Aristotle unboxes an iphone

 There came to me, while I was in the Lyceum and discoursing with certain of the young men concerning the kinds of causes, a thing not brought forth by any craft known among us, nor yet by nature, but appearing as though art had imitated nature in a manner surpassing our present understanding.

For a messenger—one of those who bear letters and small parcels from the city—brought a box made of pressed matter, light yet firm, and bound with cords.  Upon it was marked, not in Greek, but in characters of another tongue, the name AMAZON.  And this was a cause of wonder to those present, for “Amazon” is among us the name of a race spoken of in stories, and also resembles the name of a river in far lands, if indeed the accounts of travellers be true; yet why such a mark should be on a box in Athens none could say.

The box was addressed to me by name, and since there was no seal of the city upon it, nor any mark of a known household, I considered whether it were a jest.  But it had the appearance of a thing prepared with care, and was not such as boys would contrive.  Therefore I took it and opened it before those present, for it seemed better to examine it in company than alone, lest fancy should outrun judgement.

Within was another box, white and smooth, fitted as though by measure, and upon it was written iPhone.  Now the latter part of the word, phone, resembles the Greek for voice (phōnē), but the whole is not Greek, nor was it coined according to our manner; it seemed rather to be a name made by those who delight in compounding signs without regard to their origin, as the barbarians do.

Under this second box lay a small folded writing, in Greek of a later sort than ours—yet still intelligible—saying in sum:

Here is your new iPhone, since there is no network where you live I have done a basic setup for you.  Feel free to use as you like.  From a distant admirer

Now in this writing there are two notable things: first, the giver remained unnamed, calling himself merely an admirer; and second, he spoke of a “network,” which among us signifies nets for fishing or hunting, and also—by analogy—the interlacing of friendships and households.  But it was clear he meant neither fish nor kinship, but some other connexion, common in his own time, absent in ours.

Having read this, I opened the white box.

There lay within a thin tablet, black as obsidian yet more lustrous, set in a border of metal, and with a single little projection (which those present at once called a button, because it was made to be pressed).  And the tablet had no visible letters upon it, nor any carved figures, but was smooth like a mirror.

Some said at once: “It is a mirror.”  Yet it did not show the face plainly as a mirror does, unless one held it in a certain manner.  And therefore I judged it not to be merely a mirror, but a thing whose form was like that of a mirror, yet whose end (for every art and every tool is for some end) was different.

I pressed the little projection.

At first nothing happened, so that those who are quick to laugh began already to smile.  But after a moment the black surface shone forth from within, as though it had a concealed fire, yet without smoke and without flame.  And there appeared signs and colours, and a greeting written in many tongues, passing one after another, as if the thing saluted all nations.

I observed first that what we call the matter of this thing is not like wax or parchment, for wax receives an impression only when pressed, and parchment receives ink only when written upon; but this received no permanent impression.  Rather it was as if the surface were in potency to many forms and took them on and off at command.

Then there appeared an instruction: Swipe up.  This too was not Greek.  But by trial I learned its meaning: to draw the finger along the surface.  And when I did this, the forms changed and a new writing appeared: a list of tongues, and then of places, and other choices.

Here we must consider the manner of causation.

For it is evident that this thing is not moved by itself in the way animals are, for it seeks no food and has no growth.  Nor is it moved only by external compulsion, like a stone thrown by the hand.  But it is moved when it is touched in a certain way, and then it produces effects ordered and intelligible, as if it possessed within itself a principle of arrangement.

Now that which produces ordered effects according to signs resembles what we call reason (logos)—not because it thinks, but because it follows a rule that has the likeness of thought.  For a flute produces ordered sound, yet it does not understand harmony; it is the musician who orders the sound by art.  In the same manner, this tablet produces ordered change, yet its art must have been put into it by another.

Proceeding through its questions (which it asked with a boldness as of a servant who has forgotten his place), it came to a point where it sought a “network” and found none.  Then I remembered the writing: “since there is no network where you live.”  Therefore it was plain the giver had prepared the thing so that it might be used without this connexion, whatever it be.

At length the tablet displayed many small painted signs arranged in rows, each sign being like the emblem on a shop, by which we know the trade within.  One sign showed a clock, another numbers, another a book, another a little eye like a lens, and many others.

I first chose the numbers, because number is among the most certain things and easiest to test.  And at once there appeared a board with signs by which one might add, subtract, multiply, and divide.  I made a trial: I set down a calculation such as a student might err in if he were careless, and the thing gave the result immediately.

Those present cried out, some in delight, some in suspicion.  One said it must be a trick.  Another said it must contain within it a small slave who writes swiftly.  I laughed at this, for a slave would not be so obedient, nor so silent.

Then I chose the sign of the lens.  At once the tablet became as a window, showing what was before it, not by reflection as in a mirror, but by representation, for the image moved when I turned the device, and it showed angles and distances as if it drew the world upon itself.

Here I was compelled to think of sight.

For sight is of the sensible object by means of the transparent, and colour acts upon the transparent when light is present.  But this thing did not merely receive light as the eye does; it stored the likeness of what it saw.  And when I pressed a certain sign (a circle), it fixed the image, and afterwards displayed it again at will.

Thus it had in it something like memory—not the memory of an animal, which is mixed with desire and pain, but the memory of a tablet on which a scribe has written.  Yet there was no scribe, and no ink.

Therefore one must say: it is an instrument that makes forms out of light, and stores them as though they were written.

Now, some among the youths were eager to proclaim that this thing must be divine.  But we ought not to call divine what we do not yet understand.  For many things once attributed to the gods were later found to follow from nature and art—thunder, eclipses, the magnet, and the rest.

It is more reasonable to say: this is a product of art that has advanced far beyond our present arts, and it is made possible by a knowledge of nature deeper than ours, particularly concerning the small and the hidden, for such power cannot come from crude matter alone.

Moreover, it is clear that the thing is not for one single task, as a hammer is for striking and a lyre for music.  Rather it is for many tasks: calculation, keeping time, writing without ink, drawing images without pigment, and other things whose ends I could only guess from their emblems.

In this it resembles what I have said elsewhere: that some instruments are universal, serving many ends, because they act not upon one kind of material only but upon form itself.  For writing is universal: with letters we signify any speech; with speech we signify any thought.  And this device, in a manner, is a writing that can change itself—letters that become a clock, and then become a map, and then become a store of images.

Yet it lacks one thing that its maker expected: the “network.”  Therefore it is like a ship set upon the shore: excellently built, able to traverse the sea, but here confined to land.  Still, even as a ship on land may serve as a house or a store, so this thing, though deprived of its connexion, serves as many instruments in one.

What then shall we conclude?

First, that the distinction between matter and form is again confirmed: for the matter of the device is little, yet its form—its principle of arrangement—is vast in power.  And this form is not mere shape, but rule and order.  It is like a law embodied.

Second, that art is able to imitate the operations of nature—memory, perception, and swift reckoning—without possessing the soul that in animals performs these operations for the sake of life.  Thus we must be careful not to confuse the likeness of an operation with the principle that in living things makes that operation be.

Third, that there are kinds of causes hidden from us at present, especially the efficient causes by which such a device is made and such light is produced without flame.  If ever we learn these, it will not be by wonder alone but by investigation.

And finally, that whoever sent this device did not send it merely as a gift, but as a provocation—like a riddle posed by a rival philosopher: “Behold what is possible.  Now explain it.”

For the admirer has done what the best teachers do: he has placed before us a thing slightly beyond our reach, so that our desire to know may pull us upward.

And so I returned it to its box, not because I feared it, but because I wished to keep it as one keeps a rare specimen: not to worship it, but to study it when the mind is fresh, and to test again and again where its necessity lies and where its appearances may deceive.

For marvels are the beginning of philosophy, but not its end.