes the following in Epigram .:
Canius, this is your promised bride, Theophila, whose mind is steeped in
Cecropian riches. The Attic garden of the great ancient [Epicurus] could
rightfully claim her, nor less would the Stoic throng wish her theirs.
Whatever work you send forth through her ears will live; so unwomanlike
is her taste, so uncommon. Your Pantaenis would scarcely claim to be her
superior, well-known though she be to the Pierian choir. Sappho would
love her and praise her verse-making. Theophila is more pure and Sappho
was not more accomplished.
Martial portrays her as chaste and rather masculine: she is unlike other
women and also intelligent, traits that would seem worthy of praise. Yet
Martial’s tone is disapproving, as Swancutt points out: ‘the whole is highly
ironic, employing innuendo about Hellenic luxury to call Theophila’s
chastity into question’. Swancutt comments further: ‘She is a hellenized,
masculine intellectual schooled in Sapphic licentiousness – not at all a
good bride for poor Canius.’ Furthermore, if Theophila is indeed
unscrupulous and unladylike, this reflects poorly on the philosophical
schools that have attempted to recruit her. In the end, though, we do
not know which school, if any, Theophila eventually settled on.
I cannot do full justice here to the question of what it meant for
an Epicurean to philosophise, but I will suggest that women of the school


Lactantius, Divine Institutes .. Denique nullas umquam mulieres philosophari docuerunt praeter
unam ex omni memoria Themisten.

Haec est illa tibi promissa Theophila, Caius, cuis Cecropia pectora dote madent: hanc sibi iure petat
magni senis Atticus hortus, nec minus esse suam Stoica turba velit. Vivet opus quodcumque per has
emiseris aures; tam non femineum nec populare sapit. Non tua Pantaenis nimium se praeferat illi,
Quamvis Pierio sit bene nota choro. Carmina fingentem Sappho laudabat amatrix: Castior haec, et
non doctior illa fuit. Trans. D. R. Shackleton Bailey, revised by Swancutt ().
 
Swancutt (: ). Swancutt (: ).
 Ancient Women Epicureans 
(as well as its men) were philosophising even if they were not authoring
philosophical works or otherwise actively furthering the tradition; writing
treatises was not the only way to earn one’s credentials as an Epicurean
philosopher. One of the main messages of Epicurus’ Letter to Menoeceus is
that being an Epicurean entails comprehending the key Epicurean doc-
trines concerning physics and ethics – especially those pertaining to the
nature of death, pleasure, pain, and the gods – and living in accordance
with such doctrines. Several times in the letter he exhorts Menoeceus to
‘practise’ (μελετάω) the Epicurean precepts in order to live ‘as a god among
men’, perhaps indicating that one does philosophy by living philosophi-
cally, which entails acquiring true beliefs through study and then putting
those beliefs into practice. If Epicurean women were intelligent enough
to master Epicurean principles – which is likely true of at least Leontion
and Themista – and if they had an opportunity to ‘practise’ the Epicurean
lifestyle, then I think it makes sense to say that they philosophised and
were philosophers.

Epicurean Women as Philosophers and Sex Objects

By now I think we can see that most of the accounts of ancient Epicurean
women follow a similar pattern: the authors aim to undermine and mock
Epicurean hedonism by sexualising accounts of its practitioners.
A common way that Epicurus’ critics accomplished this was by ridiculing
Epicurean women and sensationalising their interactions with the school’s
men. The accounts of Epicurean women were thus designed as ad homi-
nem attacks on Epicurus and his main disciples, attacks that were ulti-
mately aimed at undercutting Epicurean hedonism: pleasure should not be
the goal of life because it leads to the licentiousness exhibited by its
founder and his followers. Although ancient polemicists, such as Cicero
and Plutarch, often provided accounts that were hostile, misleading, and
incomplete, without them we would probably know nothing about any
Epicurean woman. One might conclude, then, that we should be grateful
for the critics, since some news of Epicurean women is arguably better
than no news, even if the news was served up with a side of anti-hedonist
misogyny. When the polemical ideology is stripped away as much as it can
be, we are left with the ‘data’ confirming that women were members of the
school and some were indeed intellectuals.


See especially Ad Men.  and .
  
One way I have gone about attempting to separate fact from fiction in
the critics’ accounts is by determining what information about the women
is corroborated by non-hostile sources, such as letters between Epicurean
men and women and depictions of the women in ancient art. We get the
sense from such sources that some women were highly respected by their
fellow Epicureans – if this were not the case, presumably we would not
find a statue of an Epicurean woman whose regal pose resembles that of
the stone figures of her prominent Epicurean brethren – that some were
quite close to or even in official relationships (e.g., marriage) with high-
level members of the school (and so were not kept in secret, contra
Plutarch’s narrative), and that some of the women might have produced
philosophical works, such as the piece against Theophrastus thought to
have been penned by Leontion. The non-hostile sources seem to corrob-
orate the ‘data’ from the critical accounts.
All of the above has been motivated by the assumption that the critics
attempt to undermine Epicurean ethics by fabricating or distorting the
dirty details of the amorous habits of Epicurus and his followers. I have
contended that this critical tactic is motivated by anti-hedonist ideology; in
other words, the attacks, even when ad hominem, originate mainly from
differences of opinion about whether pleasure should be the goal of life.
But it may also be the case that the critics are simply uncomfortable with
the idea that a woman could be an intellectual, especially a supposedly
promiscuous woman. And the critics might not be the only ones with this
prejudice: their discomfort may be reflected in my own attempts to
discount the racier bits of the polemicists’ descriptions in order to further
the conclusion that at least some of the women were respected and
intelligent. But what if many of the women were indeed philosopher
prostitutes? What if the school were something like a free-love community,
a co-ed garden of swingers? If this were true, how would such a lifestyle
have been consistent with Epicurean ethics, and what might have been the
role of women in such an environment?
We should note that there is evidence that Epicureans did not disap-
prove of sex, and there is good reason to believe they would not have
disapproved of its members having sex with each other. Epicureans cate-
gorise sex as a natural but unnecessary desire; it is compatible with living
well as long as it does not disturb one’s ataraxia. Unlike, say, the pursuit
of fame, sex itself is not inherently troublesome, but it might become
undesirable under certain circumstances, such as if one obsesses about

For more on sex, love, and the Epicurean taxonomy of desires, see Arenson (: –).
 Ancient Women Epicureans 
procuring it, takes great risks to find or keep a partner, or neglects one’s
duties. Lucretius actually recommends casual sex for those seeking
physical pleasure without the emotional disturbance of love, which the
Epicureans characterise as an unnatural desire, fuelled by false beliefs.
Since Epicureans think that they themselves have true beliefs about the
causes of unhealthy desires and how to avoid them, they might say that a
fellow Epicurean is a safer sexual partner than some random person:
Epicurean partners will at least be more attuned to signs of obsessive
attachment, which they will correctly see as a threat to their ataraxia.
The members of the school might therefore have seen each other as useful,
safe outlets for sexual desire, an attitude that may have accounted for their
willingness to admit women: without the worry that sexual relationships
would devolve into distracting obsessions, the Epicureans might not have
seen any reason to turn a woman away. If she were having sex with, or even
prostituting herself to, her male schoolmates, this need not have been
inconsistent with Epicurean ethics or detrimental to her own intellectual
pursuits or those of the men.
In the end, it does not seem to matter much whether the critics were
right that Epicurean women were prostitutes and sex objects. Whether we
separate the sexualised content from the ‘data’ and attempt to corroborate
the latter with evidence from non-hostile sources or whether we simply
acknowledge that the critics may have been right that the women were
having regular sexual relations with other members of the school, we reach
the conclusion that women were there in the Garden as intellectuals,
mothers, friends, and lovers, roles that were not necessarily mutually
exclusive.

 
See Metrodorus’ letter to Pythocles (Vatican Sayings ). De Rerum Natura .–.

For their comments on the various versions of this chapter, I would like to thank the participants of
the Women Intellectuals in Antiquity Symposium, held at Oxford University in February , the
participants of the workshop for this volume, held online in March , and especially Katharine
O’Reilly and Caterina Pellò.
  

Arete of Cyrene and the Role of Women

in Philosophical Lineage
Katharine R. O’Reilly

Introduction
Arete of Cyrene (fl.  ) was daughter of the founder of the Cyrenaic
school and mother to the figure who codified its principles, who was
known as mētrodidaktos – ‘mother-taught’. Her tomb was said to be
inscribed with an epitaph declaring her the splendour of Greece with the
beauty of Helen, the virtue of Thirma, the pen of Aristippus, the soul of
Socrates, and the tongue of Homer. Her representation is consistently in
relation to others. What can we learn from this about Arete as a figure in
her own right? In this chapter, I explore what the depiction of Arete can
tell us about the importance of women acting as links in an intellectual
chain to maintain a philosophical lineage but to the detriment of revealing
their unique philosophical contributions.
Ancient biographies are at pains to establish Arete as a reliable conduit
through which the teachings of the Cyrenaics were transmitted between
male members. However, doing so evidently did not require the preserva-
tion of her thought or writings. She is said to have had a thirty-five-year
public teaching career, wrote forty books, headed the school after the death
of her father, and passed her teachings on to her son, playing a crucial role
in the philosophical lineage of the Cyrenaics. Yet none of her work is
preserved. She directed a school. Yet, she is more often spoken of as
daughter and mother to Cyrenaics than as a practising philosopher and
teacher. Here I begin the assessment of the evidence with ancient biogra-
phy and then consider the depiction of Arete in later sources, including a
Socratic Epistle. I argue for three ways in which the role of Arete prompts
us to question our understanding of ancient philosophical education and
Cyrenaic commitments: first, in terms of the scope of philosophy and the
inclusion of child-rearing and caring responsibilities within it; second, in
terms of innovation and originality, as versus preservation, being the seat
of philosophical value; and third, in terms of a perceived distinction


 Arete of Cyrene 
between the object of philosophical transmission as formal theory versus
lifestyle and performance. By gaining clarity on these issues, we are able to
recognise Arete as a talented and esteemed teacher who significantly
enhances and alters Cyrenaicism.
I follow this with methodological reflections on how we might access a
figure like Arete given the state of the source materials and their exclusion
of women. I argue that this task requires and licenses the adoption of three
key methodological strategies, each related to an added open-mindedness
to source material when it comes to the recovery of ancient women
philosophers. In doing so, I speak to sceptical concerns about whether
the project of reaching Arete as philosopher can get off the ground.
I conclude by asking if contemporary treatments can do more than the
impoverished historical record to reflect Arete’s legacy as an intellectual
and cultural icon in her own time.

Ancient Depictions of Arete

Arete of Cyrene was the daughter of Aristippus the Elder, who was a
follower of Socrates and founder of the Cyrenaic school. Born in Cyrene,
in modern day Libya, Arete may have remained there, at least until the
death of her father (circa  ), after which she is recorded as taking
over as head of the school. We will begin our exploration of Arete by
considering her depiction in ancient biographies of her father.


Lampe (:  n. ). This is also suggested by Epistle , which I will discuss below. There is a
question of whether she ever made it to Athens, or may have been stuck in Cyrene, and
somewhat marginalised. See n.  for evidence of her presence in Athens.

Boccaccio in Mozans (  n. ). Mozans comments as follows:
[Arete] is said to have publicly taught natural and moral philosophy in the schools and
academies of Attica for thirty-five years, to have written forty books, and to have counted
among her pupils one hundred and ten philosophers. She was so highly esteemed by her
countrymen that they inscribed on her tomb an epitaph which declared that she was the
splendour of Greece and possessed the beauty of Helen, the virtue of Thirma, the pen of
Aristippus, the soul of Socrates and the tongue of Homer.
This passage is very problematic. Though cited as drawing on a work by the Renaissance Italian
writer Boccaccio, it does not appear in any publication of his. There are a range of versions of the
epitaph that come down to us. The reproductions seem to begin with Antonio de Guevara’s Reloj de
príncipes, o libro aureo del emperador Marco Aurelio (), a work that is prone to invention. This
was translated into French, Italian, and English, and then Latin by J. Wanckel as Horlogium
Principum, sive de vita M. Aurelii Imperatoris (). Book  Ch.  (early editions, . in
Wanckel) is an essay on female learning: Non minus feminas quam viros sapientes (et eruditas)
esse posse. Guevara, citing Boc(c)ac(c)io De laudibus mulierum, Book , credits Arete with  years’
teaching in Athens,  philosopher pupils, and  books. He gives a long list of titles, including an
Encomium of Socrates and a work on the prudence of ants, and quotes a version of the epitaph in
  . ’
One of our principle sources for the Elder Aristippus is Diogenes
Laertius’ Lives (D.L.), which, in the biodoxographical style typical of the
work, paints him as a sophist, arch-hedonist, and target of criticism and
ridicule by many contemporaries (including Socrates and Xenophon). He
is said to have lived extravagantly yet at ease and to have been ever ready
with a witty rejoinder in response to some snide remark from an intellec-
tual rival. Yet Diogenes’ portrait softens when he describes Aristippus’
relationship with his daughter:
He gave his daughter Arete (τῇ θυγατρὶ Ἀρήτῃ) the very best advice,
training her up (συνασκῶν) to despise excess. He was asked by some one
in what way his son would be the better for being educated (παιδευθείς).
He replied, ‘If nothing more than this, at all events, when in the theatre he
will not sit down like a stone upon a stone.’ When some one brought his
son as a pupil, he asked for a fee of  drachmae. The father objected,
‘For that sum I can buy a slave.’ ‘Then do so,’ was the reply, ‘and you will
have two.’
Only the first line refers specifically to Arete, but the two anecdotes about
Aristippus’ attitude towards the education of children are clearly intended
to shed further light on his role as father and teacher. They suggest that, for
him, the value of one’s children is closely tied to how well educated they
are. We know that Arete, by contrast with the uneducated sons of others,
was trained extensively by her father. There is an implicit contrast, then,
between the well-trained daughter of Aristippus and the stone- and slave-
like sons of others. Indeed, the suggestion is that her training is more than
intellectual. Though subtle, the use of the verb sunaskēo (to join in
practising), perhaps subtly contrasted with the paideia associated with
males, suggests that Aristippus’ means of educating his daughter also

prose. Later editions and translations set out to improve the style of the epitaph in various ways.
Some turn it into verse (e.g., Thomas North) or elegiacs (Wanckel). Adding to this complexity is a
further issue over the authority given for the information about Arete. Guevara cites Boccaccio but
has previously mentioned a historian called Hiarchus, in connection not with Arete but with Plato’s
pupils ‘Lasterma’ and Axiothea. Tomaso Tomasi, in his Idea del giardino del mondo (), credits
the information about Arete to ‘un’historico greco per nome Hiarco’, which is picked up by Petrus
Colomesius in his Observationes sacrae of , who is in turn reported by J. C. Wolf, in Mulierum
graecarum quae oratione prosa usae sunt fragmenta et elogia (). This may all stem from D.L. .
where Dicaearchus is credited with information about Axiothea, who is mentioned in the same
bracket as Lastheneia. For my purposes, I do not require this passage to reflect an ancient source,
since I am as much interested in how Arete was received in later history as antiquity. I am indebted
to Lara Harwood-Ventura and Michael Trapp for their patient and expert assistance in tracking
down earlier sources.

D.L. .–. See especially –. Hereafter I use the Hicks (/) translation, with
some amendments.
 
D.L. .–. D.L. ..
 Arete of Cyrene 
involved practical habituation to achieve the end of despising excess. The
συν- prefix even subtly suggests that this is an activity pursued jointly. The
analogy of uneducated sons as stones on stones suggests a kind of stasis, in
contrast to the activity suggested by the practical aspect of Cyrenaic
education and lifestyle. This adds to a picture in which Arete is joining
her father in a lifestyle consistent with Cyrenaic beliefs, both living and
studying alongside each other in close mentorship.
A bit further on in D.L. we find two anecdotes about Aristippus that
imply that he is not generally interested in fathering and educating his
offspring, suggesting that Arete was an exception:
A courtesan having told him that she was with child by him, he replied,
‘You are no more sure of this than if, after running through coarse rushes,
you were to say you had been pricked by one in particular.’ Someone
accused him of exposing his son (τὸν υἱὸν) as if it was not his offspring.
Whereupon he said ‘Phlegm, too, and vermin we know to be of our own
begetting, but for all that, because they are useless, we cast them as far from
us as possible.’
These anecdotes are taken as evidence that in addition to Arete, Aristippus
also had a son, which, if accurate, raises the question of why he would not
have been his choice to succeed him intellectually, as was the cultural norm
in antiquity. The arrangement leaves open the possibility that Arete was
the more intellectually gifted of the siblings, which licensed Aristippus’
evident dismissal of the son. That said, it may have been the case that
having trained one child was enough, and further offspring-pupils were not
of interest to him. Further, the passage suggests that whether a child is
legitimate or not may also be of importance; perhaps a son with a
courtesan is considered dispensable. Nonetheless, Aristippus’ comparison
of his child to phlegm makes it clear that he places no value on hereditary
ties alone.
The above section of D.L. also reports Aristippus having dismissed his
son on the grounds that he thought him good for nothing (akhreía).
Lampe suggests that in Greek popular morality the expectation of bestow-
ing honour is fundamentally asymmetrical, with children being expected


Lampe (: –) also speculates about this. On Aristippus the Elder’s view of excess, see for
instance D.L. ..
 
D.L. .. Aristippus’ son is also invoked in SSR a. –. See Lampe (: ).

D.L. .. As Lampe (: ) notes, the longer version of this same anecdote in Gnom.
Vat.  n.  = Cod. Vat. Gr.  f. r makes it clear that it refers to a child who has grown
up, rather than an infant.
  . ’
to honour their parents but no expectation of the inverse. He expands
the idea from honour to care in general when he cites Plato’s Crito for
evidence that Aristippus is no more unfeeling about his son than we might
think Socrates is towards his three sons. Perhaps, then, we should not
read too much into this anecdote. However, we need only think of Meno
c–e, and the discussion of fathers who above all want to train their
sons in virtue, to see that the picture is more complex. While honour in
particular, and care in general, may be expected to flow more from
children to parents than vice versa, the desire to see one’s offspring
educated – in particular one’s sons – is universal among the Greeks,
according to Socrates. And for Aristotle, at least, the asymmetry of care
and affection can go the other way, with parents loving and benefiting
their children more than they are benefited by them (EE
..a–). So we should find Aristippus’ willingness to cast his
uneducated son aside like mere phlegm surprising, especially in contrast to
his attitude towards Arete. The force with which he attributes value to the
daughter and disvalue to the son is striking. Diogenes accentuates this
point by positioning these anecdotes next to each other. This serves to
heighten by contrast her usefulness as a result of her education, training,
and ability. And importantly, it clarifies that her value is not tied to her
heredity alone, since it is not the case that all of Aristippus’ offspring share
it, nor is it blocked by her gender. Indeed, the sources’ emphasis on
Arete’s success as evidence of Aristippus’ own success as father-teacher
might even suggest that part of his value stems from her.
The second time Arete is invoked in D.L. she is not named, but her role
as teacher of her son, Aristippus the Younger, is made clear:
There have been four men called Aristippus, () our present subject, () the
author of a book about Arcadia, () the grandchild by a daughter of the first
Aristippus, who was known as his mother’s pupil (μητροδίδακτος).

 
Lampe (: ). See also Phaedo b–.

See also the cautionary tale of Anytus, cf. Crito in Euthydemus a.

On which, see Connell (), especially section IV.

Mann (: , n. ) speculates about whether Aristippus the Elder’s attitude towards
courtesans, revealed in the biographical fragments, displays a propensity to see others in merely
instrumental terms. There is then a question about the type of value he attributes to his daughter.

Though outside the scope here, it would be interesting to reflect on whether there are aspects of
Cyrenaic thought that license an indifference to gender uncommon in fourth-century  Greece.
For instance, Aristippus the Elder displayed an apparent lack of shame about cross-dressing
according to D.L. . and Sextus PH I..

D.L. ., and again at . In the latter passage, the philosophical lineage is made even more
explicit. See also Strabo, Geog. ...
 Arete of Cyrene 
Though unnamed, Arete’s significance is made clear: she is the biological
and intellectual link between the two named members of the school, the
founder and his grandson, and this link bestows hereditary and philosoph-
ical legitimacy on the Younger and establishes continuity for the whole
school. Indeed, her role is crucial in that it maintains the direct line of
succession from Socrates down through to her son and his codification of
the doctrines of the school. Her role as philosophical teacher of her son, a
highly unusual one for a woman at the time, is also testified in later
sources. This passage is followed by a list of books purportedly written
by Aristippus the Elder, including one titled ‘Letter to his daughter Arete’
(Ἐπιστολὴ πρὸς Ἀρήτην τὴν θυγατέρα), which, like all of the Elder’s
writings, does not survive, though one of the Socratic Epistles discussed
below takes up the same name. Arete is named first ‘disciple’ (diē´kousen)
of her father in D.L.; but in the exegesis of the views of the Cyrenaics that
follows, only those of the founder and of Hegesias, Anniceris and
Theodorus are described. This suggests a depiction of Arete and
Aristippus the Younger as heirs of the Elder’s thought, in contrast to the
more thorough description of the other three who each modify the focus
and arguments of the school and therefore require separate treatments.
The inclusion of a daughter and mother in the line of mainstream
Cyrenaics is strikingly unusual. Indeed, it is an arrangement unusual


We might wonder if the choice of the name Arete is significant in this connection, too, since
Socrates’ mother was Phaenarete (Theaetetus a). Indeed, Socrates himself was taught by women
(Symposium d), which may encourage the depiction of Aristippus the Younger as mother-taught.
The name has other connotations, too, some of which we might think are problematic. There is the
obvious connection to ἀρετή (virtue), whose more literal meaning (‘she who is prayed for’) might be
in tension with Aristippus the Elder’s attitude to prayer (on which see VS  n.  = SSR a.;
Clement Strom. ...– = SSR a.; and Lampe [:  n. ]). Then there are
connotations of intellect and familial power with Arete of Odyssey ., ., , , , ,
and Argonautica .–.

See, for instance, Aelian, De Natura Animalium .; Clement of Alexander Stromates ...;
Eusebius of Caesarea, Praeparatio Evangelica ...a; Themistius Orationes . ;
Theodoret, Therapeutike xi, and in the Suda, s.v. ‘Aristippus’. Aelian calls Arete ‘adelphē´’, usually
‘sister’ of Aristippus the Elder, but from the other evidence we should take this as ‘kinswoman’ and
understand her as his daughter.

D.L. .. These titles may be spurious. For discussion of the debate concerning the authenticity of
works attributed to Aristippus the Elder, see Mannebach (: –); Lampe (:  n. , 
n. ).

D.L. ., -. See also Strabo, Geog. .., where Arete is described as having succeeded
(diedéxato) her father. See Lampe (: ) on ancient doxographies distinguishing two distinct
lines of Cyrenaics: the mainstream one including Aristippus the Elder, Arete and her son, and
divergent lines known for modifying the doctrine, including those of Hegesias, Anniceris,
and Theodorus.

See Warren (: ) who argues that Diogenes omits the details of subjects he perceives not to
have significantly added to or altered the doctrines of a school.
  . ’
enough that the son carried evidence of it as his nickname at the time and
thereafter. What should we make of this? We might think the emphasis
on this nickname is in part to distinguish the Younger Aristippus from the
Elder. But there are any number of ways that could have been achieved, as
we see in other examples of Classical name disambiguation. This tag is
significant in that it emphasises the hereditary and intellectual chain
stretching through three generations and – markedly – including a woman.
It raises a question of how this line of hereditary succession, involving a
woman as a teacher at its centre, might have been received in antiquity –
both in Arete and her son’s lifetimes and in later Classical reception.
We have little evidence on this question, but among what we do have is
a report in Aelian, which connects Arete’s teaching of her son to an
ornithological comment by Aristotle:
Many people sing the praises (ὑμνοῦσιν οἱ πολλοί) of the son of Arete, the
sister of Aristippus, as being taught by his mother. Aristotle says that he
has with his own eyes seen the young of the Nightingale being instructed by
their mother how to sing. (Aelian, De Natura Animalium ., trans.
Scholfield [])
The passage from Historia Animalium that this refers to reads as follows:
Of little birds, some sing a different note from the parent birds, if they have
been removed from the nest and have heard other birds singing; and a
mother-nightingale (ἡ ἀηδὼν) has been observed to give lessons in singing
to a young bird, thus suggesting that language is not natural in the same
way as voice but can be artificially trained. (HA b–, trans.
Thompson in Barnes [])
Aelian’s comment is evidently reporting approval of the arrangement of
mother-teacher. The cross-reference to Aristotle may underline a sense of
continuity: like the mother nightingale, Arete is teaching her son to speak
‘the same language’ as her and her father or, making literal the metaphor,
to practice philosophy in the mainstream Cyrenaic vein. There is an
emphasis on Arete not just as a parent-teacher but as a mother-teacher. We
might find Aelian’s approval, and the fact that mētrodidaktos is not applied
as a pejorative, quite surprising. Might the positive reception of this

The sources use past tense when describing the ascription of this nickname, suggesting it was given
to Aristippus the Younger in his lifetime and not attributed posthumously by biographers.

The choice of humnéō as a verb of praise creates a nice connection with the image of the
nightingale singing.

For which understand ‘daughter’. See note .

For a discussion of Aristotle on mothers educating their young in the animal kingdom, see Connell
(: –).
 Arete of Cyrene 
specific arrangement, in addition to highlighting its rarity, indicate that
there is some advantage to Cyrenaic philosophy being transmitted from
mother to son? The mētrodidaktos title suggests a reversion of gender roles
and the revaluation of the role of mothers in early education. We might
speculate that the early childhood caring responsibilities borne by mothers
in ancient Greece would give them a unique position of influence on their
children. A philosophy that is transmitted as much via a way of life as by
doctrine would be especially well conveyed by a mother-teacher, if the
maternal bond can be conceived of as a distinct means of very early pre-
philosophical edification, which may then translate into an unique peda-
gogical relationship when the child is older.
While our sources emphasise Arete’s gender, and her role as a philo-
sophical conduit between the Elder Aristippus and the Younger, she is also
a philosopher in her own right. After all, she is said to have headed the
Cyrenaics after her father’s death, written her own books, and had her own
students. Yet, compared even to other ancient women, descriptions of
her resist the attribution of philosophical independence, repeatedly figur-
ing her importance solely in relation to her father and son. Unlike other
ancient women in similar positions in a philosophical lineage, she is
described as a conduit for her father’s teachings, rather than as generating
her own, and as someone whose most impressive philosophical contribu-
tions are those formally made by her son.
A rather different picture is preserved in an Italian renaissance work,
which reports that Arete’s tomb bore an epitaph calling her the splendour
of Greece, possessing the beauty of Helen, the virtue of Thirma, the pen of
Aristippus, the soul of Socrates, and the tongue of Homer. This later
depiction is representative of a contradiction we find in the way Arete is


We might speculate that the Cyrenaics contribute something rather revisionary to a philosophical
tradition of thinking about the importance of very early childhood experiences as they relate to one’s
philosophical and civic development, as discussed in Plato, Laws e, ff., e–d and a–
d; Timaeus b; Republic , b; and Aristotle, Politics .a–b, for instance.

See note . For Arete heading the school, see also Strabo, Geog. ...

This is commonplace when it comes to the portrayal of ancient women philosophers. See Protasi
(: ).

Compare for instance Hypatia, Sosipatra (on which see Jana Schultz (Chapter ) in this volume),
Theano or Asclepigenia.

The epitaph read as follows, according to the problematic source cited in n.  (Boccaccio in Mozans
[]):
Nobilis hic Arete dormit, lux Helladis, ore
Tyndaris at tibi par, Icarioti, fide.
Patris Aristippi calamumque animamque dederunt,
Socratis huic linguam Maeonidaeque Dii.
  . ’
presented. On the one hand, it leaves her no independence. Setting the
comments about her beauty and virtue aside, her writing, soul, and speech
are all depicted as being that of another, and a man. In an attempt to
honour her, the epitaph again disavows her of her sovereign place in the
history of philosophy. On the other hand, the epitaph compares Arete to
both female and male icons. The individual comparisons are gendered and
problematic. But although the intellectual standard is male, taken together
the comparison to all these well-known figures yields more than the
individual analogies. Even Socrates does not have the tongue of Homer,
after all. The representation suggests she is an all-rounder considered
worthy of the esteem. If it accurately reports the inscription dedicated to
her at the end of her lifetime, it is evidence in favour of her status and its
recognition. Paired with facts about her students and her own education,
the portrait is a remarkable one. As we will go on to see, there are some
sources that suggest, if subtly, that there is more to Arete’s portrayal than as
a mere conduit. Before drawing conclusions about Arete’s legacy, I now
turn to her depiction in another problematic source: a spurious letter
alleged to be written to her from her father.

Arete in Epistle 
Among the Socratic Epistles, which are known to be spurious and to have
been written much later than they purport, are five letters alleged to have
been written by Aristippus the Elder and a further six of which he is the
named recipient or the subject. These letters belong to a set known to
have been written before the fifth century  and after the second century
. Malherbe places Epistle , addressed from Aristippus to Arete, and
the only one of the set written in Attic, circa  . Though spurious, it
is relevant to this analysis because it demonstrates how Arete and her
relationship to her father and her son are received and understood a few
centuries after her death. Despite being temporally removed, it is in some
ways the source that treats Arete most directly as a subject, since it depicts
Aristippus answering her questions. Still, though, everything is communi-
cated through ‘the pen of Aristippus’, as it were. This is notable since,

See Malherbe (/). On the authorship of and language in the Epistles, see especially p. 
n. , as well as Gaut (: –); Lampe (: –).

Malherbe (/: ). I use the page and line numbering from this edition to cite the Epistle.

D.L. . includes, in the list of titles of dialogues authored by Aristippus the Elder, a Letter to his
daughter Arete (Ἐπιστολὴ πρὸς Ἀρήτην τὴν θυγατέρα), a title by which the Epistle is
presumably inspired.
 Arete of Cyrene 
being spurious, there is a deliberate decision to write in Aristippus’ voice,
yet to indirectly communicate Arete’s questions.
The letter purports to be in response to several letters received from
Arete in which she complains of ill treatment by officials in Cyrene and of
a husband who is shy and unable to handle her affairs. Aristippus then
answers Arete about how she should regard the men he freed (eleuther-
omenoi), presumably referring to his followers, and suggests they are to be
trusted because of their association with his way of life. This adds to a
picture of her taking up his mantle, among his disciples. He describes her
as possessing two gardens in Cyrene and a property in Berenice – enough
by way of assets to live a luxurious life, he claims. Reporting that he has
fallen ill and is unable to return to Cyrene, he implores her as follows:
If, after I have departed this life, you wish to do my will, go to Athens, after
you have given Aristippus the best possible education, and hold in the
highest esteem Xanthippe and Myrto who often urged me to bring you to
the mysteries. (..–, trans. Malherbe)
He compares how Arete might live with Xanthippe and Myrto to how he
lived with Socrates, suggesting a philosophical lifestyle but one that is
markedly among women. That said, in the next lines Aristippus suggests
as an alternative that Socrates’ son Lamprocles could come to live with
Arete in Cyrene and be raised no differently than her own child. We might
wonder, given that her own son is also her student, if this suggests that she
would educate the son of Socrates, which could imply a high regard for her
as a teacher, and emphasises anew the interconnection between these two
families. The next lines are telling:
But above all I urge you to care for (ἐπιμελεῖσθαι) little Aristippus so that he
may be worthy of us and of philosophy. That (ταύτην) is the real inheri-
tance I leave for him . . .. (..–, trans. Malherbe)
The intent here is uncertain: Aristippus urges his daughter above all (pro
pantos) to care for her son so that he may be worthy of philosophy. There is
a question of whether he means for her to teach the young boy philosophy


It is also notable that Aristippus the Elder’s son-in-law is not the target of any instructions. This
might be explained by his shyness and political reluctance (...–) yet might still suggest
that Arete captured the attention of the sources who, given free hand, gave her this lead role in
the Epistle.

Xanthippe is Socrates’ wife. Myrto is recorded as either a second wife, a common-law wife, or as
living with Socrates. See D.L. .; Plutarch Aristides, .–.

One of whom is marked by having been excluded from philosophical conversation in Phaedo
b–.
  . ’
or if this first reference is to more basic child-rearing. The letter represents
Aristippus’ attitude towards his philosophically promising young grandson
as in marked contrast to the dismissive attitude he evidently had for his
own son. He seems to value philosophical promise regardless of gender,
and displays confidence in Arete’s ability to raise her son well.
Philosophy, perhaps transmitted via Arete, is then described as an
inheritance from the Elder. This is ambiguous between the inheritance
being the Elder’s philosophy, passed via Arete to her son, or the education
and care she can provide, where she herself is a valued asset and part of the
bequest. We have grounds to resist the narrow reading, especially when
combined with the mētrodidaktos tag: the scope of tauten could include
philosophy and could also include acts of caring, parental bond, etc. This is
both consistent with Cyrenaic lived philosophy and perhaps a challenge
from this school to more narrow conceptions of philosophy, regarding its
scope, and gendered ideas concerning who is best positioned to pass it on
or teach it to the next generation. There is, at least, a Platonic tradition of
depicting fathers as incapable of or too busy to teach their sons virtue.
Arete does what so many fathers could not, and this suggests something of
a revisionary idea of what constitutes philosophical education.
The connection between grandfather and grandson is most prominent
in the Epistle, which raises the question of what role Arete is represented as
contributing and in what sense she is a conduit for her father’s teaching.
We find clues in the conclusion of the letter – a final injunction from
father to daughter:
But concerning philosophy (φιλοσοφίας) you have not written me that
anyone has robbed you of it. So, my good woman, rejoice greatly in the
wealth which you have accumulated and make your son, whom I would like
to have as my own, its possessor. Since I shall die without enjoying him,
I trust you will guide him (άξεις) on a course of life that is customary for
good men (ανδρασιν). Farewell, and do not be distressed about us.
(..–, trans. Malherbe)
Again, we see the text pulling in opposite directions. Aristippus acknowl-
edges Arete as someone who possesses philosophy and who can lead her
son into the Cyrenaic way of life. Yet the emphasis is on philosophy or
philosophical education as a possession – something one could be robbed
of – once held by the father, being passed ultimately to his grandson. It is a
life course customary for men (andrasin). There is a question of whether


Cf. the texts in n.  and Protagoras aff.
 Arete of Cyrene 
the possession changes by way of the mother adding to or altering it – is it
figured as being transmitted, unaltered, from man to man, or is the
reference to the wealth Arete has accumulated (ploutein plouton) and her
guidance suggestive of her adding something? ‘Aristippus’ subtly suggests,
with the note that he would have liked to have had her son as his own, that
a more direct transmission would have been preferable.
The conception of philosophy as an object to be transmitted clashes
with philosophy conceived of as a way of life, the latter of which suggests
something much less static and more influenced by the specific guide one
has. If what is passed on is in part a lifestyle, then it matters who you
have as a direct role model, and, one might think, all aspects of their life
matter, even including their gender. Further, we should not presume a
conception of philosophy in which successful transmission requires addi-
tion or innovation. If Arete is depicted as a conduit between her father and
her son, we should not assume that this counts against her. While later
philosophy might privilege innovation and originality, there are ancient
precedents for valuing preservation and conservatorship. Indeed, we are
not even safe to assume a sharp distinction between philosophical doctrine
and performance when considering what is transmitted. Any tension we
may perceive between Arete’s importance and her role as a transmitter may
be more reflective of the values of the author of the Epistle, or contem-
porary conceptions of philosophy, than it is of her reception in her own
time and her role within the Cyrenaic school.
We need not take the letter to reflect historical facts to see its impor-
tance in terms of understanding the legacy of Arete. It emphasises earlier
sources when it depicts her as a crucial link in the intellectual chain of
Cyrenaicism and highlights questions of whether and how she is to be
understood as a philosopher in her own right. Her opportunities to
philosophise during her lifetime seem to vastly outweigh the credit she is
given in most historical reception, and Epistle  underlines that delta. We
might reflect on whether these sources nonetheless prompt us to consider
other options for our contemporary reception of Arete.


It is also very much at odds with how education is conventionally conceived of in Plato and
Aristotle. A reader of Plato, for instance, would find the idea of a mere transmitter – where this is a
kind of passing of the baton – very odd. There are versions of transmission, such as that in the
Platonic tradition, which are positive and are not characterised by passivity or loss of agency (e.g., in
the Meno and the Gorgias), sometimes following a parental model.

Jana Schultz (Chapter ) makes this point regarding late antique schools when she defends
Hypatia’s importance as a preserver of the legacy of Plato.
  . ’
One way to escape a more limited view of Arete, short of finding some
source that addresses her thought directly, is to speculate about what the
role of a person who stands between the Younger and Elder Aristippus
might be. The Elder is described by some as embodying a lived philoso-
phy. On one view, he is akin to a kind of performance artist. Two
generations down, the Younger is said to have been the one to formalise
the school’s doctrine for the first time, and there is not the same association
with public acts demonstrating Cyrenaic principles in action. What then
is the role of the person who stands between performance artist and
codifier? We might think that this person would have the important role
of both transmitting and translating the values of the school. A passage
from Eusebius suggests that Arete taught her son to philosophise more
theoretically (the term used is lógous philosophías), introducing him not
only to the Cyrenaic art of living but also how to think systematically
about it. Even if we cannot attribute codification to her, we may attribute
to her the ability to teach her son how to codify, and that codification or
formalisation is important. Paired with a holistic conception of Cyrenaic
philosophical education, we have a means of substantiating Arete’s
philosophical contribution.
The evidence we have of the Elder Aristippus suggests that he resisted
formalising the doctrines of the school in favour of imprecision. The
representations we have of Arete, on the other hand, suggest no such
resistance and paint her as a dedicated intellectual, writer, and educator,
quite opposed to her father the outspoken, rebellious wit. Her gender may
contribute to this shift: we might think that women cannot do what

See, for instance, Mann (: especially , –, ).

Mann (: ). Cf. Lampe (: –).

For evidence that Aristippus the Younger formalised Cyrenaic ethics see Eusebius PE ... =
SSR b., where Aristippus’ loose way of speaking is contrasted with the grandson’s formal
theorising. This passage is also relevant to the question of what and how Arete taught her son:
Among his other hearers was his own daughter Arete, who having borne a son named him
Aristippus, and he from having been introduced by her to philosophical studies (λόγους
φιλοσοφίας) was called his mother’s pupil . . .. (Trans. Gifford [])
Eusebius’ other uses of the phrase lógous philosophías (for instance, in PE, at ..., ...,
..., ..., ..., ..., ..., ..., ..., ..., ..., .Pref.., ...,
..., ..., though cf. DE ... and C.Hier .) suggest that the term is being used
to denote formal theories, where students can accept these logoi. In Plato Symposium c, lógous
philosophías are evidently verbal philosophical discourses. Eusebius seems to assume that Arete
teaches something more formal.

PE .. = SSR b..

PE .. = SSR b.. The caveat to this is the possibility that Aristippus wrote philosophical
texts, which we could take as a kind of formalisation of his doctrine. See Lampe (: –) for a
summary of the evidence concerning whether we can attribute any texts to Aristippus the Elder.
 Arete of Cyrene 
Aristippus the Elder is said to have done in publicly performing his
commitments. With no access to brothels, public feasts, and other spaces
her father is depicted as ‘performing’ in, the possibilities for women to be a
Cyrenaic are limited and might come down to the transmission of doc-
trine. This might help explain the shift between the Elder and Younger
Aristippus in how Cyrenaic commitments are expressed. Somewhere
between his early education and mature thought, the Younger Aristippus
developed the ability and inclination to formalise the school’s doctrines.
We might think that alongside teaching her son forms of argument, logical
principles, methods of expression, etc., Arete’s influence extended to this
inclination, too. If we can attribute to Arete an important role in codifying
a way of life as a set of teachings and shifting the school towards new types
of formal expression, her role looks even more obviously important
and distinctive.
Of course, this is speculative, and in the next section I consider this and
other methodological issues that this analysis raises.

Reaching Arete
This exploration has been disappointing in at least two ways. It has been
more biographical than philosophical, focusing on texts that reveal details
of Arete’s life rather than her thought, her relations to her family members
and fellow philosophers rather than how she conceives of these. It has
also been more indirect than direct: making use of reports and anecdotes
that primarily concern Arete’s father or son, rather than her. While I have
attempted to focus as much as possible on Arete’s philosophical life, this
pursuit is frustrated by the lack of evidence. With none of her writings
preserved, or even any writings that discuss her ideas directly, the case of
Arete is particularly dire. Her philosophical credentials are well established
by the evidence, yet the details of her work and thought appear quite
deliberately left out of discussions that treat her father and her son, where a
discussion of her work would fit quite naturally between them but
is excluded.
In the face of this situation, the question is what to do, short of putting
our hands up and abandoning the task. While acknowledging the frustra-
tion of the task, my answer here has been to use what sources we have,


Hipparchia the Cynic being the exception that proves the rule, as it were.

My thanks to Peter Adamson for this point.

And even then, we should note how little biographical detail is preserved.
  . ’
however unsatisfactory, to ask questions about Arete’s role within the early
Cyrenaics and how that role has been received by philosophers and
biographers since. After all, though they minimise women like Arete, our
sources do not leave them out altogether. The presence of even the limited
coverage we have implies that they were there and had to be acknowl-
edged, so we should acknowledge them as well. This requires adopting
several methodological strategies, each related to interpretive generosity,
which are worth calling attention to.
The first is the use of indirect sources. None of the sources for Arete are
directly concerned with her, so our only evidence of her is indirect – often
in biographies of her father. Indirect accounts are sometimes uncorrobo-
rated. This raises a cluster of questions: is her depiction more or less likely
to be distorted if she is not the subject of a work? To what extent should
we treat ancient biography as evidence of philosophical commitments? The
first way in which I adopt a strategy of general interpretive generosity is to
accept indirect evidence, even if cautiously, as evidence for the life and
thought of Arete. This greater detachment is problematic, but no more
problematic, we might think, than our access to certain Presocratic figures
about whom we have only brief comments in texts that are not principally
concerned with their thought or their lives.
One might raise an objection to my claim that Arete’s thought has been
deliberately excluded from these sources or that sexism has a role to play in
the suppression of Arete’s independent philosophical record. Perhaps the
reason ancient biographies record her as a conduit is that they had no access
to her philosophical ideas. This would mean that her neglect is not due
to her gender but rather because her writings had been lost by that time – a
fate she would share with other Cyrenaic philosophers and other male
philosophers more generally. I propose two responses to this objection.
The first is to admit that there may be suppression that took place earlier
than some of the biographical sources, which might push the sexism claim
back in time. This does not avoid the worry but rather shows that it may
have been more long-standing. The second is to suggest that the way in
which these sources treat Arete is still problematic, even if we assume that
they have limited source material to work with. Her son’s nickname, her
epitaph, and other accounts we have considered demonstrate Arete’s


It is important to acknowledge that Diogenes is not generally reluctant to discuss women
philosophers, since he dedicates a chapter to the life of Hipparchia. That he mentions others
(e.g., Theano and Arete) only by name, despite acknowledging their philosophical abilities, suggests
he had less evidence for them.

My thanks to a reviewer for raising this objection.
 Arete of Cyrene 
importance at the time of her death, and the esteem granted to her in
certain quarters, so it would not be fair to think that there was nothing
worthwhile preserving. Rather, she is philosophically more important, as
head of a school and a prolific author, than many ancient men who are not
treated as conduits and whose gender is not emphasised. That said, I have
suggested that some of the failure to highlight Arete’s importance comes
from later and contemporary biases towards philosophical innovation and
novelty and that sources that emphasise her familial role may not share
these. Nonetheless, the diminishment of her reputation that we find in
indirect and biographical sources suggests a resistance to preserving or
highlighting her independent intellectual life or lifestyle in favour of an
emphasis on her role in legitimising her son (regarding whom these sources
are also indirect).
As part of this strategy, I also treat biography as evidence for philosophy,
by which I mean using ancient biography as indicative of the philosophical
commitments of those they treat. This requires an interpretive generosity
in general, and perhaps especially for sources like Diogenes Laertius, whose
collections of anecdotes are vulnerable to objection on the grounds that
they seem designed to entertain rather than inform and include stories
whose historicity is questionable. There is no bios of Arete, despite the
notable inclusion of the life of Hipparchia, the female Cynic, and the
anecdotes that mention Arete do so in order to promote a particular
characterisation (perhaps even a caricature) of her father. Here I rely on
scholars such as Momigliano (, ) and Mann () who argue
for the relevance of ancient biography to our understanding of the philos-
ophy of their subjects. Mann suggests, of Diogenes’ treatment of
Aristippus in particular, that it is meant to depict not just a life, but a
‘philosophical life’, and that ‘the life and the philosophy cannot really be
separated’. He argues that Diogenes’ choice of anecdotes is part of an
attempt to describe a philosophically informed lifestyle, rather than to
engage in gossip. This is particularly appropriate for early Cyrenaics, and
Aristippus the Elder, as I have described him, whose way of life seems itself


Despite his title (which promises the bioi and gnômai – lives and thoughts – of eminent
philosophers), when referring to figures he perceives not to have added significantly to an existing
school, Diogenes moves from the form of philosophical biography to diadochê: a form of
successional list borrowed from Hellenistic scholarship (Warren : ). The list names
philosophers chronologically, omitting further detail, and emphasises master–pupil relations.
Diogenes prefers this form, Warren (: –,  n. ) suggests, when emphasising
philosophical lineage over an individuals’ ideas and theories. Diogenes’ failure to engage with
Arete, then, could reflect a view of her as failing to significantly modify Cyrenaic philosophy.
 
Mann (: ). Mann (: ).
  . ’
to be informed by, and informative of, his philosophy. Where I make use
of the close connection between this way of life and his means of raising
and mentoring Arete, I rely on arguments like this to support Diogenes as
a source that is of historic and philosophical importance for us.
The second, related methodological strategy I take here is to use one of
the Socratic Epistles as a source, though again, as with Diogenes, not
without reservation and caveats. I said above that Epistle  is relevant to
this analysis, despite its spurious status, because it tells us something about
the later antique reception of Arete and her role as daughter, mother, and
teacher. Since my analysis concerns Arete’s philosophical legacy, as well as
her thought, the Epistle is a pertinent source. But it does not seem to be
based on any direct knowledge of or even interest in the thought of Arete,
and even where she is addressed, the letters Aristippus is purported to be
responding to, written by her, are not quoted or described directly. She is
very much in the background but only ever in the background. Where
such a source might normally be disregarded, there is a special case to be
made for its inclusion where our sources are so limited. And where our
sources are so limited, there is a special case for making what we can of
them nonetheless when they concern women philosophers. My second
strategy, therefore, is a more general open-mindedness to source material
when it comes to the recovery of ancient women philosophers, since we do
not have the luxury of being picky, and we have good reason for doing all
we can to recover them. When it comes to ancient women, at least, using
sources cautiously is preferable to discounting them.
The third methodological strategy I adopt is to accept the writings and
thought of men as evidence for Arete. This is of course problematic. It
leaves the work open to an objection such as that it really concerns men
and possesses a mere veneer of being about a woman. Again, this is not a
problem for Arete alone, but it is a problem, nonetheless. I acknowledge
and share the concern about work that seeks to access the thought of
women via the medium of men’s writing. Nonetheless, when we face a
choice between accessing the thought of a woman by this lesser means, or
giving up on accessing her thought at all, my strategy is to use whatever
means I can and accept that the result will never be fully satisfactory.
In the case of Arete, I have used the focus on her role within a
philosophical lineage as a means of keeping attention on her while making


Though I will not defend this here, this might include righting historic wrongs, correcting
archetypes of philosophers to include women, and accurately reflecting the status of ancient
women thinkers in their own lifetime.
 Arete of Cyrene 
use of material she is on the periphery of. I have also tried to say something
about how her own philosophical thought and pedagogic expertise fits into
that lineage. This is inevitably speculative. But I want to resist the sense
that this is speculative in a problematic way and suggest instead that it
involves the application of the principle of charity we frequently deploy for
early figures where we lack direct sources, such as Thales, and without
which our history of philosophy would be much less rich and interesting.
Waithe says ‘we may speculate which parts of the Cyrenaic moral
philosophy to attribute to the grandfather, which to Arete, his pupil, and
which to the son who was, in turn, her pupil’ (b: ). But even this,
we may think, is optimistic. It is very difficult to pull their contributions
apart. By establishing Arete’s unique role and positioning in the ancient
accounts of early Cyrenaics, I have attempted to be more precise about
what her role in the development of the school’s doctrine could have been.
And though disambiguating between the contributions of father, daughter,
and grandson is still thorny, this analysis should prompt us to reflect on
our reception of the school today. Here I have two minimal conclusions to
draw. First, I suggest that whenever we are unable to pull the strands apart,
we should at least acknowledge all three members of the hereditary
dynasty, as we do in other traditions (Pyrrhonian, Stoic, Platonist, etc.).
Second, when we discuss Arete, we ought to promote the idea that the
most important and interesting thing about her is not her status as
daughter of the Elder and mother of the Younger, or even that she is a
woman, but that she is a Cyrenaic philosopher. Even with such limited
material to work with, the specific focus on Arete is already in itself an
improvement on the historical material. While we are limited by our
sources, we can in this way do better than some of them by insisting on
her inclusion, and the inclusion of and emphasis on her philosophical
thought, in our account of the Cyrenaics. With this purview, we go some
way towards reflecting her importance to the history of philosophy.


My thanks to audiences at the American Philosophical Association, the Institute of Classical Studies
in London, the Collaborative Specialization in Ancient & Medieval Philosophy (CSAMP)
Proseminar at the University of Toronto, the British Society for the History of Philosophy, the
contributors to this volume, reviewers for the press, James Allen, Joachim Aufderheide, Rachel
Barney, George Boys-Stones, Sophia Connell, Marguerite Deslauriers, Dorota Dutsch, Mehmet
Erginel, Jessica Gelber, Lara Harwood-Ventura, Boris Hennig, Marta Jimenez, Jonathan Lavery,
Mariska Leunissen, Fiona Leigh, M. M. McCabe, Peter Osario, John Partridge, Anne Sheppard,
John Sellars, Shaul Tor, Michael Trapp, Máté Veres, Jennifer Whiting, Raphael Woolf, my co-
editor Caterina Pellò, and the Footnotes Writing Circle for very valuable discussions of earlier drafts
of this chapter.
  

Women at the Crossroads

Life and Death for the Stoic Wife
Kate Meng Brassel*

The Stoics admitted women into the category of morally reasoning crea-
ture, attributed to women the same capacity for virtue as men, promoted
companionate marriage, and even – at their edgiest – recommended
women’s equal education, observing that the division of labour between
the sexes had more to do with convention than with nature. Stoicism’s
historically extraordinary views have motivated modern scholarly attempts
to accommodate some aspects of the philosophy to a sort of proto-
feminism. And a Stoic marriage remains from several angles an attractive
partnership in a Greek and Roman landscape presenting few happier
alternatives.
Nevertheless, the Stoic woman as an object of enquiry remains difficult
to recover substantively. The subject ‘women in Stoicism’ – which is to say
women from the perspective of male Stoic writers – and ‘Stoicism and
feminism’ are problems that have occupied a number of important
scholars, including Elizabeth Asmis, Martha Nussbaum, Gretchen
Reydams-Schils, and others, often via enquiries into marriage as a subset
of Stoic community or family. Much of this work has entailed the
reconstruction of arguments from fragmentary evidence, in particular for
the early Stoics. But even in the period of Stoicism for which we have a
surfeit of written sources, the early Roman Empire, the Stoic woman’s
voice remains missing. While women appear in the copious writings of the
philosopher and political advisor Seneca in a variety of literary positions,
and while the reported ‘sayings’ of his contemporary the philosopher

*
This chapter is dedicated to the memory of Ashley Ariel Simone, a philosopher. Thanks are owed to
the editors, to Wolfgang Mann, Elizabeth Scharffenberger, and John Sellars for their comments, to
James Ker for morale, and to the participants in the Women Intellectuals in Antiquity conference at
Keble College, Oxford in  for their insights.

For a full treatment of a Stoic marriage, see Reydams-Schils (: –).

E.g., Motto (); Asmis (); Hill (); Nussbaum (); Reydams-Schils ();
Gloyn ().


 Women at the Crossroads 
Musonius Rufus offer some surprisingly progressive ideas about women, it
remains the case that we have no texts written by women Stoics. In
consequence, as Asmis warns us, ‘we cannot look directly at their self-
image’. This state of affairs is not surprising to any but the least jaded
readers, given the histories of the pen and misogyny, and given the
centrality of virtue – that is, manliness (virtus) – to Stoic ethics, in which
the endurance required for a good life is exemplified by virile figures such
as Hercules. But precisely because the Stoics apparently recognised that
women have the same capacity for virtue as men, one might reasonably
wonder where all the Stoic women are. It is the very fact that Stoics
argued in theory for a sort of women’s equality – strikingly even for their
participation in philosophy – that ought to make the absence of a Stoic
women’s record or some robust testimony to their philosophical activity at
least somewhat surprising. Did the Stoics simply not practise what they
preached? Why does the figure of the Stoic woman remain such a problem
for a philosophy that is supposedly universal in its appeal to persons of all
classes, in all situations, even and indeed especially, at the point of death?
In the absence of direct evidence, we must examine a confluence of
indirect evidence to see what, if anything, may be gleaned about Stoic
women. Several bodies of evidence provide routes into the problem: Stoic
writings on marriage and family as constitutive of an ideal society; women
addressees of Stoic writings; women ‘exemplars’ of behaviour to be imi-
tated or avoided; and wives of Stoic men in the historiographical record
who – though not often referred to as ‘philosophers’ themselves – might by
the reports of their actions be said to have lived or died deliberately
according to Stoic principles. This chapter will gesture to some of the
most useful work on the above areas and then put forward a reading of a
text from a rather different genre: tragedy. Can the space of drama allow us
to imagine what we might find if we were to have more direct evidence of a
woman at the crossroads of the most crucial questions – when to live and
when to die? Can Megara, a woman who chooses death over a life she
views as inconsistent with her values, help us to recover a Stoic


Asmis (: ).

Manning () argues that subordinating women cohered with Stoic principles, Hill (: )
responds that the Stoics failed to realise their own potential, though their philosophy is ‘at heart
feminist’. Nussbaum (: –) takes a different approach: feminist elements of Stoicism were
meaningful but limited: for example, Musonius’ lesson that women and men must be held to the
same standard for sexual behaviour perpetuates the submission of women’s behaviour to male
scrutiny. Reydams-Schils (: ) emphasises instead the progressiveness of such a precept in
the historical context of a mostly male Roman audience.
   
womanhood that asks and answers the same questions as Stoic manliness?
This chapter also probes the limits of understanding Megara as a Stoic
exemplar. While she may elect to die in the manner of a virtuous Stoic
philosopher, Megara in fact dies not as she chooses but at the hand of her
husband, a casualty of domestic violence. Is Megara’s volition permissible
in Stoic drama precisely because myth and genre actually dictate her fate
and shroud her quiet exemplarity in the spectacular disaster of her
husband?

The Stoic Woman in Theory

Theorising the role of women in society was part of Stoicism since its very
beginnings, though the extant evidence for the early period exists only in
fragments and biographical accounts written centuries later. The founder
of Stoicism, Zeno of Citium (fourth-third century ), discussed mar-
riage in the context of his Republic, which outlined an ideal, radically
reordered society. Zeno’s revisions to conventional life included that –
among the good and wise – men and women would dress alike and ‘keep
no part of the body entirely hidden’; women would be ‘in common’ to
(wise) men, as partners both for sex and ethics, freeing the wise from sexual
jealousy and enabling men to love all children as their own. Zeno’s
formative closeness to his teacher, the Cynic Crates, and presumably thus
the influence of his partner, the philosopher Hipparchia, may account for
what may otherwise be thought of, as Asmis puts it, ‘a Cynicizing aberra-
tion of the early Stoics’. His successor as head of the Stoa, Cleanthes,
evidently discussed the idea that women and men have the same virtue
(aretē) – but we have only a title, no text. The evidence for the next
leading Stoic, Chrysippus, positions him closely alongside Zeno as regards
women. As utopian a place for women as the early Stoics may have
theorised, it bears repeating that these are not women Stoics theorising
their own role in society.
The early Stoics’ views on women and marriage were probably originally
closer to those of the anti-establishment Cynics but became increasingly
entwined with social convention as the school gained traction and an


D.L. . and . Asmis (: ) argues that the language of being ‘in common’ with men
means a virtue partnership in addition to the more readily available idea of sex partnership.

Amis (: ). I thank John Sellars for drawing my attention to this probable link.
 
D.L. .. D.L. ..
 Women at the Crossroads 
appreciation for institutions. Nevertheless, by the first and second centu-
ries , a Stoic marriage could still be thought of as remarkable because of
the special dynamics between spouses, even if from the outside it might
resemble other marriages. For this later period, there are three bodies of
evidence principally used to understand Stoic views on women and mar-
riage: the testimonia to Antipater (second century ); the collected
sayings of Musonius Rufus (–? ); and the extant excerpts of
Hierocles (second century ).
A synoptic view of these three sources reveals an expansive theory along
these lines: women are essential to the Stoic community of humankind,
which begins with the relationship to the self, develops outwards to the
spouse, to the children and enslaved members of the household, then to
friends, citizens, and finally to all humankind. Marriage is, after the self,
the first, elemental community (koinōnia), entered into for pursuing
procreation and virtue, and cultivates like-mindedness (homonoia), a kind-
ness (eunoia) not available elsewhere, and the mutual sharing of souls and
bodies. In a Stoic household, life is a shared business: spouses are subject to
the same standards for sexual fidelity and should practice exchanging
typically gendered tasks. In this heteronormative and slave-owning model
of partnership, women’s relationships outside of those with her husband
and children are not theorised, which means that female homosocial (to
say nothing of the homoerotic) relationships that one might imagine to be
philosophically helpful are excluded. But given the emphasis elsewhere on
male homosocial relationships and the cultural misogyny (misogunia) that
encouraged men to neglect their wives as ethical and intellectual partners,
the Stoic idea that women not only could but must practise philosophy is
extraordinary, as is the exhortation that men live philosophically with
women as full partners (sumbiōsis). To this end, Musonius could even
demand that a daughter be educated like a son, to learn not only house-
hold management but also philosophy and fighting in order to defend her
children from attackers and herself from the sexual advances of a man who
is not her husband, including (and even especially) a tyrant. Again, with


Nussbaum (: –) documents change over time via her useful assessment of Musonius’
putative feminism against the backdrop of earlier Stoics.

Relevant passages attributed to Antipater of Tarsos were transmitted through the fifth-century
Stobaeus’ Florilegium, a teaching reference (= SVF . and ). For a modern translation: Deming
(: –). Musonius is translated in Lutz (), but readers may wish to consult the
translations of Nussbaum (). Relevant passages of Hierocles also come to us through
Stobaeus, available with translation and commentary in Ramelli ().

For this idealised picture, I omit internal discrepancies. For detailed evaluations of these and other
sources, see Asmis (: –) and Reydams-Schils (: –).
   
sources so partial, we must exercise caution and remind ourselves that the
Stoic woman’s self-conception is not verifiably part of this theory.
This rather rosy picture is often at odds with the presentation of women
and womanliness by Seneca (?– ) and Epictetus (?–? ),
whose massive corpora often provide test sites for investigations of
Roman Stoicism. These voluminous literatures display an extreme prefer-
ence for masculinity, seeing femininity and ‘effeminacy’ as a threat. Moral
courage is coded everywhere as manly. Before becoming generalised to
mean ‘bravery’ and ‘moral excellence’, the Latin virtus first meant – and
never stopped denoting – ‘manliness’. In the Senecan corpus, ‘womanly’
(muliebris and other words) and ‘manly’ (virilis) are coded as negative and
positive, respectively: moral failure, weakness, excessive grief, and rage are
womanly while wisdom, endurance, and emotional control are manly.
While Seneca unequivocally states that women are equally endowed with
the opportunity for virtue (virtus, Marc. .), the ‘manliness’ (virtus)
paradoxically available to women, Amanda Wilcox argues, does not actu-
ally undermine social norms. Rather, a woman is at her most ‘virile’ or
virtuous when she acts according to Roman notions of women’s duties.
Moreover, there is a way in which a woman’s virtus depends on her
rejection of qualities that are muliebris: acquiring virtue for the Stoic
woman is therefore a process of sexual alienation.
Seneca’s prose is often served up with a good sprinkling of misogyny:
Women nowadays are sexually shameless (Ben. .), decadent, luxurious;
women’s desire is unnatural, damnable (Ep. .–). Even Seneca’s On
Marriage (possible passages of which are only known to us through
Jerome’s fourth-century  anti-marriage polemic Against Jovinian) is
decidedly ambivalent: Liz Gloyn has shown that in addition to defining
a good marriage as a joint pursuit of virtue, wholly appropriate to a Stoic
proficiens (the philosopher in-progress), Seneca puts forward pudicitia


The sayings of Musonius, leading Stoic of the first century, give us the most provocative insights on
women in Stoicism and have attracted sustained discussion of Stoic feminism (Hill ;
Nussbaum ) and marriage (Reydams-Schils ). The sayings were assembled from
recollections, probably posthumously, and transmitted through Stobaeus and through Arrian’s
records of the diatribes of Epictetus. On the transmission, see Van Geytenbeek (: –).
Musonius proposed that women and men share the same moral capacities and need for
philosophical training to withstand crisis. For Van Geytenbeek (: –), the virtues are
essentially the same but the spheres differ. For example, a woman’s sense of justice is exhibited in
her behaviour as wife and mother. Musonius manages both to maintain social norms and to reject
the idea that male spheres and abilities are superior.

For a detailed survey of Seneca’s use of muliebris and related terms, see Mauch (: –).

Wilcox ().
 Women at the Crossroads 
(modesty or sexual restraint) as a form of virtus particular to women. In his
depiction of bedtime reflection, as Gloyn points out, his wife is less a full
partner than mercifully quiet confidante (Ira .). Similarly, as we shall
see, Epictetus typically excludes women when delineating standards for
behaviour and thought, a striking exclusion given that he presents his
philosophy as applicable to a wide range of class-statuses.
How do we account for this discrepancy between theory and rhetoric? Is
our picture of a Stoicism that understands women as equal moral agents an
illusion created by partial sources that dissipates when probed through the
lens of ampler literatures?

The Stoic Woman in Story

Stoic discourse of the early Empire relied on anecdotes of exemplary
behaviour to demonstrate principles in action: Socrates’ courageous indif-
ference in the face of death, for example, and Hercules’ endurance through
hardships. Women exemplars in the literature are more scarce. Musonius,
for instance, refers to male figures from history and myth but does not
supply us with female exemplars for courage (andreia) beyond the
Amazons (those one-breasted, man-spurning warriors of myth), even when
urging the equal education of sons and daughters so that all may be taught
not to fear death. The appeal to figures who live legendarily at the
Eastern edges of the Greek-speaking world might strike one as lazy in


See Torre () for a comparison of the evidence from Jerome versus extant Senecan work. Gloyn
(: –) provides a useful history of attribution, text, and translation. From fragments likely
to be genuine on a philological assessment, it is clear that Seneca thought pudicitia in women both
extremely rare and also the appropriate route for women to pursue virtue. Gloyn (: –).

Epictetus’ diatribes seek their overt audience in his students – young male elites of the Roman
Empire – and thus address male character formation. As part of his general pattern of exclusion,
Epictetus envisions marriage for the Cynic (as sort of stand-in for the committed, radical
philosopher) as possible only in a community of the wise, where his wife (and in-laws) might be
guaranteed to be similarly wise. Until such a utopia should emerge, however, the philosopher had
better abstain from the time commitment of marriage and fatherhood (Diss. ..–) – a
sentiment perhaps suggestive of Epictetus’ estimation of the likelihood of such a utopia comprising
the wise of both sexes as envisioned by the early Stoics. It is important to note, however, that the
content of Epictetus’ diatribes is entirely mediated through his student Arrian, who published them.
Epictetus himself may well have addressed a wider variety of philosophical problems than those
presented in the diatribes as we have them, including the status of women in a pre-utopian society,
to which his teacher Musonius applied himself. Indeed, it is peculiar that this striking aspect of
Musonius’ philosophy does not seem to surface in the much more copious literature of his pupil.
I thank both Elizabeth Scharffenberger and John Sellars for pushing me to think more carefully on
this point.

Musonius .. In , Alcestis is an example of love, not courage. Nussbaum (: ) adds that
Musonius also had the recent example of Boudicca.
   
light of a Roman history so grounded in women’s interventions in crisis,
such as the stories of Cloelia or Lucretia – not to mention the elder Arria,
who lingered in recent memory as demonstrating fearlessness to her
husband by preceding him in death, taking the blade and declaring, ‘It
does not hurt’ (Plin. Ep. .). As we will see, a rationally chosen death, or
voluntaria mors, is an important problem for Stoicism, making Musonius’
oversight even more conspicuous.
While Musonius’ teachings survive in a comparatively small collection,
the diatribes of his student Epictetus are copious. Epictetus’ exempla range
from myth to philosophy to contemporary politics – Odysseus, Hercules,
Socrates, Diogenes, and everyday Romans populate the diatribes. Epictetus
generally excludes female exemplarity: women are typically mentioned as
proof of a man’s moral failing (though he insists that a man’s proper
concern for his household is an important duty). Examples of voluntaria
mors abound in the diatribes, linked to manhood: an athlete requires
medical castration; his philosophical brother warns that after such a
procedure he could not then return to the gymnasium; the athlete refuses
the treatment and dies in order to act in accordance with his character or
ethical role (prosōpon) (Diss. ..–). A philosopher is ordered to shave
off his beard at pain of death; he refuses; to do so would be to abandon his
prosōpon (..–). These choices for death are motivated by the spectre
of losing a highly gendered marker of the body – genitals and beard. There
are vanishingly few, if any, women after whom one might model one’s
behaviour in the diatribes. To the contrary, Epictetus points out instead
the incapacity (adunamia) of the generally admired Andromache in her
famously complex conversation with her husband (..–).
Meanwhile, from the same court from which Epictetus, himself a freed-
man, drew many of his exempla, he omitted to draw Epicharis, the
freedwoman who refused to bend to Nero’s torturers and, even when
her limbs were shattered, found a way to die rather than betray confidences
to his agents.
Seneca’s engagement of women in his philosophical prose is more
complex. Two works, both consolatory dialogues, are dedicated to
women addressees. Consolatio ad Marciam seeks to advise a mother griev-
ing her son, while Consolatio ad Helviam seeks to advise his own mother


Cf. Diss. ..–.

Her story is reported in both Tacitus, Ann. .– and Cassius Dio ..

And the subject as a whole is well beyond the reach of the present chapter. For a systematic review
of both negative and positive portrayals of women’s moral competence in Seneca’s prose, see Mauch
().
 Women at the Crossroads 
during his political banishment. Marcia and Helvia are clearly expected to
be perfectly capable of philosophical learning and progress; but they are
also clearly thought to be among the exceptional of their sex. These
consolations deploy Stoic therapy through metaphor, precepts, and exem-
pla, providing a greater density of female exemplars for admirable behav-
iour than elsewhere. Women are at their best in Ad Marciam when they
grieve in such a way that does not distress other family members, especially
male relations, or when they abandon their grief in favour of instead
promoting the posthumous fame of a male relation they have lost.
At certain points in his consolation to Marcia, Seneca stops using both
female exemplars and feminine vocatives, in favour of the male and
masculine, to which his female ‘interlocutor’ objects. Seneca responds to
‘her’: ‘In which city are we talking like this, good gods? The one in which
Lucretia and Brutus overthrew a king who was oppressing the citizens of
Rome: we are indebted to Brutus for liberty, to Lucretia for Brutus.’
Seneca’s allusion Lucretia is abrupt – and omits her suicide, positioning
her instead as a catalyst for Brutus’ political achievement. Seneca gestures
to some generalised virtus that women may display but not to Lucretia’s
specific voluntaria mors. Seneca’s oversight is the more conspicuous given
Lucretia’s awareness of her own exemplarity in Livy’s canonical account:
she declares that no woman would live unchaste relying on her example
(AUC .). Certainly, Lucretia’s suicide cannot be considered off-topic,
since the consolation begins with a reference to the suicide of Marcia’s own
father, facing trumped up charges from associates of the notorious Sejanus
(Marc. .).

The Significance of voluntaria mors

The eliding of Lucretia is all the more remarkable given the centrality of
voluntaria mors as an index of Stoic virtue. Although Miriam Griffin has
shown that the parameters within which the Stoics allowed for choosing
death over life were strict, the rhetorical prominence of a chosen death in
the extant literature is a clear, even if rare, demonstration of virtue. The
reverence of its exemplars indicate that if we were to find a fulsome
example of a woman philosophically choosing death, we would at the

 
E.g., Helv. .–. See Shelton () for Seneca’s strategies of consolation.
 
E.g., Marc. .–; .. Marc. .: translation Hine (: ).
 
Marc. .– for Lucretia, Cloelia, and the Cornelias. Griffin (, a, and b).
   
same time find an example of a woman demonstrating the same virtue
attributed to the greatest Stoic heroes.
The category of voluntaria mors included both suicide and martyrdom
and was allowable insofar as the chosen death would be preferable to living
in a way that would not conform to a person’s values. A voluntaria mors for
the Stoics was not a death of despair. On their view, a death of despair
could not be truly voluntary because the feeling of despair itself, for Stoics,
indicates confusion. They could thus see the deaths of Cato the Younger
(suicide) and Helvidius Priscus (execution) as morally similar. I use the
term voluntaria mors to accommodate the philosophical equivalence
between the deaths that Hercules (suicide) and Megara (execution) con-
sider in the Senecan drama under investigation in this chapter. For the
Stoic, the extremity of moral deliberation when facing a tyrant makes such
scenarios frequent sources for exempla of virtus, understanding what does
or does not depend on us, what one’s proper roles and duties are, and how
that understanding is not merely theoretical but actionable. A person’s
attitudes towards life as a merely preferred indifferent and towards death as
not an evil become exceptionally clear when facing the whims and com-
pulsions of a tyrant.
For our purposes here, we can observe the following general features of
the Stoic voluntaria mors: (A) Suicide or martyrdom is an available exit to
the kind of life that is not preferable to death: the philosopher should judge
for how long he may live properly, emphasising quality over quantity. If
chosen, the exit must be a good one. (B) Death may be disallowed when
another equally virtuous path is available or when to die would be to fail
in one’s obligations to others. (C) The desire for death as a general
weariness of life is repudiated. (D) Choosing death is only the correct
option when in the service of preserving one’s reason or dignity or not
breaking faith with others. Seneca writes that, in his youth, he opted not
to die out of concern for his father, in spite of an intractable illness
(Ep. .–). (E) An example of voluntaria mors is particularly useful to
Stoic teaching when the moral actor has determined that death is prefer-
able to compliance with a tyrant. Epictetus tells of a condemned man
twice stretching out his neck for the fatal blow from a henchman of Nero


E.g., Helv. .–.

See Mann () on Cato and the importance of the prosōpon in the case study of Helvidius.
 
Sen. Ep. . and .. E.g., Epictetus, Diss. ...
 
Sen. Ep. .–; Epict. Diss. ..–. Cf. Griffin (a: ). Sen. Ep. ..

SVF ..
 Women at the Crossroads 
(Diss. ..–) and of another refusing, at risk of death, to degrade his
character by going to Nero’s festivals (..–).
Seneca’s enduring interest in suicide and death has deservedly attracted
a great deal of critical interest that I will not seek to replicate here. Suffice
it to observe that he provides many examples of men facing death correctly
and that he tells us that to face death incorrectly is to be womanish. Seneca
condemns Maecenas’ prayer to live as long as possible – including under
compromised conditions – as ‘that depravity of womanish song’ and a
marker of ‘the most insane fear’ (timoris dementissimi, Ep. .). That
a morally cowardly attitude to death is woman-like – and crazy – in these
letters will prove useful to understanding the role of Megara later on in this
chapter. Elsewhere, Seneca outlines the proper attitude towards life: the
wise will see clearly how, and how long, to live, providing a counterexam-
ple of a man facing death badly: Telesphorus of Rhodes has been caged like
an animal by a tyrant. Clinging to hope, he refuses to starve himself to
death as an act of defiance. Seneca disapproves Telesphorus’ refusal to defy
the tyrant in this way as extremely womanish (effeminatissimam) and a
display of weakness (Ep. .–).
The frequent association of womanliness with cowardice, frailty, or
insanity is tempered for some by Seneca’s positive and even respectful
depiction of Paulina, his wife, in particular. Letter  expresses the care
between Seneca and Paulina, where the latter’s concern prompts the
former to take responsibility for his own health (Ep. .–). Mercedes
Mauch has pointed out the Stoic bent of the husband’s perseverance in life
both as an obligation that arises specifically from the marriage covenant
and as an obligation that is generalisable to others. For Mauch, Paulina’s
entire life – as narrated through her husband’s prose – is made full and
meaningful because of her philosophically inflected love for Seneca. It is
Paulina, moreover, for whom there is robust, if not unequivocal, evidence
for a woman’s voluntaria mors.
Roman historiography helps us to frame Seneca’s discussion of his wife,
while also introducing complicating factors. There are two relevant
accounts of Seneca’s death that include Paulina and her own near death.
In Tacitus’ narrative of the fall-out of the Pisonian conspiracy and Nero’s


The place of suicide in the Senecan corpus is complicated by his own eventual suicide. See Ker
() for the fullest treatment of the afterlife of Seneca’s death. Critics have divided over whether
Seneca is morbidly fixated on suicide or uses the problem as a way of clarifying what is important
about life. For a sensitive assessment, see Busch (). Cf. Griffin (: –).

As often, there is overlap between misogynist and homophobic language.

Mauch (: –).
   
revenge, Seneca faces his imminent death unafraid and urges his distressed
companions to recall the lessons of wisdom, to maintain reason in the face
of threats (Ann. .). He turns to Paulina, who reportedly wishes to die
alongside him. Seneca – as he declares in direct speech – does not begrudge
her this opportunity for gloria or the honour of a death (mortis decus) that
she prefers to life, the status of exemplum, nor even a fame that would
exceed his own (). But from this moment of clarity, the narrative takes
an obscure turn: weakening and fearing their inability to see each other’s
pain, Seneca persuades Paulina to remove to another room. In her absence,
he summons secretaries, taking a final opportunity for his eloquentia. Once
removed, she is involuntarily revived by Nero’s agents ().
An optimistic interpretation of the Tacitean narrative, such as that
offered by Reydams-Schils, shows that Paulina’s preference for death is
philosophical, demonstrating her defiance of Nero and her pudicitia in not
wishing to have another husband. Indeed, on this interpretation, one
hesitates even to name Seneca the philosopher and Paulina the wife or
student; instead, on the basis of her choice, we might rather see Paulina as
a philosopher married to another philosopher. But on a cynical reading of
same passage, Paulina’s exit from his performance of a Socratic death-scene
merely eliminates Seneca’s competition for the spotlight. Perhaps – as
James Ker suggests – there proved to be an incompatibility between
conjugal dying and Seneca’s personal ambition as a philosopher.
The truncated epitome of Cassius Dio’s account (.) is tough,
offering neither the ambiguity of Tacitus nor the possibility of Paulina’s
gloria. It was Seneca’s wish that Paulina be killed alongside him – no wish
of her own is indicated – and he who opened her veins. Instead of a
philosopher, we have a victim of domestic violence perpetrated through,
perhaps, philosophical delusion. Here we confront Tacitus’ notorious
ambivalence and subtle detraction with Dio’s open hostility to Seneca.
Historiography is not philosophy: it seems that two narratives, each with
their own politics, emerged from those inner chambers. And even the
more sympathetic version narratologically mutes Paulina’s words while
giving voice to Seneca’s.
To hear a woman’s voice on this matter, then, I suggest we turn to Stoic
tragedy. Though it, too, is male-authored, I argue that recentring our
interpretation of Seneca’s Hercules Furens on the hero’s wife Megara,


Reydams-Schils (: –) concedes that the positive display of pudicitia is ‘blurred’, noting
the ‘coinciding of philosophical norms with social exempla’.

Ker (: ).
 Women at the Crossroads 
allows us to perceive an important experiment with staging a woman
defying a tyrant in her own words, at pain of death. Hercules Furens is
attractive for three further reasons: () Hercules Furens has previously
drawn attention for its hero’s deliberation over suicide as a dramatisation
of this fundamentally Stoic problem; () the wife’s deliberating the same
question in her own case has been largely overlooked and, when noticed,
dismissed for ill-judged reasons; () Hercules’ outsized importance in
demonstrating virtus throughout antiquity means that any challenge to
his status as ethical protagonist must be seriously examined and its conse-
quences probed.

The Stoic Woman in Tragedy

In the tragic imagination, the woman as moral deliberator moves from
anecdote to centre stage. As both Shadi Bartsch and Nussbaum show us in
their readings of Seneca’s Medea, tragedy proves an important site for
confronting and developing Stoic arguments about human emotions.
The tragedies are, to use A. J. Boyle’s phrase, ‘ideas made flesh’.
Moreover, in tragedies we see the Stoic philosopher stage at length
women’s voices in direct speech articulating a world abounding in moral
crises. Among tragedies, Hercules Furens is significant because the Hercules
myth had long been an important resource for philosophers seeking a
moral exemplar. Prodicus’ allegory of Hercules at the crossroads of virtue
and vice, reported by both Xenophon (Mem. ..–) and Cicero
(Off. .), testifies to this cross-cultural, eclectic appeal. In Senecan
prose, Hercules exemplifies fortitude and self-sacrifice (Ben. ..;
Const. .) and, in Epictetus’ diatribes, models knowing what does and
does not ‘depend on us’ (Diss. ..–). But it was Euripides who had
‘initiated the most far-reaching re-evaluation of Herakles by internalizing
his struggles and labors and viewing him in purely human terms’. It is no
surprise, then, that Seneca’s own complicated intervention in the Hercules
story should both follow and meaningfully depart from the paradigm set
by the Herakles tragedy of Euripides.
Euripides’ Herakles tragedy opens at Thebes: Herakles is absent, the
stage dominated by the prayers and lamentations of his wife, Megara, and
his aged father, Amphitryon. Lycus, the usurping tyrant, approaches. An
agōn about the hero’s worthiness unfolds between tyrant and father. Lycus,
 
Galinsky (: ff ). Bartsch (: –); Nussbaum (: –).
 
Boyle (: ). Galinsky (: ).
   
intent on killing the family to secure his rule, leaves so they can prepare for
death (–). Throughout the opening, Amphitryon tries to persuade
his daughter-in-law that hope for a rescue by a returning Herakles still
lingers, but Megara responds that hope is a sign of irrational attachment to
life (–). Suddenly, Herakles returns triumphant. Humbled by the
suffering before him, he rejects his status as victor, opting to defend his
family (). He kills Lycus. Madness (Lyssa) arrives on Hera’s and Iris’
orders and – after lamenting her target’s innocence – drives Herakles
insane, causing him to kill his wife and children. Awakening and discov-
ering his deed, Herakles is about to turn his hand against himself, but he is
persuaded to live on by Amphitryon, who begs him not to deprive him of
his son. Theseus appears, offers refuge to the criminal at Athens, and the
two heroes depart.
Seneca’s Hercules Furens, too, opens at Thebes but is prefaced with a
prologue of Juno accusing her stepson of working to disrupt the natural
order. Next, the prayers and laments of Amphitryon and Megara give way
to the entrance of Lycus. But where Euripides staged the agōn between
tyrant and father, Seneca has his tyrant debate the wife – and in doing so
makes room for Megara to be tested. The new Lycus offers her a scenario
that requires moral reasoning: unlike his Euripidean forerunner, his pref-
erence is not to kill the queen and her children where compromise might
be possible. He proposes reconciliation and marriage. She firmly prefers
death. Again, Hercules returns in time to slay the tyrant and does. Again,
he is overtaken by a madness, but the Senecan madness seems to come
from within – there is no Lyssa to blame. He kills his family and awakes
to confusion.
Morally problematic, less sympathetic than the Attic original, Seneca’s
hero is harder to pity. His insolence from the moment he appeared on
stage has verged on the impious – reciting his own honours, ignoring his
father’s admonition to wash his hands before prayers (–). Upon his
return, he does not acknowledge his wife, leaving it to his companion
Theseus to comfort her (). That Seneca does not eliminate the attempt
to console Megara, but instead gives the part away, only emphasises the
husband’s failure. After Hercules emerges from his frenzy, he struggles
with the decision of whether to end his life in shame for having murdered
his family, but his deliberation over whether to commit suicide is substan-
tially concerned with reputation: if he survives, his life will be that of a
criminal; if he dies, that of a victim (). He considers that since he is

See Boyle (: – and ).
 Women at the Crossroads 
well-known in the underworld, even there he would not escape infamy.
Amphitryon threatens his own suicide if Hercules should go first, and so
he finally relents to spare his own father the pain of losing a child. Hercules
goes to Athens with Theseus.
Seneca’s vaunting hero is not wholly undeserving of Juno’s suspicion
that he intends to disrupt the cosmos. Because of his doubly compromised
moral position, the question of whether suicide is an acceptable solution
for this Hercules is complicated even within the Stoic moral calculus, and
the conclusion of the tragedy unsatisfying, even within its generic context.
Understood as a re-visiting of Seneca’s own decision against suicide in
deference to his father, Hercules’ decision conforms to Stoic filial duty.
Some have seen the drama as one about understanding what virtus is; some
have suggested that Lycus is the ethical foil for Hercules – that the tyrant
misunderstands what virtus is while the hero finally arrives at a proper
understanding. Others have found that the conclusion presents the audi-
ence with the possibility of redemption – rare for the genre. For our
purposes, an assumption apparently underlying these readings, reasonable
as they may be, is that the philosophical problems are staged through the
male characters or that the foil for the male hero is the male villain.
Critics have generally missed the urgent moral deliberation over volun-
taria mors that precedes Hercules’. Megara, his wife left behind at Thebes,
perhaps forever, while Hercules pursues his labours, faces a tyrant offering
a good deal: remarriage and restoration to her royal prerogatives. She
would rather die. Seneca’s divergences from his Euripidean model carefully
cast Megara as a rigorous decision-maker, who chooses a death that accords
with her values. By contrast, when it comes to his turn at a similar (though
not identical) question of life and death, Hercules makes the opposite
choice: after murdering his family, he is persuaded out of suicide. This
woman’s choice for voluntaria mors – a choice that her husband fails to
make, even if for arguably appropriate reasons – is a major ethical exper-
iment in female exemplarity that does not occur in Senecan prose. The
radical and importantly prior choice of Megara is all the more striking
given Hercules’ own status as exemplar in the tradition.

Megara and the Tyrant

For his part, Clemens Zintzen noted the peculiarity of the encounter
between Seneca’s Lycus and Megara and suggested that the invention
 
Motto and Clark (: ). Boyle (: ).
   
was designed to display Stoic virtue in Megara – all the more so because no
substantive plot change occurs as a result of their encounter. But in his
commentary on Hercules Furens, John Fitch dismisses Zintzen’s sugges-
tion, and it has not been generally taken up since in discussions of women
or suicide in Stoicism. For Fitch, Megara’s prayer exhibits ‘near-hysteria’
and the woman is reliant on Amphitryon to restrain her passion: ‘it would
be a distortion to see Megara in this scene as a Stoic heroine. She is in fact a
highly emotional woman, and her defiance of Lycus is based on a passionate
hatred of him’. We shall see that what Fitch is observing is not the
‘hysteria’ of a demens woman, an interpretative mistake that Lycus also
makes ().
What such an interpretation fails to see is that there are no dramatic – or
moral – stakes to Megara’s choice if she fails to see what danger she is in.
Megara indeed displays contradictions, but it is not Amphitryon who is
required as a ‘restraining influence’. Megara pauses to revise her own
feelings. After her first prayer, which engages in the language of disruption
that generally characterises this tragedy (–), Megara stops herself
from the wrong-headedness, saying ‘But I’m speaking out of line
(nimium), since I do not know my lot’ (–). Rather than a hyster-
ical woman, Seneca stages a sole actor talking herself through her emotions
and deliberating.
Megara privileges her sense of self and her proper role over life and
material well-being, both Stoic indifferents, thus investing her later death
with moral significance other than mere spectacular victimisation at the
hands of her husband. She chooses to die rather than live under conditions
that are unacceptable to her. Megara’s eventual death is thus re-envisioned
as a voluntaria mors. The fact that she ultimately meets her end in a
manner that she does not foresee is immaterial from a Stoic perspective
because the outcome does not depend on her. Her death is inevitable from
the perspective of myth but voluntary from the perspective of Stoic ethics.
Prior to Lycus’ entrance, Megara has arrived at acceptance, like the
Euripidean Megara: if her husband is available in the upper world, let
him come; if below, she will meet him there (–). Although Lycus
mentions execution as the alternative to matrimony (), the text makes
it clear that Megara has not overheard him (, ). Seemingly full of

 
Zintzen (: –). Fitch (: –), emphasis added.

Fitch (: –).

To behave nimium is a quality of Hercules (–, ), but it is also a ‘key word’ throughout
the drama for the entire family.
 Women at the Crossroads 
reconciliation, Lycus proposes that the union would be eminently practi-
cal: he needs her to legitimate his rule; she needs a husband in view of the
fact that hers is missing in action; and if she could get past his slaughter of
her family, she might find a worthy husband in Lycus (–) – who,
though not one of the nobiles, likes to think of himself as a man of clara
virtus (–).
Megara rejects Lycus’ proposal with an appeal to her moral identity and
family of origin. The first word of her reply is an emphatic affirmation of
her self: Ego.
Egone ut parentis sanguine aspersam manum
fratrumque gemina caede contingam?
(HF –)

‘How could I take the hand sprinkled with my parent’s blood and with the
double slaughter of my brothers?’

Her objection to the tyrant is the slaughter of her male kin. She continues,
‘You have stolen my father, realm, brothers, hearth, homeland – what else
is there?’ And next, ‘One thing alone remains for me, dearer than brother
and parent, kingdom and hearth’ (–). That one thing is not, as we
might imagine, her husband. Rather, all that remains to her identity, once
family and homeland have been stripped away, is her opposition to the
tyrant (odium tui, ). Opposition to a tyrant is, as we have seen, a
major justification for voluntaria mors for the Stoics. Lest there be any
doubt as to how this confrontation should be construed, even Lycus calls
himself a tyrannus (). Megara does not first imagine her refusal within
the framework of her marriage but rather within the set of relationships
and obligations that would equally bind a heroic man.
Lycus asks what wedding arrangements he might make; Megara asks for
her death or Lycus’. With some sophistical reasoning, he reminds her that
part of life is to submit to authority outside her control and that this is the
lesson she should draw from Hercules, alluding to the labours in service to
Eurystheus (). He says that she will be forced (cogere), to which she
replies that someone who can be compelled to do something does not
know how to die (cogi qui potest nescit mori, ), sounding a great deal like

Cf. Reydams-Schils (: –) on the importance of pronouns and moral identity. Contrast
Euripides’ Megara declaring she will imitate her husband’s mimēma (Her. ).

My translation.

Similarly, Wray (: ) shows that Seneca’s Clytemnestra in her agōn adheres to her ‘ethical
self’ (Aga. –). Fitch (: ) objects that Megara is spurred by passionate hatred. But odium
of a tyrant forms part of a rational calculus.
   
an Epictetan exemplar. Megara’s reply is philosophical in a robust sense:
her language reflects the qualities of true freedom in Stoic literature and
her moral reasoning undergirds her decision. It is worth repeating:
Megara – not Lycus – raises her death as an option in the Senecan
encounter. He has presented himself as optimistic, pragmatic. It is she
who turns his offer into an ethical crisis. She would rather follow her
current husband to the grave (–).
Lycus’ continued soliciting of Megara only demonstrates that her refusal
reflects rational choice. The idea that Megara is hysterical is a misappre-
hension of Lycus, when he earlier supposed that if she were to refuse him it
would be due to her being out of control (impotenti . . . animo, ). Now,
Lycus’ accusation that Megara is crazy (demens, ) only serves to ironise
the fact that of the three figures whose moral faculties are at stake in this
drama – tyrant, wife, hero – only hers is immoveable. The accusation
demens also foreshadows her husband’s real dementia that will soon direct
the show: both she and the chorus will appeal to the murderous Hercules
in his frenzy as amens (, ). As Lycus and Hercules both emerge as
figures of moral confusion, Megara stands alone as a figure of moral clarity
under pressure.
Her unwavering preference for death presents us with a model alongside
which to measure Hercules’ later belaboured deliberation, modifying and
limiting any prior claim to virtus that he might have held. Megara
demonstrates her philosophical mettle and capacity to perform the role
of the sapiens. The manner of her death will not ultimately depend on her,
but her act of volition does. Thus, Megara makes the unflinching choice to
die and is ready to follow through on her word but for her husband’s
forceful intervention. Her lines throughout her encounters with
Amphitryon and Lycus prove her philosophical countenance: Fortuna does
not spare the virtuous (–); without hardships, there is no opportu-
nity for virtue (); it is virtuous to overcome what ordinary people
fear ().
But when Lycus raises the evergreen question of Hercules’ paternity,
Megara’s moment is ruptured. Amphitryon intervenes: ‘Pitiable spouse of
Hercules the great, silence! It’s my role (partes meae) to report Alcides’
paternity and true origin’ (–). Where Fitch interprets this interven-
tion as Amphitryon’s concern for Megara’s delicate state along with his
natural interest in the paternity question, I suggest that this reads rather
like a fear of being upstaged. In view of his role as the agonist against Lycus

Cf. Epictetus ... See Mann () on the general issue.
 Women at the Crossroads 
in the Euripidean drama, Amphitryon’s interruption is as though a
reminder of their proper partes in the earlier tragedy. In other words: stick
to the script.
Megara speaks again only once Lycus threatens rape: ‘But if she’s
unyielding in nuptials and refuses to be joined to me (copulari), even so
I’ll have noble offspring from her by force (coacta)’ (–). In response,
she summons dead ancestors, hoping to join them, again affirming her
preference for death (–). Noticeably, she does not speak when her
husband returns – and the Senecan Hercules takes little notice of her.
Megara utters her last words when she is in his fatal clutches, begging him
to recognise her (agnosce Megaram, ‘Recognise Megara,’ –).
Significantly, she echoes Seneca’s Medea’s last words to her husband
Jason as she kills their children and prepares to escape (coniugem agnoscis
tuam?, ‘Do you recognise your spouse?’ Med. ). As much as mutuality
may be theorised in Stoic marriage, in the ‘idea made flesh’, mutual
recognition may be hard indeed to achieve.

Tragic Role Change

Tragic women, writes Nicole Loraux, ‘are free enough to kill themselves,
but they are not free enough to escape from the space to which they
belong, and the remote sanctum where they meet their death is equally the
symbol of their life . . .. The place where women kill themselves, to give it
its name, is the marriage chamber, the thalamos’. In view of this model, it
is highly significant that Megara declares her fear of the marital bed
(thalamos tremesco, ) and that she declares her preference of death
publicly, rather than by report. Megara seeks to remove herself from the
tragic paradigm as the deaths she imagines for herself are virile, public, and
political, rather than womanly, private, or personal: ‘Let chains weigh
down my body and slow death be drawn out even longer by starvation:
there is not any force that will overpower my faith’ (–) – depriva-
tions and deaths that a man might suffer for political reasons.
The real change in Megara’s conduct – from coherent moral agent to
pleading wife – stages the tension between Megara-qua-Stoic and Megara-
qua-tragic-wife. In (Attic) tragedy, Loraux has shown, suicide is not a
heroic (i.e., manly) act but rather the death of a woman. The largely
gendered patterns of ways of dying confirm that the tragic fantasy of a
woman’s death is that it is out of view, that the fantasy of a man’s death is

Loraux (: ).
   
that it is on display. But Seneca’s women may wield virile implements
disallowed their Attic counterparts, as the Stoic tragedian departs from his
models, reimagining women’s deaths in ‘masculine’ terms. Lauren
Ginsberg has shown how Seneca innovatively recentred the Oedipus story
in Phoenissae by focussing upon Jocasta, who exceeds her mythological
context with rhetoric that positions her in the role of Roman parens
patriae. Phaedra kills herself with a sword in view of Theseus, whereas
Euripides’ Phaedra hangs herself within. But unlike Jocasta and Phaedra,
who perceive themselves to have erred and punish themselves, Megara
singularly is not complicit in the events that have resulted in moral crisis:
she opts for death to avoid acting in a way that does not cohere with her
identity and opposition to the tyrant. Hers is a death of resistance.
I have suggested that Amphitryon fears being upstaged when he dis-
places Megara. That fear is paralleled by the risk of Hercules being
upstaged as moral exemplar. The first silencing of Megara is by
Amphitryon, a dislocated patriarch, who appropriates her position in the
agōn. The second silencing of Megara is by Hercules, the repatriated
patriarch, who appropriates her position as the figure of moral choice
and voluntaria mors. Put another way: Megara’s virile self-definition, her
sense of her own heroic values and obligations, set her up for her murder at
her husband’s hands.
Why does Seneca stage the woman opting for voluntaria mors in tragedy
while sometimes declining to treat such figures in prose addressing the
same problems? The answer may be the imaginative space that tragedy
allows – and the fate that myth dictates. For all her good Stoic reasoning,
Megara ultimately perishes as a victim of domestic violence. While, as
I have mentioned, this is immaterial from a Stoic perspective, it is not
immaterial from a feminist one. The tragic assurance that she will die at
her husband’s hand (not her own, not the tyrant’s) grants licence to the
philosophical imagination. For she has not displaced the male exemplar or
threatened his grimly starring role; her choice has been forgotten. It is
precisely the fact that Megara is killed by her husband, that there is no
material consequence to her moral deliberation, which allows for this


Hecuba seeks a manly death of swords and missiles, to no avail (Tro. –).

Ginsberg ().

Compare Megara with Seneca’s Andromache (Tro. –; HF –). In a moment analogous
to the Megara-Lycus confrontation, Ulysses threatens ‘You will be forced (coacta) to say what you
refuse to confess willingly’ (Tro. ). Andromache responds ‘That woman is safe who is able, who
is obligated, who desires to die’ (Tro. ). Her declaration is similar to Megara’s; but unlike
Megara, her fear gives her away.
 Women at the Crossroads 
philosophical thought experiment – a woman vocalising her own radical
choice – in tragic form.
To return to the question that originally motivated our enquiry into
Megara’s Stoic character: can the space of drama allow us to imagine what
we might find if we were to have direct literary evidence from Stoic
women? Put another way: does ‘fiction’ help us to understand the ‘real’
women philosophers whose words were not enshrined and passed down by
‘the tradition’? I argue that investigating the direct-speech portrayal of
Megara, the vocalisation of a woman’s moral choice in a high-stakes
dramatic context, helps us to recognise the women who are reported
indirectly as ‘wives’ of Stoics or otherwise Stoic-adjacent as themselves
philosophers. When we return to the historiographical, epistolary, and
consolatory narratives reporting exempla and the lives of Stoic men, we can
recognise figures such as the freedwoman Epicharis as living as Stoic
philosophers: making their own moral choices in crisis, irrespective of
the threat of compulsion.
  

Pythagorean Women and the Domestic as a

Philosophical Topic
Rosemary Twomey

Introduction
In ancient philosophy, primary source material written by women is hard
to come by. While there were women in Plato’s Academy and Epicurus’
Garden, there are no extant writings by these women. Into this void falls a
series of texts on moral instruction purportedly written by Pythagorean
women during the Hellenistic period. Whether these letters and treatises
were really written by women is subject to controversy – about which more
below – but the existence of documents even supposedly written by
women demonstrates that they were thought to be able to exercise some
moral authority. Yet, despite the relatively unique status of these texts as
evidence of the intellectual influence of women, their philosophical value
has been questioned. In this chapter, I discuss some of the later
Pythagorean treatises and letters, and I argue that their content and
methodology warrant their inclusion as contributions to the history of
philosophy. While their subject matter diverges from the standard phil-
osophical topics of their time, they can be seen as complementary to other
discussions of household management, like those found in Plato’s Republic
and Laws, Xenophon’s Oeconomicus, and Aristotle’s Politics. For example,
in Aristotle’s Politics, his remarks on household management assume the


There are also writings purportedly by Pythagorean women on number and similar recognisably
philosophical topics. In this chapter, I focus on the more challenging case for the philosophical value
of the treatises and letters written on the topics of the running of the home and the care of one’s
husband and children.

Following Salamon (), Dotson has argued that philosophy tends to employ a ‘culture of
justification’ in that it ‘) manifest[s] a value for exercises of legitimation, [and] ) assume[s] the
existence of commonly held, justifying norms that are ) univocally relevant’ () and that this has the
effect of excluding ‘incongruent’ approaches that would diversify the field (). I agree that this is
a legitimate concern for the field as a whole, but if (some of ) the Pythagorean women’s treatises or
letters can be ‘legitimated’ then that should satisfy both those traditionalists who still buy into this
culture of justification and those who do not.


 Pythagorean Women and the Domestic 
standpoint of the master of the house and so he largely ignores issues that
arise for female members of the household; but as we will see, women’s
responsibilities (such as they were) would also be essential to establishing
stable households of the sort that raise good citizens and thereby compose
successful cities.
My approach to these texts will require us to bracket our distaste with
the limitations placed on women at the time and instead focus on how
they worked within these limitations to contribute to the ethical develop-
ment of their societies. To presuppose that ‘real philosophy’ must address
our actions outside of the family unit amounts to the requirement that
only the rare, outsider female of the ancient world was able to philoso-
phise, and moreover, it leads to the expectation that were she to do so, she
would speak in exactly the language that we are used to from her male
counterparts. Such an approach artificially limits the opportunities that are
opened up by diversifying the canon. Here we would like a diversity of
approaches and interests as well as a diversity in the makeup of people
contributing to the discipline. Indeed, these texts prompt us to consider
how philosophy might have evolved differently (and might yet evolve
differently) were these discussions to be taken seriously as contributions
to the field.
Of course, I am not claiming that everything written about the internal
running of a home would count as philosophy. Nor is it the case that the
raising of children and support of one’s spouse are inherently female
interests, while public-facing action is masculine. Rather, I argue that both
are of philosophical interest if we take one of the primary roles of ancient
philosophy to be determining how to achieve eudaimonia and how to
inculcate virtue as part of that effort. Moral and political philosophies
aimed at eudaimonia are deficient to the extent that they do not substan-
tively address the running of the home in its entirety. Finally, these texts
can be used pedagogically to advance discussions of sexism in ancient
Greece as well as in modern societies: we think it is clear that women
are harmed insofar as they are marginalised and prevented from contrib-
uting to the public good, but part of what these texts show is that men are
also harmed when they choose to limit their thinking only to how they
engage with the wider public, since, as some of the texts below will argue,
much of virtue is inculcated in domestic life.
In the first section of the chapter, I discuss the limiting factors that
necessarily attend any effort to place women into ancient philosophy as
well as the more specific complications that apply to the letters and
treatises purportedly written by Pythagorean women. In the second
  
section, we will look at some of the texts more closely and consider
objections that have been raised to the idea that they make contributions
to philosophy. I will argue that these objections presuppose a narrow
conception of philosophy that is the result of the successful marginalising
of these voices and that engagement with these texts leads to a fuller
picture of human life than that offered by our canonical philosophers.
The primary contrast here will be with Aristotle, who will be the subject of
the third section. In the third section, I will compare Aristotle’s discussion
of the household with those found in the texts discussed in the second
section, arguing that both take the household to be relevant for similar
reasons and that they employ a similar methodology. Each account is
incomplete without the other. A full and happy human life encompasses
both. In the fourth section, I will discuss how our conception of who
matters shapes our conception of what matters (and vice versa).

Some Methodological Difficulties

Any discussion of ancient texts is inherently limited by the scarcity of
source material, a difficulty that is especially acute in the case of women
and other marginalised groups. In what follows, I will first outline the texts
I rely on and then discuss the limitations of this method. We have no
writings from Pythagoras (c. – ); our primary sources of
doxographical information about him and his followers are the work of
much later authors: Diogenes Laertius (c. – ), Porphyry
(c. – ), and Iamblichus (c. – ). The dating of the
extant works purportedly by Pythagorean women is controversial, but they
are usually dated to between the first century  and the first century .
Diogenes tells us that Pythagoras got his ethical views from an otherwise
unknown priestess named Themistoclea (.), and he also claims that
Pythagoras’ wife Theano left some written works (.). According to
Diogenes, Pythagoras left his writings to his daughter Damo, who refused


To a lesser extent, I will also discuss Plato and Epicurus. Many interesting connections could also be
drawn to Xenophon’s Oecomomicus, but in the interests of space and given the goal of legitimating
some of the treatises and letters as having philosophical content, I focus on canonical philosophers.

For a recent discussion of the history of views about dating, see (Dutsch : –).

Since these sources of biographical information on the historical Pythagoras are much later, their
reliability is subject to debate. Indeed, already by Diogenes’ time there is dispute as to whether
Theano is Pythagoras’ wife and the daughter of Brontinus or if she is rather the wife of Brontinus and
merely a student of Pythagoras (.).
 Pythagorean Women and the Domestic 
to sell them even as she underwent financial hardship (.). Iamblichus
gives us a list of  Pythagoreans,  of whom are women (Iambl. VP
) – a disappointing percentage by today’s standards, but there is no
comparable evidence of percentages even this low among similar philo-
sophical schools of the time. It can readily be seen why Pythagoras may
have attracted a female following. Porphyry tells us that Pythagoras imme-
diately impressed the officials in Croton when he arrived in approximately
  and was invited by the elders to give speeches to children and
women (Porph. VP ). Iamblichus gives us an account of the speech that
he delivered, wherein he stresses the piety and virtue of his audience and
tells them they should not be ashamed of sex (assuming it is with their
husbands) (Iambl. VP –). Similarly, Diogenes tells us that Theano
said a woman was pure immediately after sex with her husband but would
never be pure after sex with anyone else and that she described her clothes
as what makes her a woman, implying that there is no inherent difference
between men and women (.). It has also been suggested that a belief
in metempsychosis would lead rather directly to the equality of the sexes as
well as to a concern with the well-being of non-human animals (another
alleged interest of the Pythagoreans).
We find the earliest versions of some of the texts purportedly by
Pythagorean women in collections by Stobaeus: Eclogarum Physicarum
and Florilegium (fifth century ). Gilles Ménage’s Historia Mulierum
Philosopharum () is the earliest known work to call attention to
women’s contributions to philosophy, including the Pythagorean women.
In modern times, Holger Thesleff released a collection of Hellenistic
Pythagorean writings, including seventeen pieces purportedly written by
ten women. Mary Ellen Waithe also collects and discusses these texts in
the first volume of her groundbreaking collection of the history of
women in philosophy. The first book-length treatment of Pythagorean


Most now hold that Pythagoras left no writings, a view that was also common in Diogenes’ time,
but which he rejected (.).

Porphyry and his original source Dicaearchus (– ) also report a speech but don’t
elaborate on what was said, so it is certainly possible Iamblichus is confabulating its content. For
more on the general role of women in Pythagorean societies, see Rowett ().

On the other hand, Aristotle presents a Pythagorean list of opposites, where ‘male’ and ‘female’ are
presented as opposed (Met. a–b), which at least one author proposes as responsible for ‘the
conception of women and men as significantly and intrinsically different’ (Deslauriers : ).
Moreover, other texts, including some written by Pythagorean women, do suggest some essential
differences. Like any socially embedded tradition, particularly one that evolved over hundreds of
years, there are significant differences of opinion. Still, it is interesting to find even one hinting at
equality of the sexes.
  
See Dutsch (: ); Pellò (: –). Thesleff (). Waithe (b).
  
women – including not just their philosophical contributions but also their
way of life and other elements of their social environment – was published
in  by Sarah Pomeroy, who also has myriad essays and monographs
that seek to elucidate the life of women in antiquity. More recently,
Dorota Dutsch has published Pythagorean Women Philosophers, a mono-
graph that collects accounts of the roles and teachings of Pythagorean
women from various authors, including Plato and the doxographers as well
as the Hellenistic pseudonymous texts I will discuss below.
It appears to be generally true of the time period that women rarely
wrote treatises intended for public consumption: indeed, Pomeroy calls it
an ‘axiom of women’s history’ that ‘women, in general, wrote shorter and
fewer works and often kept them in private or published them only under
a pseudonym’ (: xxi). These writings do not have the standard form
of philosophical texts we are used to: they are generally addressed to
specific problems and provide advice rather than a dispassionate collection
of principles. But, as we will see, many of the texts do not merely assert
that this or that is to be done: they justify the advice by appeal to virtue.
We can safely assume that there were many more such writings that
have not been discovered, many of which are lost to time. The further in
the past one goes, the truer this is, and it would of course be especially true
of women’s contributions, which would not have been treated with the
same level of respect and care as that of their male counterparts. Moreover,
the oldest plausible dating of the texts in question is the fourth century
, centuries after Pythagoras flourished, and many are likely to be much
later and seem to have been influenced by Platonism and other philosoph-
ical traditions. This has led scholars to describe them as pseudepigrapha.
Further concerns arise specifically when it comes to the texts written by

 
Pomeroy (). Dutsch ().

One notable exception is Ptolemaïs, who wrote a treatise on Pythagorean musical theory discussed
by Porphyry. See Pomeroy (: –).

I refer here to how philosophical texts are composed in the modern era: there are countless examples
of advice-giving philosophical texts in the ancient tradition, including letters like those written by
Epicurus. This difference is also reflected in the orientation of philosophy over its history. Since
Hadot (), it has been commonplace to note that much of ancient philosophy addresses how
one should live. Though he traces the approach to Socrates, (i) Pythagoras’ teachings fit the mould
described by Hadot; and anyway (ii) all the letters and treatises by Pythagorean women are later
than Socrates. I return to this below.

A thorough discussion of early views on the matter can be found in Thesleff (: –), though
he subsequently changes his mind and dates them later. See also Huffman (b: §.); Huizenga
(: –). For a contrary view, asserting that though they are late and so influenced by other
traditions, they are written sincerely and so do not deserve to be thought of as ‘pseudepigrapha’ and
‘forgeries’, see Kingsley (: –) and Pomeroy (: ). It is not important for the
purposes of this chapter to establish whether the ideas reflected in the texts are written in a
 Pythagorean Women and the Domestic 
women: some scholars are immediately sceptical of the idea that women
would write to each other and find it more likely that they would have
been written by men imitating women for the purposes of exercising
persuasive power over their female relatives. Sarah Pomeroy argues to
the contrary that they are likely genuine and written by women, though
she accepts the later datings, so she says that in cases of recognisable early
Pythagorean names like Theano and Myia they are written by women
named after their more famous counterparts. She notes that in the
Hellenistic period to which the texts are dated, women were literate and
contributed to other schools of philosophy. Moreover, there are references
to women being involved in Pythagoreanism going back as far as the
fourth century  in comedies by Cratinus and Alexis, and it is attested
in the doxographical tradition, as discussed above. Pomeroy also points
to the example of Ptolemaïs, who wrote a treatise on musical theory cited
by Porphyry, and she says that the fact Porphyry does not even point out
she is a woman suggests that she was not entirely unique. Finally,
although she acknowledges that the content of the texts generally supports
the status quo and so represents male interests, she does not take this as a
sure sign they were written by men since ‘it would be unreasonable to
expect the Neopythagorean women to write like modern feminists’.
Certainly, it is not possible to settle the issue decisively. However, the
arguments against female authorship often rely on presuppositions about
women that are commonplace but are not wholly supported by the
historical record of the time. As Pomeroy notes, women could have written
these texts, and it would not be surprising to find them advocating for
rather traditional values. Consider, too, the audience for these treatises and
letters. It is clear the intended audience is women, who were expected to

misleading way to suggest an earlier date than their actual composition. What is at issue here is
whether they have philosophical value and should therefore be addressed alongside more canonical
works. For more discussion of the options (and with a judgement ultimately in favour of the view
that they are eponymous), see Waithe (b: –) and Pomeroy (: –). For an
argument in favour of their being pseudepigrapha, see Dutsch : –.

Cole (: ); Deslauriers (: –). There is precedent for men to write under women’s
names, see Lefkowitz and Fant (: ).

Dutsch discusses texts from Empedocles and Antisthenes that also, she takes it, suggest that
Pythagoras was interested in the female perspective, albeit for different reasons (: –).
Though it is clear there were Pythagorean women, this doesn’t particularly help us authenticate any
particular text, since if women were already associated with Pythagoreanism, that would make it
easier for men to pretend to be women effectively.

Pomeroy (: ).

Pomeroy (: ). I return to this point below in my discussion of Deslauriers’ criticism of
the letters.
  
entertain the texts and hopefully even find the reasoning persuasive. Thus,
if the content of these texts can be called philosophical (about which more
below), then that will suffice to show that women engaged with philoso-
phy at least as far back as the datings of the earliest texts (and presumably
long before that, but here we face the standard complications around
preservation and retention of ancient texts, compounded by the margin-
alised status of women’s contributions more generally). So even if we find
ourselves sceptical about the female authorship of the treatises, the exis-
tence of these texts is still a testament to the philosophical acuity of
women – as readers, if not as authors.

The Texts and Some Criticisms

As far back as Iamblichus, we find differing interpretations of the main
aims of Pythagoras and the Pythagorean school: are Pythagoreans trying to
offer a cosmology grounded in mathematics – as Aristotle would have it –
or is Pythagoreanism more rooted in religious instruction and moral
development? The Hellenistic Pythagorean texts discussed in this chap-
ter fit in the latter category: they advise their reader on topics of feminine
virtue and on one’s relationship with her husband and her children. But
while some of the advice to be discussed below is unique to women, much
of the overall philosophy is not gender specific. The strict rules for
initiation into Pythagoreanism were the same for men and for women,
and Pythagoras required monogamy from both husbands and wives (Iamb.
VP ). Moreover, as Pomeroy notes, the comprehensiveness of the rules
that Pythagoreans were subject to – covering areas from diet, clothing,
makeup, and jewellery to childrearing – would make it difficult to adhere
to them without the support of other members of the household.
The ideal household that the texts describe is what we would now
consider a traditional one: the focus is on pleasing one’s husband through
moderation, simplicity, self-restraint, piety, and the like. When advice
along these lines is offered from women to women, contemporary readers
are likely to find themselves underwhelmed. For these reasons, Marguerite
Deslauriers questions the status of these works:


Met. b–b, though note that Aristotle here refers to the ‘so-called Pythagoreans’ (hoi
kaloumenoi Pythagoreioi), thereby implicitly distancing the doctrines he discusses from the historical
figure of Pythagoras. For more on these two pictures, see Lloyd (: –).

Pomeroy (: ); Dutsch (: , ).
 Pythagorean Women and the Domestic 
Do the sort of texts in which women are exhorted to dress modestly and
practice chastity amount to contributions to moral philosophy? I am going
to stipulate here that they do not, and that I am treating as philosophical
only those texts that center on issues that other ancient philosophers would
have considered philosophical (this spans a broad range, including logic,
natural philosophy, moral philosophy, and metaphysics). On this basis,
work in music theory and in gynaecology count as philosophical, but moral
platitudes do not.
Deslauriers seems to conceive of the project in her essay as one in the
sociology of philosophy: much of the evidence she brings to bear addresses
factors that would keep women from being recognised as contributors to
philosophy at the time – things like the literacy of women and their ability
to engage in activities outside of the home. If the question we are asking is
whether some women should have been recognised as philosophers by their
peers in antiquity, then we can look at whether they wrote on things that
were topics of conversation in the philosophy of their own time. But this is
not the only form the question of whether there were philosophical women
in antiquity can take. We can also ask whether there are women who wrote
on things that – though not considered philosophical at the time – none-
theless have philosophical value. Deslauriers quotes John Rist, who
observes that participating in philosophy in a typical way would take a
woman far outside of her traditional role: ‘the mere act of being a philos-
opher would involve abandoning the traditional pursuits of women and
entering into debate with men’ (Deslauriers : , quoting Rist :
). Those women who choose a more traditional life will not be writing
texts much less engaging with the philosophical vogues of the day, so by
Deslauriers’ definition they will be incapable of contributing to philosophy.
It is a side effect of this conception, moreover, that any ancient women
who can be considered philosophers will have to engage with the domain
as shaped by male interests and male perspectives. Such a figure will be
unlikely to be a revolutionary, if it is a condition of being a philosopher
that one engage with canonical topics (even if those topics are somewhat
different than what we would consider philosophical today, as the gynae-
cological example is presumably meant to illustrate). To tie the conception
of a philosophical text to its mainstream acceptability is to hamstring the


Deslauriers (: ).

Deslauriers seems more open to a positive answer to the second kind of question since she later says
about some of the letters that ‘it is not that these works are devoid of philosophical claims, but
rather that insofar as they involve philosophical claims, they do so only to uphold the subject
position of women without critical analysis’ (: ).
  
effort of diversifying from the start. While it is nice to find marginalised
voices that represent mainstream views to add to syllabi, to truly diversify
the discipline we should be open to a broadening of what is to count as
philosophy, and we should most expect to see this broader conception
taken up by those voices that are most marginalised in their own time.
But while I have concerns about the stipulative definition that
Deslauriers offers, even by its lights much of the content of these texts
can count as philosophical. For they do discuss an issue that ‘ancient
philosophers would have considered philosophical’, viz. the household.
In the next section we will look at Aristotle’s discussions of the household,
and I will argue that they suffer from being too narrow and that they can
be fleshed out by being supplemented with this material. Here we
consider some of the texts themselves.
Take, for instance, Perictione’s treatise On the Harmonious Woman.
She takes up a major theme of Pythagoreanism – namely, harmony – and
she argues that the harmonious women must have wisdom (phronêsis) and
self-control (sôphrosynê):
We must deem the harmonious woman to be one who is well endowed
with wisdom (phronêsis) and self-restraint (sôphrosynê). For her soul must be
very wise when it comes to virtue so that she will be just and courageous
(andrêiê) while being sensible and beautified with self-sufficiency, despising
empty opinion (kenên doxên) . . .. Surely, by controlling her desire (epithu-
mia) and passion (thumos), a woman becomes devout and harmonious,
resulting in her not becoming a prey to impious love affairs. Rather, she will
be full of love for her husband and children and her entire household. For
all those women who have a desire for extramarital relations (allotriôn
lecheôn, lit., alien beds) themselves become enemies (polemiai) of all the
freedmen and domestics in the house . . .. For from all these activities comes
the ruination that jointly afflicts the woman as well as her husband.


Of course, what one wants is for both aspects of the household – leadership and support – to be the
role of both the husband and the wife, whereas at best what we get when we bring these texts
together is lessons for the husband/master of the house, on the one hand, and the wife/supporter,
on the other. In the concluding section, I will touch on how the sexism evident in both Classical
philosophy and in these letters might be addressed in the pedagogical context.

Thesleff claims there are at least two authors named Perictione. Perictione I is earlier – fourth to
third century  – and she writes mostly in Ionic Greek. Perictione II, on the other hand, writes in
the Doric style, and is dated to the third to second century  (: , , , ). He later
changes his view (Thesleff ). Waithe (b) and Pomeroy () follow Thesleff ()’s
dating. Dutsch () follows the emended dating.

For more on the centrality of harmony to Pythagoreanism, see Andrew Barker ().

Thesleff (: .–.), trans. Levin in Pomeroy (). Pomeroy claims that sôphrosynê was
originally a distinctly feminine virtue that Pythagoreans and Socratics extended to include men
(: ).
 Pythagorean Women and the Domestic 
Here the author is not satisfied just to offer moral platitudes (to use
Deslauriers’ phrase) but is instead compelled to justify her assertions by
providing evidence. The harmonious woman must be wise in the area of
virtue, and this seems to be true in at least three ways. First, if she is wise,
she will be just and courageous, which implies that wisdom is sufficient for
virtue. Second, wisdom will free her from being controlled by others
(besides her husband, one assumes): she will not need to rely on the
wisdom of others and so will be self-sufficient. Third, as a wise person
she will see through the empty opinions of others and so will not be
influenced by them. While this text is addressed to women, it seems the
same points could be made for the value of wisdom in a man, viz. that it
inculcates virtue and self-sufficiency, even if the way these virtues manifest
might have been thought to differ. The harmonious woman must also be
self-restrained, and this the author takes to be equivalent to a prohibition
on extramarital relations. But while it may seem obvious that having
extramarital relations will undermine harmony, Perictione again provides
an argument: it is not merely that it will lead to conflict but that she will
literally make herself an enemy of the members of the household by
choosing instead to go to the bed of another. The process of becoming
an enemy (allotriôsis) is the opposite of oikeôsis. If she is an enemy at war
with the family then she is not a proper member of it: extramarital
relations (on the part of the woman) are inconsistent with the existence
of the household unit.
Pythagoreans also valued simplicity and understatement, a commitment
Perictione affirms a few lines later (Thesleff : .–).
With regard to the sustenance and natural requirements of the body, it
must be provided with a proper measure of clothing, bathing, anointing,
hair-setting, and all those items of gold and precious stones that are used for
adornment. For women who eat and drink all sorts of extravagant dishes
and dress themselves sumptuously, wearing things that women are given to
wearing, are decked out for seduction into all manner of vice, not only the
bed but also the commission of other wrongful deeds . . .. To be consumers
of goods from far-off lands or of items that cost a great amount of money or
are highly esteemed is manifestly no small vice . . .. For the body desires
merely not to be cold or, for the sake of appearances, naked; but it needs
nothing else . . .. Therefore, a woman will neither cover herself with gold or
the stone of India or of any other place, nor will she braid her hair with


Notice also that Perictione explicitly says a woman should be courageous, a virtue that is often
reserved for men. Indeed, the word for courage, andreia, comes from the word for man as opposed
to woman (anêr).
  
artful device; nor will she anoint herself with Arabian perfume; nor will she
put white makeup on her face or rouge her cheeks or darken her brows and
lashes or artfully dye her greying hair; nor will she bathe a lot. For by
pursuing these things a woman seeks to make a spectacle (thêêtêra) of female
incontinence (akrasiês gunaikêiês). The beauty that comes from wisdom and
not from these things brings pleasure to women who are well born.
As attested in later texts, modesty is a general commitment of the
Pythagoreans, but it is here addressed to women in particular. Women
should have a ‘proper measure’ of the necessities: they should not eat or
drink excessively and should dress moderately. Again, the author does not
rest on mere assertion and instead provides argument. Fancy dress attracts
men and might lead to indiscretion, which above we saw to be destructive
to harmony. Moreover, such items are expensive and unnecessary. But
Perictione also appeals to a very general principle in defence of her
position. The body, she says, desires only to be clothed and free of the
cold. Any more specific desires for fancy or expensive clothing do not
originate with the body and so are signs of disorder in the soul. The claim
that the body itself has desires (albeit limited ones) could be fruitfully
contrasted with Plato’s view in Phaedo that it is not the body but the soul
that desires: while some pleasures are ‘concerned with service of the body’
(peri to sôma therapeias), it is the soul that either desires those pleasures or –
in the case of the philosopher – does not (d). Perhaps there is an
Epicurean influence here: Epicurus describes flesh as crying out not to be
hungry, thirsty, or cold (VS ). Perictione continues, ‘by pursuing these
things a woman seeks to make a spectacle’. Since the author accepts the
principle that the body only seeks to be clothed and warm, she concludes
that any other goods one seeks, one seeks not out of need but for attention.
The question remains whether this attention will be positive or negative:
while ‘spectacle’ suggests negative attention, the Greek thêêtêra carries no
such implication. The final sentence of the quoted passage – ‘the beauty
that comes from wisdom and not from these things brings pleasure to
women who are well born’ – implies that seeking attention for anything
besides one’s wisdom and the goods that wisdom brings is incontinent,


Thesleff (:.–).

For modesty as a commitment of the Pythagoreans, see, for instance, Golden Verses –; Iambl.
VP .

See also Alcibiades –, where Socrates identifies the person with the soul and compares the
body to inanimate tools used by craftspeople.

Also note that the Pythagorean woman despises ‘empty opinion’, which could be an allusion to
Epicurus’ classification of some desires as based on empty opinion. Thanks to David Konstan for
calling my attention to the possible Epicurean elements of the letter.
 Pythagorean Women and the Domestic 
and we see that reflected in the sentence before: the woman so-adorned
does not merely make a spectacle of herself but of her incontinence.
Exhortations like these fit squarely in the tradition of ancient philoso-
phy when it is understood as grounded in determining how one ought to
live. According to this interpretation, much of post-Socratic ancient
philosophy is focused on value theory. What ought to matter to us and
how much? As rational beings, we should not blindly or unreflectively
structure our desires but should instead engage in a conscious and inten-
tional effort to get things right. We see Perictione doing just that in this
treatise. When Plato, Aristotle, and the Stoics raise such questions, they do
so from the standpoint of free men engaged in public activity, and as such
the desires to be interrogated vary, but for a woman living a largely private
life, dress and sexual mores loom large.
Sexual indiscretion is also the topic of Theano’s letter to Nicostrate, but
here the indiscretion is committed by the husband. The author’s advice
is conciliatory but is again rooted in claims about what is good for the
household:
For the moral excellence (aretê) of the wife is not surveillance of her
husband but companionable accommodation (sumperiphora); it is in the
spirit of accommodation to bear his folly. If he associates with the courtesan
with a view towards pleasure, he associates with his wife with a view towards
the beneficial (sumpheron). It is beneficial not to compound evils with evils
and not to augment folly with folly.
Here the author exploits a connection between the wife’s role as a com-
panion to the husband and her aim as seeking to benefit her husband and
the household. The author goes on to claim that since the courtesan excites
pleasure in the man, her allure will only last as long as he is impassioned
(Thesleff : .–).
Recognize the fact that he goes to the courtesan in order to be frivolous, but
that he abides with you in order to share a common life (sumbiôsonta
pareinai); that he loves you on the basis of good judgment (kata gnômên),
but her on the basis of passion (tô pathei). The moment for this is brief. It
almost coincides with its own satisfaction.
This argument turns on the conception of pleasure as a pathos (and
accordingly temporary), while, on the other hand, determining what is
beneficial requires judgement. Moreover, determining what is beneficial

 
See, for instance, Hadot (); Cooper (). Thesleff (: –).

Thesleff (: .–.), trans. Harper in Waithe (b).
  
requires a full conception of what is valuable in life and how one can best
acquire those goods. Here it is suggested that ignoring your husband’s
passions will ultimately be for the best, for they are short-lived.
A text purportedly by Aesara is even clearer about the importance of a
harmonious household for a good life, and for a just city:
Human nature seems to me to provide a standard of law and justice both
for the home and for the city. By following the tracks within himself
whoever seeks will make a discovery: law is in him and justice, which is
the orderly arrangement (diakosmasis) of the soul. Being threefold, it is
organised in accordance with triple functions: that which effects judgment
and thoughtfulness (phronasin) is [the mind], that which effects strength
and ability is [high spirit], and all that effects love and kindliness is desire
(epithumia). These are all so disposed relatively to one other, that the best
part is in command, the most inferior is governed, and the one in between
holds a middle place; it both governs and is governed. The god thus
contrived these things according to principle in both the outline and
completion of the human dwelling place (tô anthrôpinô skaneôs), because
he intended man alone to become a recipient of law and justice, and none
other of mortal animals.
This provides an interesting counterpoint to Plato’s arguments in Republic.
Whereas Plato wants to disband the household in the guardian class in
order to combat social divisions, Aesara sees the same natural order in the
household as Plato finds in the city and in the individual soul.


For a counterpoint to the view that pathê cannot be usefully leveraged in the quest to figure out
what is beneficial, one could contrast Aristotle’s views on moral development. According to
Aristotle’s picture of moral development, as described especially in Nicomachean Ethics .,
pleasure as a pathos is essential to moral development and precedes (and determines) what
arguments one will respond to regarding what is good or beneficial for us. It is for this reason
that we need a proper upbringing before we begin studying ethics. Finding pleasure in what one
ought not to feel pleasure in will develop a bad character but, correspondingly, learning through
habituation from a young age to take pleasure in what one ought to is what allows us to become
virtuous and to judge what is truly beneficial.

Thesleff (: –). Thesleff conjectures the author is actually a male, Aresas of Lucania, on the
basis of two emendations, but he later changed his mind, and most subsequent interpreters do not
follow him; see Pomeroy (: ) for references and Dutsch (:  n. ) for a perspective
more sympathetic to Thesleff’s earlier view.

Thesleff (: .–.), trans. Harper in Waithe (b). Waithe takes this letter to be
proto-feminist: ‘If we assume, as did the Pythagoreans, that women bore the responsibility for
creating harmony and justice in the home . . . then so-called “women’s work” was the moral
equivalent of “men’s work”. This is because justice in both arenas has the same natural
foundation in the nature of the human soul. Just, harmonious cities require their component
parts, households, also to be just and harmonious’ (Waithe b: ).
 Pythagorean Women and the Domestic 
Aesara goes on to observe that the unity of the parts comes precisely
from their diversity: the parts of the soul, and of the city and household,
must be different but complementary (Thesleff : .–).
A composite unity of association could not come about from a single thing,
nor indeed from several which are all alike . . .. Nor could such a unity come
from several dissimilar things at random, but rather, from parts formed in
accordance with the completion and organization and fitting together of the
entire composite whole. Not only is the soul composed from several
dissimilar parts, these being fashioned in conformity with the whole and
complete, but in addition these are not arranged haphazardly and at
random, but in accordance with rational attention.
When Plato introduces the parts of soul, his analytical test for parthood
looks for conflict, for he says where there is conflict there must be two
different parts (Rep. b–c). This approach leads him to focus on cases
where the parts are in disagreement and so not unified, but Aesara here
calls attention to a feature of the unified soul: if it is to be well-ordered
there must be a diversity of roles. This diversity does not require disagree-
ment per se, but emphasising it does call attention to the importance not
just of agreement among the parts but also to the fact that the different
parts perform different roles.
Much more can be said about the philosophical content of these and
other texts, but my goal in this section has been to show that they present
arguments that have as their goal the establishment of households that can
best ground happy human lives. If Plato thinks we can do without house-
holds – and Aristotle, as we will see in the next section, only considers the
household from the standpoint of the master of the house – then, according
to these texts, they are missing aspects of life that have much influence over
the development and maintenance of character in members of the house-
hold. According to the interpretation of ancient philosophy as a way of life,
it can be argued that the pseudepigraphic works by women are a corrective
for an overly myopic view of what matters. They can improve and contrib-
ute to the debate even if we think a full, careful, and idealised discussion of
the household would lead to a less divided conception of the roles of
husband and wife than we find in these letters.


This is not to say that Plato is unaware of the importance of complementarity in the soul: his
definition of justice as each part doing its own work relies on such a conception, and he does stress
the importance of diversity in role in the analogous case of the city. Even so, his proof for there
being different parts is rooted in the possibility of disagreement and conflict, and, as such, the
examples at the end of Rep.  focus on the harms of divisiveness and the benefits of unity, not on the
complementary nature of the parts.
  

Aristotle’s Household
Like Aesara, Aristotle thinks of the household as composed of diverse parts,
but unlike her, he takes this to show that the household (and the city) is
not a true unity. In his discussion of Plato’s proposal in the Republic to
raise children in common, Aristotle highlights what he calls Socrates’
‘assumption that it is best for a city-state to be as far as possible all one
unit’ (a–, cf. Rep. a). He claims that taking that assumption
to its logical conclusion would destroy the polis (a–):
And yet it is evident that the more of a unity a city-state becomes, the less of
a city-state it will be. For a city-state naturally consists of a certain multi-
tude; and as it becomes more of a unity, it will turn from a city-state into a
household, and from a household into a human being . . .. Hence, even if
someone could achieve this, it should not be done, since it will destroy the
city-state.
In Aesara, we find that the well-ordered whole cannot be understood apart
from its rationally structured parts. Each has an essential role to play, and
this is as true of the parts of the household as it is the parts of the city and
in the individual soul. To focus on one part to the exclusion of the others is
to give not just an incomplete account but an incorrect one. Aristotle’s
claim here that there is no unity in diversity points in a different direction:
if the aspects of the city (and of the household) do not form a unity, then it
would seem that they can be studied apart from each other, in which case
some parts (viz. the female perspective) he might think to be of limited
probative value. But for Aesara, in order to understand a city, you must
study all of its proper and complementary parts, and the same is true of
the household.
And indeed, this is what we find when we turn to Aristotle’s remarks
about the household, which focus exclusively on the husband/master’s
role. As is reflected by his discussion in Book , he views the city as a
composite (suntheton) of disparate elements. Since he rejects the Socratic
proposal to disband households, one of the elements of the city will be the
household. Indeed, it is the first subject of discussion in Politics. Since the
city is a composite, Aristotle says we must start by analysing the parts
(a–). He next mentions two sorts of natural relationship: that


Trans. Reeve (). Although Aristotle has mere diversity in number in mind here, in his very next
sentence he points also to diversity in roles: ‘A city-state consists not only of a number of people,
but of people of different kinds, since a city-state does not come from people who are alike’
(a–).
 Pythagorean Women and the Domestic 
between a husband and a wife (which he says arises of necessity for
procreation rather than by prohairesis, choice) and that between a master
and a slave (a–). While he claims that these are two fundamen-
tally different kinds of relationship (a–b), he does not make much
of the distinction, instead collapsing it by observing that ‘the first thing to
emerge from these two communities is a household’ (b–). It is
immediately clear that his discussion of the household will assume the
standpoint of the master of the house, for he goes on to illustrate his point
by citing Hesiod: ‘Hesiod is right when he said in his poem, “first and
foremost: a house, a wife, and an ox for the plough”’ (b–). When
he gets around to the details about a page later, he describes the subject to
be discussed not as the household (oikon) but as household management
(oikonomia) (b–), and he takes the acquisition of wealth (a male
enterprise at the time) to be an aspect of the subject (b–).
It is not hard to figure out why he has a blind spot for the role of the
wife (and the slave): for him, the polis is primarily about exercising rule,
not being subject to it. Later in Book , he says that while free men must
take turns ruling over the city, they are naturally rulers (b–):
In most cases of rule of a statesman, it is true, people take turns at ruling
and being ruled, because they tend by nature to be on an equal footing and
to differ in nothing. Nevertheless, whenever one person is ruling and
another being ruled, the one ruling tries to distinguish himself in demean-
our, title, or rank from the ruled . . .. Male is permanently related to female
in this way.
In the Eudemian Ethics – where Aristotle describes man as not just a
political animal but also a household-managing animal (oikonomikon
zôon) (a) – he describes a husband’s friendship with his wife as
based on utility, and in the Nicomachean Ethics we learn that utility
friendships are more unstable and often derive from relationships among
contraries (EN b–). Thus, it seems that to learn more about the
wife will tell us little about the husband who is the focus of
Aristotle’s theorising.
Despite all this, Aristotle himself seems to agree that a full account of
the city-state will require a discussion of that role. At the end of Politics
.b–, he says:
As for man and woman, father and children, the virtue relevant to each of
them, what is good in their relationship with one another and what is not
good, and how to achieve the good and avoid the bad, it will be necessary to
go through all these in connection with the constitutions. For every
  
household is part of a city-state, these are parts of a household, and the
virtue of a part must be determined by looking to the virtue of the whole.
Hence both women and children must be educated with an eye to the
constitution, if indeed it makes any difference to the virtue of a city-state
that its children be virtuous, and its women too. And it must make a
difference, since half the free population are women, and from children
come those who participate in the constitution.
Nonetheless, as Reeve observes in a footnote, ‘No full discussion of these
topics appears in the Politics as we have it’ (: , n. ).
In this section, we have seen that the household is an important subject
for philosophical analysis in Aristotle. Similar observations could be made
about Plato, especially in Republic – and Laws  and –. But despite
the fact that he seems to have recognised a lacuna, Aristotle’s discussion of
the household is a discussion of household management. He largely
ignores the complementary roles of the other members of the household,
focusing instead on the master of the house. The extant texts purportedly
by Pythagorean women take up these neglected topics. Contra Deslauriers,
the topic of these texts is recognisably philosophical, even if the angle they
take on it is a neglected one. In fact, especially since the angle is neglected
while the topic is philosophical, these texts have philosophical and peda-
gogical value.

Conclusion
Still, the texts leave much to be desired from a modern perspective. It
seems that this is what troubles Deslauriers more than anything: in her
essay she frequently notes that the contents support the status quo in a way
that is harmful to women’s interests. But the philosophy written by men at
that time, and indeed throughout human history, has also often under-
mined women’s interests, yet we still teach it in our philosophy courses. In
our (necessarily selective) examination of the treatises and letters purport-
edly by Pythagorean women, we have seen that these texts often appeal to
the very same virtues as those highlighted in ancient philosophy as written
by men. However, it is often the case that the way the virtue is taken to
manifest differs from its use in canonical philosophical texts because of the
woman’s role in the household and the male orientation of the canonical
texts. In particular, the Pythagorean women’s treatises and letters fre-
quently turn to the topic of sexual mores. The often-abrupt shift and the
tendency to focus on modesty and pleasing one’s husband tend to distract
us from the philosophical content of the letters, but they actually offer a
 Pythagorean Women and the Domestic 
powerful pedagogical tool. After all, it is not only these female-centred
texts that shift from general considerations of value and virtue to topics of
interest to a select audience: as we have seen with the example of Aristotle,
he too moves from general considerations to a specific context, but his is
the context of the ‘ruler’ of the house – and, further, man’s public-facing
role in the city. Why should these contexts be any riper for philosophical
reflection than those in which women of the time found themselves? Here
we can see how philosophy becomes the domain of men insofar as it comes
to be taken as an assumption that only public-facing roles are up for
philosophical consideration. Diversifying ancient philosophy requires that
we challenge that assumption. Indeed, as we have seen, leaving out the
perspective of female members leads to an incomplete account of
the household.
Of course, this is not to say that we cannot wish that women of the time
had more and varied socially respectable options in how they chose to
manifest their virtue, and there is something decidedly disappointing
about the abrupt transition from virtue to sexual mores. In a pedagogical
context, a good teacher can probe that sense of disappointment and can
use it to prompt discussions about the prospects of women even up to the
present day. In what other directions would we have liked the letters to go,
after their forceful openings and their appeals to universal virtues? And
how much progress have we made since then?
Aristotle largely ignores the perspective of the wife because he thinks of
her as only ruled and never a ruler. There are two ways we could respond:
() we could challenge the premise that women are naturally submissive
and meant to be ruled over; or () we can emphasise that everyone is
ruled over sometimes and that as such much of what is important in life
and in moral development is left out when we ignore issues that arise from
that standpoint. These are not mutually exclusive options, so I hope in our
rush to establish () we do not follow Aristotle in forgetting the impor-
tance of ().


Thank you to the contributors to this volume, who read and commented on an earlier draft. Thanks
especially to the editors, Katharine O’Reilly and Caterina Pellò, for their detailed comments and
also to Sukaina Hirji, David Konstan, Marko Malink, Susan Sauvé Meyer, Phil Mitsis, Jessica
Moss, John J. Mulhern, David Murphy, Debra Nails, Sarah Pomeroy, Maria Victoria Salazar,
Iakovos Vasiliou, Denise Vigani, and Katja Vogt. This project was supported by grants from the
Mellon Foundation, PSC-CUNY, and the CUNY Research Foundation.
  

Perictione, Mother of Metaphysics

A New Philosophical Reading of On Wisdom
Giulia De Cesaris and Caterina Pellò*

This chapter focuses on On Wisdom, a metaphysical and epistemological

treatise preserved in Stobaeus’ Anthology and ascribed to a Pythagorean
woman named Perictione.
In the two available fragments, Perictione makes two key statements:
first, the purpose and function of a human being is the contemplation of
the nature of all things. Second, wisdom is the highest-ranked human
activity, for it enables us to grasp all kinds of things that are and brings us
closer to the divine. This claim is supported by introducing a novel
tripartition of theoretical sciences, where human wisdom is placed at the
very top. On Wisdom is thus the first metaphysical and epistemological
treatise ascribed to a female author in the ancient Greek philosophical
tradition. As such, the treatise should receive more, and more thorough,
attention.
The study of On Wisdom raises two main difficulties. First, the treatise
belongs to a corpus of Hellenistic and post-Hellenistic texts written under
the names of early Pythagorean philosophers. These writings are most
likely apocryphal and aimed at portraying Pythagoras as a forerunner of
Platonism and Aristotelianism. Specifically, the fact that On Wisdom is
attributed to a woman philosopher bearing the same name as Plato’s
mother makes its authenticity dubious. Second, and most importantly,
Perictione’s On Wisdom shows substantial textual overlap with another
pseudepigraphic text, also titled On Wisdom, but ascribed to the
Pythagorean Archytas and preserved in Iamblichus’ Protrepticus. Scholars

*
Both authors contributed to the chapter at all stages. De Cesaris is primarily responsible for the
commentary to Frs.  and .b and the conclusive remarks. Pellò is responsible for the introduction
and the commentary to Fr. a. This study was initially presented at the Oxford ‘Women Intellectuals
in Antiquity’ Symposium in collaboration with Phillip Horky. We are grateful to him and the
conference participants for their feedback. We would also like to thank Dorota Dutsch,
Constantinos Macris, Jan Opsomer, Katharine O’Reilly, Alessio Santoro, Angela Ulacco, and the
contributors to this volume for their comments on an earlier draft.


 Perictione, Mother Of Metaphysics 
have thus taken the two fragments quoted by Stobaeus in the fifth century
to be part of ps-Archytas’ text, rather than Perictione’s.
Our aim is to offer a philosophical reading of the arguments in On
Wisdom and reclaim a place for Perictione in the history of Greek philos-
ophy. We begin with some methodological considerations. First, we review
the available evidence about Perictione, Plato’s mother, to whom On
Wisdom is ascribed. Then, we address the pseudonymity issue and the
question of the relationship between this text and ps-Archytas’. While
scholars have traditionally been halted by the issues of dating and attribu-
tion, we show how these barriers should not prevent us from engaging
with the philosophical content of the text. The central section of the
chapter is devoted to a close analysis of the surviving fragments of
On Wisdom, with special focus on the triadic conception of theoretical
sciences, which is unique to this treatise. In the conclusion, we advance
a suggestion as to the originality of Perictione’s On Wisdom in relation to
ps-Archytas’.

Perictione and the Pythagorean Women

The available evidence for Perictione is limited. Except for Stobaeus, none
of our sources identify Perictione as a Pythagorean. Her name is not listed
among Pythagoras’ disciples in Iamblichus’ Catalogue of the Pythagoreans
(VP ) and is only attested in Athens in connection with Plato’s
mother.
The texts mentioning Perictione are twofold: some generally mention
her as part of Plato’s lineage, whereas others specifically focus on the event
of Plato’s conception. The reports differ in detail. Yet they all agree in
three respects: Perictione’s husband Ariston once attempted to have inter-
course with her but did not succeed due to Apollo’s intervention;
Perictione was a virgin; and, most importantly, Apollo was Plato’s biolog-
ical father. Since Pythagoras was also believed to be the son of a virgin


We refer to the author of the fragments quoted by Iamblichus as ps-Archytas to distinguish him from
the fourth-century Pythagorean philosopher from Tarentum. By contrast, we refer to the author of
the fragments quoted by Stobaeus as Perictione, although we do not take this to be the same person
as Plato’s mother.

This, however, is also the case for other authors of the Pythagorean pseudepigrapha.

See Macris ().

All sources concerning Plato’s divine birth are collected by Riginos (: –).

According to Origen (Cels. .), the sexual intercourse between Apollo and Perictione was recounted
by most Platonists in their biographies of Plato. The story most likely originated in Athens among
      ò
mother and Apollo, these stories draw an initial connection between
Perictione and Pythagoreanism. Attributing On Wisdom to Perictione,
then, appears as a textual strategy to bridge the gap between Plato and
the Pythagoreans. By picturing Plato as the son of a Pythagorean woman,
the treatise establishes a direct biological connection between the two
philosophical traditions.
Stobaeus attributes two texts to Perictione: On the Harmonious Woman,
written in Ionic and focused on female virtues, and the Doric treatise On
Wisdom. The dating of these texts is debated, but the consensus view is
that they were written between the first century  and the first century
 (Macris ). The Hellenistic and the Imperial Age are characterised
by the production and circulation of a large collection of writings about
metaphysics, logic, cosmology, ethics, and politics, authored under the
pseudonyms of ancient Pythagorean philosophers. Most importantly for
the purpose of this chapter, this corpus includes ten letters and four
treatises ascribed to Pythagorean women, the majority of which discuss
women-related topics such as female virtues, married life, childrearing,
home economics, and the role of women in society. This raises a plethora
of questions: are the texts truly written by women philosophers? In the case
of Perictione, is the author named after Plato’s mother or is (s)he using a
pseudonym? If the latter, is the pay-off of writing under the authority of
the mother of Plato greater than that of writing under the name of a
woman philosopher?
Whether these texts were authored by women or rather by men using
female pseudonyms is a point of controversy. Pomeroy, for example,
suggests that, since the pseudepigrapha address an audience of women,
they are more likely to be the work of female authors (: –).

Plato’s immediate successors. Both Diogenes Laertius (.) and Jerome (Adv. Iov. .) identify
Speusippus as the earliest source.

At least until Iamblichus, who rejects the accounts of Pythagoras’ miraculous birth (VP –).

Because of the differences in style and content, some scholars attribute the texts to two different
authors named Perictione (Waithe b: –; Pomeroy : ).

Most scholars refer to these writings as Pseudopythagorean to highlight the discontinuities from the
early Pythagorean tradition (e.g., Centrone ; Zhmud ). We follow Horky and refer to
these writings as Pythagorean pseudepigrapha (: –) to emphasise that they were not
written by the named authors but leave open the question of their relationship with
Pythagoreanism, a discussion of which is beyond the scope of this chapter.

For a study of the Pythagorean women’s letters, see Twomey in this volume (Chapter ).

Pomeroy identifies the authors as women named after or writing under the pseudonyms of their
Pythagorean predecessors. By contrast, Waithe believes that the texts are eponymous – that is,
written by the named author – and that the author of On the Harmonious Woman is in fact Plato’s
mother (b: –). Female authorship is also defended by Wider (); Nails (:
–); Plant (: –); and Montepaone ().
 Perictione, Mother Of Metaphysics 
Conversely, Deslauriers argues that in antiquity it was customary for men
to write under female pseudonyms with the aim of educating female pupils
(: –). Both arguments for and against the possibility of women
authors rely on the claim that the Pythagorean women’s texts are written
for and about women. Some of these writings, however, do not focus on
the female gender. For example, Aesara’s On Human Nature proposes a
new version of the Platonic tripartition of the soul and, as we shall see,
Perictione’s treatise discusses the value of wisdom in comparison with
other theoretical sciences. These two texts challenge the assumption that
in antiquity women were only reputed to be experts on the female gender,
domestic virtues, and family life: the pseudepigrapha also ventured into
epistemological and metaphysical speculations about the laws of the cos-
mos, the soul, and science.
So far, there is no conclusive case against or in favour of ascribing On
Wisdom to a woman philosopher. The reader might then expect us to
tackle the issue of the identity of its author. Our plan, however, is to take a
different approach. Since the pseudonymity question is the issue most
scholars tend to discuss and thus has been a great barrier to our engage-
ment with the philosophical significance of the writings ascribed to the
Pythagorean women, we shall leave this debate aside and open a route to
the analysis of their arguments. Regardless of who the original author is,
On Wisdom is the first text claiming to express the metaphysical and
epistemological views of a woman. Our question is what these views are.
There is another, more challenging problem still left unsolved: the
overlap between ps-Archytas’ and Perictione’s On Wisdom. Various
options can be envisioned. First, Iamblichus and Stobaeus may be using
two independent texts, one written under Archytas’ name and the other
under Perictione’s. This seems unlikely given that portions of the texts are
otherwise almost identical. Conversely, Stobaeus may quote excerpts from
ps-Archytas’ On Wisdom but attribute the text to Perictione. This, too,
seems unlikely: the Anthology includes several quotations from ps-Archytas
and it is unclear why Stobaeus would only question the authorship of On
Wisdom. Alternatively, the text may have been ascribed to Perictione
originally and then to Archytas in the Protrepticus. This is more likely,
for ps-Archytas is credited with a larger number of pseudepigrapha, many
of which are quoted by Iamblichus. Yet the direct link with Plato makes
Perictione an equally effective pseudo-author. Finally, Iamblichus and
Stobaeus might be reading the same anonymous treatise, which they
ascribe to Archytas and Perictione, respectively. We shall return to this
debate in the conclusion.
      ò
Overall, given the parallel with ps-Archytas, and since On Wisdom does
not discuss women-related topics, neither scholars of Hellenistic
Pythagoreanism nor scholars working on the Pythagorean women have taken
the content of Perictione’s treatise into serious consideration. Some scholars
use the fragments to complement ps-Archytas’ treatise (Horky ), but
none of them allows for the possibility that the text preserved by Stobaeus
should be studied in its own right. Again, while we do not commit to saying
that the author of On Wisdom was a woman, we suspect that the attribution
to a female author is one of the reasons why its philosophical content was
overlooked, and thus we propose to study it in more depth.

On Human Wisdom
To facilitate our analysis, we arrange the discussion of Perictione’s On
Wisdom into three thematic sections: an introductory section on
Perictione’s initial statements concerning wisdom (Fr. ), a section focused
on the relationship wisdom entertains with other sciences (Fr. a, –),
and a concluding section on the importance of attaining wisdom (Fr. b,
–). On Stobaeus’ account, Perictione’s On Wisdom begins as follows
(Stobaeus .., .– Thesleff):
Fr. : . Περικτιόνης Πυθαγορείας
. Περὶ σοφίας. Γέγονε δὲ καὶ συνέστα ὁ ἄνθρωπος ποττὸ θεωρῆσαι
. τὸν λόγον τᾶς τῶ ὅλω φύσιος· καὶ τᾶς σοφίας ἔργον ἐστὶν αὐτὸ τοῦτο
. κτήσασθαι καὶ θεωρῆσαι τὰν τῶν ἐόντων φρόνασιν.
Perictione the Pythagorean, On Wisdom: The human has been born and is
constituted for the purpose of contemplating the reason of the nature of the
universe; and the function of wisdom is this very thing: to obtain and
contemplate the intelligence of the things that are.


It should be noted that in our panel at the ‘Women Intellectuals in Antiquity’ Symposium, Horky
argued for the original attribution of the text to Perictione.

Although significantly revised, our translation of Perictione’s fragment is indebted to Horky ().

Stobaeus introduces Perictione’s On the Harmonious Woman with a slightly different formulation:
Περικτιόνης Πυθαγορείας ἐκ τοῦ Περὶ γυναικὸς ἁρμονίας (‘Perictione the Pythagorean from On the
Harmonious Woman’, Stob. .., .– Thesleff ). Since both formulations are
interchangeably used by Stobaeus (see ps-Arch. De Vir. Bon, Fr. , Stob. .., . Thesleff,
and Fr. , Stob. .., . Thesleff ), this does not offer any conclusive insight about the
texts. For a detailed study of Stobaeus’ lemmata in the Anthology, see Piccione (). On Stobaeus’
style, see Reydams-Schils ().

τῶ ὅλω is suggested by Hense on the basis of Iamblichus’ text, although Mss. MdABr report τῶν
ὅλων, thus stressing the comprehensive totality of the objects in the world (Thesleff : ). The
alternative option would not bring substantial changes to our interpretation.

This is repeated almost verbatim in ps-Archytas’ On Wisdom (Fr. , .– Thesleff ): καὶ τᾶς
σοφίας ὦν ἔργον <κτᾶσθαι> καὶ θεωρὲν τὰν τῶν ἐόντων φρόνασιν.
 Perictione, Mother Of Metaphysics 
Despite their conciseness, these opening lines of Fr.  provide us with a
very meaningful beginning. Perictione’s first statement is that the purpose
of human beings is to contemplate the reason of the nature of the universe.
Line : Perictione employs two different verbs (γίγνομαι and
συνίστημι) to describe the constitution of human beings and explain the
relationship they have with their purpose. The employment of two verbs
may be explained simply as a way to strengthen the importance of being
directed towards their end for human beings. Yet not only is Perictione using
two different verbs but also two tenses: a perfect (γέγονε) and an aorist
(συνέστα). One way to do justice to this distinction is to understand the
two verbs (and tenses) as stressing different aspects of how human beings
receive and relate to their purpose. The end of human beings is both
something naturally belonging to them (γίγνομαι) and that for which human
beings are constructed (συνίστημι). If so, we may take the different tenses to
strengthen these nuances: the perfect expresses that this is the present end of
the human being qua human being, whereas the aorist highlights how human
beings were structured in view of such end and granted the capacities to fulfil it.
Speaking of humans as constituted conveys the idea of a cosmological
dimension in which human beings, or at least their rational faculties, were
put together by the gods or a demiurge. This would then echo Aristotle’s
Protrepticus.
Καλῶς ἄρα κατά γε τοῦτον τὸν λόγον Πυθαγόρας εἴρηκεν ὡς ἐπὶ τὸ
γνῶναί τε καὶ θεωρῆσαι πᾶς ἄνθρωπος ὑπὸ τοῦ θεοῦ συνέστηκεν.
Hence Pythagoras, according to this argument, was right to say that every
human being has been constructed by the god for the sake of knowing and
to contemplate.
Aristotle ascribes to Pythagoras the claim that humans are crafted for the
purpose of contemplating. This offers a possible reason for linking On
Wisdom to Perictione the Pythagorean (as well as Archytas): the author of
this pseudepigraphic treatise could have taken the opportunity to expand


This is also suggested by the connective particles δὲ καί.

This is the case in ps-Archytas (Wisdom Fr. , .– Thesleff ).

Ar. Protr., in Iambl. Protr. .– Pistelli. While we suspect that Aristotle’s Protrepticus may help
elucidate several issues raised by Perictione’s (and ps-Archytas’) On Wisdom, a thorough analysis of
the interconnections between these works is beyond the scope of this chapter. All translations from
Aristotle’s Protrepticus are by Hutchinson and Johnson ().

See also Ar. Protr., in Iambl. Protr. .–. Pistelli: ‘It is clear that the intelligent man will
choose most of all to be intelligent (τὸ φρονεῖν); for this is the function (ἔργον) of that capacity.
Hence it is evident that . . . intelligence (φρόνησις) is the most superior good thing. So, one must
not flee from philosophy, since philosophy is . . . both a possession and a use of wisdom (κτῆσίς τε
καὶ χρῆσις σοφίας)’.
      ò
on Pythagoras’ quote, as reported and validated by Aristotle, and develop
the Pythagorean views concerning the purpose of human beings and the
role of wisdom.
Lines –: Let us now turn to the proper object of contemplation: τὸν
λόγον τᾶς τῶ ὅλω φύσιος, ‘the reason of the nature of the whole’.
Compared with the effectiveness of the opening line of the fragment, the
statement concerning the object of the human end sounds a bit verbose.
However, it may be that for Perictione these three aspects (λόγος, φύσις,
τὸ ὅλον) are all of crucial importance for defining the purpose of human
beings. The chain of genitives suggests the following: the universe in which
we live must be considered as a complete whole (ὅλον), and it is only
insofar as we consider the nature (φύσις) of the whole qua a comprehensive
totality that we can contemplate its rationale (λόγος). If so, the text
appears to give prominence to the unity of the world in which we live
and to the way in which we are to approach its nature: when we consider
the nature of the world as a whole, we are able to understand its rationale
and contemplate it. This is our purpose as human beings, and we have
been constituted so as to be able to fulfil it.
Lines –: Wisdom is finally introduced. Rather than clarifying what
wisdom (σοφία) is, Perictione introduces it by means of its function.
Despite the absence of grammatical coordination between the two state-
ments, the sudden introduction of the job (ἔργον) of wisdom suggests that
Perictione is proposing some sort of functionalist argument about what
humans (and wisdom) do. Should the two statements be understood as a
part of the same argument, we propose the following charitable
reconstruction:
(i) Human beings have been born and are constituted to contemplate
the rationale of the nature of the world.
(ii) [supplied] Human beings can attain wisdom.


Note that the contemplation mentioned in the fragment is not of things directly but of their
rationale (λόγος). We translate λόγος with ‘reason’, following Horky, given that we lack the broader
context of Perictione’s fragment. However, given the importance other pseudepigrapha grant to
language, Perictione might be thinking of λόγος as the propositional articulation of a content. See
ps-Arch. Intell. (Stob .., .–. Thelseff ); Wisdom Fr.  (.– Thesleff ); Univ. Log.
(especially .– Thesleff ).

See Pl. Grg. a–, where some unnamed sages (οἱ σοφοί), arguably to be identified with
Pythagoreans, refer to the whole of humans, heaven, earth, etc. as the universe (τὸ ὅλον
τοῦτο . . . κόσμον καλοῦσιν).

Phintys, too, offers a functionalist argument (Dutsch : –).
 Perictione, Mother Of Metaphysics 
(iii) The function of wisdom is:
(a) To obtain and (b) to contemplate the intelligence of the things
that are.
That is, [supplied] Wisdom grants human beings an access to the
intelligence (φρόνησις) of the things that are and enables them to
contemplate it.
Conclusion: [supplied] Human beings can fulfil their purpose (see [i]) by
means of wisdom.

We do not take this reconstruction to be conclusive, especially since some

premises are implicit and it is not clear which premise is supposed to have
more argumentative force. Depending on which claim one takes to be
prior, the text offers two different arguments. If we take (ii) to have more
argumentative strength, the passage recalls a weaker version of the function
argument grounded in the biological capacities of the human being. Since
human beings are equipped with the capacity to attain wisdom, and since
the function of wisdom is to obtain and contemplate the intelligence of
things, the human aim is to perform such a function to the maximum
degree, by contemplating the whole of nature. However, given the order in
which the claims are introduced, we find it more plausible that (i) should
rule over (ii). On this reading, we have an argument that relies on the
purpose of human beings: since human beings are constituted for the
purpose of contemplating, they also have the capacities to accomplish it
(i.e., they can attain wisdom).
What the function of wisdom precisely consists in is yet to be deter-
mined. Perictione uses two different verbs to illustrate this: κτήσασθαι and
θεωρῆσαι. Contemplation holds a key role, as it serves both as the purpose
of the human being and as the function of wisdom. Yet if we take
Aristotle’s Protrepticus to provide a fruitful background to this fragment,
the two verbs are more than just an hendiadys. Aristotle distinguishes

Note that φρόνησις here does not seem to mean ‘practical wisdom’, which is taken to be its standard
translation in Aristotle. Rather, φρόνησις appears to denote some intellectual content about the
things that are. This may well have a practical import, but insofar as humans are supposed to
contemplate it, it is also theoretical. For a similar view concerning φρόνησις in Aristotle, see Broadie
(: –). For a parallel passage by Plato, see Phd. a. In Aristotle’s Protrepticus, φρόνησις
is both theoretical (‘Therefore one should say that this kind of knowledge (ταύτην τὴν ἐπιστήμην –
i.e., φρόνησις) is an observational one (θεωρητικήν τινα)’, Ar. Protr., in Iambl. Protr., .–
Pistelli) and what allows us to live happily (‘Thus, if happiness is intelligence (φρόνησις), it is
evident that living successfully would belong to the philosophers alone’, Ar. Protr., in Iambl. Protr.,
.– Pistelli). For a discussion of φρόνησις in the Pythagorean pseudepigrapha, see Centrone
(: –).

Horky (: ) offers a similar reconstruction for ps-Archytas’ treatise.
      ò
between possessing a capacity and actually exercising such a capacity. With
this in mind, κτήσασθαι and θεωρῆσαι may express two different aspects
of the function of wisdom: first, wisdom grants human beings access to the
intelligence of the things that are by allowing us to acquire its content;
second, by active contemplation (of the intelligence of the things that are)
wisdom allows human beings to fulfil their aim and grasp the rationale
(λόγος) of the nature of the whole/universe. The question is why
Perictione differentiates the intelligence of the things that are from the
λόγος of the universe. Our suggestion is that the two mainly differ in
scope: our aim as human beings is the comprehensive and unitary con-
templation of the rationale of the whole.
The second fragment clarifies what it means for wisdom to be set over
what is (.– Thesleff ):
Fr. a: . Ἐν ταὐτῷ. Γαμετρία
. μὲν ὦν καὶ ἀριθμητικὰ καὶ τἄλλα τὰ θεωρητικὰ καὶ ἐπιστῆμαι καὶ περὶ
. τῶν ἐόντων κατασχολέονται, ἁ δὲ σοφία περὶ πάντα τὰ γένη τῶν ἐόντων.
. οὕτως γὰρ ἔχει σοφία περὶ πάντα τὰ ἐόντα, ὡς ὄψις περὶ πάντα τὰ
. ὁρατὰ καὶ ἀκοὴ περὶ πάντα τὰ ἀκουστά. τὰ δὲ συμβεβακότα τοῖς
. ἐοῖσιν ἃ μὲν καθόλω πᾶσι συμβέβακεν, ἃ δὲ πλείστοις αὐτῶν, ἃ δὲ
. πᾳ ἑνὶ ἑκάστῳ. τὰ μὲν ὦν καθόλω πᾶσι συμβεβακότα συνιδὲν καὶ
. θεωρῆσαι τᾶς σοφίας οἰκῇον, τὰ δὲ τοῖς πλείστοις τᾶς περὶ φύσιν
. ἐπιστήμας, τὰ δ’ ἴδια καθ’ ἕκαστον τᾶς περί τι ἀφωρισμένον ἐπιστάμας.
. καὶ διὰ τοῦτο σοφία μὲν τὰς τῶν ἐόντων ἁπάντων ἀρχὰς ἀνευρίσκει,
. φυσικὰ δὲ τὰς τῶν φύσει γιγνομένων, γαμετρία δὲ καὶ ἀριθμητικὰ καὶ
. μουσικὰ τὰς περὶ τὸ ποσὸν καὶ τὸ ἐμμελές.
In the same work: Then, geometry, too, as well as arithmetic and the other
theoretical activities (i.e., the sciences), engage with the things that are, but
wisdom engages with all the kinds of the things that are. For wisdom relates


See Ar. Protr., in Iambl. Protr. .– Pistelli: ‘The word “living” seems to mean two things, one
with reference to a capacity and the other with reference to an activity, for we call all those animals
‘seeing’ who have sight and are naturally capable of seeing . . . as well as those who are using the
capacity and are casting their sight. And similarly, with knowing and cognising (τὸ ἐπίστασθαι καὶ
τὸ γιγνώσκειν) we mean, in one case, using and observing (ἓν μὲν τὸ χρῆσθαι καὶ θεωρεῖν) and, in
the other case, possessing the capacity and having the knowledge (ἓν δὲ τὸ κεκτῆσθαι τὴν δύναμιν
καὶ τὴν ἐπιστήμην ἔχειν).’ Note that the use of the capacity – that is, the actual activity – is grouped
together with contemplation.

As an alternative to πᾳ, the manuscripts also propose παρά or περὶ ἐνὶ ἑκάστῳ (‘about each one
thing’). This formulation is closer to καθ’ ἔκαστον in Line . See n. .

Horky’s translation, which combines θεῶρητικὰ καὶ ἐπιστῆμαι into ‘theoretical sciences’, may be
justified if one reads ἐπισταμονικά with Schow (Thesleff : ), supposes haplography on the
part of either Stobaeus or the copyist (καὶ αἱ ἐπιστῆμαι), or takes the καί as a doublet of θεῶρητι-
καί. Our proposed translation aims to emphasise the introduction of ἐπιστήμη, science, as a
technical term to designate what was previously described as theoretical activity.
 Perictione, Mother Of Metaphysics 

to all things that are, just as sight relates to all things that are visible and
hearing to all things that are hearable. Moreover, as to what pertains to the
things that are, some pertain universally to all, some to most of them, and
others in some way to each one thing. Thus, it belongs to wisdom to behold
and contemplate what pertains universally to all things, whereas it belongs to
natural science to contemplate what pertains to most things, and to the
science concerning something determinate to contemplate the peculiar
attributes of each thing. And therefore, wisdom retrieves the principles of
the things that are altogether, whereas physics retrieves the principles of what
comes to be by nature, and geometry, arithmetic, and music retrieve the
principles concerning quantity and the harmonious.
From the previous fragment, we learn that the ultimate end of human beings
is the contemplation of the λόγος of the nature of all things, and the function
of wisdom is to enable this process. Three questions remain open: what is
wisdom (σοφία) in the context of Perictione’s treatise? What is the object of
its contemplation? And what is the value of wisdom for humankind?
Fr. a can be organised into five subsections: (I) an introductory
statement distinguishing wisdom from other sciences, (II) an argument
by analogy, (III) a tripartition of things, (IV) a tripartition of sciences, and
(V) a concluding statement connecting each science, including wisdom, to
its objects. It should be noted that Fr. a is the only section of On Wisdom
that does not overlap with ps-Archytas’ treatise.
(I) Lines –: The fragment opens with a list of disciplines, later
identified as sciences, which all focus on the things that are. Wisdom,
too, is set upon the things that are; but differently from other sciences, it
focuses on ‘all the kinds of things that are’. We take τὰ ἐόντα to indicate,
generally, all that exists in the world. Perictione gives us two examples of
disciplines set over what is, geometry and arithmetic, and then adds that
the statement more generally applies to other theoretical, or contemplative,
activities (τἄλλα τὰ θεωρητικά). From Lines –, we gather that this
group also includes natural sciences and music. In Section IV, the proper
job of wisdom, physics, and mathematics is said to be the contemplation
(θεωρῆσαι) of what is, which makes them all theoretical enterprises.
Next, Perictione introduces the notion of science, ἐπιστήμη. We take
the καί to be explanatory, thus introducing a new term that is more
adequate than the previous for the purpose of the argument (‘theoretical
activities – i.e, the sciences’). The advantage of this interpretation is that

See Humbert (:  nn. –).

There are at least two other ways to understand καὶ ἐπιστῆμαι. One option is to translate καὶ as
‘and’ – that is, as connecting two separate activities (theoretical and scientific) and bringing them to
      ò
it allows coextensive consideration of τὰ θεωρητικά and ἐπιστῆμαι: geom-
etry, arithmetic, and other disciplines are all theoretical activities, better
known as sciences. Furthermore, this reading suggests ἐπιστήμη is intro-
duced by Perictione as a technical term for a contemplative activity.
(II) Lines –: Wisdom is said to be different from other sciences
because it considers all the kinds (γένη) of things that are. This is
unpacked in two steps: an argument by analogy and a more complex
argument organising the sciences into three different classes. First,
Perictione compares wisdom to sight and hearing: just as sight is set upon
everything visible and hearing is set upon everything hearable, the object of
wisdom is everything that exists. The suggestion is that sight concerns
the visible kind – namely, all that is visible insofar as it can be seen –
whereas wisdom concerns the kinds of beings – namely, all that is insofar
as it is.
(III) Lines –: After stating what wisdom is about, Perictione
distinguishes wisdom from other sciences, which also, to some extent,
revolve around what is. The first step involves distinguishing three groups
of objects: those that pertain to all things, those that pertain to most
things, and those that pertain to each one thing in a particular way.
These objects are named τὰ συμβεβηκότα. In his philosophical lexicon,
Aristotle introduces the term συμβεβηκός, accident, as that which applies
to something by chance, neither necessarily nor regularly (Ar. Met.
..a–). A συμβεβηκός is an incidental and contingent prop-
erty. Yet, although the Aristotelian undertones are palpable, both the

the same level. Yet this would suggest that geometry and mathematics are not sciences, while at lines
– Perictione introduces a specific class of sciences later identified with mathematics and
geometry. One could argue that Perictione distinguishes sciences lato sensu, which include all
theoretical activities (i.e., geometry and mathematics) from sciences strictu sensu (i.e., physics).
On this account, however, sciences would differ from τὰ θεωρητικά. Yet, at lines –, both
mathematics and physics are said to be contemplative. Another option is to take καί as pinning
down and translate it as giving an example (‘such as the sciences’) or adding more specific details
(‘and particularly the sciences’). The absence of the article before ἐπιστῆμαι, however, suggests that
this should not be taken as a stand-alone concept, which makes both readings harder to defend.

Sight and hearing are recurring examples in function arguments (e.g., Pl. Rep. .d–b; Ar. EN
..–.a–; Ar. Protr., in Iambl. Protr. .–. Pistelli). For the employment of
similar analogies in the Pythagorean pseudepigrapha, see Phint. Moderation (Stob. ..,
.–. Thesleff ). See also ps-Arch. Wisdom, where σοφία outclasses all other human
activities in the same way as sight outclasses the other senses, for they have wider scopes (Fr. ,
.– Thesleff ), and where wisdom is set over all things that are just like sight is set over all
things that are visible (Fr. , .– Thesleff ).

While in the De Anima the object of sight is colour (..a), in the Protrepticus it is the visible
(τὰ ὁρατά, Iambl. Protr. . Pistelli).

Aristotle also hints at a second sense of συμβεβηκός as essential property, what applies to something
in virtue of its nature but is not part of its definition.
 Perictione, Mother Of Metaphysics 
grammatical construction and the context of Fr. a suggest that τὰ
συμβεβηκότα should not be read as a technical term. First, Aristotle
rarely uses συμβεβηκός with the dative unless it functions verbally: not ‘the
accident of’ but ‘what happens, pertains or applies to’. Second, it is
unclear why wisdom, the highest-ranked human activity, which is later
said to bring humans closer to what is true and divine, should only focus
on accidents, even if essential and applying to all things. Therefore, we
propose to read τὰ συμβεβηκότα more loosely as ‘that which pertains to’.
The passage would then distinguish three classes of properties: those that
pertain to all things universally, those that pertain to most things, and
those that pertain to each one thing in some way.
(IV) Lines –: The next section distinguishes three sciences and
maps this epistemological tripartition onto the tripartition of objects from
the previous lines. Perictione writes that it is fitting for wisdom to behold
and contemplate what pertains to all things universally (τὰ καθόλω πᾶσι
συμβεβακότα), for natural sciences to contemplate what pertains to most
things (τὰ δὲ τοῖς πλείστοις), and for the science concerning something
determinate/defined (τι ἀφωρισμένον) to contemplate peculiar things that
pertain (τὰ ἴδια συμβεβακότα) to each thing (καθ’ἔκαστον). That the
third group – namely, the particular sciences – includes geometry,


Pace De Cesaris and Horky (: ); and Ulacco (: , ).

For this alternative use in Aristotle, see Met. ..a, and MA .a–.

Note that if λόγος in Fr.  is to be interpreted with a propositional meaning, here Perictione may
distinguish different forms of (categorial?) predication. Note also that the object Perictione assigns
to wisdom (to behold and contemplate what pertains to all things universally) appears to contravene
the requirements established in the Metaphysics (cf. aporiai nn. – in Book  and the related aporiai
in Book ), where Aristotle denies there can be a (demonstrative) science of all kinds, which deals
with all attributes. We postpone a detailed analysis of this issue to another context.

The adjective οἰκεῖος may also recall Aristotle’s and Plato’s function arguments (Pl. Rep. .e; Ar.
EN ...a–). See also Phint. Moderation (. Thesleff ).

As previously noted, the fact that their function is said to be the contemplation of what is explains
why they are all classed as θεωρητικά, contemplative activities. Here Perictione does not seem to
draw a distinction between the two verbs: rather than indicating two separate functions, συνιδέν
and θεωρῆσαι reinforce the contemplative nature of the sciences.

In Fr. , the object of wisdom was initially and generally identified as all things that are and then
specifically linked to the rationale of the whole of nature.

In this second tripartition, the third group – namely, those things that pertain to each one thing (ἐνὶ
ἑκάστῳ) – is referred to as ‘peculiar’ (τὰ ἴδια συμβεβακότα). The fact that these apply to each one
thing ‘in some way (πᾳ)’ may be explained as follows. With ‘science concerning something
determinate/defined’, Perictione means any science that delimits its objects by means of (any of )
their peculiar properties. In the example, geometry, arithmetic, and music study what pertains to
their objects in a way that is peculiar to their quantitative (or well-proportioned) nature. This
appears to be compatible with Aristotle’s definition of ἵδιον in the Topics as what is
counterpredicated with its subject, but not essential (..b–).
      ò
arithmetic, and harmonics, which focus on specific properties, is explained
in the next lines of the fragment.
Again, the passage recalls Aristotle’s own division of the different
branches of learning in the Metaphysics (..b–a). Aristotle
organises theoretical sciences into three groups: first philosophy, then
natural sciences and mathematics. The first science concerns the being
qua being (θεωρεῖ τὸ ὂν ᾗ ὄν, Met. ..a), natural sciences concern
the class of beings that are in motion and at rest, and mathematics
concerns what is immutable but still inseparable from matter. The object
of the first science is also described as eternal, unmovable, separate from
matter, and thus most honourable and divine, wherefore this first branch is
named theology.
The difference with Perictione’s tripartition is that the highest-ranked
activity is named wisdom (σοφία), rather than philosophy or theology.
Although σοφία is not explicitly said to be a science (ἐπιστήμη),
Perictione’s treatment of wisdom parallels that of physics, arithmetic,
and music. The same criteria used to define and classify these sciences,
namely their contemplative function and their objects, are used in relation
to wisdom, which suggests that σοφία is here presented not as a virtue or
an epistemic state but the first and highest science.
(V) Lines –: In the last lines, the tripartition is revised. Wisdom is
said to retrieve the principles (ἀρχαί) of the things that are, physics those
of what comes to be in accordance with nature, and the third group of


Besides the link to Aristotle, tripartitions are also a recurring theme in the Pythagorean
pseudepigrapha (Centrone :  n. ). For a tripartition of virtues, see Phint. Moderation
(.– Thesleff ).

See Ar. Top. ..a–; Cael. ..a–; DA ..a–b; Met. ..a–b; EN
..a–, ..b–. Like Perictione, in the Physics, Aristotle includes harmonics,
optics, and astronomy in the third group of theoretical sciences (..b–a). The division is
discussed further in Johnson ().

The Greek term is γένος, which might be the reference behind Perictione’s claim that wisdom
relates to all the kinds (γένη) of things that are. Aristotle, too, debates whether first philosophy is
about the being universally (καθόλου) or a specific kind (γένος), namely the highest kind of things.

Like arithmetic and music in Perictione’s Fr. a, these other sciences are said to ‘divide off’ some
portion of being (ἀποτέμνω, Met. ..b–).

In Fr. b, Perictione also hints at the fact that the first science makes humans more divine.

Note, however, that this is in line with Aristotle’s description of σοφία in the Metaphysics, where
wisdom is said to be the science of first causes and principles (..a–b). From Book , this
becomes the science of the being qua being.

Our interpretation differs from Horky’s (: –). Interpreting wisdom as a science clarifies
why in Fr.  wisdom is said to have a function.

The verb is ἀνευρίσκω, rediscover, which we take to be a reference to Plato’s theory of knowledge as
recollection. Noteworthy is that in ps-Archytas’ On Wisdom Fr.  the wise is described with the
Platonic image of a charioteer (.–. Thesleff ).
 Perictione, Mother Of Metaphysics 
sciences enquire into principles of particular classes of beings, such as those
having a magnitude, in the case of mathematics, and the harmonious, in
the case of music. The latter clarifies what Perictione meant by ‘sciences set
over what is delimited’ in the previous sentence. This second version of the
tripartition of sciences brings Perictione closer to Aristotle. First, natural
science is set over what changes and comes to be. Second, and most
importantly, sciences are no longer only about τὰ συμβεβηκότα, what
pertains to beings, but discover their principles (Ar. Met. ..b).
Overall, in Fr. a Perictione clarifies what the object and the function of
wisdom is by, first, comparing it with sight and highlighting that σοφία
occupies itself with all the kinds of the things that are. Second, wisdom is
connected to other theoretical sciences, which also contemplate beings.
The difference is that σοφία concerns what pertains to all things, whereas
natural sciences concern what pertains to most beings, and mathematics
individual kinds of beings. The hierarchy of sciences explains why, in the
closing lines of the fragment, wisdom is noted to be the highest form of
learning (Stob. .., .– Thesleff ).
Fr. b: . Ὅστις ὦν ἀναλῦσαι
. οἷός <τ’> ἐστὶ πάντα γένη ὑπὸ μίαν καὶ τὰν αὐτὰν ἀρχάν, καὶ πάλιν ἐκ
. ταύτας συνθεῖναι καὶ ἀριθμάσασθαι, οὗτος δοκεῖ καὶ σοφώτατος εἶναι
. καὶ ἀληθέστατος, ἔτι δὲ καὶ καλὰν σκοπιὰν ἀνευρηκέναι, ἀφ’ ἇς δυνατὸς
. ἐσσεῖται τόν τε θεὸν κατόψεσθαι καὶ πάντα τὰ ἐν τᾷ συστοιχίᾳ τε καὶ
. τάξει τᾷ ἐκείνω κατακεχωρισμένα.
Therefore, whoever is able to resolve all kinds to one and the same principle
and from this compose and enumerate them again, this person seems to be
both wisest and truest. Moreover, this person has found a good lookout
point, from which one will be able to behold the god as well as all things that
have been placed in his column and order.


On the search for principles in early Pythagoreanism, see Ar. Met. ..b–.

For this reason, Horky suggests Fr. a should also be included in ps-Archytas’ On Wisdom (:
–).

In ps-Archytas’ On Wisdom Fr. , we have συναριθμήσασθαι, enumerate together.

In ps-Archytas’ On Wisdom Fr. , we find μοι (‘it seems to me’). This stresses the protreptic nature of
the fragment discussed by Horky ().

See Euryph. Life (Stob. .., . Thesleff ); Ecph. De regn. (Fr. , Stob. .., .–.
Thesleff ). In ps-Archytas’ On Wisdom Fr. , the adjective is παναληθέστατος, overall truest.

See Pl. Rep. .c.

A second reminder of Platonic epistemology. In ps-Archytas’ On Wisdom Fr. , the verb is
simply εὑρηκέναι.

Among the few differences between ps-Archytas’ Fr.  and Perictione’s Fr. b is the use of τε. Ps-
Archytas stresses the continuum of analysis and synthesis in the first part of the fragment (ὑπὸ μίαν
τε καὶ τὰν αὐτὰν ἀρχὰν καὶ πάλιν συνθεῖναί τε καὶ συναριθμήσασθαι), whereas Perictione stresses
the continuum between the objects the wise beholds.
      ò
The conclusion of the argument contains a blend of Aristotelian and
especially Platonic elements. Wisdom enables humans to contemplate
the god. The tripartition of sciences from Fr. a clarifies why those who
possess wisdom are said to be truest: they are closer to the truth because
they contemplate all things. Specifically, Perictione deems to be wisest
those who work their way back to the principle. This connects the two
characterisations of wisdom in Fr. a as contemplating ‘all the kinds of
beings’ and ‘the principles of all things’: wisdom studies the kinds (γένη) of
things that are and then brings them back to their principle (ἀρχή).
The wise, then, follows a two-step method: reasoning back to the
principle of all things (analysis) and proceeding from the principle back
to what is derived (synthesis) from them. Notably, the wise are also able
to enumerate things starting from the principle, which suggests that the
knowledge of the universal includes knowledge of particulars. The
method of analysis and synthesis, then, has two consequences: first, it
makes one wise and true; second, it enables the wise to behold what is
divine and the like.

Perictione’s Originality and Contributions

In this final section, we outline the benefits of the study of Perictione’s On
Wisdom for the scholarship on the pseudepigrapha. Specifically, we envi-
sion the possibility that the text ascribed by Stobaeus to Perictione might
preserve a more original version of the fragments paralleled by ps-Archytas’
On Wisdom Frs.  and . Although some scholars suggest that Perictione’s
and ps-Archytas’ On Wisdom should be treated separately, no real effort


On the method of analysis, see Ar. Apr. ..a, ..a, and Apo. ..a–. For the use
of this method in ancient geometry and Plato’s Meno, see Menn ().

Ps-Archytas omits ἐκ ταύτας. Perictione’s version makes the method of synthesis more explicit.

See ps-Arch. De Vir. Bon. Fr.  (Stob. .., .–. Thesleff ) and the commentary by
Centrone (: ).

Plato uses the verb καθοράω twice to describe the gods looking down on humans (Pol. d; Phil.
b), which again suggests that the wise becomes similar to the divine.

On the Platonic goal of ‘becoming like god’, see Sedley ().

The verb χωρίζω is Aristotelian (Top. ..b, ..a). The term συστοιχία, column, is
one of the few early Pythagorean elements in the treatise. See Aristotle’s Metaphysics, where a group
of fifth-century Pythagoreans organise the principles of all things ‘into two columns’ (..a–
b). For further references to the pseudepigrapha, see Ulacco (: ).

See Thesleff (: ); Des Places (:  n. ).
 Perictione, Mother Of Metaphysics 
has been put into determining what the differences between the texts
imply for their textual transmission.
In this final section, we briefly provide contextual evidence to show why
a detailed assessment of Perictione’s fragments is also valuable for a better
assessment of ps-Archytas’ On Wisdom. Let us consider the portion of text
following the closing lines of Perictione’s Fr. b, preserved by Iamblichus
as the final lines of ps-Archytas’ Fr. :
. . . καὶ ταύταν ἁρματήλατον ὁδὸν ἐκπορισάμενος τῷ νόῳ κατ’ εὐθεῖαν
ὁρμαθῆμεν καὶ τελεοδρομᾶσαι τὰς ἀρχὰς τοῖς πέρασι συνάψαντα καὶ
ἐπιγνόντα διότι ὁ θεὸς ἀρχά τε καὶ τέλος καὶ μέσον ἐστὶ πάντων τῶν
κατὰ δίκαν τε καὶ τὸν ὀρθὸν λόγον περαινομένων.
. . . and supplying this charioteer path through intellect, this person will
be able to rush and complete the course straightaway by connecting the
beginnings with the conclusions, and by recognising why the god is the
beginning, end, and middle of all things that are accomplished according to
justice and right proportion.
Scholars who study Stobaeus’ method of quotation in comparison with
Iamblichus’ generally agree on the reliability of the quotations preserved in
the Anthology. However, in the most extensive study of Iamblichus’
style in the Protrepticus (where ps-Archytas’ fragments are preserved),
Hutchinson and Johnson conclude that Iamblichus tends to quote Plato
almost verbatim and that, even when found to abridge the text, he remains
faithful to the original language and argument. Since ps-Archytas’ Fr. 
overlaps with Perictione’s Fr. b with the addition of the four lines quoted
above, the question of which version is more pristine arises.


Romano, for example, expunges an ὦν from ps-Arch. Wisdom Fr.  based on Perictione’s text
(:  n. ). However, no reason is given as to why we should rely on Stobaeus’ version only
in this case.

The poetic style (Pl. Phdr. e–a) may be an argument for the text’s authenticity. See Centrone
(: ).

The translation is indebted to Horky (: ).

Alternatively, ‘il procure là à son intellect une voie carrossable’ (Des Places : ). Horky does
not translate τῷ νόῳ explicitly (: ).

See δυνατὸς ἐσσεῖται in Fr. b.

The formula κατὰ τὸν ὀρθὸν λόγον is of Platonic-Academic inspiration. See Theag. Virt. Fr. 
(Stob. .., .– Thesleff ), where justice is defined as the right proportion of the parts of
the soul. See also Centrone (: –).

See Huffman (a: ), who agrees with Mansfeld and Runia () that Stobaeus does not
usually paraphrase nor abridge the text he quotes.

See Hutchinson and Johnson (: –).
      ò
It may well be that Stobaeus only selected a portion of text (i.e.,
Perictione’s Fr. a–b) from ps-Archytas’ Fr.  and simply left out the rest
of the quotation. However, we should note the following: first, Iamblichus
customarily introduces the quotations by providing his own incipit and
seals them with some re-workings of the text. Second, the lines quoted
above recall Plato’s words in the Laws. This could be a quotation already
included in ps-Archytas’ text. However, the idea that the god possesses
everything in itself, and hence is ‘beginning and middle and end’, is
reiterated in many other passages of Iamblichus’ corpus, where it appears
to convey a peculiarly Iamblichean view. Finally, Iamblichus inserts an
allusion to the charioteer at the end of the previous section of the
Protrepticus, which he now reiterates. In light of the conspicuous number
of elements matching Iamblichus’ philosophy, the authenticity of these
lines should be investigated in more detail, rather than taken at face value.
Far from merely providing a fruitful parallel to compensate for the missing
parts of ps-Archytas’ On Wisdom, Perictione’s fragments may offer a more
faithful version of the original text. We leave this for future research
to explore.
Overall, like the other pseudepigrapha, Perictione’s On Wisdom appro-
priates Platonic and Aristotelian terminology and theories ascribing them
to an allegedly Pythagorean author. Our goal has been to reconstruct
Perictione’s philosophical views by contextualising the arguments in On
Wisdom within the Platonic and Peripatetic tradition. This philosophical
analysis has revealed that the treatise urges its readers to pursue a life of


On the hypothesis that Stobaeus is using Iamblichus’ library, or inherited an almost identical
library, see Macris ().

See Hutchinson and Johnson (: ).

Pl. Leges .e–a: ‘The god (θεός) who, as an ancient (arguably, Orphic) story tells, hold the
beginning, the end, and the middle of all that is (ἀρχήν τε καὶ τελευτὴν καὶ μέσα τῶν ὄντων
ἁπάντων), complete his circuit in accordance with nature in straight, steady course (εὐθείᾳ περαίνει
κατὰ φύσιν περιπορευόμενος).’

See Des Places (: ); Horky (:  n. ). The Doric words at the end (e.g., δίκαν) can be
explained by Hutchinson and Johnson’s note that Iamblichus’ adaptations are often informed by
the original context: ‘Even when writing in his own voice, he borrowed a colourful word from the
local environment, chameleon-wise’ (:  n. ).

De Myst. .., ... See also ps-Iamb. Theolog. Arithm. ., .–.

According to Mesytas (: –), Iamblichus was inspired by the contradiction between the
Parmenides, where the One is said not to have beginning, middle or end (d), and the Laws,
where God is called ‘the beginning, middle and end of all beings’ (.e–a). Furthermore,
Iamblichus conceives of mathematical sciences as the middle step of the elevating process (DCMS
.–) and introduces ps-Archytas’ fragments as the middle, or mixed, form of exhortation,
namely that which illuminates the connection between the individual nature and the nature of the
cosmos (Horky ).
 Perictione, Mother Of Metaphysics 
wisdom and theoretical progress. To this purpose, the tripartition of
sciences is especially effective, for it shows how wisdom focuses on what
pertains to all things universally and thus excels over all other disciplines.
Wisdom is recognised as a science and placed at the top of the human
theoretical enterprises. This, ultimately, is the treatise’s contribution to the
history of Greek philosophy. This makes Perictione an interlocutor in the
ancient philosophical conversation and, as it were, the founding mother of
ancient metaphysics and epistemology.


On the protreptic features of ps-Archytas’ On Wisdom, see Horky ().
  

Not Veiled in Silence

The Case for Macrina
Anna B. Christensen

Introduction
In Gregory of Nyssa’s dialogue, On Soul and Resurrection (de Anima et
Resurrectione), Macrina, Gregory’s sister, addresses two main questions. ()
What is the nature of the soul and its relation to the body? And () what
happens at death, and do those who die survive? Her conversation involves
striking similarities to Socrates’ in Plato’s Phaedo. Both Macrina and
Socrates are about to die, and both take the opportunity to philosophise
about the soul and immortality. However, while Socrates’ arguments are
praised and commonly taught in classrooms around the world, Macrina’s
arguments are widely neglected. In this chapter, I argue that we should
correct this oversight and pay more attention to Macrina as we include
women in the philosophical canon of antiquity.
Two interrelated concerns complicate this project. First, Gregory’s use
of the dialogue form raises questions about the authenticity of Gregory’s
account, since it may indicate that he has copied Plato or used his sister as a
convenient mouthpiece to support his arguments and avoid backlash. If so,
his text would provide little real information about Macrina. Similar
concerns exist regarding Socrates in Plato’s dialogues, but here the ques-
tion has added urgency because of the second concern. Little source
material on ancient women intellectuals has survived. As Elizabeth
Castelli remarks, looking for such information is like embarking on a
‘treacherous and often disappointing search for buried treasure’ (:


Others noting this include Momigliano (: ); Roth (: ); Pelikan (: ); Williams
(: passim); Perioli (); Burrus (: ); Smith (: ); Drury (); and
Muehlberger (: ).

Scholars doubting the authenticity of Macrina’s portrayal include Sheather (: –); Clark
(: –); Johnson (: ); Burrus (, ); and Mcnary-Zak (: ). I discuss
their arguments below.

See Press (). Does ‘Socrates’ in Plato’s dialogues represent the historical Socrates, or is ‘Socrates’
merely ‘Plato’s mouthpiece’?


 Not Veiled in Silence 
). In Socrates’ case, other substantial sources allow comparison to Plato’s
accounts, notably Xenophon’s dialogues and the satirical Aristophanes’
The Clouds. But in Macrina’s case, all major sources are authored by her
younger brother, including the dialogue, Letter , and the biography, The
Life of St. Macrina (Vita Sanctae Macrinae, VSM), making it difficult to do
more than speculate about the authenticity of Gregory’s presentation.
Despite these challenges, I argue that we have good reasons to think
Gregory’s portrayal of his sister’s arguments is informative. Even if he does
not record Macrina’s deathbed speeches perfectly, he presents a reasonably
accurate portrayal of her mannerisms, methods, and philosophical inter-
ests. As such, his dialogue provides a rare, lengthy, and illuminating
glimpse into the activities of a woman philosopher in antiquity.
In this chapter, I first summarise Macrina’s life, emphasising aspects of
her biography showing her commitment to philosophy. Next, I review her
arguments in the dialogue to get a sense of her methods. Finally, I unpack
objections against her philosophical authority and show how we can
respond to them. I conclude that we should view and teach Macrina as a
worthy philosopher in her own right. The evidence suggests she was not
silent during her life. We should not allow her to remain silent in death (cf.
VSM .).

Macrina’s Life and Education

Macrina was born around   in Kabeira, a town in the Neocaesarean
region of Pontus. As the firstborn of ten children in a prosperous Christian
household, she had access to the finest educational resources available to
young women in that era. Yet Gregory notes that she was taught by her
pious mother, Emmelia, who had strict guidelines for Macrina’s education.
Emmelia wanted Macrina to be a proper Christian wife and mother and so
excluded material she viewed as instilling habits detrimental to good ethics.
She considered much Classical literature ‘unsuitable’ because of its violent
and sexual content and insisted that her daughter should instead be
educated in texts she deemed conducive to ethical development such as
the Wisdom of Solomon (VSM .–).

Other sources include some Epigrams by Gregory of Nazianzan. Macrina’s brother, Basil, may
implicitly refer to Macrina but never mentions her by name. See Silvas ().

Scholars sympathetic to this interpretation include Pelikan () and Smith ().

Unless noted, references and translations of Gregory’s texts use Silvas’ edition (). Greek text uses
corresponding passages in von Oehler’s Greek/German edition (). Other notable English
translations consulted while writing this chapter include Callahan’s () and Roth’s ().
  . 
With this education, Macrina grew in wisdom as she reached adult-
hood. By age twelve, she could recite the Psalms perfectly, an ability that
would have prepared her well for the ascetic religious life she eventually
chose to pursue. However, this life was at first out of reach, since her
parents betrothed her to a wealthy associate of her father’s. Tragically,
while she waited the required two years between her betrothal and mar-
riage, her fiancé died. Although his death should have severed Macrina’s
obligation to him and allowed her father to espouse her to someone else,
she refused a second betrothal. She argued that ‘by nature, marriage is but
once only, as there is one birth and one death’ (VSM .). She thought
that marriage should only occur once. Betrothal, too, with its mutual
promises of commitment, counted in her young mind as close enough
to marriage that the distinction was inconsequential. Thus, being promised
to a man should qualify as being married to him, and she ought to style
herself as a widow (.).
This incident provides a fascinating possibility about Macrina’s early
commitment to the philosophical life. At this time, women had little
control over their lives and were largely subject to their menfolk: first their
fathers, then their husbands, and eventually their sons. Macrina would
have been expected to marry as her father required. However, social
convention in fourth-century Pontus rejected digamy, the practice of
marrying a second time. By styling herself as a widow, Macrina positioned
herself as someone who had already been married and consequently should
not marry again. In effect, she used the social convention against digamy to
her advantage, taking the opportunity to devote herself to an alternative
lifestyle of study and prayer. She clearly wanted to do more than merely
follow social convention. Since conventional wisdom would not have
recognised an unconsummated betrothal as ‘marriage’, it would have freed
her for a second betrothal. Declaring that she was a widow thus allowed
her outwardly to maintain social norms, even while unapologetically
bending them to her will.


Pelikan argues that ‘the philosophical life’ means ‘Christian asceticism’ rather than ‘technical
Classical philosophy’ for Macrina (: ). But Pelikan’s understanding does not fully capture
Macrina’s view. Macrina chose to live ‘by herself’ (μένειν ἐφ᾿ ἑαυτῆς, VSM .) a conventional phrase
from the Hellenistic philosophical tradition that means to remain unmarried to pursue philosophy
(Sheather : ; Silvas :  n. ). Many pagan philosophers sought communal life as part
of their philosophical commitments, for example, the early Epicureans (Christensen ), since
community increases potential to achieve higher ethical standards. One goal of Macrina’s
community was to increase members’ ethical well-being (cf. Helleman : ).

See Hotz (: ); Silvas (:  n. ).
 Not Veiled in Silence 
Gregory notes that Macrina’s early devotion to ‘philosophy’ soon
attracted others to follow her example, including Emmelia, their brother,
Basil, and several other siblings (., .). As her reputation grew, she
would eventually establish a community of like-minded individuals at
Annisa that expanded to welcome other members of her household, former
slaves, and strangers from afar (cf. Ep. .). Macrina remained the head
of the community in Annisa until her death, the occasion that prompted
Gregory’s writing On Soul and Resurrection.

The Texts
The events of On Soul and Resurrection require some context. During the
summer of  , Gregory journeyed to visit his sister at Annisa. Their
brother, Basil the Great, had died nearly nine months earlier, and Gregory
remarks that he wished to see Macrina so he could mourn with her and be
comforted by her (de An. et Res. Intr. ). To his dismay, he arrived at
Annisa to find her on her own deathbed, a discovery that precipitated the
long discussions between them about death and resurrection detailed in
the dialogue.
Gregory mentions his final meetings with Macrina three times in the
years after her death. He first records them in Letter , written in early
to mid-, less than a year afterwards. As expected in a letter-length text,
Letter  provides only a brief summary, noting his sister’s abilities as a
‘teacher of how to live’ (τοῦ βίου διδάσκαλος, Ep. .) and his own
distress at her death (.).
He returns to the event in the Vita Sanctae Macrinae (VSM), written in
late  or early . The text enlarges on Letter ’s account, although
not by much since Gregory claims the biography, too, is a letter (.). He
adds a summary of Macrina’s arguments, outlining her speeches that he
unpacks more elaborately in the dialogue On Soul and Resurrection (de An.
et Res.) shortly thereafter, likely between  and .
While both Letter  and the VSM provide short accounts of Macrina’s
final conversations, the dialogue extends nearly seventy pages in length. It
covers a period of two days. The only interlocutors are Macrina and
Gregory, although a physician and ‘many’ other people were present (de


Such growth was typical of early Christian ascetic communities. See Elm ().

Silvas thinks three accounts exist because each is written for different purposes (: ).
Muehlberger argues that Gregory thought he needed more ‘convincing’ accounts of Macrina’s
character (: ).
  . 
An. et Res. ., .). Gregory portrays himself as passionate, alternately
grieving his sister’s death and raging against the seeming futility of mortal
life. Death frustrates him because it causes disturbance to ‘see one who was
so lately alive and vocal becoming all of a sudden bereft of breath and voice
and movement’ (Intr. ). He adds a few lines later that he is particularly
worried that there is ‘nothing evident to rely on’ () about death. Death
worries him because it silences a living being and because no empirical
evidence exists regarding what death is like for the dead or whether they
survive. Since Macrina’s death triggers his concerns, he seems specifically
concerned that he will never see her again. In contrast, Macrina appears as
a rational philosopher who quiets his passionate outbursts by arguing that
death – including her own death – is nothing dreadful and that the dead
will live again. As Gregory increasingly descends into grief, she takes charge
of the conversation by gesturing him to silence (.) and continues to hold
the upper hand throughout much of the dialogue. The text concludes
before Macrina dies, leaving the reader to wonder how her arguments have
affected him. However, the fact that Gregory becomes more philosophi-
cally active as the dialogue progresses might signal that her teachings help
him regain control of his emotions. The VSM substantiates this suggestion
when Gregory claims her example helps bring his ‘soul back from the
abyss’ (.–). To see how her arguments could be so effective, we must
examine them in greater detail.

Macrina’s Arguments
When Gregory summarises Macrina’s arguments in the VSM, he prefaces
his summary by claiming there is more to report than he had space to write.
And if my narrative were not to expand to an unconscionable length
I would recount everything in order, how exalted was her discourse as she
philosophized to us on the soul and explained the cause of our life in
the flesh, and why man was made, and how he became mortal, and
whence came death, and what is the release from death back to life again.
(VSM .)
Macrina’s arguments in On Soul and Resurrection correspond neatly to this
summary, suggesting that part of the reason Gregory writes the dialogue is
so that he may take the space to ‘recount everything in order.’ As the
VSM’s summary suggests, Macrina elaborates her responses to two main
questions in the dialogue: () What is the nature of the soul and its relation
to the body? And () what happens at death, and do those who die survive?
 Not Veiled in Silence 

Question : The Soul’s Nature

Both Macrina and Gregory assume that living beings are composite
identities consisting of a physical body and an animating soul. Gregory’s
initial worries provoke the first question: What is the nature of the soul
and its relation to the body? He presents Epicurean arguments that death is
annihilation, the complete destruction of the person, both body and soul.
He fears that the soul, like the body, is material and will therefore
decompose at death (., ). However, he does not think this argument
necessitates the Epicurean conclusion that death is consequently nothing
to fear (Epicurus Ep. Men. ), since death may be dreadful precisely
because it involves nothingness (de An. et Res. Intr. ). Macrina replies
that this conception of the soul is incorrect. The soul is not material but is
immaterial, rational, and divine. Consequently, it is not subject to destruc-
tion like the body.
To make this case, she first argues against the Epicurean conception of
the soul by a reductio ad absurdum. She says,
For if these opponents think that if the soul is not connatural with the
elements it therefore exists nowhere, let them teach first that the life in the
flesh is also inanimate, since the body itself is nothing but a convergence of
the elements, and then let them say that the soul is not in these either,
giving life of itself to the compound. If, as they think, it is not possible for
the soul even to exist after death, although the elements continue to exist,
then our very life is shown by them to be nothing but a dead thing. But if
on the other hand they do not doubt the soul’s existence now in the body,
how can they maintain that it vanishes when the body is dissolved into its
elements? (.–).
Macrina indicates that the Epicurean position is absurd because it disre-
gards the visible evidence that the ensouled body is living – a position
doubly incongruous since Epicureans believed that sense perceptions were
truth-indicative. Here, the Greek helps her case, since the word translated
‘inanimate’ (ἄψυχον) literally means ‘without soul’. If the soul were
made of similar material components to the body, then the ensouled body
should be no more animate or alive than an unensouled body. This
conclusion would be ridiculous, since the vast difference between a dead
corpse and a living person is self-evident. Thus, the soul animating a body
must be altogether distinct from the body’s material nature.


See Silvas’ commentary (:  n. ).
  . 
Next, she argues that the soul is rational and divine by appealing to the
authority of an ancient philosophical tradition, in particular the Stoic
notion of the microcosm and macrocosm, the little world of the individual
human being and the larger world of the divinely operated universe.
Regarding the microcosm of the individual human, she notes, ‘That this
rational animal, the human being, is the recipient of intelligence and
understanding is attested even by those outside our doctrine’ (.). She
agrees with others that human beings have rational souls. She then
connects the soul’s rationality to the macrocosm, claiming it is self-evident
that the world is rationally and divinely ordered, with our individual
human souls capable of reasoning about their place in the larger macro-
cosmic order. She maintains we can reason from the existence of created
order to the existence of a creator (God), and the created order must reflect
that creator (.–).
She replies to an objection about how the material world, which is often
corrupt, can provide accurate knowledge about what is perfect, divine, and
pure – including knowledge of the soul (.). She responds that the soul
itself is the source of information. ‘Why the soul itself . . . is a sufficient
teacher of what is to be conceived about the soul . . .. The soul then is
something immaterial and bodiless, active and moving in accord with its
own nature, and giving evidence of its own movements through the organs
of the body’ (.). The soul, being rational, is most like the divine and
therefore closest to truth. Since the individual soul resembles God, the soul
giving life to the universe (.), it is able to provide the necessary
knowledge as it animates the body and causes it to move through the
physical world. However, she argues, the soul cannot be informative if it
remains in the detrimental condition of being overly bound to the body.
Since the soul is primarily ‘rational’, it must turn away from bodily
concerns and associated passions like anger and grief, which distract it
from pursuing truth. Such passions change the soul from being ‘rational
and godlike to the irrational and unthinking, being reduced to the level of
an animal’ (.). She later adds that we should ‘as far as we can, separate
and free ourselves from [bodily] inclination by a life of virtue’ so that the
soul’s travel ‘towards the Good may be light and unimpeded, with no
burden of the body to drag it down’ (.). For Macrina, pursuing the
‘Good’ involves the individual human soul becoming more like the divine


Since ‘our doctrine’ refers to the Christian beliefs she and Gregory share, ‘those outside our
doctrine’ must indicate some non-Christian philosophers share similar views, including the Stoics
and Platonists.
 Not Veiled in Silence 
soul, that is, like God, through virtuous living and eliminating bodily
passions. She notes that the divine nature transcends material creation
and so does not permit the presence of passions such as anger and desire
(.). Similarly, Macrina argues, the human soul should be altogether
apart and distinct from the physical realm of the body (.), eliminating
irrational passions to become more like the divine soul it emulates.
Thus, her response to Gregory’s question is that the soul is not material
by nature but is instead immaterial, rational, and akin to divinity. Indeed,
it is so distinct from bodily elements that it even detaches from passionate
emotions associated with the body (.–).

Question : Death, Immortality, and Survival

Discovering the soul’s nature was not sufficient to quell Gregory’s
fear that death will silence one who was lately alive, so Macrina must
address another question: What happens at death, and do those who
die survive?
Macrina identifies death as the separation of the body from the soul
(.). The body becomes a corpse, since the soul animating it has
departed. She then expounds on the likeness she had already invoked
between the individual human and divine souls. Since the human soul is
supposed to be like God in its nature and rationality, Macrina asserts that
it must emulate God in other ways. As God is immaterial and eternal, so is
the human soul. It will therefore survive the body’s destruction.
It would be small comfort to indicate that the soul will survive if the
dead person’s identity is not preserved. Gregory frets that the soul will exist
independently of the material body to which it was originally connected
(.–) or be reincarnated into another physical body (.). Neither
option seems likely to preserve the person’s original identity as a unique
body-soul composite. Macrina responds that the soul will survive to
be bodily resurrected in the future, thus preserving the person’s identity.
She says,


Macrina’s point that we should ‘free ourselves’ from bodily passions ‘as far as we can’ echoes
Socrates’ arguments that the philosopher will seek to separate her soul from her body while living by
separating herself from bodily passions as much as possible (Phd.  a ff., c).

Socrates also espouses this view (Phd. b).

Again, this argument resonates with the Phaedo, especially the Argument from Affinity (b–b),
where Socrates reasons that the soul’s likeness to the forms proves its immortality. The difference
comes from Macrina’s inclusion of Christian theology and scriptures. On the role of scripture in
Macrina’s philosophical method, see Adamson (b).
  . 
You will see this bodily covering which is now dissolved in death, woven
again from the same elements, not according to its present dense and heavy
texture, but with its fibre spun again into something more subtle and
ethereal, so that you will not only have with you that which you love, but
it will be restored to you with a brighter and more captivating beauty. (.)
The person who died will be raised from the dead and reembodied. She
thinks this body will be made from the ‘same elements’, meaning that it
will be constructed of the same material components from which it was
originally constituted (cf. .).
However, although the resurrected body will be numerically and con-
stitutively identical to the original, it will be subtly different. Her spinning
analogy explains this concept. Spinners can use the same wool to
construct a garment of mediocre or high quality depending on how
coarsely or finely they spin threads from the wool. Similarly, the resur-
rected human body will be constituted of the same material elements that
originally constituted it, only more finely spun to make the resulting
resurrected body vastly superior – perfected, indestructible, and more
beautiful than the original.
A reasonable question is how the resurrected person can be numerically
identical with the person who once lived, especially since death involves
decay where the bodily elements scatter across the universe. Gregory
raises the problem neatly with his image of a shipwreck. He says,
Just as a sailor, when his vessel has broken up in a shipwreck, cannot float
simultaneously on all the pieces of the boat which have been scattered this
way and that over the surface of the sea, but surely seizes whatever comes to
hand and leaves the rest to drift on the waves, in the same way the soul,
which is by nature incapable of disintegrating alone with the dispersal of the
elements, will, if it is reluctant to be parted from the body, surely cling to
one of the elements and so be split off from the others. (.–)
How, Gregory asks, can the soul be reunited with the whole body made of
disparate parts, once the body has scattered over the universe? Wouldn’t
the soul be more likely to cling to one piece of the body like the sailor
grasping a piece of flotsam?
Macrina responds, first, by noting that Gregory’s argument has a latent
assumption that the soul must be spatially present in the body. But,
Macrina argues, intelligible natures (like the soul’s) are not subject to the
laws of spatial dimensionality. Since the soul is intelligible, it is simple and


This analogy is fitting because she was adept at wool-working (VSM .).

Perioli (: –); Drury ().
 Not Veiled in Silence 
lacks spatial dimension and can therefore connect with those bodily
elements with which it was originally united (.), even if these physical
parts have been dissolved, scattered over the universe, or eaten by sharks
and fishes. For this reason, the soul can reconstitute the bodily compound
at the resurrection, recognising the same elements and rearranging them
into their originally constituted whole. She maintains,
The soul therefore exists in those elements in which it once came into
being, for there is no necessity tearing it away from its coherence with them.
What cause for gloom is there, then, in this, if the visible is exchanged for
that which is without visible form, and why does your mind bear such a
grudge against death? (.)
Having no reason to assume that some necessity keeps the soul and the
bodily elements apart after death, she thinks Gregory should not be
worried about death.
Even so, Gregory’s last words in the dialogue ask for further proof that
the resurrection preserves one’s identity. He says, ‘We must therefore
attend to the argument, that we may thoroughly secure the probability
of the doctrine in every respect’ (.).
Macrina’s final argument grants that she may be unable to provide all he
has asked. She begins, ‘We may be unable to oppose your argument with
matching rhetoric’ (.). Her point is not that she lacks arguments but
rather that she may not produce arguments in a satisfactory form. She
explains that some secrets will not ‘come to light until we are taught the
mystery of the resurrection by the deed’ (.). She cannot answer
everything about the resurrection because she has not yet been resurrected.
She elucidates further with another analogy. People who are awake only at
night and hear about the sun may have some ideas about what the sun is;
but until they have actually seen and experienced the sun first-hand, their
understanding of the sun’s nature will be grossly inadequate (.).
Similarly, those who are living are like the people awake at night and have
never seen the sun; they can talk about the resurrection, but until they
have actually experienced it, they cannot fully grasp the thing itself. This
response would be philosophically disappointing were it not that she
continues by diagnosing the reason for this inability to understand the
resurrection. Our embodied condition limits contact with the doctrine of
resurrection (.–). Living persons are bound by their bodies, which
cause their souls to be mingled with blinding passions prohibiting them


On this argument, see Perioli ().
  . 
from understanding complete truth. However, in death, they lose the
connection between their souls and their bodies’ corrupting passions, so
their souls will pass to a ‘spiritual condition free of passion’ (.) and
know what it is to experience resurrection.
Thus, Macrina answers that death is the separation of the soul from the
body. It is this separation that frees the soul to be ready for resurrection.
Resurrection itself will result in life everlasting for the person who died in a
body made indestructible from its original, perfected material.

Macrina as Philosopher
Despite Gregory’s portrayal of Macrina as a worthy philosopher, some
scholars object that it involves literary invention and so provides scant
information about her. In general, they raise two related concerns of
authenticity. First, did Gregory accurately record her actual conversations?
Doubt arises from suggestions that Gregory has used Macrina as a mouth-
piece or merely copied content from Plato’s Phaedo. Second, did Macrina
really possess philosophical abilities that the dialogue accurately informs us
about? Suggestions to the contrary arise from her childhood education and
the circumstances of her final conversations. I discuss each of these
concerns below.

Objection : The Mouthpiece Objection

Scholars who doubt the authenticity of Gregory’s portrayal often object that,
since Macrina did not author the dialogue herself, Gregory has merely used
her as a convenient mouthpiece for his own views. They suggest two
motives: either to use her reputation to support his arguments or to use
her femininity to avoid backlash for his unpopular ideas.
According to the first motive, Gregory capitalises on her reputation by
casually reminding the reader that he knew the holy, virtuous Macrina. So,
when he mourns that after she dies no one will be able to expound on such
difficult subjects as death and resurrection (de An. et Res. .), he tacitly
informs readers that he is now a trustworthy source for these subjects, since
he knew and learned from her. Thus, he is free to present his own ideas
through her mouth.
Some textual evidence supports this interpretation. When Macrina
greets Gregory in the VSM, she attempts to bow from her bed (.–),
 
Mcnary-Zak (). See Roth (: –); Clark (); Burrus (: –).
 Not Veiled in Silence 
a gesture suggesting she recognises his authority as a bishop. A more
evocative event occurs later. After Gregory complains about his life, noting
that he had recently been exiled for his theological beliefs and was
routinely exhausted by serving the churches, Macrina responds:
[We] make it a special boast that we are well born and consider ourselves
sprung of noble stock. Our father was highly esteemed in his day for his
learning. Yet his reputation only extended as far as the law courts of the
province . . .. But you are named in cities and peoples and provinces.
Churches send you as ally and reformer and churches summon you. (.)
It is easy to interpret her response as enhancing Gregory’s reputation even
while it quietly informs the reader of their relationship. She mentions their
father, thereby recalling that they are siblings. But she adds that their
father’s reputation pales in comparison to Gregory’s own, which more
conspicuously advises that Gregory is an impressive personage. If she was
esteemed for her virtue and wisdom, then her words supporting Gregory’s
reputation and authority would have had great weight among ancient
audiences, making them more receptive to Gregory’s own message through
her voice.
However, the objection that Gregory has used his sister to bolster his
own reputation is prefaced on the unspoken assumption that Macrina in
fact had that good reputation for him to use. He could only benefit from
using her reputation for wisdom if she actually possessed that reputation in
history. Nor could he have significantly altered his presentation of her
from how her contemporaries remembered her. He wrote the dialogue
approximately five years after Macrina’s death and so wrote for an audience
that could have known her by reputation, if not in person. An inaccurate
portrayal of her philosophical prowess would have been noted by her
community at Annisa and by Gregory’s peers.
The other possible motive behind Gregory’s use of Macrina is that he
has appropriated Macrina’s femininity to obscure his own views. Perhaps
Macrina can get by with saying things about the body and passions that
Gregory cannot because her womanhood provides a more appropriate
vehicle for such discussions. Moreover, in dealing with questions regard-
ing the soul and the divine, Gregory sometimes dances with Origenist
theological views that would be deemed unacceptable for him to hold as a


Burrus argues that this results from ‘a reflection of masculine erotics’ where Gregory’s philosophy
borrows her femininity to ‘ensure the success of its own procreative enterprise’ (: ). Similar
arguments exist regarding Diotima in Plato’s Symposium. See Halperin ().
  . 
bishop. Using Macrina would enable him to distance himself from
those views.
Neither of these explanations has much merit. Since Socrates presents a
respected counterexample of a man who discusses the body and passions
(Phd. c–a; Phdr. a–c), it is unlikely that Gregory would need to
use a woman to tackle such subjects. Moreover, Macrina’s status as a
woman devoted to the ascetic, celibate life means that she is less identifi-
able with traditional gender norms of womanhood, that is, as a wife and
mother. Gregory once even expresses doubt that she can really be called a
‘woman’ because she had ‘so surpassed nature’ (VSM .). Her self-
declared status of widowhood sets her apart from traditional marriage and,
although Gregory calls her ‘mother’, it is only in the metaphorical sense
that her ideas have nurtured her community’s well-being (.). So, her
femininity is not ‘typical’, and anyway Gregory’s absconding with it would
be unnecessary.
J. Warren Smith notes further that the views Macrina expresses in On
Soul and Resurrection are similar to views Gregory has no problem expres-
sing in his own voice in his On the Making of Man (De Hominis Opificio,
written c. , the year Macrina died). Moreover, Smith argues, the most
Origenist ideas expressed in the dialogue come from Gregory’s mouth
rather than Macrina’s. Since Gregory has already exposed some Origenist
tendencies, he would have little reason to use Macrina to hide his views.
Even if Smith is correct that Gregory would not need to obfuscate his
views, someone might worry that Gregory merely uses Macrina to repeat
his views. However, this idea also seems unlikely. Gregory remarks that he
writes about Macrina so her voice will not be lost, and he grieves that no
one will be left after her death who can teach about the soul and resur-
rection (VSM .; de An. et Res. .). Although Gregory tacitly informs
readers that he can now tackle these subjects, the only proof he offers for
his newfound ability is that he has learned about them from his older
sister. Similarity between Macrina’s views and Gregory’s own could thus
arise because Macrina, like many good teachers, has influenced her
student’s views.
In fact, examining the teacher–student relationship between Gregory
and Macrina in the dialogue is enlightening. Gregory repeatedly empha-
sises Macrina’s role as ‘the teacher’ (ἡ διδάσκαλος), a role that she fulfils as
she educates Gregory throughout the dialogue. Gregory’s other two texts


On this contentious claim, see Castelli (); Burrus (); and Hotz ().

For this argument, see Smith (: ).
 Not Veiled in Silence 
about Macrina confirm that role, with Letter  referring to her as a
‘teacher of how to live’ (τοῦ βίου διδάσκαλος, Ep. .) and the VSM
repeatedly emphasising her teaching abilities. The VSM notes that she
‘raised herself by philosophy to the highest summit of human virtue’ (.)
and then pulled others to that summit with her teachings (., ., .,
., ., ., .).
Especially noteworthy is that Gregory’s use of the title, διδάσκαλος,
with twenty-two appearances in the dialogue and four in the VSM, far
outnumbers appearances of other appellations Gregory uses, which include
‘virgin’ (παρθένος), ‘father’ (πατήρ), ‘mother’ (μήτηρ), ‘counsellor of
everything good’ (ἀγαθοῦ παντὸς σύμβουλος), and ‘leader’ (ἡ
καθηγουμένη). Although each title conveys Macrina’s authority and influ-
ence, Gregory’s repetition of ‘teacher’ emphasises her abilities as philo-
sophical instructor. Thus, in the dialogue, Gregory can write that he was
impressed by her arguments (., .) and conclude that others present
during her final arguments were likewise enthralled (.). These are not
words spoken of a mere mouthpiece but of someone to whom Gregory
owes a great debt, such as any student owes a great teacher.

Objection : The Platonic Objection

The striking similarities of form and style between the dialogue and the
Platonic dialogues might suggest that Gregory has modelled Macrina’s
activities on Plato’s Socrates rather than on reality. Macrina’s imminent
death and conversational topics identify her with Socrates at the Phaedo’s
conclusion, while her status as a woman compares well to Diotima in the
Symposium (d–c). Comparison with the Phaedrus is also possible
when Macrina twice refers to Socrates’ image of the soul as a charioteer
striving to reach the Good (Phdr. a–e; de An. et Res. ., .).
It is unclear how much weight we should give these similarities between
Gregory’s and Plato’s dialogues. However, we should not let those simi-
larities blind us to crucial differences. First, Gregory’s dialogue is more
directly transmitted to us. Gregory was actually present when Macrina
died, and so would have had first-hand knowledge of Macrina’s final
speeches. In contrast, Plato’s dialogues are often several times removed


See Williams (); Clark (: ); Burrus (); Smith ().

Momigliano notes that Macrina ‘is here Socrates to her brother’ (), and several parallels
between Socrates’ and Macrina’s arguments have already been indicated. See notes –.

See especially Burrus ().
  . 
from the event. Plato’s recounting of Socrates’ final speeches in the Phaedo
is at least third hand, as Phaedo recollects Socrates’ death to Echecrates
(a). Since Plato was ill when Socrates died (a), he did not hear
Socrates’ deathbed arguments directly, and he never specifies his source.
Second, Gregory’s dialogue more obviously suggests that two speakers’
views are expressed, rather than one person’s alone. In Plato’s dialogues,
one primary speaker (e.g., Socrates, the Athenian Stranger, Eleatic
Stranger) often presents the main arguments, while other interlocutors
remain largely silent, occasionally providing insights or foils for the main
speaker’s view. But in Gregory’s dialogue, both Macrina and Gregory are
dynamically engaged, presenting their own arguments, replying to the
other, and revising arguments in response. Their different personalities
shine through the dialogue. Gregory is passionate, while Macrina inter-
rupts (., .), gestures to silence him (.), and groans at his ignorance
(.). These personalities are similarly portrayed in the VSM, with
Macrina refusing to give in to emotion (.–., .), while Gregory
can barely cope with his emotions as her body is being prepared for
burial (.).
A good example of the repartee between Macrina and Gregory happens
in the dialogue at .. After Macrina has argued that the passions disrupt
a soul’s ascent to the Good (.), Gregory objects that sometimes the
passions are useful for attaining virtue (.–). Desire, for instance, can
attract one to the Good, while fear of losing the Good may enable one to
hold fast to the Good. Macrina responds,
It seems . . . that I myself have occasioned this confusion in reasoning, by
not making those distinctions in the argument of the case which would
have imposed a certain logical order on our considerations. But now, as far
as possible, some such order shall be devised for the investigation, so that by
advancing logically in our considerations there may be no more room for
such contradictions. (.)
Macrina’s phrasing contains a conversational sense; she notes that she is to
blame for Gregory’s misapprehensions (‘I myself have occasioned this
confusion’) and recognises why (by not making ‘distinctions’). She pro-
ceeds to make those distinctions in the following paragraphs by clarifying
that the passions are not wicked in themselves, but only in how they are
used, becoming ‘instruments of virtue or of vice according to the way we
order our choice’ (.). If reason remains in control of the human being,

 
See Pelikan (: ); Smith (: –). See Smith ().
 Not Veiled in Silence 
reason will direct the passions to reach the Good. It is only when reason
gives up its position as head that the emotions become problematic,
pulling the person whichever way they desire.
Although this explanation indeed overlaps Socrates’ argument in the
Phaedrus, the point I wish to note is how the exchange exhibits the
conversational nature of the siblings’ conversation. Gregory responds that
her argument has progressed ‘simply and spontaneously’ (.), emphasis-
ing the extemporaneous nature of their discussion. While there are simi-
larities between Gregory’s and Plato’s dialogues, Gregory’s presentation of
two views and his first-hand recounting – especially since it was witnessed
by ‘many’ others who could have corrected inaccuracies (.) – under-
scores the possibility that Gregory records actual conversations rather than
simply revises Plato’s dialogues. It must also be recognised that any
similarities between Macrina’s and Socrates’ arguments need not arise
because her character is copied. If (as Gregory indicates) she is truly a
philosopher, she would have required familiarity with Socrates’ arguments.
Failing to reference them would be more seriously concerning, since it
would imply that she lacked education.

Objection : The Education Objection

Some scholars interpret Macrina’s religiously based early education as
evidence that she could not have developed the philosophical knowledge
‘Macrina’ displays throughout the dialogue. We have seen that she
engages with Platonic, Epicurean, and Stoic arguments during the dia-
logue, an impossible feat if she never studied Classical moral philosophy.
However, Macrina’s early education does not necessitate her ignorance of
Classical philosophy.
First, Gregory’s explanation of Macrina’s education only explicitly
excludes texts that Gregory says could ‘teach a tender and impressionable
nature either the tragic passions – those passions of women which gave the
poets their starting points and themes, or the indecencies of comedy, or the
causes of the miseries that befell Troy, which through their degrading tales
concerning women tend to the corruption of character’ (VSM .). In
other words, Macrina’s early education only explicitly excluded Classical


Whether these conversations occurred over the two-day period is another matter. See Objection .

Johnson emphasises rejection of pagan studies as key to Macrina’s importance (: –).

Other scholars suggest Macrina received a philosophical education, including Elm (: ) and
Beagon (: ).
  . 
literature such as the tragedies and poetry, texts that notoriously prey upon
the learner’s emotions. The censorship in Macrina’s education sounds
much like the selective education Socrates recommends for young
Guardians in the Republic’s Kallipolis .c–.b). Just as the reason
for Socrates’ censorship was to form the souls of young people into good
Guardians for the city, the goal of Macrina’s education was to form her
character. Additionally, Gregory’s silence regarding philosophical texts
such as Plato’s dialogues in Macrina’s education cannot alone be taken
as proof that Macrina lacked education in moral philosophy. Since the
criterion for inclusion in her education was that something should ‘bear on
the moral life’ (VSM .), many works of philosophy would have been
suitable, including Plato’s.
Second, it is doubtful that Macrina lacked rhetorical knowledge of
Classical texts given how she behaved in her family’s life. Her contact
with her father, who was a professional rhetorician, and with her brothers,
who did receive a Classical education, would have ensured that she had
some understanding of these subjects. Macrina also had ever-increasing
influence on her family as she grew older, even taking responsibility for
educating her younger brothers after their father died. She could not have
provided that education unless her own training had prepared her to do so.
Moreover, Gregory recalls that she used her rhetorical skills to trounce
their brother Basil after he returned home from school ‘puffed up’ with an
inflated sense of his own abilities (VSM .–). Macrina’s education must
have allowed her to develop sufficient intellectual skills to defeat Basil,
himself a master rhetorician.
Finally, Gregory only details Macrina’s early education. Excluding a
subject from an individual’s early education does not necessitate that the
same individual continues to be ignorant of that subject when she reaches
maturity. Macrina’s position as the head of the community at Annisa
would have required her to be familiar with the philosophical and religious
controversies of the time, many of which involved minutiae of theological
and philosophical argumentation. For these reasons, we can reasonably


Macrina’s siblings support this interpretation. Basil writes that Christians may use passages of
Classical philosophy that do not contradict Christian Scripture (On Reading Pagan Authors in
Migne PG , ), and Gregory often uses Classical philosophy in his writings. See Pelikan
().

Corrigan (cited in Hotz (: )) and Elm recognise this possibility (: ).

These controversies included the Donatist schism and the Arian controversy that would come to a
head at the Council of Nicaea (and in which Gregory was very much involved) approximately one
year after Macrina’s death. It was common for heads of religious communities to correspond about
 Not Veiled in Silence 
conclude that Macrina possessed the requisite philosophical background to
discuss subjects like the soul and resurrection with Gregory.

Objection : The Deathbed Objection

A final objection concerns not merely whether Gregory recorded Macrina’s
deathbed conversations accurately but whether the conversations happened
at all. As Anna Silvas says in her introduction to the text: ‘It is doubtful
that brother and sister conducted several hours of strenuous philosophical
analyses with Macrina herself almost in extremis.’ How could a woman
gasping out her final breaths be able to present such detailed and lengthy
arguments that they continue for seventy pages?
There are two ways to respond to this objection. First, it is possible to
respond that Gregory has recorded her deathbed conversations fairly
accurately. All three of Gregory’s sources corroborate that he was present
when Macrina died. Crucially, when Gregory summarises the conversa-
tions in the VSM, he notes that he shortened his summary because he fears
making the text too long to qualify as a letter (.). It is for this reason
that he writes On Soul and Resurrection and perhaps for this reason that the
dialogue is as long as it is, namely, because his final conversations with
Macrina actually were long. He remarks later in the VSM that Macrina
continued philosophising right until she died. ‘For not even during her last
breaths did she suffer any qualm at the prospect of her departure, or flinch
at the separation from this life. No, right up to her last breath she
philosophised with a lofty mind on the convictions she had formed from
the beginning about the life here below’ (.). This summary of
Macrina’s final hours, written within a year of her death, concurs with
Gregory’s account in the dialogue, where she philosophises until the
final line.
Gregory could have kept a closely accurate recollection of Macrina’s
arguments, aided by taking notes during their conversation or shortly
thereafter, and referring to them when writing the dialogue. The VSM
records a large break in his visit while she prayed and he rested in a garden
(.–.). This break would have permitted time to reflect on the
conversation. The dialogue also indicates where Macrina pauses and
Gregory ‘recollects’ her arguments (., .). In both places, the Greek

ongoing religious debates, partly so they may answer questions from community members. One
reference exists that Macrina wrote such letters (see below).

See Silvas (: ).
  . 
verb translated ‘to recollect’ (συλλέγω) bears the sense of ‘selecting and
gathering up’, which may suggest he is collecting his thoughts or jotting
down notes to formalise later. This evidence may allow for Gregory
being able to provide a good account of the conversations.
However, since it is nevertheless unlikely that Gregory reports her final
conversations verbatim, another possibility is worth briefly mentioning. In
all three accounts, Gregory refers to Macrina as his beloved ‘teacher’
(διδάσκαλος) and indicates that her death troubles him because it deprives
the world of her teachings about death and immortality (de An. et Res.
.; cf. VSM .–, Ep. .). This evidence may substantiate the
possibility that he is not merely presenting her final deathbed conversa-
tions but also referencing arguments she has made previously. The VSM
shows that she faced death at least four times early in life, when fiancé
(.), father (.), ‘dearest’ brother (., .), and mother died
(.–). Each time, she exhibits a rational demeanour (esp. .–),
implying that she has already personally wrestled with the existential crisis
regarding death that grips Gregory in the dialogue’s opening scene. If so,
she has likely not conceived the arguments in the dialogue only once and
extemporaneously but rather is practised at making them. Perhaps then,
instead of a verbatim account of a two-day visit, Gregory is providing
arguments she was known for making throughout her life. This possibility
would preserve the integrity of the dialogue as source material for Macrina.
It even has the advantage that it nicely underscores why Gregory calls her
‘teacher’, since it would mean that Gregory’s dialogue portrays her greatest
contributions to philosophy rather than a mere two-day snapshot.

Conclusions from the Evidence

In the VSM, Gregory claims that he writes Macrina’s biography so she
would not be forgotten by being ‘veiled in silence’ (.) after death
silenced her voice (.). But despite Gregory’s efforts, Macrina has been
veiled in silence, forgotten or hidden by scholars throughout the
intervening centuries.
One tantalising reference that Macrina wrote texts that are now lost
exists as a passing note in the fourteenth-century document ‘Vatican
gr. /II, folio ’. The reference notes that the copyist chose to copy
four letters from Theano but not the letters from ‘holy Macrina’ because
the interval of time between Theano’s and Macrina’s writings was too

See Silvas (:  n. ).
 Not Veiled in Silence 
long. The copyist apparently believes that copying both sets of letters in
the same volume risks anachronism by juxtaposing documents from
women philosophers who lived nearly ten centuries apart. This evidence
suggests that Macrina’s writings survived until at least the fourteenth
century, when the copyist’s choice ensured that her letters would not
survive alongside those of Theano in his reproduction. Although the
copyist may have had the best of intentions, his choice, along with choices
made by countless other scholars and copyists throughout the sixteen
centuries since Macrina’s life, has ensured that Macrina’s voice has rarely
been heard.
We have seen several reasons to disprove the objections that Gregory
merely uses her as a mouthpiece for his own purposes. But it is worth
emphasising that Gregory did not need Macrina as a mouthpiece recount-
ing a fictional conversation on the soul and resurrection. He would have
had a readily available male interlocutor for such topics in their brother,
Basil, who died nine months before Macrina. Even so, it is Macrina and
not Basil who converses with Gregory. Recognising this detail further
confirms Macrina’s philosophical prowess, especially since the fourth
century increasingly understood silence as a dominant virtue of the female
sex. But Macrina does not display this supposed ‘virtue’ in Gregory’s
writings. Instead, she appears vocally and actively engaged in philosophy,
even going as far as to correct her brother’s misconceptions.
Although little evidence beyond Gregory’s writings exists about
Macrina, this is not sufficient cause to assume that Gregory’s writings are
uninformative about her. Muehlberger () contends that, once a story
is told, it ceases to be ‘merely a story’ but becomes part of history.
Recognising that Gregory took literary licence in telling Macrina’s story
cannot undercut that his dialogue is an ‘interpretative device’ to help us
understand Macrina’s life and contributions to philosophy. The most
important point is that Gregory unveils Macrina as a vocal, engaged
philosopher. He portrays a woman in antiquity who tackles some of the
most important subjects in human life, including how to find meaning in
the face of one’s own mortality. Given her philosophical activity, Macrina
should no longer be veiled in silence but should instead take her rightful
place in the canon of antiquity.


On silence as a woman’s virtue, see Sheather (). On the rising suspicion of women intellectuals
in the fourth century in general, see Wolfskeel (); Elm (); Frank ().

I thank Nicholas Baima, the editors and fellow contributors to this volume, and the attendees at the
‘Libori Summer School  on Teaching Women Philosophers’ for their helpful comments.
  

Women Philosophers and Ideals of Being a Woman

in Neoplatonic Schools of Late Antiquity
The Examples of Sosipatra of Ephesus and Hypatia
of Alexandria
Jana Schultz*

Introduction
In the Neoplatonic schools of late antiquity, women were involved on
different levels, as teachers and students but also as wives and companions.
Most prominent are Sosipatra of Ephesus and Hypatia of Alexandria who
taught their own circles of students. When it comes to recovering and
teaching the thoughts of these female Neoplatonists, we are confronted
with the problem that none of their philosophical writings were passed
down to us. In approaching their lives and thoughts, we depend on letters
written to them and texts written about them.
In the available evidence, both philosophers appear to us as some kind
of schism. On the one hand, we find Sosipatra and Hypatia the historical
figures, to whom we have access through indirect sources. On the other
hand, we find Sosipatra and Hypatia the literary characters, used by other
authors to express their views of philosophical life in general and the ideal
way of living as a woman in particular. My chapter aims at doing justice to
both aspects, unpacking what the sources allow us to conclude regarding
the content of the teachings of Sosipatra and Hypatia and discussing how
both characters are used by other Neoplatonists to convey certain ideals of
femaleness. This examination will be accompanied by short reflections on
the nature of the sources in question, especially on the genre of late antique
biography and the limitations this genre sets for the project of discovering
historical truths.
*
I owe thanks to Katharine O’Reilly and Caterina Pellò for their remarks and comments on earlier
versions, which were crucial in helping the chapter take its current form, and to the participants of
the Philosophical Colloquium at the Humboldt University Berlin. Finally, I thank the DFG (German
Research Foundation) for funding the research for this chapter as part of the project Die Frau und das
Weibliche im Neuplatonismus (GZ: WI /-).


 Women Philosophers and Ideals of Being a Woman 
In what follows, I shall start, in the second section, with a brief
introduction to Neoplatonic metaphysics, which provides the background
for the presentation of the Neoplatonic ideals of femaleness and virtuous
women in the third section. In the fourth and fifth sections, I shall
then focus on Sosipatra and Hypatia respectively and discuss their philo-
sophical theories, as well as the extent to which they epitomise the
Neoplatonic models.

Neoplatonic Metaphysics: A Brief Introduction

Plotinus’ metaphysical system is constituted by the three hypostases; the
One, the Intellect, and the Soul. The One is the first cause of all things
that transcends being. The Intellect is the first entity proceeding from the
One. It contains the Platonic Forms and thinks itself. The Soul proceeds
from Intellect. It contains form-principles (λόγοι) as images of the Forms,
which it unfolds discursively. The hypostasis Soul transcends bodies but
causes the world soul and the particular souls, which descend into bodies.
Causation takes place through the double movement of procession and
reversion. Procession is an emanation due to the overflowing perfection of
the hypostasis. What emanates is indeterminate and must revert to its
cause to receive determination, to become a specific entity. The Intellect
turns towards the One, and the Soul contemplates Intellect. The late
Neoplatonists adopt this basic structure but extend the system.
A complete outline is beyond the scope of this introduction. I will there-
fore focus on the developments that are most important for my enquiry.
The late Neoplatonists introduce different intermediary entities
between the One, the Intellect, and the Soul. For example, they introduce
a dyad between the One and the Intellect to fill the gap between the
absolute simple One and the multiplicity of Intellect. They also divide the
realm of Intellect, distinguishing between the object of contemplation
(that is, being) and the thinking entity (intellect), and consider the object
of intellection higher than the entity that contemplates. As the intermedi-
ate between intelligible being and intellect, they introduce what is simul-
taneously intelligible and intellective.
As this shows, the late Neoplatonists organise their metaphysical system
in triadic structures. There is a monadic paternal cause (for example,


From ὑφίστημι / ὑφίσταμαι. In metaphysics, ὑπόστασις means actual existence, reality, or substance.

See Ennead V .

For Proclus’ metaphysics, see The Elements of Theology. For Damascius, see On the First Principles.
  
being), which contains the whole in a unified way, a maternal cause (the
intelligible and simultaneously intellective), which incites the procession
from the monad, and an offspring containing the whole in a multiplied
way (the intellect).
The late Neoplatonists identify their metaphysical entities with gods
and goddesses, integrating the Greek pantheon into their metaphysics.
Examples of this are integrated in the next section.

Ideals of Femaleness and Being a Woman in Neoplatonic

Schools of Late Antiquity
In this section, I will outline the ideals of femaleness and being a woman in
the Neoplatonic tradition in order to better understand the literary
descriptions of Sosipatra and Hypatia which I will examine in the fourth
and fifth sections. I will focus on Proclus since his metaphysics provides us
with good material to exemplify the Neoplatonic ideals of femaleness.
However, the point I want to make is not that there was a direct influence
between Proclus, on the one hand, and the biographical sources on
Sosipatra and Hypatia, on the other hand. I want neither to state that
Proclus somehow ‘invented’ the ideals, and that the writers of the biogra-
phies then adopted them, nor that Proclus took the ideals out of the
biographical tradition. My point is more general. I want to emphasise
that there were three ideals of women effective in late Neoplatonism and
that these ideals – even though we find them primarily in metaphysical
writings – have influenced the way Neoplatonic women philosophers were
presented in the biographical tradition.
In early Neoplatonism, the categories of ‘maleness’ and ‘femaleness’ play
hardly any role in the conceptualisation of metaphysical realities. For
Plotinus and Porphyry, the hypostasis Soul is genderless, and since all
individual souls are potentially the hypostasis Soul, they are also essen-
tially genderless. Sex and gender come into play only when the soul takes
on a body and starts living in a society that has certain expectations of men
and women.


Proclus never mentions Sosipatra and Hypatia, and thus we cannot know if their lives had influenced
his idea of what it meant to be a female philosopher. It is striking that whenever Proclus refers to
women philosophers, he refers to Diotima (in Tim. ..–), or to the Pythagorean women (in
Rep. ..–), but not to the female Neoplatonists, although it is quite unlikely that he had
never heard about Sosipatra and Hypatia. Not even his own teacher Asclepigenia is mentioned by
him, but only by his student Marinus (Procl. .–).

See Enn. ...–, and also O’Brien (: ).
 Women Philosophers and Ideals of Being a Woman 
As a consequence, according to Plotinus and Porphyry, there is no
perfect way for women to live as women. Since the ideal way of living a
human life consists in imitating the intelligible world, and since the
intelligible world is without femaleness, a soul does best if it lives in
accordance with its own genderless essence and not in accordance with
the femaleness of its body:
For we have been enchained by nature’s chains with which she has sur-
rounded us: the belly, the genitals, the throat, the other bodily
members . . .. Therefore, do not be overly concerned about whether your
body is male and female (μήτε οὖν εἰ ἄρρην εἶ μήτε εἰ θήλεια τὸ σῶμα
πολυπραγμόνει); do not regard yourself as a woman, Marcella, for I did not
devote myself to you as such. Flee from every effeminate element
(θηλυνόμενον) of the soul as if you were clothed in a male body (ἄρρενος
εἶχες τὸ σῶμα). (Porph. Marc. .–, trans. O’Brien Wicker[])
The late Neoplatonists, in contrast, conceive of crucial parts of the
intelligible reality as gendered. In Proclus’ system, maleness and femaleness
proceed from the Living Being Itself, which belongs to the Intelligible
Intellect (also called ‘the third god’), and is described as androgynous:
And the third [intelligible] god is father and mother. Since if the Living
Being Itself is in this god, the cause of maleness and femaleness must exist
primarily there, for they [maleness and femaleness] belong to the
living beings. (Theol. Plat. ..–)
After the Living Being Itself, maleness and femaleness are differentiated.
Therefore, from this level onwards most entities are not androgynous but
either male or female. But what does it mean for a metaphysical entity to
be male, female, or androgynous? Proclus and Damascius define these
properties in relation to the fundamental principles of Limit and the
Unlimited (understood as infinite power):
For Power is also before the male and the female and it is in both and with
both. Since Power extends to all beings and all being participates in Power, as
the stranger from Elea says. For Power is everywhere, but the female participates
to a greater degree in the peculiar nature of Power and the male participates to a
greater degree in the unity according to Limit. (Procl. Theol. Plat. ..–,
for a similar definition in Damascius, see in Phil. .–)
Thus, Limit and the Unlimited exist purely only in their first manifesta-
tion. All beings that follow them participate in them to varying degrees. By


The Intelligible Intellect has a triadic structure, and the Living Being Itself is the third part of this
triad (Procl. Theol. Plat. .–).
  
participating in Limit to a high degree, entities receive what enables them
to be paternal causes in procreation. As Limit provides stability, unifor-
mity, and determination universally (Procl. Theol. Plat. ..–), the
paternal deities provide these features in the particular context of (meta-
physical) procreation. By participating in the Unlimited to a high degree,
entities receive what makes them maternal causes, providing to (metaphys-
ical) procreation what the Unlimited provides universally, namely proces-
sion and multiplication (Procl. Theol. Plat. ..–). And we can
speculate that androgynous deities are entities that participate in both
principles in a balanced way.
What is important to notice is that although there are essential differ-
ences between male, female, and androgynous beings long before the
corporal level, every being contains male and female elements, since every
being must partake to some degree in Limit as well as in the Unlimited.
With Plotinus and Porphyry, the late Neoplatonists share the idea that
humans should contemplate the intelligible reality to find a model for the
perfection of their souls. However, according to them, the souls contem-
plating the intelligible realm are confronted with a reality in which gender
is a crucial factor. Thus, they cannot advise women to simply transcend
(their) gender and become psychologically genderless. Rather, the late
Neoplatonists offer women three ideals that all derive from the
intelligible reality.
The first ideal of femaleness is embodied by the maternal goddesses of
the intelligible realm. These entities are distinguished by their generative
and their intermediate (connective) nature. The main function of the
maternal goddesses is to incite (προκαλουμένη, Procl. Theol. Plat.
..–) the procession from the father, whereby they multiply
(πολλαπλασιάζουσα, Procl. Inst. .–) the powers that are unified
in the paternal cause. By inciting the procession from the father perpetu-
ally, the maternal causes also establish a lasting bond between father and
offspring and enable the offspring to revert to its cause (Procl. in Cra.
.–). Thus, one possible way for a woman to orientate herself to the
intelligible world is to imitate the ideal of femaleness exemplified in the
maternal goddesses, by choosing a life dedicated to the Unlimited and, in
the case of humans, to sensible matters (Procl. in Tim. ..–),


See also Rosan (: ); Kutash (: –); and Schultz (b: –).

I argue for this thesis in detail in Schultz (b).

Maternal causes are similarly described by Damascius (in Parm. ..–).
 Women Philosophers and Ideals of Being a Woman 
including marriage and procreation. The contributions of paternal and
maternal deities are not of the same value. While the activity of the
paternal causes is unambiguously good, the activity of the maternal causes
is somehow ambiguous. Kutash (: ) shows that for Proclus ‘the
source of fecundity in the universe is also responsible for disorder’ since by
proceeding from their causes secondary entities become more particular
and divided. That is why the manifestations of the Unlimited (mostly
female entities) must be held in check by manifestations of Limit (mostly
male entities):
Even where gender had been divided, male and female of the same rank
have the same tasks, it is accomplished in an initial way (πρώτως) by the
male, and in a subordinate way (ὑφειμένως) by the female. (Procl, in Tim.
..–, trans. Tarrant )
Thus, women imitating the maternal goddesses will find themselves in an
invaluable but subordinate position.
Second, Proclus’ metaphysics integrates virgin goddesses, who are
described as being detached from femaleness: Athena is characterised as
‘unfemale (ἀθήλυντον)’ (in Rep. ., ), and Artemis as ‘despising
(μισῆσαι)’ (in Cra. .) the generative work of the maternal goddesses.
These goddesses have distinctively male traits, namely they partake in
Limit and act as unifying and determining causes (in Cra. .–).
And, surprisingly, the virgin goddesses appear to be even more charac-
terised by Limit than the male goddesses of the same metaphysical level
(in Tim. ..–).
Thus, the virgin goddesses offer women an alternative ideal to imitate, a
life fully dedicated to what is due to Limit. In the case of the human soul,
this is the contemplation of the intelligible realm (Procl. in Tim.
..–). However, this kind of life involves a strong detachment from
everything associated with femaleness, especially procreation – a much
greater detachment from such matters than it is suggested for the average
male – just as the virgin goddesses are also more detached from the
Unlimited than the male (paternal) gods.


In the soul, Limit is manifested in the circuit of the Same and the Unlimited is manifested in the
circuit of the Different (Procl, in Tim. ., –), which is responsible for grasping sensible
entities (Procl. in Tim. ., –). See also Schultz (a).
 
See also Iamblichus’ Thelougoumena Arithmeticae .. See Schultz ().

Paternal causes must be open to the inciting activity of the maternal causes while the virgin
goddesses can detach themselves from everything associated with the Unlimited.
  
Thus far, it seems as if – for the late Neoplatonists – women are in a
position in which they can either connect positively to their femaleness by
submitting to males or live a more independent life at the cost of detaching
from what is female.
However, a close examination of Proclus’ metaphysics reveals a third
model, the ideal of becoming androgynous. We can find an example of this
ideal in Proclus’ description of Diotima. As I have argued in a recent
paper, Diotima devotes herself to the contemplation of the intelligible
realm – something associated with maleness. Yet nowhere does Proclus
characterise her as un-female. On the contrary, he emphasises that her
success is due to her unique understanding of and relationship to inter-
mediate entities, especially the demonic realm, which is associated with
femaleness due to its intermediary nature (in Alc. .–).
Diotima is presented as a person who does not cultivate one side of her
soul – the male or the female – at the cost of the other, but who carefully
counterbalances both parts and utilises them for her philosophical and
religious progress. This ideal might be best described as becoming (or
being) psychologically androgynous, for it combines both male and female
traits in a balanced way. Only this third ideal allows women to cultivate
their intellectual abilities and engage in philosophy while preserving
their femaleness.
With these different ideals in mind, the examination will now turn to
Sosipatra and Hypatia. What I hope to show is that the way different
authors present Sosipatra and Hypatia is to some extent influenced by the
ideals of being a woman outlined above. Thus, after analysing in detail
what the sources tell us about these female philosophers, I will try to
identify ways in which the different accounts of Sosipatra and Hypatia
match one or more of the ideals.

Sosipatra of Ephesus
There is only one surviving source of evidence for Sosipatra of Ephesus,
the Lives of the Philosophers and Sophists by Eunapius. Eunapius belonged
to the circle of Iamblichus via a chain of successors: he studied under
Chrysanthius who received his philosophical education from Iamblichus’
student Aedesius. Sosipatra too belonged to this circle, for she married
Eusthatius, another student of Iamblichus, and established her own

 
See also Damascius’ description of the goddess Night (in Parm. ..). Schultz (c).
 Women Philosophers and Ideals of Being a Woman 
school in Pergamon where she taught the same group of students as
Aedesius:
In her own home Sosipatra held a chair of philosophy that rivaled his, and
after attending the lectures of Aedesius, the students would go to hear hers;
and though there was none that did not greatly appreciate and admire the
accurate learning (λόγοις ἀκρίβειαν) of Aedesius, they positively adored and
revered the woman’s inspired teaching (ἐνθουσιασμὸν). (...–)
Before going deeper into Eunapius’ description of Sosipatra, I would like
to take a brief look at the nature of our source.
Eunapius’ work is a collective biography, which brings together several
short biographies of philosophers and sophists of the fourth century.
Collective biographies in late antiquity usually aim at giving an account
of the holy life by portraying people who exemplify it. This determines
what information is provided concerning the historical Sosipatra.
Moreover, collective biographers who portray people as examples of one
specific form of life tend to bypass differences between the lives and
doctrines of various philosophers and aim to depict ‘the philosopher’ or
‘the philosophical life’ in general.
Eunapius identifies the holy life with the life of the theurgist. He then
assumes that a successful theurgist must also be a philosopher, since the
appropriate practice of theurgic rituals depends on philosophical knowl-
edge of the divine. In most of his biographies, the focus is on the
theurgic achievements of his subjects. Thus, it is not surprising that his
portrayal of Sosipatra is dedicated to her achievements as an
outstanding theurgist.
Eunapius’ description of her childhood focuses on her initiation into
theurgy, which is reported to have happened thanks to two mysterious
strangers (...–.), referred to as ‘initiates in the lore called
Chaldean’ (...), who are not simply humans trained in theurgy but
‘blessed spirits’ (συμφανέστατα δαίμονας, ...). The exact content of
their teachings remains secret but Eunapius reports on the effects of the
initiation: Sosipatra had developed such clairvoyance and oracular speech


See also Addey (b: –).

All translations of Lives of the Philosophers and Sophists are from Wilmer C. Wright.

See Cox Miller (: –) and Iles Johnstone (: –). The holy life here means the
life that connects the soul with the divine.

See Cox Miller (:  and ) and De Temmerman (: ).
 
See Cox Miller (: ) and De Temmerman (: ). See also Penella (: ).

See ...–. regarding Plotinus’ biography, and ..–.. regarding Iamblichus’ biography.
  
already at ten years old that her father ‘was convinced that his daughter was
a goddess’ (...).
The account of Sosipatra’s adult life is also centred around her achieve-
ments as a theurgist. Eunapius focuses on two aspects. First, he provides us
with more examples of her clairvoyance and foreknowledge, namely that
she revealed to her fiancé his future (...–.), that despite being
absent she knew exactly how her student Maximus performed a ritual
(...–), and that she knew what happened to her kinsman Philometer
who had an accident miles away (...–.). Second, Eunapius
emphasises how Sosipatra’s theurgic abilities enriched her teachings. He
writes that her teachings were ‘inspired (ἐνθουσιασμὸν)’ (...) and that
she gained knowledge from a divine source. Besides this focus on
Sosipatra’s outstanding theurgic abilities, Eunapius’ account provides us
with further information about her philosophy. An important passage
concerns her training after her Chaldean teachers left:
And as she grew to the full measure of her youthful vigour, she had no other
teachers, but ever on her lips were the works of the poets, philosophers, and
orators; and those works that others comprehend but incompletely and
dimly (μόλις ὑπῆρχε καὶ ἀμυδρῶς εἰδέναι), and then only by hard work and
painful drudgery (τοῖς πεπονηκόσι καὶ τεταλαιπωρημένοι), she could
expound with careless ease (ὀλιγωρίας ἔφραζε), serenely and painlessly,
and with her light swift touch would make their meaning clear (εὐκόλως
καὶ ἀλύπως εἰς τὸ σαφὲς ἐπιτρέχουσα). (...–...)
We cannot know whether Sosipatra really learned all this autodidactically,
for a child being wise without going through a classical process of educa-
tion is a common topos in late antique biographies dedicated to the holy
life. But what we can conclude is that she was seen by her contempo-
raries as a gifted teacher and commentator on the whole canon of philos-
ophy and Greek paídeia. Unfortunately, however, Eunapius does not
provide information about the content of Sosipatra’s interpretations.
Thus, we cannot know whether they contained original ideas (and if so,
which ones). Two facts seem to speak in favour of Sosipatra’s


Surprisingly, Eunapius does not describe Sosipatra as actively engaging in rituals. The inspiration
and clairvoyance just seems to come to her. This has been vividly discussed in scholarship. See
Addey (b: –), Denzey Lewis (: –), and Iles Johnstone (: –).

There are two reasons for the prominence of this topos. First, a mysterious education was regarded as
a sign of the divine nature of its recipient. See Tanaseanu-Döbler (: ) and Iles Johnstone
(: ). Second, stability of character was regarded as a sign of goodness and holiness. That is
why biographers tend to attribute to holy figures a permanent wisdom, rather than a wisdom
received through a process of education. See Cox Miller (:  and ).
 Women Philosophers and Ideals of Being a Woman 
interpretations containing original ideas, namely that Eunapius described
her teaching as inspired – one might argue that it would be strange if the
divine source had simply made her repeat what some other philosopher
had said – and that he states that the students preferred her lectures to
those of Aedesius (...–). It is also interesting that Eunapius
describes Sosipatra’s education as beginning with an initiation in divine
things and then turning to philosophical discourses on various topics. This
seems to suggest that she understood the philosophical and poetical
tradition in the light of her religious knowledge, probably interpreting
Plato as being in agreement with the Chaldean Oracles.
There are two other passages on Sosipatra’s philosophy. In one passage,
she prompts her student Maximus to turn his soul to the intelligible
(divine) world:
‘Rise, my son. The gods love you if you raise your eyes to them (ἐὰν σὺ
πρὸς ἐκείνους βλέπῃς) and do not lean towards earthly and perishable
things (μὴ ῥέπῃς ἐπὶ τὰ γήϊνα καὶ ἐπίκηρα χρήματα).’ (...–.)
The second passage is about a lecture Sosipatra held on the nature of the
soul:
The theme under discussion and their inquiry was concerning the soul.
Several theories were propounded, and then Sosipatra began to speak, and
gradually by her proofs disposed of their arguments (κατὰ μικρὸν ταῖς
ἀποδείξεσι διαλύουσα τὰ προβαλλόμενα); then she fell to discoursing
(ἐμπίπτουσα λόγον) on the descent of the soul (περὶ καθόδου ψυχῆς),
and what part of it is subject to punishment (τί τὸ κολαζόμενον), what part
immortal (τί τὸ ἀθάνατον), when in the midst of her bacchic and frenzied
flow of speech (μεταξὺ τοῦ κορυβαντιασμοῦ καὶ τῆς ἐκβακχεύσεως) she
became silent . . .. (...–.)
The suggestion is that she taught – like all Neoplatonists – that the soul
had its origin in the intelligible realm and descended from there into the
sensible world, that she held the soul to have parts and that one of these
parts (reason) was considered immortal. This passage also reveals some-
thing about the way in which Sosipatra taught philosophy, for it shows


However, these aspects of Eunapius’ account can be explained differently. Iles Johnstone (:
) suggests that Eunapius might have characterised Sosipatra’s knowledge and teachings as
divinely given because he wanted to provide Iamblichus’ philosophy a divine justification and
strengthen philosophy’s connection with theurgy. Moreover, he might have described Sosipatra’s
lectures as preferable to Aedesius’ simply because Aedesius is reputed to have mostly refrained from
teaching theurgy and practising it publicly (...–.).

See also Addey (a:).
  
that she could easily switch between a dialectical mode of speaking,
developing and refuting arguments, and an inspired mode of teaching.
Let us now turn to the question of what model of womanhood
Eunapius’ portrayal of Sosipatra conveys. I will argue that Eunapius’
Sosipatra exemplifies a person who harmonises the male and female
elements in her soul and becomes (psychologically) androgynous. For
Sosipatra is pictured as using the female powers of both generating and
connecting (intermediating) but combines them with the male connoted
powers of contemplating and ruling. As noted above, Eunapius uses
Sosipatra, as well as other male philosophers, to exemplify the holy life
as the life of the philosopher-theurgist. This shows that he does not
consider philosophies through religion as something specifically female.
On the contrary, this approach seems more appropriate for men, since
Eunapius marks Sosipatra as an exception (...–). Thus, in some way,
Sosipatra is pictured as a woman who lives a life that is more suited for
men, dedicated to the contemplation of the divine. Eunapius also reports
that the Chaldeans promised that Sosipatra would have ‘a mind not like a
woman’s or a mere human being’s (οὐ κατὰ γυναῖκα καὶ ἄνθρωπον ἔσται
μόνον)’ (...).
Yet it is equally noteworthy that Eunapius does not describe Sosipatra as
detached from what the late Neoplatonists connect with femaleness. She is
presented as having much in common with the maternal goddesses, for she
was a wife and mother and thus fulfilled her generative potential, and
because she acted as a mediator. Due to the inspired nature of her
teachings, Sosipatra acted analogously to the mediating activity of the
maternal goddesses. For as the maternal goddesses provide their offspring
intelligible nourishment from the paternal cause (Procl. in Cra. .–),
Sosipatra handed over knowledge from a divine source to which her
students had no direct access.
However, Eunapius emphasises that Sosipatra fulfilled these feminine
functions in a self-determined way, using the male connoted power of
ruling to order her own life. Sosipatra is in no need of male guidance and
dominance. Already as a child, she gained independence from her father,
for after her initiation he is reported to have ‘permitted her to live as she
pleased and did not interfere with any of her affairs’ (...–). In the
arrangement of the marriage with Eustathius, she plays an active role


It is important to notice that the Neoplatonists do not regard being inspired as being a passive
mouthpiece of the gods. They understand inspiration as requiring a receptivity that the theurgist
herself has to cultivate by acquiring the highest kinds of virtue. See Addey (b: ).
 Women Philosophers and Ideals of Being a Woman 
(...–). And when it comes to the education of her sons, she is not
described as passing on the skills of her husband, but her own skills, which
partly coincide with his and partly surpass them (...–.). Therefore,
their son Antoninus is not pictured as the successor of his father but as the
successor of both parents: ‘But Antoninus was worthy of his parents
(Ἀντωνῖνος δὲ ἦν ἄξιος τῶν πατέρων)’ (...).
Thus, all in all, Eunapius characterises Sosipatra as a woman who
neither neglects her femaleness nor lives exclusively according to what
the late Neoplatonists conceptualise as female. Of the three Neoplatonic
ideals of womanhood, Eunapius’ Sosipatra can best be interpreted as
exemplifying the androgynous.

Hypatia of Alexandria
We have several sources of evidence for Hypatia of Alexandria, but the
most important ones for our examination are Damascius’ Life of Isidore
(The Philosophical History) and the letters her student Synesius wrote to
her. Damascius’ Life of Isidore is – like Eunapius’ Life of the Philosophers
and Sophists – a collective biography aimed at depicting the holy life.
However, Damascius’ method differs from Eunapius’: while Eunapius
presents most of the thinkers as examples of the holy life, Damascius
focuses on praising Isidore, presenting him as the ideal holy man whom
no one else can rival. He therefore tends to downplay other philosophers.
Regarding Synesius, it is important to notice that he used his collection of
letters to present himself as the kind of philosopher who integrates various
cultural heritages, especially Christianity, Neoplatonism, and Greek
paídeia. All sources (except Synesius’ letters) place great emphasis on
Hypatia’s murder by Christian monks, which is connected to the power
struggle between Alexandria’s governor Orestes and its bishop
Cyril. However, although most sources describe the murder in detail,
the story of Hypatia’s death is nowhere used to enlighten her
philosophical teachings.
More informative are the accounts of her upbringing. Damascius tells us
that Hypatia was taught by her father, the mathematician Theon, and that
‘she was not content with the mathematical education her father gave her,


Other sources for the life of Hypatia are Socrates of Constantinople’s Historia Ecclesiatica,
Cassiodor’s Historia Ecclesiastica, John of Nikiu’s Chronicle, Palladas’ Anthologia Platnania;
Philostorgios’ Historia Ecclesiastica, Hesychius’ Onomatologus, and Malalas’ Chronographia.
 
See Sogno and Watts (: ). Synesius died before Hypatia.
  
but occupied herself with some distinction in the other branches of
philosophy’ (Isid. Fr. *, –). Here, we see an important difference
with Sosipatra. While Sosipatra was described as first gaining divine
knowledge and then turning to philosophical discourse, Hypatia becomes
a philosopher through a classical ascent, very similar to the one described
in Plato’s Republic (b–e). Thus, Sosipatra and Hypatia seem to
represent alternative ways of becoming a philosopher, whereby Hypatia’s
education makes her example easier to follow. For while Sosipatra’s
knowledge is described as the result of a special grace of the gods,
Hypatia’s knowledge is the result of talent combined with a good – but
not divine – education.
Despite acquiring philosophical knowledge on top of her mathematical
education, Hypatia remained active as a mathematician. The only works
by Hypatia we at least know by title are mathematical works, as noted by
Hesychius (Suda ..–). Hypatia also contributed to the third book
of her father’s commentary on Ptolemy’s Almagest, and thus some of her
mathematical knowledge is passed down to us in this form. Regarding
her teaching activity, Damascius portrays her as a gifted teacher of and
commentator on the whole philosophical tradition: ‘She progressed
through town, publicly interpreting (ἐξηγεῖτο) the works of Plato,
Aristotle or any other philosopher’ (Isid. Fr. *.–). We also learn
that she used the method of dialectics (Isid. Fr. *.). But again – as in
the case of Sosipatra – the sources do not give information on whether
Hypatia contributed original ideas to the interpretation of Plato and
Aristotle. Synesius presents Alexandria as replacing Athens as the ‘haven
of wisdom’ thanks to Hypatia’s school (Ep. .–), and this judge-
ment might appear strange if one assumes that Hypatia has simply taught
the interpretations of other philosophers. However, one must also consider
first that originality was not such a central value in late antique schools as it


All translations of the Life of Isidore are from Polymnia Athanassiadi. The fragments and lines are
orientated on Clemens Zintzen’s edition. The ‘*’ indicates that it is likely, but not entirely sure, that
the fragment belonged to the Life of Isidore.

As Watts (: ) argues, Hypatia’s turn to philosophy means that she re-evaluated the relation
between the two disciplines, coming to understand philosophy as leading to the highest reality,
while Theon ascribed this role to mathematics.

For Hypatia’s mathematical achievements, see Deakin (: –).

Watts (: ) takes ‘or any other philosopher’ to mean that the curriculum in Hypatia’s school
contains canonical texts of Aristotle and Plato and the interpretative tradition around them. As
Dzielska (: ) argues, the remark that Hypatia ‘progressed through town’ suggests that
Hypatia was a public figure and gave public lectures.

Gertz (: ) argues that we can assume that Hypatia’s interpretations include a harmonisation
of Plato and Aristotle in accordance with interpretative traditions in Alexandria.
 Women Philosophers and Ideals of Being a Woman 
is in contemporary scholarship. Preserving the legacy of Plato was consid-
ered far more important. And second, one has to keep in mind that
Synesius used his letters for self-presentation. The praise for Hypatia’s
school is also a recommendation of his own philosophy.
Besides her public teaching, Hypatia was engaged in Alexandrian
politics. Damascius describes her as a counsellor for the people ruling
Alexandria (Isid. Fr. *.–); and in Letter , Synesius asks her to
use her influence to receive justice for two friends who lost their property
(–). Her engagement points to an interest in ethics and political
philosophy, but the sources do not give any details.
A highly debated question is what role theurgy plays in Hypatia’s
philosophy. While some interpreters regard her as critical towards or
uninterested in theurgy, others suggest that she considered theurgy
crucial for philosophy. There are two aspects of Damascius’ portrayal
that support the thesis that Hypatia was not much concerned with
theurgy. First, Damascius states in one fragment that Hypatia is just a
geometer and not a real philosopher (Isid. [Phot. Bibl. ] .–).
With this remark he might indicate that she falls short of being a real
philosopher since she is not outstanding in theurgy (or engaged in it at all),
for Damascius regards the ideal philosopher as someone who integrates
philosophy and theurgy (in Phd. .–). Second, Damascius does not
describe Hypatia as performing any forms of theurgy, although he is – like
Eunapius – quite interested in the theurgic achievements of the people he
portrays.
Synesius’ letters, however, refer to practices that suggest a shared interest
in theurgy, such as divine inspiration and dream divination (Ep.
.–), the making of a hydroscope (Ep. .–) and an astrolabe
(ad Pae. .–), which might have been used for ritualistic purposes,
and the fact that Synesius praises Hypatia’s ‘oracular utterance (θεσπεσίας
αὐδῆς)’ (Ep. , , trans. Deakin), which might indicate that he regards
her teachings as inspired.


See Dzielska (: ); Deakin (: ); Watts (: ); and Gertz (: ).

See Cameron and Long (: –), and Addey (a: –).

Other women are praised for their ritualistic achievements, like Anthusa (Isid. [Phot. Bibl. ]
.–) and an unnamed woman (Isid. [Phot. Bibl. ] .–). Moreover, many of the male
philosophers Damascius describes are distinguished by their theurgic abilities, such as Heraiscus
(Isid. Fr. ).

However, Synesius does not state that these instruments are needed for rituals, and there are other
possible uses. See Deakin (: –, and –).

For all points, see Addey (a: –).
  
Especially interesting is Synesius’ On Dreams, which, according to Letter
, he sent to Hypatia, and in which he frequently refers to the
Chaldean Oracles as an authority. Here, Synesius values certain kinds
of rituals that might be regarded as part of theurgy, while being critical of
others. He praises dream divination (B–) and he refers to the
common sympátheia (sympathy, corresponding affection) within the cos-
mos that can be used to establish some form of contact with the encosmic
divine via rituals (B–D). However, Synesius also distances himself
from other rituals, namely those using cosmic objects to contact the divine
transcending the cosmos (A–B) and those aiming at acting forcibly
towards the divine (B–). This suggests that Hypatia and Synesius
were in an ongoing dialogue on theurgy.
Overall, our sources indicate that Hypatia was not altogether uninter-
ested in theurgy. However, in contrast to Sosipatra, it is striking that
almost no source describes Hypatia as a theurgist, while all sources
emphasise her philosophical, mathematical, and political achievements.
Thus, it seems safe to conclude that theurgic rituals were not the heart
of her philosophical teaching.
After this general picture of Hypatia’s philosophy, let us now look at
some more specific topics. In Damascius, there is just one passage that
might give insight into the content of Hypatia’s teaching – that is, the
anecdote in which she cured a student of his love for her by throwing a
napkin with menstrual blood and saying: ‘This is what you are in love
with, young man, and not a thing of beauty’ (Isid. Fr. *.–).
As Cameron and Long (: –) point out, the historicity of the
anecdote is doubtful, for Damascius himself reports that there is another
version of the story according to which Hypatia cured the student with
music (Isid. Fr. *.). However, I do not agree with Cameron and
Long’s interpretation that Damascius made up the anecdote to downplay
Hypatia as a Cynic street philosopher. In contrast, I would argue that the
anecdote fits quite well into a Neoplatonic context, due to its thematic
connection to Plato’s Symposium and the ascent from sensible to intelligi-
ble beauty.


For the question of whether it is justified to draw conclusions about Hypatia’s philosophy from
Synesius’ works, see below.
 
See Gertz (: – and –). See Tanaseanu-Döbler (: –).

However, as Gertz (: ) emphasises, being in discourse about the Chaldean Oracles and
theurgy does not necessarily imply that one practices rituals.

An exception is John of Nikiu’s Chronicle (.–).

For the connection with Plato’s Symposium, see also Dzielska (: ).
 Women Philosophers and Ideals of Being a Woman 
If we read the anecdote in a Platonic context, it is striking that Hypatia
does not interpret the situation in accordance with Plato’s Symposium
(a–d), saying that the young man loves something beautiful by
loving her beautiful body but that he must learn to use this example of
beauty to recall the true intelligible beauty. By contrast, Hypatia uses the
situation to demonstrate that the body is an evil and that the soul should
strive to separate itself from it.
Thus, although I agree with Cameron and Long that the anecdote
might not be historically true, I would argue that far from declassifying
Hypatia as a Cynic street philosopher, the anecdote roots her within the
Platonic tradition and thereby might reveal some information about
Hypatia’s attitude towards body and soul.
More hints at the content of Hypatia’s philosophical interests might be
found in Synesius’ letters. Synesius presents himself as a student who
adheres to the teachings received in Hypatia’s school. Thus, it is not
unreasonable to assume that his philosophy is close to Hypatia’s.
However, for most philosophical topics in Synesius’ letters to Hypatia –
as imagination and dream divination (Ep. ) and the role of fate in
human life (Ep. ) – we have no indication of whether they really aligned
with Hypatia’s interests. An exception is the Dion, a work in which
Synesius argues in favour of integrating rhetoric and poetry into the
philosophical life. In Letter , Synesius suggests that Hypatia approved
the work for publication, which in turn might indicate that she agreed
with its content or at least regarded it as philosophically interesting:
Concerning all this I shall await your decision (ὑπὲρ δὴ τούτων ἁπάντων
σε κρίνουσαν περιμενοῦμεν) . . .. If it [the Dion] does not seem to you
worthy of Greek ears, if, like Aristotle, you prize truth more than friend-
ship, a close and profound darkness will overshadow it, and mankind will
never hear it mentioned. (–, trans. Deakin)
Finally, let us turn to the question of what model of womanhood the
portrayals of Hypatia convey. Regarding Synesius, it is important to notice
that he does not take much interest in Hypatia’s gender. In his letters,
Hypatia’s gender only becomes apparent when he directly addresses her,
as, for example, in Letter :


See also Dzielska (: ) who argues that the anecdote shows ‘Hypatia’s repugnance toward the
human body and sensuality’.

For this methodological consideration, see also Deakin (: ).

As Petkas (: ) points out, Synesius assigns Hypatia the role of the ‘literary critic’ and thereby
places her in ‘a prominent position, even a position of leadership, in an intellectual network’.
  
I am dictating this letter to you from my bed, but may you receive it in
good health, mother, sister, teacher (μῆτερ καὶ ἀδελφὴ καὶ διδάσκαλε) and
withal benefactress, and whatever is honoured in name and deed. (–,
trans Deakin)
The fact that he calls Hypatia ‘mother’ does not indicate a special interest
in her gender nor does it suggest that their relationship is affected by the
fact that Hypatia is female and Synesius male, for it was quite common to
refer to one’s teachers as a parent. Since Synesius does not address the
issue of Hypatia’s gender in his letters, one might speculate that he does
not regard gender as being of much importance but encourages his readers
not to put weight on the gender of the people with whom they interact but
on their virtue and intellectual abilities. Damascius, in contrast, puts
greater emphasis on Hypatia’s gender. When contrasting Hypatia with
Isidore, he mentions Hypatia’s femininity as a disadvantage: ‘Isidore and
Hypatia were very different, not only as man differs from woman (οὐ
μόνον οἷα γυναικὸς ἀνήρ), but as a true philosopher differs from a
mathematician’ (Isid. [Phot. Bibl. ] ). In other fragments (*–
*), Damascius describes Hypatia as a philosopher as well as a mathema-
tician, but that does not soften the impression that he uses Hypatia to
show that femininity is an obstacle to the philosophical life. For he
portrays Hypatia as a person who disconnects herself from femaleness.
When reconsidering the three ideals outlined in the second section
above, we see that Damascius’ Hypatia resembles the virgin goddesses in
at least three aspects: She remains a virgin (Isid. Fr. *.); she devotes
her life to activities associated with maleness, namely philosophy, mathe-
matics, and politics; and she shows a disdain of the procreative potential of
the female body, as it is best shown in the above-mentioned anecdote in
which she cures a student from loving her by arousing disgust for men-
strual blood (Isid. Fr. *.–), the symbol of female procreative
power. In this way, Damascius’ Hypatia contributes to the picture that
a dedication to philosophy is best achieved if one’s female aspects are
set aside.
Thus, all in all, Synesius’ and Damascius’ Hypatia offer us two different
pictures of what it means to be a female philosopher. Synesius provides us
with a picture of Hypatia as a person for whom gender is not of much
concern, while Damascius portrays her as a person who actively strives to


See Harich-Schwarzbauer (: ).

See Deakin (: ) who argues that due to the menstrual blood the anecdote connects Hypatia
with the cult of Artemis.
 Women Philosophers and Ideals of Being a Woman 
live exclusively according to what the late Neoplatonists conceptualise as
male. Of the three Neoplatonic ideals of womanhood, Damascius’ Hypatia
can be best interpreted as exemplifying the ideal of the virgin goddesses,
while Synesius’ Hypatia stands outside the three ideals.

Final Remarks
We have seen that Sosipatra and Hypatia were influential figures in the
Neoplatonic tradition. Both were gifted teachers and commentators who
taught their own circle of students. Hypatia was also renowned for
mathematical achievements while Sosipatra was regarded as an outstanding
theurgist. Besides their direct contribution to the passing on of
Neoplatonic philosophy, both became memorable characters in works
written by other Neoplatonists. As literary characters, they were used to
convey certain ideals of the philosophical life, especially of the philosoph-
ical life lived by a woman.
Sosipatra is pictured by Eunapius as a person who successfully com-
bined the powers Neoplatonists connote as male and the powers
Neoplatonists connote as female, unifying the contemplative life with
the caring role of the mother and mediator. The example of Hypatia
shows that one and the same character can be used by different authors
to express different ideals. Synesius presents his relationship with Hypatia
as one in which gender is not a determining factor, thus promoting the
ideal of seeing each other primarily as (genderless) rational beings.
Damascius, in contrast, uses Hypatia to show that femaleness is in tension
with the philosophical life, and thus a woman can reach perfection in
philosophy by focusing on the male (intellectual) parts of her soul.
Regarding the aim of the whole chapter, one might notice that a close
examination of the sources has brought relatively limited insights into the
philosophy of Sosipatra and Hypatia. That is partly due to the fact that we
only have a few sources (letters and short biographical remarks) and partly
due to the nature of the sources in question for whom transmitting
philosophical thoughts is not the main concern. Thus, if we consider
Sosipatra and Hypatia as historical figures, our ability to assess their
contributions to Neoplatonic philosophy is limited.

One might speculate why Synesius’ and Damascius’ portrayals of Hypatia differ in this way. One
reason might be that Synesius was a Christian Neoplatonist and therefore might have felt closer to
the Neoplatonism of Plotinus and Porphyry in which the traditional Greek deities do not play a
major role. And as outlined above, Plotinus and Porphyry regard the metaphysical principles and
the soul as genderless.
  
Nonetheless, if we consider Sosipatra and Hypatia as literary characters,
the sources allow us to conclude what ideal of femaleness and being a
woman they exemplified, which, in turn, helps us to understand the
Neoplatonic concepts of gender and femaleness. However, the topic of
Sosipatra and Hypatia as literary characters calls for further investigations
that go beyond this chapter. In order to gain a deeper understanding of
Sosipatra and Hypatia as literary characters, it would be especially inter-
esting to examine them not only in relation to metaphysical ideals (as in
this chapter) but also in relation to the descriptions of other (Neoplatonic)
women in the biographical tradition. I leave this to future researchers
to explore.
  

Reappraising Ban Zhao

The Advent of Chinese Women Philosophers
Ann A. Pang-White

Introduction
A member of a family of accomplished scholar-officials during the Eastern
Han dynasty (– ), Ban Zhao 班昭 (c. – ) was the first
woman historian and woman philosopher in ancient China with written
works passed down to the contemporary world. The Book of the Later Han
(Houhanshu 後漢書), an enormous dynastic history compiled by Fan Ye
范曄 (– ), describes her as ‘bo xue gao cai 博學高才 (an
exceptionally gifted polymath)’ and tells that she was summoned by
Emperor He to complete the ‘Treatise on Astronomy’ and ‘Eight Tables’
at the imperial library after her eldest brother (the main official in charge of
the Book of the [Former] Han, Hanshu 漢書) prematurely died. Fan Ye also
mentioned that ‘when the Hanshu was first completed, many scholars were
unable to comprehend it. Ma Rong [a renowned scholar-official] from her
county [and others] studied under her to receive instruction on how to
read it’. Owing to her extensive learning and integrity, ‘Emperor He often
summoned Ban Zhao to tutor the empress and royal consorts and hon-
oured her as “Dagu 大家” (great woman-teacher)’. After Emperor He
passed away, Empress Deng became Empress Dowager and the regent of
the state. During this period (– ), ‘Ban Zhao participated in state
affairs [as an advisor to the Empress Dowager]’.
It should be noted that this is quite unusual in ancient China. Due to
the enforced inner–outer, private–public, female–male distinction at the
time, normally women were neither supposed to study subjects other than
domestic matters nor were they permitted to engage in public roles outside
of the household. In this context, as a rare woman public intellectual, Ban
Zhao clearly broke with the prescribed gender roles. But she was also a


See the Book of Later Han, vol. , ‘Biographies of Exemplary Women’. Volume numbers may vary
due to editions used, but section titles remain the same. For more information, see the bibliography.


  . -
follower of the ritual codes – she married young, was a mother of several
children, and never remarried after becoming a young widow. Her per-
sonal life and writings exhibited an interesting contradiction between her
independent spirit as a contrarian and a conformist compromise to con-
strictive social norms. Because of this, as to be discussed shortly, Ban
Zhao – though revered for generations – was a controversial figure in the
past one hundred years, both praised as an exemplary woman philosopher
by scholars such as Robin Wang (: –) and condemned as an
accomplice to patriarchal oppression of women, for example, by the early
twentieth century anarchist feminist writer, He Zhen (Liu et al. :
–).
Among Ban Zhao’s writings, she was best known for her didactic text,
Lessons for Women (Nüjie, also known as Admonitions for Daughters). Dated
around  , it was the earliest Chinese written work known to be
authored by a woman solely intended for women’s education. Before this
work, no one had ever made as powerful an argument as hers in decon-
structing popular opinion that excluded women from education purely
based on their gender and sex. Ban Zhao advocated for the necessity of
women’s education by appealing to Confucian canonical texts such as the
Record of Rituals (Liji) and the constitutive conditions for virtues. The
Lessons for Women was widely studied since its publication. This work’s
long-lasting impact on Chinese philosophy of women is well attested by its
inclusion in important anthologies in pre-modern China, including Tao
Zongyi’s Compendium of Famous Writings (Shuofu), Wang Xiang’s Four
Books for Women (Nü shishu), Chen Hongmou’s Remaining Instructions for
Teaching Women (Jiaonü yigui), and Chen Menglei’s Collection of
Illustrations and Books from Antiquity to the Present (Gujin tushu jicheng),
among others (Pang-White : ). In addition to her Lessons for
Women, Ban Zhao also composed numerous literary works including
poetry and prose. Unfortunately, only a few of them have survived.
In a society such as pre-modern China, which traditionally divided the
social-political space (especially the middle and upper classes) along strict
gender lines (male: public/intellectual versus female: private/emotive),
even when considering regional and epochal differences, it is not surprising
that women’s writings tended to be neglected, not preserved in major
literary compendiums or published for circulation. Owing to limited
available resources, coupled with Chinese philosophies’ rejection of a rigid
binary logic that separates philosophy from literature, speech from writing,
this chapter will take an interdisciplinary postmodern approach to Ban
Zhao. Postmodern thinkers such as Jacques Derrida and Hélène Cixous
 Reappraising Ban Zhao 
have often challenged the Western tradition’s divide between philosophy
and literature, reason and emotion, speech and writing, and its prejudicial
prioritisation of the former over the latter. To rectify this methodological
bias and to resist the overly simplistic attempt to label Ban Zhao as anti-
feminist, I will situate her work in context and examine a wider range of
her writings than is usually considered, including not only her Lessons for
Women but also her poetry and memoranda. By analysing different types
of her writings, we will be better positioned to reappraise her philosophical
stance and her distinctive strategy to gender politics and the subversion of
traditional gender norms.

Ban Zhao’s Lessons for Women

Among Ban Zhao’s writings, the Lessons for Women (Nüjie 女誡), com-
prising seven chapters, is her best-known work. It is the earliest Chinese
work authored by a woman intended for women’s education. Since its
completion, her colleague and student Ma Rong – a Confucian scholar-
official – immediately praised this work and asked his wife and daughter to
study it. Although Ban Zhao stated in her preface that the Lessons for
Women was intended to provide marriage advice to her daughters (and
thus originally was not meant to be a public moral tract), this book became
essential reading for women’s learning for several unintended reasons.
First, since the full text was recorded in Ban Zhao’s biography in the
Book of the Later Han, a dynastic history of the Eastern Han dynasty, it was
well preserved through the ages. Since history was a necessary subject of
study for learned Confucian scholars – a tradition that began with the
Spring and Autumn Annals (Chunqiu, one of the Confucian ‘Five
Classics’), Ban Zhao’s Lessons for Women garnered the kind of attention
that many women’s writings did not have.
Second, this text pioneered a new genre in Chinese women’s literary
tradition – writing by women for women – particularly in didactic treatises
authored by women intended for female readers. Thus, this text became a
beacon for women authors and was well preserved in women’s literary
circles. For example, during the Tang dynasty (– ), both
Madame Zheng’s Book of Filial Piety for Women (Mann and Cheng
: –) and Song sisters’ Analects for Women cited Ban Zhao as
their teacher-interlocutor and attributed certain views to Ban Zhao partly

For more, see the last section of this chapter and Tong and Botts (: –).

See the Book of the Later Han, vol. , ‘Biographies of Exemplary Women’.
  . -
based on her Lessons for Women (Pang-White : –). In the Ming
dynasty (– ), Empress Renxiaowen’s Teachings for the Inner
Court noted Ban Zhao’s treatise as an essential primer in women’s educa-
tion (Pang-White : ). Towards the end of the Ming dynasty and
the beginning of the Qing dynasty (– ), Madame Liu’s (aka
Chaste Widow Wang) Short Records of Models for Women praised Ban
Zhao for her contribution to the Book of the [Former] Han and her Lessons
for Women as an exemplary case of outstanding women who have both
talent and virtue and as a real-life argument that debunks the patriarchal
myth, ‘without talent is a woman’s virtue’ (Pang-White : ). In
, Madame Shen-Zhang and her daughter-in-law Shen Zhukun pro-
vided commentary in vernacular Chinese for the Four Books for Women,
which includes Ban Zhao’s Lessons for Women (Pang-White : xi–xii).
Third, many renowned Confucian male scholars (in addition to Ma
Rong) also highly recommended Ban Zhao’s Lessons for Women. For
example, Zhu Xi (– ), the epitome of Song New-
Confucianism, once was asked what books should be used for teaching
women in addition to passages from the Analects and the Classic of Filial
Piety. Zhu Xi replied that Ban Zhao’s Lessons for Women was a good text.
Later, Tao Zongyi (– ) included the text in his Compendium
of Famous Writings, Wang Xiang (c. sixteenth–seventeenth century) in his
Four Books for Women, Chen Hongmou (– ) in his Remaining
Instructions for Teaching Women, and Chen Menglei (– ) in
his Collection of Illustrations and Books from Antiquity to the Present, among
others (Pang-White : ).
Fourth, in  Emperor Shenzong (r. –) of the Ming
dynasty issued an imperial edict. It commissioned a Confucian scholar-
official to collect Ban Zhao’s Lessons for Women and Empress Renxiaowen’s
Teaching for the Inner Court in one volume and to circulate it among the
public as an exemplary text for women’s education.
In this well-known work, Ban Zhao made several interesting arguments
in advancing women’s education and moral cultivation and in preventing
domestic violence, as we shall see below. For example, in Chapter Two
(‘Husband and Wife’), she writes:
The Way of husband and wife harmonizes and matches yin and yang. It
teaches spiritual beings and manifests the great principle of Heaven and
Earth and the important morals of human relations. Hence, the Record of


See Zhuzi yulei 朱子語類 (Classified Conversations of Zhu Xi), vol. .
 Reappraising Ban Zhao 
Rituals honours the essential relation between men and women. The Classic
of Poetry makes known the Guanju poem. Based on this, clearly the
husband-wife relation ought not be taken lightly. (Pang-White : )
Owing to its symbolism of generative power, the Record of Rituals regards
the marriage rite between husband and wife as the most important ritual and
the foundation of all human relations. For a meaningful spousal relation-
ship, virtue is essential. Both husband and wife have the moral responsibility
to cultivate it: ‘If a husband is not virtuous, he will not be able to control his
wife. If a wife is not virtuous, she will not be able to serve her husband . . ..
Although the cases are two, their use is one’ (Pang-White : ). To
cultivate virtue, education is essential. For, knowledge is a prerequisite to
practice – not knowing the good, one cannot practice the good. Ban Zhao,
therefore, argues that excluding women from education is equivalent to
excluding women from morality – a self-defeating practice. She contends:
I find nowadays gentlemen-scholars only know that wives ought to be
moderated by their husbands, and the authority and dignity of a husband
ought to be properly established. For this reason, they instruct their sons and
teach them canonical classics. They hardly realize that husbands ought to be
served [by their wives], and ritual propriety and righteousness ought to exist.
Yet only to educate men and not to educate women – are they not being
partial in their treatment of the two sides? According to the Record of Rituals,
at the age of eight, children should begin receiving instructions on the classics.
At the age of fifteen, they should receive adult education. Why is [women’s
education] alone not following this as a principle? (Pang-White : –)
Women must be educated, she argues, both for their personal develop-
ment and for the familial–social good. To exclude women from education
not only is a self-contradictory practice to what the society desires but also
goes against the instruction of Confucian canons, which these men so
desperately seek to preserve. Before Ban Zhao, no one had made as
powerful an argument as hers by tactically deploying the Confucian canon
in refuting popular opinion that excluded women from education.
To prevent domestic abuse in a patriarchal society, in Chapter
Three (‘Respect and Compliance’) Ban Zhao further assets that:
‘For self-cultivation, nothing is more essential than developing respect’
(Pang-White : ). While love and intimacy are certainly vital to the
spousal relationship, yet without the restraint of respect, verbal dispute


All English translations in this chapter are mine. For alternative translations, see, e.g., Idema and
Grant ().

See the Jiaotesheng and the Hunyi chapters.
  . -
often escalates and leads to physical violence. Thus, spouses must control
their anger by exercising mutual respect. Husbands should exercise caution
to avoid verbal abuse and physical beating of their wives, and wives too
should refrain from provoking fights, if they both desire a happy marriage:
If a wife does not moderate her affronts to her husband, scolding insults
[from him] will ensue. If her husband’s anger cannot be stopped, a whipping
will surely follow. To be husband and wife relies on righteousness for
harmonious intimacy, loving kindness for friendly union. If beating is
enforced, where is righteousness? If scolding and insulting words are spoken,
where is loving kindness? When loving kindness and righteousness are both
deserted, husband and wife will part their ways. (Pang-White : )
To encourage women’s self-cultivation, in Chapter Four (‘Women’s
Conduct’) Ban Zhao clarifies the idea of ‘four [womanly] conducts (sixing
四行)’ – woman’s virtue, woman’s speech, woman’s appearance, and
woman’s work – which first appeared in the Record of Rituals and the
Zhou Rituals. To dispel superficial interpretations that could trap women
in self-pity, Ban Zhao explains that women’s virtue does not require
spectacular brilliance but relies on integrity; beauty comes from within,
not on fleeting physical allure that vanishes with age. She writes:
Women have four areas of conduct: first, woman’s virtue; second, woman’s
speech; third, woman’s appearance; fourth, woman’s work. Speaking about
these four, woman’s virtue requires neither unparalleled talent nor exceed-
ing brilliance; woman’s speech requires neither rhetorical eloquence nor
sharp words; woman’s appearance requires neither a beautiful nor a splen-
did look or form; woman’s work demands no unsurpassable skills. Exhibit
tranquility . . . Safeguard integrity . . . Guard one’s action with a sense of
shame . . .. This is what is meant by woman’s virtue. Choose words
[carefully] in speaking. Never utter slanderous words. Speak only when
the time is right . . .. This is what is meant by woman’s speech . . .. [K]eep
one’s clothing and accessories always fresh and clean. Bathe regularly and
keep one’s body from filth and disgrace. This is what is meant by woman’s
bearing. Concentrate on weaving and spinning . . .. Prepare wine and food
neatly and orderly to offer to the guests. This is what is meant by woman’s
work. These four areas are matters of great integrity for women. No women
should lack them. Yet to do them is quite easy. The key is to always keep
them in mind . . .. [Confucius] had a saying: ‘Is humaneness really so far
away? If I desire humaneness, humaneness will surely come.’ This is what
it means here. (Pang-White : –)


See Analects .
 Reappraising Ban Zhao 
It is worth noting how Ban Zhao quotes Confucius and humaneness (ren,
also known as human-heartedness) – a paramount Confucian virtue,
typically accorded only to morally exemplary males (junzi) in the
Confucian canon – to conclude her chapter on the achievability of the
‘four womanly conducts’. Ban Zhao’s intentional use of androcentric texts
to deconstruct the patriarchal gender binary (both the use of Analects here
on humaneness and her early use of the Record of Rituals on women’s
education) exhibits her great hope for women.
Despite the accolades it received, the Lessons for Women, nonetheless,
encountered great hostility in the twentieth century. The most notable
criticism is given by He Zhen (–c. ), an early twentieth-century
Chinese feminist and anarchist writer. In her ‘On the Revenge of Women’,
dated , He Zhen labelled Ban Zhao ‘an archtraitor to women’ and ‘a
slave of men’:
By the time we come to the Eastern Han period, we encounter the case of
Ban Zhao . . . the teachings she promoted are particularly absurd. She opens
her Admonitions for Daughters [aka Lessons for Women] by championing
lowliness and weakness . . .. She also opines that if a wife fails to serve her
husband, moral principles would falter . . . that weakness is a woman’s
merit . . .. In spite of being a woman herself, Ban the traitor was seduced
by the seditious teaching of the Confucian tradition. She hacked at her own
kind and brought shame onto womanhood in its entirety. In being a slave
of men, she was an archtraitor to women . . .. Ban the traitor actually said
that ‘it is proper for a husband to remarry, but a woman must by no means
serve two men’ . . .. I truly did not expect these words to have come from a
woman’s mouth, even less the fact that they would be eulogized in the ages
that ensued. That the rights and power of women failed to develop can be
attributed to the fact that women are well versed in Ban the traitor’s book.
(He in Liu et al. [: –])
Is the Lessons for Women a poison to women as He Zhen and some Chinese
intellectuals of the twentieth century have claimed? It is true that Ban Zhao
opened her book with a chapter entitled ‘The Lowly and the Weak’ stating:
‘These three responsibilities [being the lowly and the weak, being diligent, and
continuing ancestral religious rites] depict the constant way of being a woman
and the canonical teachings of the ritual law’ (Pang-White : ). In
Chapter Three ‘Respect and Compliance’, she wrote: ‘Firmness is yang’s virtue;
gentleness is yin’s distinction. A man is honoured for his strength; a woman is
beautiful in virtue of her weakness’ (Pang-White : ). And, in Chapter
Five ‘One-Mindedness’, one reads: ‘According to the [Book of Ceremonial]
Rituals, a husband has the ground of righteousness to remarry; however, no
existing texts permit a wife to have a second marriage’ (Pang-White : ).
  . -
These statements undoubtedly offend modern sensibility. Nonetheless, to
claim Ban Zhao as ‘an archtraitor to women’, responsible for the failure of
the women’s rights movement, runs the risk of oversimplification and anach-
ronistic prejudice. We must assess the Lessons for Women in its historical context
and consider Ban Zhao’s writings as a whole rather than proclaiming her
philosophical outlook flawed simply based on one single work. We shall now
turn to Ban Zhao’s more adventurous, but lesser known, writings.

Ban Zhao’s Poetry

Many of Ban Zhao’s poems are lost. We are fortunate that her ‘Dongzheng
fu 東征賦 (Rhapsody on a Journey to the East)’ was preserved in its
entirety in an early sixth-century anthology, Wenxuan 文選 (Selections of
Refined Literature), one of the most important collections of poetry in
Chinese literary studies. From the first stanza, we learn that Ban Zhao
composed this rhapsody in   when she was in her late sixties,
travelling with her son to his new post in Chenliu, a few hundred miles
eastbound from the capital Luoyang. Expressing her sadness in leaving
their old home, she also reminded herself of their responsibility as govern-
mental officials, commemorated past sages, and encouraged all to become
morally exemplary persons despite life’s uncertainty. The essential part of
this rhapsody is translated as follows:
In the seventh year of the Everlasting Beginning (Yongchu 永初),
I accompanied my son on an eastbound journey.
...
Leaving our old home behind,
Heading toward a new place,
My spirit was low, burdened by grief.
...
I poured myself a cup of wine to ease my nostalgia.
With a long sigh, I tried to oppress my emotions and chastise myself.
...
How can I not do my very best accompanying my son and serving our
country?
I should join him and others,
Accept what Heaven and destiny have in store for us.
...
Thereupon, I moved ahead gladly and continued our long journey.
I let my eyes wander and my spirit roam.

 
See Wenxuan, vol. . I.e.,   during the first reigning period of Emperor An (r. –).
 Reappraising Ban Zhao 
...
We watched from afar the magnificent currents of the Yellow River and the
Luo River,
Gazed at the nearby towering gates of Chenggao.
...
When we entered the outer city wall at Kuang borough’s old site,
It made me reminisce about the distant past.
Recalling Confucius suffered hardship here.
During a time of decline and chaos,
The Way is abandoned,
Even the sage was threatened and in danger.
...
When we arrived at the borders of Changyuan,
I observed residents living in the fields,
Staring at the ruins of Pucheng,
...
Zilu’s brave spirit came to my mind.
The people of Wei lauded his courage and righteousness,
Even today they still pay tribute to him.
Quyuan was buried in the southeast part of this town long ago,
Yet people still come to show their reverence at his grave.
Only great virtue is immortal!
Even after death the good name endures.
...
Know that our endowed nature rests in Heaven:
It relies on our own diligence to be near humaneness.
Aspire to lofty character,
Practice virtuous conduct.
Endeavour in loyalty and reciprocity,
Treat others with kindness.
...
May the many divinities be discerning:
Protect the virtuous and help the trustworthy.
Envoi:
The thoughts of morally exemplary men (junzi) necessarily manifest in their
writings.
...
My deceased father by his conduct has also composed a rhapsody.


Zilu, a student of Confucius, was killed when he refused to participate in a usurpation. He was once
an official of Pucheng. When Ban Zhao saw Pucheng, she recalled Zilu’s bravery.

Quyuan 蘧瑗 (c. – ), well-known for his virtue and proposal to govern the state by
humaneness, was a high-ranking official of Wei during the Spring and Autumn Period.

‘Junzi 君子’ (literally, ‘son of a ruler’) takes on a moral connotation in Confucianism, often
translated as ‘gentleman’ or ‘morally exemplary man’.

Ban Zhao’s father composed ‘Baizheng Fu (Rhapsody on a Journey to the North)’.
  . -
Although I am unintelligent, how do I dare not emulate him?
High or low ranks, riches or poverty, are not what one can control.
Rectify one’s person, realise the Way, and wait for the right timing.
Long or short life pertains to fate: It’s the same for both the foolish and
the wise.
Respectfully accept what fate has in store: auspiciousness or calamity.
Be reverent and prudent without negligence.
Think only of humility.
Tranquil with few desires,
Let’s emulate Gong Chuo!
This rhapsody is rich in its overlaying of images and meanings. It first
expresses Ban Zhao’s weighty emotions – her reluctance in leaving their
old home behind and moving to a distant place in her old age. A change of
emotions from nostalgia to magnanimity took place and crystalized by a
sequence of events. Her realisation that everyone has a responsibility to the
advancement of social good brought her the first relief. With this realisation,
the environs – the magnificent currents of merging rivers, the towering gates
of mountains, the ruins of historical sites – all become places of her
aspirations. What matters is a person’s character, for ‘Only great virtue is
immortal! / Even after death the good name endures’. The past is past not as
a bygone era. It has something to teach the living. Role models from the past
(Confucius, Zilu, Quyuan, and Gong Chuo) still inspire us, so does her
deceased father. She composed this rhapsody not only to record the physical
journey but also to pay tribute to the past sages, to commemorate her father,
and to articulate her aspiration to become a morally exemplary person. In
her mind – contrary to the received opinion – junzi is not a gendered
excellence limited to man. She, a woman, can aspire to it as well.
Two partially preserved rhapsodies, ‘Zhenlü fu 針縷賦 (Rhapsody on
Needle and Thread)’ and ‘Daque fu 大雀賦 (Rhapsody on Big Peacock)’,
can be found in the early seventh-century anthology, Yiwen leiju 藝文類
聚 (Collections of Literature by Categories). The ‘Rhapsody on Needle and
Thread’ (date unknown) is especially interesting because of her unique use
of small sewing tools, essential to women’s work but generally looked
down upon by men, as metaphors of exemplary moral integrity and
junzi:

In Chinese culture, a junzi often describes oneself as ‘unintelligent’ – humility is a key virtue in
moral exemplariness. Confucianism also emphasises filial piety toward one’s parents. Ban Zhao is
doing both here.

Meng Gong Chuo (sixth century -?), a virtuous official in the State of Lu, was especially known
for his temperance. Confucius advises his students to emulate him. See Analects ..

See Yiwen leiju, vol. .
 Reappraising Ban Zhao 
Welded from the hardest essence of autumn metal,
Its shape is small and subtle, pointing and straight.
Its nature is to penetrate everywhere,
Yet it advances slowly.
With one single thread,
It reaches myriad things.
Only the traces of needle and thread,
Are indeed far-reaching, broad, and without a fixed origin.
It rejects the corrupt and repairs the mistakes.
Like a lamb with the whitest fleece,
It is not what bamboo baskets with small capacity can measure up to –
Even if their merits are engraved on stone and taken into the hall.

‘People/men like bamboo baskets with small capacity’ (doushao zhiren 斗

筲之人) comes from the Analects ., where Confucius use this meta-
phor to criticise small-minded governmental officials with little talents –
they are the opposite of junzi. Ban Zhao’s ‘Rhapsody on Needle and
Thread’ taps into her experience as a woman and creatively reimagines
sewing tools with new meaning. In her poetic observations that physical
size amounts to nothing and that being recognised in the official hall is
unimportant, she not only praises conscientious public servants banished
by the court owing to their outspokenness (like a needle) but also brings to
light the significance of women’s work – although absent in the public eye,
its lustre is not diminished. With the inversion of female imagery (not
lowly and weak but powerful and strong) and poking fun at men who
crave for grandiose public recognition but lack real content, this poem
reveals the novel ways in which Ban Zhao is much more subtly subversive
to gender norms than previous scholarship such as He Zhen (see above)
has shown her to be.

Ban Zhao’s Memoranda

Two of Ban Zhao’s official memoranda are preserved in the Book of the
Later Han. In the style of prose, these pieces provide us another standpoint
to appreciate Ban Zhao’s philosophical acumen. They are also immensely
interesting in showing us how elite women in early second-century China
participated in politics.
‘Petition for a Replacement for My Elder Brother Chao (Weixiong Chao
qiudaishu 為兄超求代疏)’ is an official memorandum to Emperor He in
support of her second elder brother’s request (now at age seventy) to be
relieved from his post at the Western border, where he had been stationed
  . -
for thirty years, and be allowed to return home. The full text of Ban Zhao’s
petition, composed in  , is included in her brother’s biography,
following right after his own petition. Owing to its importance in illus-
trating Ban Zhao’s unparalleled argumentative skills even surpassing his
brother and her vast knowledge of the classics, the entire memorandum is
translated below.
My full elder brother, Chao, the guardian-general of the Western border
and the Marquis Who Secured the Farthest Land, has been very fortunate
to have received great rewards from Your Highness for his negligible merits.
His rank is promoted to marquis, which brings him one thousand dan of
rice annually. The favour of Your Highness is beyond measure. It is truly
not what an insignificant official should have received. When Chao first set
out to his station in the Western border [in  ], he was determined to
sacrifice his life hoping to establish small merits for Your Highness. Soon
after, he encountered the Chen Mu Uprising [in  ]. All roads were cut
off. Chao was stranded in this extremely dangerous region all by himself.
He still managed to persuade all the states in the area to submit. Because
their troops were in greater quantity, every time when an attack happened,
Chao was always the first in the frontline. Although he was injured by the
weapons, he never was afraid of death. Only because he relied on the
protective spirit of Your Highness was he able to survive in the desert.
Now, it has been thirty years. Although he and I are brother and sister, but
having been separated for so long, we are unable to recognize each other.
Those officers, who accompanied him to the Western border from the
beginning, have all died. Chao is the oldest among them. Today he is
seventy: old and ill, with not one single black hair on his head, his hands
shaking, his sight blurry, and his hearing impaired. He can hardly walk
without a cane. Although he desires to exert all his might to return Your
Highness’s favour, the old age has taken its toll on him – almost no teeth
are left in his mouth. It is the nature of the barbarians to rebel against
authority and to bully the elderly. Chao would be entering his grave at any
moment but for a long time no one replaces him. I am worried that this will
give wicked people the thought and opportunity of sedition. Although the
ministers and high-ranking officials in the imperial court consider all
matters of the State, none has come up with a long-term plan. If some
emergency suddenly happens at the border, and Chao’s utmost efforts fail
to follow his wish, the accomplishment of this country over many gener-
ations will be lost and the use of loyal officers’ utmost effort will be
abandoned. This would truly be a shame. Hence, Chao, from ten-thousand


Dan 石 is a measuring unit in ancient China. One dan equals approximately  kg. Only highly
ranked officials receive , dan of rice. The highest reward is , dan.

‘Quan ma chi suo 犬馬齒索’ (dog and horse with hardly any teeth left) is a Chinese idiom
indicating old age.
 Reappraising Ban Zhao 
miles away, petitioned to return home and explained the urgency of the
matter. He has been waiting anxiously for three years. Still, his petition has
not yet been granted.
I have learned that the ancients joined the army at fifteen and returned
home at sixty. There were also people who took time off and did not serve
in office. Because Your Highness rules the world with utmost filialness, you
have acquired delightful gratitude from all the nations. Your Highness does
not even neglect minor officers from the smallest states, not to mention that
Chao holds the rank of marquis. Therefore, I risk my life to beg Your
Highness for mercy, to allow Chao to return home for his remaining years.
If he is able to return alive and see Your Highness once again, it will not
only free the country from having to worry about faraway regions and
sudden emergencies at the Western border, but Chao will also receive grace
from Your Highness akin to what is demonstrated by King Wen [of Zhou
Dynasty] burying the bones of the slain and [Tian] Zifang [of the Warring
States Period] showing mercy to an old steed. The Classic of Poetry says:
‘The people are too tiresome. / They hope for some rest. / Care for the
people in the capital. / Comfort people in all four directions.’ Chao once
wrote me a final farewell letter fearing that we may never meet again. I am
truly saddened by the fact that Chao spent his prime years in the desert out
of loyalty and filialness to our country. Now that he is tired and old, he is
going to die in the wilderness of a distant land. His situation truly deserves
commiseration. If Chao is not rescued now, and he later encounters a
sudden rebellion at the Western border, I hope Your Highness will exempt
Chao’s family from punishment as in the case of the mother of Zhao [Kuo]
and Lady Wei, owing to their previous requests. I am foolish and
ignorant. Not understanding the great principles of state affairs, I have
violated Your Highness’s taboos. [Please forgive me.]


See the Daya section, the Minlao poem.

Zhao Kuo, arrogant and selfish, was a general of the state of Zhao during the Warring States Period
(– ). Before an impending war, his mother wrote a petition to the king, advising the king
that her son should not be the general of the troops. The king would not listen. She said to the king:
‘Your Majesty, if you insist on using Kuo but later he turns out to be unqualified, may his family
and I be exempt from punishment?’ The king agreed. Later, Zhao Kuo and his troops suffered a
massive defeat. The king did not punish Kuo’s family members because of the earlier warning. Lady
Wei was a consort of Duke Huan of the State of Qi during the Spring and Autumn Period
(– ). One day Duke Huan and his ministers decided to attack Lady Wei’s home state.
When she heard the news, she took off her hairpin and accessories, bowed to the duke: ‘I would like
to ask for forgiveness and take the punishment for the State of Wei.’ The duke replied: ‘Nothing
happened between I and the State of Wei, why do you ask for forgiveness?’ Lady Wei replied that
she heard the duke’s plan to attack Wei and would take the punishment for Wei. Upon hearing
this, the duke cancelled the attack. Both women were praised for their foresight. For the story of
Zhao Kuo’s mother, see Liu Xiang’s (c. – ) Biographies of Women, vol. , ch. . For the
story of Lady Wei, see vol. , ch. .

See the Book of the Later Han, vol. , ‘Biographies of Ban and Liang’.
  . -
After reading Ban Zhao’s petition, Emperor He (r. – ) was moved
and permitted her brother to return home. Her brother finally arrived in
the capital Luoyang in August  . One month later, he had passed
away, at seventy-one.
Ban Zhao’s memorandum is powerful in several ways. In a patriarchal
society in first- and second-century imperial China, elite women in the
aristocratic class and the royal court were prohibited from directly inter-
fering with state affairs owing to previous political upheaval, a rigidified
reading of the Record of Rituals and a hierarchical-essentialist interpretation
of the yin-yang binary advocated by Dong Zhongshu (c. – ), a
Confucian erudite and prime minister to Emperor Wu (r. – )
during the Western Han dynasty ( – ). Dong invented a new
brand of Confucianism known as ‘Han Confucianism’ and a correlative
state cosmology that denigrated yin/women/ministers and honours yang/
men/rulers. Women should concern themselves only with domestic mat-
ters (not state affairs), and rulers have absolute power over all their sub-
jects. Her very act of writing the petition is defying gender norms and
subverting the rule–subject power relation established by the state philos-
ophy (Han Confucianism). Ban Zhao knows very well that she is tamper-
ing with political and gender taboos. One careless word and act could get
the whole family clan killed rather than successfully rescuing her brother.
Strategically, she therefore first expresses her gratitude to the emperor’s
favour, followed by highlighting her brother’s decades of loyal service to
the country in the desert. She then appeals to the emperor’s sense by
detailing her brother’s fragile physical condition. To add weight to her
argument, she also addresses the issue from the perspective of national
security (again, violating the social taboo). To conclude her argument, she
cites ancient military practice, the Classic of Poetry (one of the most revered
Confucian classics), and several well-known virtuous figures from history,
including two female figures (the mother of Zhao Kuo and Lady Wei).
Her careful manoeuvring of gender politics and her insight successfully
persuade the emperor and avoid a potential calamity. In writing this
petition as a female subordinate to a male superior and citing female
models who had wisely admonished the kings in the previous dynasties,
she has cleverly undermined received gender norms by her very act of
writing as well as the content of the letter.
Another official memorandum, ‘Memorial to Empress Dowager Deng
(Shang Dengtaihou shu 上鄧太后疏)’, can be found in Ban Zhao’s own
biography in the Book of Later Han. It is a concrete example supporting the
compilers’ remarks that ‘When Empress Dowager Deng was the regent of
 Reappraising Ban Zhao 
the imperial court, Ban Zhao participated in governmental matters. Owing
to her diligence and hard work in serving the country, her son Cao Cheng
was rewarded with the title “the Marquis of Inner Gate.”’ The memorial
was composed during the Yongchu era (sometime between  and 
). At the time, Empress Dowager Deng’s mother had passed away. The
dowager’s elder brother Deng Zhi, a powerful grand general, petitioned to
retire from his official duty to observe the mourning rite. To maintain the
balance of power, Empress Dowager Deng did not want to grant his
request. She solicited Ban Zhao’s opinion on this matter. Ban Zhao
submitted this memorial, stating:
In thinking that Your Majesty, Empress Dowager, embodies the splendour
of abundant virtue, exemplifies the sagely rule of Yao and Shun, opens the
doors in four directions to listen to opinions from all sides, adopts even the
words of arrogant mad men, considers even the strategies offered by grass-
and wood-cutters, and I, Zhao, am able to live under your sagely brilliance
even with my foolish unrefined ability, how do I dare not to reveal my
innermost thoughts so as to reply to even just one-ten-thousandth of Your
Majesty’s favour? I have heard that humble yielding is the greatest virtue
of all. Therefore, the ancient documents praised such virtue and spiritual
beings gave their blessings for such actions. In the distant past, Bo Yi and
Shu Qi left their kingdom [to yield the throne to each other], and all under
heaven respected their lofty character. Taibo left the place Bin [to yield the
throne to his young brother]; Confucius praises him for ‘yielding [the
kingdom] three times.’ This is why their virtue shines with brilliant light
and their names endure in later generations. The Analects says: ‘If one can
use ritual and yielding to govern the country, what difficulty will there be in
government?’ From this standpoint, clearly the effect of sincerity from
recommending and yielding is far-reaching. Now Your Majesty’s four
brothers firmly abide by loyalty and filialness, requesting to retire from
their office on their own accord. If Your Majesty refuses their request with
the excuse that the frontiers are not yet settled, I am truly worried that if
later a small error on their part occurs that overshadows their virtue today,
they will never have the opportunity again to earn the good name of
recommending and yielding. From what I can think of and what I see,
I dare risk my life and offer my foolish opinion. I am fully aware that my
words are unworthy of considering. But I offer them here to show my
insignificant and yet the sincerest heart to Your Majesty.


The Book of Later Han, vol. , ‘Biographies of Exemplary Women’.

Readers may notice that confessing ignorance and foolishness is a trope Ban Zhao uses across her
writings. This is owing to Confucian and Daoist emphasis on humility as a characteristic of
genuine virtue.
 
Analects .. Analects ..

The Book of Later Han, vol. , ‘Biographies of Exemplary Women’.
  . -
After reading Ban Zhao’s memorandum, Empress Dowager Deng granted
her brothers’ request, and the brothers were able to return home to observe
the mourning rite for their deceased mother.
Based on these two surviving official memoranda and Ban Zhao’s
biography in the Book of Later Han, we cannot but admire her indepen-
dent mind, intelligence, strategic excellence, literary fineness, broad knowl-
edge of the classics and history, and her bravery and integrity in offering
contrary opinions to those held by the Emperor and Empress Dowager.
Ban Zhao’s action and her official memoranda (as well as Empress
Dowager Deng’s regency) – however rare they were in ancient China –
demonstrated how these brave women by their actions challenged and
subverted the binary opposition of the inner/domestic/female versus the
outer/public/male that unfairly confine women to the domestic space and
rob them of opportunities and personal development in public sphere.

Observations
As mentioned above, Ban Zhao lived during the time of a new form of
Confucianism – Han Confucianism led by Dong Zhongshu – had arisen
and dominated the political–intellectual atmosphere from   to 
. To serve the interest of the sovereign, Han Confucianism (the state
philosophy of the Han dynasty) replaced early Confucianism’s emphasis
on reciprocal ‘five human relations’ (ruler and minister, father and son,
husband and wife, older and younger, and friend and friend) with an
autocratic ‘three bonds’ (the ruler over the minister, the father over the son,
and the husband over the wife). It further enforced this political ideology
by essentialising the originally mutually transformative yin-yang paradigm
and by privileging yang over yin. The yang was equated with the Han
dynasty, ruler, father, and husband. The yin was identified with the
toppled former Qin dynasty, minister, son, and wife. In such an oppressive
political, intellectual, and social climate, Ban Zhao wrote her Lessons for
Women to give her daughters advice on how to navigate marital relation-
ships. Speaking from her own experience, she confided in her Preface:
At the age fourteen I was in charge of the work of dustpan and broom in the
Cao family. Now, more than forty some years have passed; during these
years, trembling with fear, I was constantly afraid that I may be dismissed or
humiliated . . .. It, however, grieves me to see you, my daughters, who have
just reached the age of marriage, to not have been gradually taught more
nor have you learned proper rituals of being a married woman. I fear that
you may lose face with other households and bring shame upon your family
 Reappraising Ban Zhao 
clan. I am now seriously ill; my life is uncertain. As I think of you in such an
[untrained] state, I am distraught by worries and frustration.
Her primary concern in this work, as an ill and aging mother, is how she
may ensure her daughters’ happiness after they become married. How do
they thrive in a new unfamiliar environment? How does a wife maintain
her dignity in an androcentric patriarchal society? The overarching lan-
guage of the politicised Han Confucianism is ‘yang [= ruler/husband/
father] the venerable, and yin [= minister/wife/son] the lowly.’ Thus,
while acknowledging constrictive Han ritual norms on women, she took
pains to argue for women’s education and the four womanly conducts as
an important means to maintain one’s dignity in marriage. Ban Zhao
wrote: ‘A wife must seek to win her husband’s heart. Nonetheless, to seek a
husband’s heart is not to rely on flattery and charm in a demeaning way in
order to gain his affection. Such behaviour is not as good as if she is one-
minded with solemn appearance’ (Pang-White : ). So too, in
other chapters of this book, as mentioned earlier, she deployed the
Confucian canon to combat gender prejudice (such as the physical beating
of wives) and to encourage women to cultivate learning and virtue. Ban
Zhao’s language in her Lessons for Women is complex. She writes for
women in social binds – more specifically for women born in the aristo-
cratic families, whose burden to display unwavering loyalty to the throne
far surpassed that of ordinary women, or they risked the slaying of their
family clans. Thus, Ban Zhao writes in contradictions, in strategic indi-
rectness – in what Hélène Cixous may call the non-linear language of love
(Cixous : –) – to reveal the unthought new meaning of the
canon that has long been ignored and to challenge the male narrative of
Han Confucianism of her time. He Zhen’s hostile assessment of Ban Zhao
as ‘an archtraitor to women’ is too simplistic and overly hasty – it does not
do justice to Ban Zhao’s very subtle and careful strategic navigation of
gender politics.
Beyond the Lessons for Women, Ban Zhao’s other writings such as her
poetry and official memoranda further demonstrate that Ban Zhao is
hardly ‘a slave of men’ as He Zhen claims. In the envoi of the ‘Rhapsody
on a Journey to the East’, her aspiration to be a morally exemplary person
speaks to her vision that moral exemplariness transcend gender. In her


Dong Zhongshu, Chunqiu fanlu 春秋繁露 (Luxuriant Dew of the Spring and Autumn Annals),
chs.  and .

This comment marks the difference between Ban Zhao’s and Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s standpoint
on gendered nature and conduct in the Emile.
  . -
‘Rhapsody on Needle and Thread’, she purposefully used women’s sewing
tools and slow needlework, often looked down upon by men, to express
moral integrity that all should aspire to. In the ‘Memorial to Empress
Dowager Deng’, in advising Empress Dowager to grant Grand General
Deng Zhi’s request to retire from his official duties, Ban Zhao argued that
‘humble yielding is the greatest virtue of all’. Clearly then, Ban Zhao did
not believe that humble yielding is a gendered female virtue but a virtue
that applies to all genders. Moreover, in ‘Petition for a Replacement for
My Elder Brother Chao’, Ban Zhao risked her life to express her contrary
opinion to the unreasonable demand of the emperor and high-ranking
officials (all men!) – her act of bravery undoubtedly subverted gender-
stereotyping of female submissiveness.
Although facing enormous constraints with very limited power in her
hands in first- and second-century China, Ban Zhao did not project herself
as a completely helpless victim, an oppressed object, the total other, who can
only bury herself in grief. Although she compromised on certain constrictive
norms on women, let us not forget what she had accomplished. She had
negotiated unexplored space for women by her action as a public actor and
by pioneering writing by women for women – a significant contribution to
women’s literary tradition. Hélène Cixous once wrote:
Women must write herself: must write about women and bring women to
writing, from which they have been driven away as violently as from their
bodies . . .. Women must put herself into the text – as into the world and
into history – by her own movement . . .. Not to strengthen their own
narcissism or verify the solidity or weakness of the master, but to make the
love better, to invent . . .. She gives that there may be life,
thought, transformation. (Cixous : –)
A controversial figure by modern standards, Ban Zhao is a contradiction.
But here also lies her greatness. She did not solve the gender problem;
rather, she exposed it. She did not completely break away from binary
thinking, but she questioned it in her action and writings. What she left
with us is not a decisive solution but the gestation of a new thinking, a
breaking-in of a new horizon, the precursor of a new history. Jacques
Derrida once remarked:
Here there is a sort of question, call it historical, of which we are only
glimpsing today the conception, the formation, the gestation, the labour.
I employ these words, I admit, with a glance toward the business of
childbearing – but also with a glance toward those who, in a company
from which I do not exclude myself, turn their eyes away in the face of the
as yet unnameable which is proclaiming itself and which can do so, as is
 Reappraising Ban Zhao 
necessary whenever a birth is in the offing, only under the species of the
non-species, in the formless, mute, infant, and terrifying form
of monstrosity. (Derrida in Macksey and Donato [: ])
Not speaking in the language of rights that only becomes available in the
West in modernity, Ban Zhao appears monstrous to He Zhen and others
who have been influenced by the modern philosophy of rights. Yet, in our
cross-epochal cross-cultural discourse on women philosophers, let us not
forget those women pioneers, who were ‘the as yet unnameable . . . under
the species of the non-species, in the formless, mute, infant, and terrifying
form of monstrosity’, their struggles and triumphs.
  

The Reception of Plato on Women

Proclus, Averroes, Marinella
Peter Adamson

As documented in the rest of this volume, ancient Platonism was distin-

guished by its inclusion of numerous women philosophers. This is perhaps
to be explained in light of Platonic doctrines. For instance, Platonists at
least sometimes hold that the contrast between male and female is only a
feature of embodiment and does not apply to the true self (I will be
returning to this idea below). Whatever the merit of such explanations,
they should be considered only alongside the more obvious fact that Plato
himself wrote the most famous and influential defence of philosophical
training for women. This comes in the Republic, where he has Socrates
argue that in the ideal city women would be part of the martial class of
‘guardians’ and participate in the communist arrangements of this class:
private property is eliminated, and children are separated from their
parents and raised by the whole community. Since philosophers are drawn
from among the guardians, there will be philosopher queens as well as
philosopher kings (Rep. c). Reactions to this part of the Republic begin
already with Plato’s student Aristotle and recur throughout pre-modern
philosophy. The aim of this chapter is to study three unusually detailed
engagements with Plato’s proposals about women, drawn from three very
different times and cultures: late ancient Athens, medieval Islamic Spain,
and the Italian Renaissance.
I should however begin by explaining my choice of theme. This book is,
after all, devoted to women philosophers in antiquity. Why then focus on
responses to a book written by a man, albeit a man writing about women?
First, because it will help us better to understand the context within which
historical women philosophers worked. As we will see, such figures were
invoked in defence of Plato’s thesis, held up as a kind of empirical proof
that women could do philosophy too. But misogyny and prejudice can be
found even in male authors who agreed with Plato’s proposals. These
commentators issued caveats, for instance, that giving women a leading
role in governance is a utopian idea and would be impractical in a more

 The Reception of Plato on Women 
familiar political context. Tellingly, it is not until the final section of this
chapter, when we reach the Renaissance, that we will see Plato’s authority
invoked in favour of genuine intellectual equality (or in fact, the superi-
ority of women over men).
A second, more subtle rationale would be to point out that work on
women philosophers in antiquity nearly always involves studying books
written by men. With a few exceptions and possible exceptions, like the
poems of Sappho and the letters ascribed to famous Pythagorean women,
the corpus on which we draw consists entirely of writings by men about
women. Some of these women definitely existed (Hypatia, Augustine’s
mother Monica, Gregory of Nyssa’s sister Macrina, etc.), some may or may
not have existed (Diotima), and some are clearly fictional entities
(Boethius’ Lady Philosophy); but whatever the real historical basis of such
presentations, the presentations themselves were composed by male
authors. This is of course not to say that texts by men are useless as
evidence for real women philosophers. But it is to say that there is no
sharp contrast between studying ancient women philosophers and reading
what ancient men said about women philosophers. To the contrary, these
are usually just the same enterprise.
So it seems entirely appropriate that a book dedicated to this enterprise
should include a discussion of the most famous of all classical texts about
women in philosophy, which is of course the passage on women in the
Republic. Happily, a survey of the reception of this passage will give us an
opportunity to talk about a book that was after all written by a woman: the
Renaissance proto-feminist, Lucrezia Marinella (d. ). My other two
examples of philosophers who respond to Plato are Proclus (d. ) and
Ibn Rushd (often known by his Latinised name ‘Averroes’, d. ). One
of my main contentions will be that these three figures anticipated points
made in much more recent commentary literature, so I begin with a glance
at modern-day interpretations.

Plato
The secondary literature on Plato’s discussion of women in the Republic is,
to put it mildly, ample. Restricting ourselves just to publications in
English, there was a spate of articles on the topic in the s, the most
influential of which has been that of Julia Annas, who sought to pour cold


See Pomeroy () and the relevant chapters of the present volume.
  
water on the notion that Plato is a ‘feminist’. Subsequent contributions
have adopted more or less forthright stances on that same question. Thus,
Gregory Vlastos spoke up in favour of Plato’s feminist credentials, while
Morag Buchan’s book-length investigation reached opposite conclusions.
Obviously, this particular angle of approach to the Republic has been
inspired by the political and cultural interests of our own age. It is no
coincidence that the topic attracted significant interest during the s,
when feminism was on the rise. Yet, as I say, several key interpretive issues
that recur over the last several decades of research on Republic V were
already raised in pre-modern treatments of that same text.
A useful departure point is provided by Christine Garside Allen’s
distinction between what she calls the ‘metaphysical’ and ‘pragmatic’
aspects of Plato’s argument. The former involves showing that if women
and men have different natures, those differences are not relevant to the
tasks of guardianship (Rep. d–c). The latter involves arguing that it is
in the best interests of the state to include women among the guardian
class (c–b). Passages in the Laws spell out with particular clarity that
it would be a waste of resources not to exploit talents found among
women. At Laws c, for instance, we are told that excluding women
from military service would mean ‘leaving to the city only half of the happy
life, instead of both halves (εὐδαίμονος ἥμισυ βίου καταλείπειν ἀντὶ
διπλασίου τῇ πόλει)’. In studies from the s, the metaphysical aspect
of the argument was used to support a reading of Plato as being, to some
degree, ‘feminist’. Allen herself said that it led Plato to recommend
education for women because it ‘is crucial for the women themselves’.
Likewise, Harry Lesser wrote that ‘Plato’s concern is precisely with the
needs and capacities of the individual: he has a vision of a society in which
each person leads the life for which he or she is best suited’. Somewhat
later, Nicholas Smith expanded upon this point by setting it within Plato’s
broader metaphysics: we know from the Republic itself, in particular from
the Myth of Er, that human souls can go from male to female bodies. It is
because both men and women are ‘sexless souls embodied’ that ‘Plato finds
no difficulty in saying that just as a man can have the nature of a physician,
so can a woman . . . just as a man can be a lover of wisdom, so can a
woman’. Smith drew a contrast here to Aristotle, for whom souls are


Annas (). See also Dickason (–); Pomeroy (); Allen (); Saxonhouse (),
Okin (), Jacobs ().

Vlastos (); Buchan ().

For a later collection devoted to feminist approaches to Plato, see Tuana ().
   
Allen (: ). Allen (: ). Lesser (). Smith (: –).
 The Reception of Plato on Women 
forms of bodies, which would explain why he ‘offers a biological account of
human reproduction that renders female psychology naturally and impor-
tantly different from that of males’. But scholars do not agree on the
implications of Plato’s metaphysics for his views on women. Many point to
the gendered metaphors he uses for the contrast between intelligible forms
and matter, with the latter in particular seen as a feminine principle.
Embodiment is a bad thing in Platonist thought, and it is associated with
the female, which is perhaps why ‘woman’s sexual, bodily nature is
forgotten and she becomes almost irrelevant in Socrates’ best city’.
Furthermore, while a passage on reincarnation at the end of the Timaeus
does confirm that one soul can be first in a male, then a female, body,
embodiment as a woman is there presented as the result of cowardice and
injustice in a previous life (Tim. e). This is like a cosmic version of a
proposal found in the Laws, whereby cowardly soldiers are made to live in
disgraceful safety, like women do (d–e). So even if women are not
relevantly different by nature, they seem to be relevantly different by
character: femaleness is an ‘acquired condition’, so that women are really
just ‘lesser men’ and their souls are just ‘inferior male souls’.
As for the ‘pragmatic’ aspect of Plato’s argument, this seems even less
likely to support a feminist reading: notice that in the quotation from the
Laws given above, it is the city that gets to have a happy life, not the
women guardians (cf. Rep. b). Indeed, Annas’ damning verdict is based
on the ‘pragmatic’ considerations offered by Plato. ‘The argument’, she
says, ‘is not based on, and makes no reference to, women’s desires or needs.
Nothing at all is said about whether women’s present roles frustrate them
or whether they will lead more satisfying lives as Guardians than as house-
bound drudges’. Likewise, Catherine Gardner sees Plato’s arrangements
as insufficiently radical, in that the ‘patriarchal nuclear family’ is retained
but with women belonging to the state instead of specific men, because
this will provide the ‘dual benefit’ of unity and controlled breeding (i.e.,
the matching of partners to produce the best offspring) among the


Smith (: –). For the role of biology in Plato’s account, see also Dickason (–); and
for a more recent comparison between Plato and Aristotle on women, see Frede ().
 
See, for instance, Buchan (: , ). Saxonhouse (: ).

As nicely pointed out by Schultz (a: ). Similarly, Brill () suggests that gender precedes
biological sex, since effeminate souls get female bodies (), and that the male is the normative
gender and is ‘more quintessentially human’ ().

Townshend (: ).

Buchan (: , cf. , ). She goes so far as to say that ‘no woman possesses’ a philosophical
soul, which may be an implication of the Timaeus but is flatly contradicted by the Republic (a).

Annas (: ).
  
guardians. Putting together this point with the inferiority of women
admitted in this very part of the Republic, and confirmed in the Timaeus
and elsewhere, Catherine McKeen argues that Plato’s pragmatic argument
does not guarantee that women would rule in the ideal city. Even if some
women are more suited to rule than they are to do anything else, that does
not mean that they would be better at ruling than the available men are.
While Plato himself apparently disagrees with that judgement, the point
remains that a ‘purely utilitarian’ rationale, as Annas calls it, will tend to
ignore the interests of individual women and give them a chance at
fulfilling their potential only if it suits the needs of the state. This is not
the logic of feminism. Then too, even if individual women do incidentally
wind up benefitting from Plato’s proposals, this by-product will be enjoyed
by only a happy few. There is no revision to the gender dynamics of the
merchant and labouring classes, so that Plato’s proposals only ‘offer the
opportunity to certain women who show a level of ability, a capacity for
rational thought, a degree, in fact, of masculinity, to gain the status which
should accompany these attributes’. His political programme may be
communist, but it is also unhesitatingly elitist, something few modern-
day readers (feminist or not) are liable to embrace.

Proclus
Pre-modern philosophers, you might think, must have read the Republic’s
discussion of women very differently. Elitism was not going to be a
problem, but any hint of ‘feminism’ certainly was. Far from chastising
him for not going far enough in upholding the interests of women, Plato’s
exegetes had to excuse him for going as far as he did. This expectation is
borne out by the most substantive late ancient reaction to the Platonic
proposals, Proclus’ two essays on the question in his so-called commentary
on the Republic. Yet we also find resonances between his treatment and

  
Gardner (: –). McKeen (: ). Annas (: ).

Buchan (: ).

On the reading of Okin (), the point of the Republic V argument actually has nothing to do
with giving women fulfilment but is intended to set up a situation in which family arrangements
may be communal. Plato’s aim is, in other words, not to promote women to a higher rank in society
but to abolish the family.

I say this because it is indeed a series of essays, presumably based on lectures, and does not have the
format of his line-by-line commentaries on other dialogues like the Timaeus, Parmenides, and
Alcibiades. For the text, see Kroll (), which I cite by page and line number in my own
translations. For a French translation, see Festugière (). I am grateful to Dirk Baltzly for
sharing with me a pre-publication of the forthcoming English translation of these two essays.
 The Reception of Plato on Women 
those just surveyed, beginning with the way Proclus divides his discussion
in Essay . Taking his cue from Plato himself (Rep. c), he says that Plato
offers different rationales for the possibility of legislating that women
should be guardians and the benefit of doing so (.: ὅτι δυνατὰ
νομοθετεῖ καὶ ὅτι . . . ὠφέλιμα). This maps on directly to Allen’s contrast
between a ‘metaphysical’ and a ‘pragmatic’ argument, because the possi-
bility thesis is established by the argument concerning the difference
between male and female nature, while the benefit thesis is established
by appealing to the interests of the state.
For Proclus, Platonic metaphysics supports the possibility of female
guardians, whereas the Peripatetics ‘tear apart the virtues (διασπῶσι τὰς
ἀρετάς)’ by assigning some to men and some to women (.–:
καθάπερ οἱ ἐκ τοῦ περιπάτου φασίν, cf. .–). Against this division
of the virtues, Proclus substantiates the possibility thesis by referring to the
single form in which all humans, regardless of gender, participate:
.–.: On these topics, it seems to me, Plato knew the truth and
established it securely, laying it down that male and female are the same in
respect of form, and determining that just as they have one form, so they
have one virtue (καθάπερ τὸ εἶδος ἕν, καὶ τὴν ἀρετὴν μίαν ἔχειν
διορίσας) . . .. It is those things that are different in form that differ also
in their good, whereas to those things that are alike in form with respect to
essence belongs virtue that is alike in form for them all (τῶν δὲ κατ’ οὐσίαν
ὁμοειδῶν καὶ τὴν ἀρετὴν ὁμοειδῆ πάντων ὑπάρχειν).
Proclus’ argument gains some of its plausibility from the double meaning
of the Greek word eidos, which is translated into English as either ‘species’
or ‘form’, depending on context. His thought is that the form of a thing
determines its virtue or good (to eu); since the male-female contrast is one
drawn within a single species, men and women must have the same good.
Further on, Proclus makes the same point by appealing to the concept of
‘nature’ and makes it explicit that a single nature is given to all humans by
the divine craftsman whose work is described in the Timaeus:
.–.: Since, then, humans are all alike in form, and have the same
perfections and natural activities, so too must they have the same natures
(τελειότητας ἕξουσι τὰς αὐτὰς καὶ τὰς φυσικὰς ἐνεργείας, ὥσπερ καὶ τὰς
φύσεις). .–: Thus, the nature of humans that has come to be from


In fact, Festugière () translates eidos here as ‘espèce’. I should say that I am not accusing Proclus
of an equivocation here: he would say that eidos as a species or class is unified by the participation of
all its members in a transcendent eidos or form.
  
demiurgic creation is equivalent in respect of virtue (οὕτως ὁμαλὴ γέγονεν
ἡ τῶν ἀνθρώπων φύσις πρὸς ἀρετὴν ἐκ τῆς δημιουργίας).
The idea of ‘nature’ helps to bridge the gap between mere class member-
ship (which is all that is immediately implied by eidos in the sense of
‘species’) and the normative concepts of virtue and the good. For, as
Proclus observes, ‘in all cases we see that activities in accordance with
nature follow upon the natures’ (.–), and each living thing ‘par-
takes in a single idea by its nature (ὡς ἔχει μίαν ἰδέαν ἐκ τῆς φύσεως)’
(.). The allusion to an ‘idea’ here, like the reference to demiurgic
creation in the previous quotation, already situates the argument in
Platonic metaphysics, but the wider philosophical context is still more
explicit in Essay :
.–: [Male and female] are the same in form and their virtue is the
same, this on the basis of the principle (ἀξίωμα) that perfections are
consonant with essences (ταῖς οὐσίαις . . . συστοίχους), with the same
belonging to the same. For it is the Intellect that gives the essences and
the perfections to the forms. Inasmuch, then, as it gives essence, so it gives
the perfection that corresponds to the essence.
If the natures of women and men are the same, so are their activities, and
what it is to be a good woman is the same as what it is to be a good man:
namely, to be a good human and participate as fully as possible in the ‘idea’
or ‘form’ of humanity bestowed by the Intellect. This leaves scope, Proclus
hastens to add, for variations in ‘intensity and laxity (ἐπίτασις καὶ ἄνεσις)’
(.). Thus, all storks are clever (.), but some may be cleverer
than others. With this point Proclus can accommodate Plato’s admission
that women are less excellent than men, without having to admit that
women should pursue a different kind of excellence from men.
As I say, though, all this shows merely that it is possible for women to be
guardians. In designing the ideal state, we do not legislate so as to realise
every possibility but only those that are beneficial. So it must be shown
why such legislation would be advantageous. At first glance, Proclus’
remarks on this issue are grist to the mill of the anti-feminist reading given
by Annas and others. He observes, in what looks like an echo of the above-
cited passage from the Laws about making the city only half as happy as it
could be, that ‘the educating of women pays off more (λυσιτελέστερον)
than educating only the men, for otherwise half the city will be unedu-
cated’ (.–). In fact, women are in even more need of education
because they are more prone to the influence of the passions (.). We
want to avoid having uneducated citizens, at least among the guardian
 The Reception of Plato on Women 
class, since if that class is entirely good it will be ‘more in harmony with
itself (ἑαυτῇ σύμφωνος)’ than if some (the men) are good and some (the
women) bad (.–). All this makes it sound like women are edu-
cated solely for the sake of the city and its unity, not for their own good.
Plato’s Republic does seem to say that the guardians’ individual happi-
ness may be sacrificed for the good of the city. That is suggested especially
by the famous passage in which Socrates concedes that philosophers would
prefer not to rule but says that they should rule anyway since they are the
best qualified; besides, it is actually better for those who do not value
political power to wield it. This sounds like bad news for the guardian-
philosophers’ individual interests, but ‘it is not the law’s concern to make
any one class in the city outstandingly happy but to contrive to spread
happiness throughout the city by bringing citizens into harmony with each
other’ (Rep. e). As it turns out though, Proclus would deny that there
is a conflict between the good of the philosophers and the good of the city.
He would agree with aforementioned Harry Lesser, who says that when
everyone in the city carries out their proper role, this ‘has the consequence
of benefiting both that person and the community . . . [otherwise] the
individual is robbed of fulfilment, and the community of the use of his
talents’.
For Proclus, similarly, both men and women guardians contribute to
the unity and harmony of the city by being good and virtuous, and it is
obviously in their individual interest to be good and virtuous. In this
respect, he follows the lead of the earlier Theodore of Asine, whose
interpretation is transmitted and discussed in Proclus’ Essay . For
instance, one of Theodore’s rationales for educating women is that if virtue
were ‘split up’ and distributed in part to men, in part to women, then
everyone would lack some virtues and be ‘incomplete’ (.). That is,
even the men would lack those human virtues distinctive of women. Like
Plato and Proclus, Theodore refers to the idea of realising the potential for
virtue to an only ‘half-complete (ἡμιτελές)’ extent, but he refers this claim
to each gender (genos), not the city. If we do not educate women then their
class will be ‘stunted (κολοβὸν)’ (.). On the other hand, Theodore has
just said that without educating women, the city will be ‘stunted’ (.)
by filling it with people who are not excellent (spoudaios) and also allowing
children to be born from non-excellent parents, namely uneducated
mothers. It is clear then that for Theodore, and for Proclus who evidently

 
I here use the Grube/Reeve trans. from Cooper (). Lesser (: ).

For Theodore’s interpretation and Proclus’ use of it, see O’Meara (: ) and Baltzly ().
  
accepts these arguments, the good of individual woman guardians, the
good of women as a class, and the good of the city all stand or fall together.
With this line of thought Theodore and Proclus rebut in advance the
concerns advanced by Annas and others who are troubled by the ‘utilitar-
ian’ basis of Plato’s proposals. Proclus also considers, and rejects, the claim
that the misogynist account of reincarnation in the Timaeus undermines
Plato’s promotion of female education and virtue in the Republic. His first
move is a striking one: he says that Timaeus, whom he takes to be a real
historical figure steeped in Pythagorean philosophy, was well aware that
there were actual women philosophers: ‘Theano, Tymichas, and Diotima
herself’ (.–). This striking invocation of the contributions of real
(or supposedly real) women philosophers echoes what Theodore of Asine
said in his defence of Republic V. He also mentioned Diotima as well as
other figures like Helen of Troy as examples of virtuous women ().
While these passages are brief, they do show that our present-day concern
with identifying real women sages was not unprecedented in antiquity. As
I will mention below, it was a major theme of Renaissance European
philosophy too.
In any case, Proclus’ main response to the worry about the reincarnation
passage in the Timaeus is that it supports, rather than casting doubt on, the
argument of Republic V. This is for precisely the reason given in our own
day by Smith, namely that sexual differentiation is due to embodiment, so
that the souls of women and men are fundamentally the same:
.–: If it is the same souls that come to be both men and women,
taking their lives in exchange, and if the virtues belong to souls, not bodies,
then by what device could it happen that their perfections are made
different because of the bodies, rather than being the same because of the
souls? This very evidence is sufficient to show that the virtues are common:
the fact that the souls of both were common well before.
This, again, is not unlike what we can find in some modern interpreters,
who see Republic V and the psychological theory of the Timaeus as being at
least reconcilable, even as mutually supporting. It must be said that
Proclus’ considered view on the gender of souls is more complicated than
this, though. In his Timaeus commentary he says that, even though a given
soul may be now in a man’s body, now in a woman’s, the soul also has a
kind of ‘gender’ of its own depending on the divine principles with which
it is individually coordinated. As Jana Schultz has pointed out, this should


Harry and Polansky ().
 The Reception of Plato on Women 
not be taken to imply that some souls are intrinsically weak or corrupt: ‘it
would be absurd to state that a goddess is vicious and that she imparts this
characteristic to those souls which follow her’. Still, gods are superior to
goddesses, because they are aligned with the cosmic principle of Limit
rather than the Unlimited. Likewise, the very best human souls are male
ones. But that does not immediately undermine the proposals of Republic
V either and could even give Proclus another reason to support them. After
all, a male soul can be in a female body, and presumably at least some
female guardians are in fact male souls that find themselves in the bodies of
women this time around. It would clearly be wrongheaded to withhold an
education in virtue from such persons or, for that matter, from excellent
female souls who have a female body.
Or would it? After this spirited defence of the potential for female virtue
and the importance of fulfilling that potential, we are apt to be disap-
pointed by a passage in which Proclus pulls back from the practical
consequences of his own arguments. Modern-day readers have often noted
a disparity between the proposals of the Laws and the Republic: while both
texts argue that women should receive military training, the Laws does not
grant them the highest political offices. This did not escape Proclus’ notice,
and he tries to explain it as follows:
.–: In the Laws, he considers people who have been living in other
cities and who, even if they have remained uncorrupted, lack superlative
natures (τὰς ἀκροτάτας φύσεις). By contrast here [in the Republic, the
citizens] are sprung straight from the universe, and then educated.
He goes on to say that the crucial difference between the ideal city of the
Republic and the less-than-ideal city of the Laws is that in the latter there is
private property, whereas property is abolished among the guardians of the
Republic. Women’s tendency to focus on the private sphere instead of the
concerns of the whole city means that in a non-communist polity, they
cannot be trusted with supreme authority, that is, ‘rule over the whole (τὴν
τῶν ὅλων ἀρχήν)’ (.).
In these final lines of Essay , Proclus sounds not unlike Aristotle in the
notorious passages of the Politics (I., a) that assign to women
authority in the private sphere of the household but not in civic life.
Still, we should not leap to the conclusion that Proclus sides with Plato,
when it comes to the fantasy scenario of a perfect city, but with Aristotle,


Schultz (a: ). The topic is also discussed in Dillon () and Baltzly ().

See on this topic Jana Schultz’s chapter in the present volume (Chapter ).

I here borrow Baltzly’s nice translation of φύντας εὐθὺς ἐκ τοῦ παντὸς.
  
when it comes to real life. As we have seen, he explicitly rejects the
Peripatetic division of virtues into male and female. In fact, one could
take Proclus’ defence of both the possibility and desirability of Plato’s
proposals to be inspired in part by the need to respond to Aristotle’s
critique of those proposals. Aristotle denied both the possibility of
Plato’s scheme (ἀδύνατον, at Politics a) and the benefit of seeking
maximal unity in the state: ‘Even if it were possible to achieve this’, he says,
‘we shouldn’t do so. For it would eliminate the city’, given that the city is
made up of different kinds of people (Pol. a–). On the whole,
then, Proclus clearly sides with Plato against Aristotle. Our next author, by
contrast, will find a way to support the arguments of Republic V while
adhering to his staunch Aristotelianism.

Ibn Rushd
Ibn Rushd, usually known in English by his Latinised name ‘Averroes’,
was the greatest medieval commentator on Aristotle. After long study of
the man’s works, he came to believe that Aristotle was as close as any
human to perfect intellectual fulfilment. In light of this, it may seem
inexplicable that Ibn Rushd would endorse a political programme that
came in for such stern critique from Aristotle. In fact, though, the
explanation is ready to hand: Ibn Rushd tells us himself that he was unable
to find an Arabic translation of the Politics, so he would not have been
aware of the criticisms of Plato in Book  of that work. Ironically
enough, it was to fill this gap in the Aristotelian corpus that Ibn Rushd
elected to write an exegesis of Plato’s Republic (). The resulting text
survives only in a medieval Hebrew translation and was based not on
Plato’s Republic directly but rather on Galen’s paraphrase of the dialogue.
Ibn Rushd more or less faithfully reports the contents of the Republic as
accessible to him, in the style of his own paraphrases of Aristotelian works,
which are sometimes called ‘middle’ commentaries.


See Averroes’ Long Commentary on the De Anima at Crawford (: ). I take the reference from
Taylor ().

On the reception of the Politics more generally, see Pines () and Syros ().

I cite by page number from the English translation in Lerner (); and I also quote from this
translation. For the Hebrew edition and an earlier translation, see Rosenthal ().

This can in part be inferred from Ibn Rushd’s own references to Galen as his source, at  and .
It seems that there was no complete translation of the Republic into Arabic, though some passages
were translated in full: see Reisman ().
 The Reception of Plato on Women 
At times, Ibn Rushd is at pains to say that he is only telling the reader
what Plato said, the implication being that he may not accept the Platonic
proposals. One notable case concerns the breeding practices recommended
in Republic V (). Clearly, communal sharing of mates and raising of
children was not an easy thing to endorse in medieval Islamic culture.
But when it comes to the idea that women should pursue the same
virtuous activities as men in a well-run city, Ibn Rushd agrees with and
even expands upon Plato. He offers an elaborate rationale for this thesis
and for good measure complains that real-life cities are impoverished by
failing to exploit the talents of women, treating them as if they were plants,
good only for reproduction (). This remark shows that Ibn Rushd finds
Plato’s ideas relevant to the imperfect, real-world communities known to
him, whereas we saw Proclus suggesting that the Republic proposals are
only an idealisation. By the same token, the passage could suggest that Ibn
Rushd is a proponent of the ‘utilitarian’ or ‘pragmatic’ reading of Plato on
women: their talents should be exploited in order to enrich the commu-
nity. As with Proclus, though, this impression is misleading. In fact, Ibn
Rushd draws on Aristotelian doctrines to argue that women must be
allowed to pursue the same activities as men, so that they can achieve full
happiness as individuals.
That one goal of his paraphrase commentary is to ‘Aristotelianise’ the
Republic is clear from the very first lines, where Ibn Rushd says that he will
be eliminating dialectical considerations so as to present only the demon-
strative arguments that may be ascribed to Plato (). In other words, he will
present a version of Plato’s ideas that is found only implicitly in the Republic
but, that once made explicit, will rise to the standards of proof laid out in the
Posterior Analytics. We can understand his treatment of the section on
women in these terms. Ibn Rushd does repeat purely Platonic arguments,
for instance, the comparison of men and women to male and female dogs,
who perform the same task of guarding, even if the females are weaker
(). But his main defence of women guardians rests on an idea borrowed
from the Nicomachean Ethics: since women and men are of the same species,


As pointed out by Belo (: ).

For information about the situation of women in Islam, see Roded (); Adamson (:
ch. ); and Howe (). An interesting study of the role of women as religious scholars is
Sayeed ().

As it happens, Proclus worries about the methodological status of this argument (–) and says
that it is not a mere argument by analogy, as it may seem, but a demonstrative proof: if this is true of
the inferior species of dogs, all the more must it hold of the superior species of humans, whose form
should be even more unitary.
  
they share the same final end (). So they must be allowed to pursue the
same activities as the men, in order to achieve that end.
This makes it clear that, on Ibn Rushd’s understanding, the arrange-
ment whereby women engage in war and philosophy is not only, or even
primarily, chosen for the sake of the city. Rather, it is for the sake of the
development of individual citizens, in this case the female ones. He states
clearly what Annas found missing in Plato: that women would ‘lead more
satisfying lives as Guardians than as house-bound drudges’. (Here ‘satisfy-
ing’ would mean not mere subjective contentment but the sort of genuine
fulfilment or flourishing associated with Aristotelian eudaimonia.) Like
Proclus and Theodore, Ibn Rushd furthermore offers empirical evidence
to show that there really are individual women who can achieve full
happiness, though compared to them he is vague on this score, alluding
only to desert-dwelling warrior women. The implication, though, is stated
clearly: ‘Since some women are formed with eminence and a praiseworthy
disposition, it is not impossible that there be philosophers and rulers
among them’ ().To understand this more fully, we should look at
passages in the commentary where Ibn Rushd explains why the city should
be divided into classes. He seems to take the contrast between a dominant
and less dominant group – ‘the rulers’ and ‘the many’ – as an inevitable
feature of human communities (). This is not only a description of how
things go, but it is also how things should be, given the distribution of
talent and natural aptitude among individuals:
: Since it is impossible that the human perfections be attained other than in
different individuals within a given population, the individuals of this species
are all different in natural disposition corresponding to the difference in their
perfections. For if each individual among them were potentially prepared for
all human perfections, nature would have wrought something in vain; for it is
absurd that there be something possible whose realisation is impossible. This
matter has already been made clear in natural science.
As will have been suggested to him by his reading of the Ethics (e.g.,
b: ‘it is by laws that we become good’), the purpose of political
institutions is to put individual members of the society in a position to
realise their potential, that is, to exploit their ‘natural dispositions’. And it
is a good thing that not everyone has the potential ‘to be a warrior or an
orator or a poet, let alone a philosopher’, as he here adds. A variety of tasks
must be performed in society, for which we need plenty of farmers, some
warriors, and a precious few philosophers. Happily, natural aptitudes are
distributed in the same proportion. While most humans will not attain the
ultimate end of humankind, which is to achieve philosophical wisdom, it is
 The Reception of Plato on Women 
important that each human can fulfil the potential they do have, however
limited this may be. In fact, it may not be all that limited. Ibn Rushd says
that it is possible for most people to achieve practical virtue through
habituation () and that, in the Platonic ideal city, every single citizen
will at least have the virtue of moderation (), even if the virtues of
courage and wisdom are especially appropriate to the guardian and phi-
losopher classes, respectively. Still, there is no doubt that he embraces the
frank elitism we found in Plato. As is clear from the above quotation, Ibn
Rushd sees members of the various classes as being ‘different in natural
disposition’, which gives them different final ends to pursue. His endorse-
ment of the proposals about women in Republic V is the other side of this
coin. It is precisely because such variation in natural aptitude is absent
between men and women that the legislators should not assign to them
different tasks, as they do to slaves, labourers, merchants, warriors, and of
course philosophers. Ibn Rushd too is a frank elitist, but he thinks that some
members of the elite are women. When things go wrong and a city is run
badly, the individual capacities of the citizens go unfulfilled. In the extreme
case of a tyranny, only one person’s ‘end’ is pursued, namely that of the
tyrant himself. As Ibn Rushd says, this is diametrically opposed to the
situation in the virtuous city, where ‘it is intended that every one of the
citizens receive as much of happiness as it is in their nature to achieve’ ().
The plight of the slave-like victims of tyrannical rule is very much like the
state of women in the cities criticised earlier by Ibn Rushd, where they are
allowed to do nothing but reproduce and raise children. In both cases, the
oppression consists not in, say, a lack of freedom but the lack of opportunity
to be trained in virtue and perform excellent activities up to the limit of
one’s capacity. This same sort of point is made in our third and final
response to Plato, alongside a much less friendly attitude towards Aristotle.

Lucrezia Marinella
Marinella’s treatise On the Nobility and Excellence of Women, and the
Defects and Vices of Men, was published in . This work is simulta-
neously a contribution to two long-running Renaissance debates. First and

He mentions explicitly that the kallipolis will have slaves, as at .

It may not be a coincidence that the people of a tyranny ‘are full of sighing, sorrow, and mourning’
(, cf. Rep. a) much as women are given to weeping (, though the manuscripts here give
different readings).

I cite by page from the translation in Dunhill (), from which I quote with occasional
modifications. I have consulted the original text in La nobiltà et l’eccellenza delle donne co’ difetti
  
more obviously, the ‘dispute over women’ that stretches back to at least the
turn of the fifteenth century, when Christine de Pizan attacked the French
medieval poem Romance of the Rose for its misogyny, inspiring others to
rise to its defence. Similarly, Marinella is responding to a misogynist
diatribe called On the Defects of Women, by Giuseppe Passi. Marinella’s
contribution is one of several defences of women written in the period,
with other outstanding female contributors to the genre including not only
Pizan but also Moderata Fonte and Archangela Tarabotti. Like these
other authors, she reels off the names of outstanding women to show that
excellence and virtue is to be found in both genders, in fact even more
among women than men. Several of the names she mentions have links to
Plato: Aspasia, Diotima, and ‘Asfiotea’ (presumably this is Axiothea of
Phlius), whom she names as one of his disciples ().
Second and less obviously, Marinella is expanding on the tradition of
Renaissance polemic between defenders of Plato and defenders of Aristotle.
While one can trace the roots of this dispute back to late antiquity, the
more proximate origin can be found in the late Byzantine and early
Renaissance author George Gemistos Plethon. His On Aristotle’s
Departures from Plato touches on a wide range of philosophical topics, in
each case saying that Aristotle would have done better to stay closer to the
Platonic teachings. In the early generations of Italian humanism, we find
authors variously taking sides in the Plato vs. Aristotle debate – like George
Trapezuntius, who wrote an attack on Plato – or arguing for the more
traditional thesis of harmony between these two classical authorities, as did
Cardinal Bessarion. In this debate among Italian humanists, issues of
gender and sexuality came to the fore as they had not in Plethon.
Trapezuntius accused Plato of debauchery, on the grounds of biographical
reports about homosexual attractions and Plato’s own erotic dialogues.
A tacit response was given by Marsilio Ficino, who presented a de-
sexualised understanding of ‘Platonic love’ in his dialogue-commentary

et mancamenti de gli huomini (Marinella ), this being the third printing after those in  and
.

See the texts collected in Hult ().

Echoing the self-consciously ironic attitude that marked the original debate over the Rose, Passi
answered Marinella’s treatise by writing a work ascribing to men most of the vices he had blamed in
women, calling it The Monstrous Smithy of Men’s Foul Deeds.

See further Chemello (); King (); Benson (); Panizza and Wood (); Kolsky
().

Karamanolis ().

Greek edition in Lagarde (), translation in Woodhouse (: –). I have also suggested
placing Marinella in the context of the Plato vs. Aristotle debate in Adamson (a: ch. ). There,
I also discuss earlier Byzantine and Arabic texts on the topic.
 The Reception of Plato on Women 
on the Symposium, a reading already anticipated by Bessarion in his
defence of Plato.
Marinella, by contrast, has no interest in harmonising the two classical
authorities. She highlights the gender thematic of Republic V, instead of
the erotic dialogues, precisely in order to cast Plato in a more favourable
light than Aristotle. She is in fact caustic and relentless in her criticisms of
Aristotle, who restricted women to the household because he was a ‘fearful,
tyrannical man (huomo tiranno e pauroso)’ (). She makes clear the
connection between her own polemic and earlier attacks on Aristotle for
his departures from Plato when she writes that he ‘was led by scorn, hate,
or envy (ò sdegno, ò odio, ò invidia) in many of his books, to vituperate and
slander (dir male) the female sex, just as in many passages he reproved his
master Plato’ (). By contrast, Plato argued for the emancipation of
women, as in warfare (), on the grounds that they are ‘on the same
level [as men] in valour and intelligence (ingegno)’ ().
Like Proclus, Marinella was a forerunner of the modern interpretations
mentioned above, according to which the eminence of women is sup-
ported by ‘metaphysical’ and not just ‘pragmatic’ arguments, with
Platonist metaphysics offering a better basis for gender equality than
Aristotelian philosophy. Actually, her view is somewhat more nuanced
than that. She suggests that Aristotelian doctrine could have been used to
argue for a more favourable view of women. Thus, she alludes to Aristotle’s
theory of the virtues while extolling the excellence of women and points
out that Aristotelian teleology is ill-fitting with the notion that women are
imperfect by nature (, ). Aristotle persisted with misogyny at the cost
of inconsistency with his own doctrines, then, something that can be
explained only in terms of personal antagonism. Still, she finds in
Platonism the strongest basis for asserting the equality and even superiority
of women. Marinella notes that for Platonists, the outward beauty of a
body is a sign of a beautiful soul within. For this idea she refers to the
authority of Plotinus and Ficino. Ironically enough, she also cites the
Aristotelian definition of soul as form of the body (), precisely the idea
that Smith connected to Aristotle’s negative attitudes towards women.
Since women are more physically attractive than men, they must have
finer souls.
A more elaborate feminist argument proceeds from the Platonist pre-
mise that ‘Ideas are the eternal exemplars and images of things’. Better,


The work is translated in Jayne (). For the topic, see Reeser (); and for Ficino’s position in
the larger debate, see Monfasani ().
  
more beautiful things must have superior Ideas, as the Idea of a palace is
better than that of a shack (her example). Marinella spells out the impli-
cations as follows:
: Now, applying the example to my theme, I say that the Ideas of women
are nobler than that of men. This is proven by their beauty and goodness,
which is known to everybody. Not a philosopher nor a poet can be found
who fails to attribute these [qualities] to them, rather than to men. I affirm,
furthermore, that the Idea of a woman who is more graceful and adorned
with beauty is more beautiful and nobler than that of a less beautiful and
pleasing one, because Ideas exist of particular people (d’alcuni particolari
sono l’Idee), as Marsilio Ficino and many holy teachers relate.
This argument is remarkable for its invocation of a rather technical, and
much disputed, point of Platonist metaphysics, namely that there are
Forms of individuals. Since all people (or at least, all the philosophers
and poets) agree that women are more virtuous and beautiful than men,
individual women must have higher-ranking Forms than individual men
do. A startling aspect of this proof is that it denies the principle that Proclus
made a crucial premise in Plato’s reasoning. For Proclus, women must
have the same ‘natural activities’ as men because they share a nature, by
virtue of participating in the same Form. For Marinella, instead, women
have better natures than men, precisely because they do not participate in
the same Forms but in better ones.
This line of argument is brilliant for its inversion of a sexist trope: that
women are alluring on the outside but stunted or even repugnant within.
But we must admit that it is questionable as an interpretation of Plato’s
own view – and not only because one would be hard pressed to find
evidence in the dialogues that Plato posited Forms for individual humans.
As we have seen, even the Republic admits that women are in fact generally
inferior to men, and other Platonic works are still less favourable, with the
Timaeus in particular claiming that female bodies are precisely the conse-
quence of inner shortcomings. Marinella ignores this, contenting herself
with the exaggerated claim that ‘Plato praised women in a thousand places’
(). This is despite her evident familiarity with the relevant dialogues. She
quotes from both the Republic and the Laws (–) and even refers to
passages from less widely read dialogues like the Cratylus () and
Euthydemus (), referring to c, which compares the hydra to a female
sophist. I take this to be a deliberate strategy on her part: Plato and


A much-discussed problem in Plotinus: see, for example, Kalligas ().
 The Reception of Plato on Women 
Aristotle are presented respectively as a committed defender of women and
an uncompromising misogynist, forcing the reader into a stark choice
between the two main authorities of classical philosophy.

Conclusion
Throughout this chapter, I have tried to bring out the resonances between
pre-modern interpretations of the Republic and those of more recent times.
Unexpectedly, our three pre-modern exegetes seem to be more convinced
than most contemporary readers that Plato can be read as a kind of
‘feminist’. Especially striking is that Ibn Rushd and Marinella took inspi-
ration from him in proposing reform of their own sexist societies and read
him as valuing the individual fulfilment of at least elite women. But of
course, neither they nor Proclus thought about Plato within the framework
of feminism as we understand it. While their discussions do anticipate the
modern scholarly debate on various points, they must also be understood
within the different contexts that produced them. Much as Annas, Vlastos,
and others brought the terms of the s feminist movement to their
reading of the Republic, Proclus approached it with the metaphysical and
exegetical presuppositions of a late ancient Platonist. This meant assuming
not only Neoplatonic metaphysical doctrines but also the exegetical prin-
ciple that apparently contradictory passages in different dialogues – in this
case the Republic, Laws, and Timaeus – can always be brought into
harmony. Similarly, Averroes, as the Islamic world’s greatest medieval
expert on Aristotle, sought to clarify Plato’s teachings by deploying
Aristotelian terminology and concepts, like that of the ‘final end’.
Conversely, Marinella, as a Renaissance humanist, understood the
Republic in light of lively debates over the relative merits of women and
men, and of Plato and Aristotle, taking up the cause of the former over the
latter. Should we then be sceptical of the interpretations offered by these
pre-modern exegetes? E. R. Dodds once said, ‘Arm yourself with a stout
pair of blinkers and a sufficient but not excessive amount of scholarship,
and by making a suitable selection of texts you can prove Plato to be
almost anything that you want him to be.’ And certainly, one cannot
absolve any of our three authors of the charge that they found in Plato
what they wanted to find in him. Yet given the resonances between their
interpretations and more recent readings of Plato, it seems fair to say that
all three of them were latching on to genuine features of the text.

Dodds (: ).
  
Furthermore, while they were reading Plato in light of their own exegetical
or polemical concerns, they were also updating him in light of new
information. These authors took into account their own knowledge of
emancipated and philosophically engaged women, women of the sort that
have been discussed throughout this book. Thus, Averroes refers to warrior
women outside the domestic sphere, while both Proclus and Marinella
mention named women philosophers as evidence to support Plato’s pro-
posals. In this respect, our pre-modern witnesses testify that acknowledg-
ing the work of women philosophers has the power to change perceptions
of women and of philosophy itself.


My thanks to the editors Caterina Pellò and Katharine O’Reilly (who brought to my attention the
apposite passage just cited from Dodds) for their detailed comments on a previous version of
this chapter.
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 Index

Aelian,  poetry, –

Aesara, , , ,  Rhapsody on a Journey to the East, 
anti-hedonism,  Rhapsody on Needle and Thread, 
misogyny,  undermining gender norms, , , 
polemic, , , , ,  Boccaccio, –, 
Antipater, 
Arete of Cyrene Chinese philosophy, 
ancient depictions of,  Chinese society (Ban Zhao era), , , ,
education,  , 
Epistle , –,  Cicero, , , , , 
epitaph, ,  Confucianism, , , , , , ,
as intellectual conduit, , , , ,  
as philosopher, ,  Crates the Cynic, 
philosophical lineage, ,  Cyrenaicism, , , 
as teacher, , , , , 
Aristippus the Elder,  Damascius Life of Isidore, , 
founder of Cyrenaic School,  Deslauriers, Marguerite, , , , 
‘Letter to his daughter Arete’,  Diogenes Laertius, , , , , 
relationship with Arete, ,  Lives, , 
Aristippus the Younger, ,  Diotima, , , 
formalisation of Cyrenaic ethics, gender, –
,  as philosopher, 
mētrodidaktos, ,  role at symposium, 
Aristotle,  spoken by Socrates, 
Eudemian Ethics,  doctors, women as
Historia Animalium, ,  evidence for, , , 
Metaphysics, ,  female preference for, 
Nicomachean Ethics, ,  self-presentation, 
Politics, , , ,  teaching, 
Protrepticus, ,  Dong Zhongshu, , 
Aspasia, , , 
Athenaeus, –,  Epictetus, , , , 
Averroes. See Ibn Rushd Epicurean women, , 
evidence for, , 
Ban Zhao, – as philosophers, , , 
four womanly conducts, ,  sexual status, , , , 
‘Memorial to Empress Dowager Deng’, ,  Epicureanism, , 
memoranda, ,  critics of, , –
‘Petition for a Replacement for My Elder pleasure, , 
Brother Chao’, ,  prostitution, –
philosophy. See Lessons for Women and slaves, 


 Index
Epicurus, , , , ,  Janaka, , , 
doxography, , ,  misogyny, 
School of, See Garden, the junzi, , –
eros (Symposium)
context,  Leontion, , , , –
as intermediate between opposites, – Against Theophrastus, , 
as non-binary facilitator, ,  and Metrodorus, 
physical vs theoretical,  paintings of, 
topic of,  as philosopher, 
vocabulary of,  statue of, 
Eros’ parentage, ,  Lessons for Women, , –
eudaimonia, –, , ,  criticisms of, 
Euripides Herakles, – on domestic violence, 
four womanly conducts, 
Gadamer, Hans-Georg,  as new genre, 
Garden, the, , ,  on spousal relations, 
Gregory of Nyssa use of androcentric texts, 
dialogue form,  on virtue, 
Letter , , ,  on women’s education, , , 
The Life of St Macrina, , ,  Lucretius, 
Origenist views, 
Macrina
hedonism, , ,  community at Annisa, , , 
hetairai, , –,  death, immortality, and survival, , –
Hierocles,  deathbed, 
Hipparchia the Cynic, ,  feminity, 
household management life and education, –
Aristotle on, , – nature of soul, , –
Hypatia of Alexandria, – as philosopher, , 
as literary character,  as teacher, , 
as mathematician,  reputation, 
menstrual blood anecdote,  soul/body relation, 
murder,  Mahābhārata, , , 
as philosopher,  authorship, 
and politics,  dialogue form in, –, –
sources,  as philosophical text, –
as teacher,  Marinella, Lucrezia, –
as theurgist,  Aristotle vs Plato, 
upbringing,  and ‘dispute over women’, 
On the Nobility and Excellence
Iamblichus, , , ,  of Women, 
Protrepticus, ,  Martial, 
Ibn Rushd, – medical knowledge
on Aristotle,  bodily experience, , 
on class,  childbirth, , , 
exegesis of Republic,  content of, 
on women guardians,  fertility, 
on women’s talents,  matchmaking and timekeeping, 
Indian philosophy,  menstruation, , , 
dharma (morality), , ,  nature of, , –
karma (causality),  and nature of cosmos, 
moksa (enlightenment), , ,  pharmacology, , 
_ 
nivrtti, pregnancy, 
_ rtti, 
prav reproduction, , , –
yoga_ (discipline), , – sexual experience (female), 
 Index 
theory of body, – Phaedo, , , , 
writings on,  Phaedrus, 
medicine ‘pregnant in body’, 
Hippocratic treatises on, , , ,  procreation, , 
overlap with philosophy,  Republic. See Republic (Plato)
theory vs practice, , ,  Symposium, , , , 
Megara, , ,  Timaeus, , 
death of,  transmigration of souls, 
and Lycus,  Platonism, 
as Stoic, , ,  gender as feature of embodiment,
midwifery,  
Musonius Rufus, , ,  Pliny the Elder, , 
Plotinus, 
Neoplatonism causation, 
androgyny, ,  three hypostases, 
Diotima,  Plutarch, , , , , 
ideals of femaleness, – Pomeroy, Sarah, , , 
maternal goddesses, ,  Porphyry, , 
metaphysics, – Proclus, , , –, 
soul and gender,  city vs citizens, 
virgin goddesses, ,  gender of souls, 
Limit and the Unlimited, , 
On Soul and Resurrection, ,  possibility/benefit theses, 
deathbed objection, – ps-Archytas, , 
education objection, – Pythagoras and Pythagoreanism,
mouthpiece objection, – , 
Platonic objection, – Pythagorean texts, , 
On Wisdom (Perictione), ,  content, 
attribution,  Hellenistic dating of, 
constitution of human beings,  methodology, 
contemplation,  as pedagogy, , 
fragment analysis, – as philosophy, , 
function of wisdom, ,  sexual mores, , , 
initial statements,  Pythagorean women
overlap with ps-Archytas,  source material, 
tripartition of theoretical sciences, , 
wisdom and other sciences,  Republic (Plato), , , , , , , ,

paiderastia, – modern interpretations, 
Perictione,  Philosopher Queens, , 
on dress,  women as guardians, , 
evidence for, 
On the Harmonious Woman, ,  Seneca, , , 
On Wisdom. See On Wisdom (Perictione) Consolatio ad Marciam, 
originality and contribution, – Hercules Furens, –
and Pythagorean women, – Lucretia, 
virtue and wisdom,  misogyny, 
Plato, – on death, 
Crito,  On Marriage, 
elitism,  and Paulina (wife), –
feminism, ,  Socrates, , , –, –, 
gender in, ,  Sosipatra of Ephesus, –
Laws, , ,  Eunapius Lives, 
location of the female, ,  as literary character, 
Meno, ,  as philosopher, , 
 Index
Sosipatra of Ephesus (cont.) on renunciation, –
as psychologically androgynous,  on rhetoric, –
as teacher,  on speech, 
as theurgist, ,  Synesius (letters), , , 
Stoic women
evidence for, ,  Theano, –, , 
as philosophers, ,  Themista, , , , –
in story, – Theodore of Asine, –
in theory, – Theophila, 
in tragedy, –, – Theophrastus, 
Stoicism,  Therigathā, 
evidence for, 
gender equality,  Upanishads, , 
marriage, , 
virtue, , , , ,  value theory, 
Sulabha voluntaria mors, , –
cf. Diotima,  VSM Vita Sanctae Macrinae. See under Gregory
debate with Janaka, – of Nyssa
as feminist resource, 
on gender, – Xenophon
historicity,  Oeconomicus, 
as literary character, 
male-mediated voice of,  Zeno of Citium, 
as philosopher, –,  Republic, 