Thucydides, early in his account of the war between the Peloponnesians and the Athenians, expresses his intention to write a book that will reveal the truth about “that which is human” and then remarks that his book will therefore be “a possession for all time.”1 Thucydides’ explicitly philosophic intention in writing this book in order to convey lasting truths about the character and condition of human beings suggests that his book is better understood as a work of philosophy than as a work of history. Yet, while the end of his book is philosophic–to teach the permanent and universal truth about human nature–the means is historical–to give an account of a particular conflict between the alliance of the Peloponnesians, led by the city of Sparta, and the city of Athens.

Thucydides presents the case for Sparta in an appropriately laconic manner.1 There is no Spartan equivalent in his book of the Funeral Oration – the longest and most famous speech – nor of the Athenians’ speech at Sparta – the seventh longest speech and the first to offer an explicit account of “human nature” (1.76.3). We find no speech here in which a Spartan statesman or citizen gives an eloquent, elaborate, and theoretically sophisticated account of the greatness of Sparta, its education and regime, and its understanding of the character and condition of human beings. Of the nineteen longest speeches among the forty-eight in the book, ten are by Athenians but none are by Spartans, and it is a Spartan, Brasidas, who gives the shortest speech in the book.2 Of the nineteen named individuals who give speeches in the book, ten are Athenian and the sum total of their speeches is 13,639 words, whereas five are Spartan and the sum total of their speeches is 3,673 words.3 Of Pericles, the man whom he praises most extensively in the book, Thucydides says that he was “most capable [or most powerful – δυνατώτατος] at both speaking and acting” (1.139.4).4 Of Brasidas, the man to whom Thucydides devotes the second most extensive praise in his book and the Spartan whom Thucydides praises most, he remarks that “he was not without a capacity [οὐδὲ ἀδύνατος] for speaking, for a Spartan” (4.84.2).5 The Spartans are men of few words and therefore, inevitably, in contrast with the case for Athens presented in the book, the case for Sparta here is understated and indirect. But that case is no less powerful for being austere rather than dazzling, pithy rather than eloquent, and implicit rather than explicit.6

Thucydides’ account of the demise of the Athenian expedition to conquer Sicily appears to vindicate the Spartans’ understanding of that which is human, that is, of the fundamental character and condition of human beings, as one according to which we are morally free beings who are ruled by just gods. However, Thucydides points to grave problems with that understanding, most clearly–but not only–from his account of the Athenian response to the Sicilian disaster through to the end of the book (8.1-109).

Even though Thucydides is the first character to appear in the book, he is extremely reticent in his account of himself in his book as a whole. Although he tells us how he felt at the beginning of the war, when he “hoped” that it would be a great war since Athens and Sparta were, he then believed, both at the peak of their greatness, Thucydides never tells us how he felt at any point later in the war, most notably, when he learned that he was afflicted with the deadly plague; when he failed to defend Amphipolis from Brasidas and was subsequently condemned to exile for twenty years by his fellow Athenians; or when, during his years of exile, his fellow Athenians set out to conquer Sicily.1 However, his book offers glimpses of his character through implicit contrasts with five other characters, all Athenian, whom he resembles: his fellow exile, Alcibiades; the three characters – or groups of characters – who share, in varying ways, his understanding of the fundamental character and condition of human beings – the Athenian ambassadors at Sparta and at Melos, and Diodotus; and the only character in the book who claims to be a lover of wisdom – that is, a philosopher – Pericles (2.40.1). By comparing and contrasting Thucydides with these figures, we may come to see his distinctive nature more clearly.2

Pericles seeks to provide the Athenians with an education that will liberate their natural reason from the constraints of piety and tradition and guide their naturally self-interested passions toward devotion to their community. In this way he hopes to secure for Athens a regime that is based on the natural energy of human beings – the “power of nature” (1.138.3) – rather than on subservience to human and divine law. Thucydides’ account indicates, however, that Pericles’ effort runs afoul of the divisive and violent character of human passion and the abiding power of piety within the human soul and, possibly, beyond it. In this way, Thucydides’ account calls into question whether any political society can be based on the liberation of human nature and hence whether human nature must not be subordinated to a higher power of some kind if political society is to endure and flourish.

Thucydides indicates in a number of ways that the section of his book from its beginning up until the account of the factional strife in Corcyra presents the case for the greatness of Athens over Sparta – of Athens’ regime and its education, and of the understanding of human nature and the human condition on which Athens is based (1.1–3.69). First, as we have seen, in the Archaeology, he presents himself as a partisan of Periclean Athens.1 Second, Thucydides presents a comparison of the two “who had come to be the most illustrious Greeks of their time,” “Pausanias the Spartan and Themistocles the Athenian,” a comparison that highlights the violent, tyrannical, and foolish character of Pausanias but that culminates with Thucydides’ first eulogy of an individual in the book, his eulogy of Themistocles for his outstanding practical wisdom.2 Third, this section of the book presents what is by far Thucydides’ longest eulogy of any individual in the book, of the Athenian statesman Pericles, more than triple the length of Thucydides’ next longest eulogy, that of the Spartan Brasidas.3 Thucydides’ eulogy concludes a discrete, relatively compressed subsection of the book, that is introduced by Thucydides’ praise of Pericles as “a man at that time first of the Athenians, most powerful at both speaking and acting,” a subsection that is 8.1 percent of the book as a whole, and that is entirely dominated by Pericles.4 This subsection contains four unanswered speeches by Pericles – three in direct discourse, and one in indirect discourse – including three of the eight longest speeches in the book and by far the longest speech of all, the Funeral Oration.5 That oration presents Pericles’ eloquent account of the greatness of Athens and specifically its superiority to Sparta in the enjoyment of life and in intelligence.6 Fourth, this section of the book presents the Athenians’ two naval victories over the vastly more numerous Peloponnesian forces, led by Sparta, victories presented by Thucydides as due to the Athenians’ superiority in skill, judgment, and daring.7 Finally, this section presents the Athenians’ thoughtfully compassionate treatment of the rebellious Mytileneans – the greatest act of compassion in this harsh war – in stark contrast with the seemingly thoughtless and cruel treatment by the Spartans of the Plataeans.8 Thucydides in this section of the book portrays Athens as a city with the most sagacious statesmen, the most ingenious and energetic citizenry, and the most thoughtfully humane character.

Realism is the dominant theoretical approach to international relations. The realist tradition finds its roots in a pessimistic supposition that international relations are unavoidably shaped by power politics. This chapter examines the core assumptions of classical realism. Classical realists lay a claim to a long tradition of thought going back to eminent thinkers such as Thucydides, Machiavelli, and Hobbes. Classical realism recognises that the drive to be all-powerful is inherent in human nature. States not only seek to accumulate power but also to make sure that no other state shifts the balance of power in their favour. The chapter then examines modern variants of classical realism and explores how it has been applied in the context of the Middle East. While classical realism seems to be the most fitting tradition to explain international relations in the Middle East, its application to the region has not been without limitations. The chapter then analyses Saudi foreign policy in the post-2011 Middle East through a classical realist lens. While the Saudi Kingdom played the role of regional stabiliser for decades, it emerged in the post-2011 Middle East as a regional player vying for power and attempting to shift the regional balance of power.

This book addresses humanity’s dual capacity for both war and peace. Through cross-species comparisons and wide-ranging evidence from thirteen disciplines, it reveals that neither ‘deep roots’ nor ‘shallow roots’ perspectives fully capture human behavioural plasticity. A central finding is that, contrary to the binary opposition between the ‘deep roots’ and the ‘shallow roots’ of war theses, these seemingly contradictory features of war and peace both have deep roots in the hominin lineage, and they co-evolved along an incremental trajectory spanning millions of years. This trajectory is best understood as a multi-component process with a mosaic pattern of development, involving various interacting elements that emerged at different moments and gradually assembled over long time spans. Both war and peace have deep roots, and they co-evolved. Long-term biocultural evolutionary processes – with mutually reinforcing feedback loops – have shaped the patterns of lethal conflict and peaceful cooperation between communities over millions of years. These processes laid the foundation upon which sedentary civilizations, states, and empires rose and fell, and for the ways in which they conducted diplomacy, engaged in trade, and waged war. They paved the way for the continued persistence of both war and peace in our species.

What did it mean to be human in the Byzantine church? How was humanity conceived theologically? What were the attributes that comprised the human person? This chapter offers an introduction to anthropological understandings of Byzantine theology. Drawing on major points of consensus across various theologians, genres and liturgical contexts, I show that humanity was understood primarily in light of its divinised potential. Although terminology and understandings of the human body and faculties might differ across various theologians, early and medieval Orthodox thinkers agreed upon the divine origin and end of humanity. From humanity’s creation in the divine image to its potential transcendence in divine communion, humanity in all its diverse expressions was understood as having its fullest expression in God.

This chapter explores Aristotle’s intellectual development, methodological distinctiveness, and ethical thought, particularly as expressed in the Nicomachean Ethics. It begins with an account of Aristotle’s biography, including his long association with Plato, his departure from Athens, and the eventual founding of his own school, the Lyceum. A crucial distinction is drawn between the genres of Platonic and Aristotelian texts: Plato’s dialogues are literary-philosophical compositions, while Aristotle’s surviving works are mostly lecture notes. The chapter argues that this difference in genre has shaped interpretive traditions. Central to Aristotle’s ethics is the idea that observation of human life, rather than abstract theorizing, grounds our understanding of the good. Ethics, he argues, must be treated with appropriate imprecision due to its practical and variable subject matter. Happiness (eudaimonia), for Aristotle, is not pleasure or honor but a life of activity in accordance with virtue, achieved through habituation and deliberate choice. Virtue is conceived as a mean between extremes and guided by phronêsis (practical wisdom). The chapter concludes by emphasizing Aristotle’s belief in the divine dimension of human flourishing and his view that ethics, properly understood, is inseparable from civic life and human interrelation within the polis.

Abstract: In Human Nature and Conduct (1922), Dewey seems to suggest that we can and should change human nature. In this chapter, McBride queries Dewey’s account of native impulses and how instincts, impulses, and dispositions relate to human nature. Dewey proffers insights into the ways in which impulses, habitual conduct, and social institutions condition and circumscribe the dominant mode of being human (and the ordering principles that enjoin the relations therein). The chapter argues that these particular Deweyan insights could potentially help us to conceive an education-based path to a decolonial conception of anthropos (human being). In this light, the chapter critically reassesses the Deweyan democratic conception of the alterability of human nature. It brings in additional insights from the decolonial thinking of novelist and philosopher Sylvia Wynter to extend Deweyan philosophy and point to the Euro-American coloniality that undergirds the present order of things. In closing, McBride suggests that a viable decolonial way forward will require a change in human nature in ways that transform our habits and demand the establishment of new social and educational institutions.

Abstract: In this chapter, Forstenzer asks: How can education help us deal with a world in which the harsh realities of climate chaos, violence, and catastrophe threaten our collective survival? To explore this question, the chapter examines Dewey’s Human Nature and Conduct (1922), beginning by discussing his conception of human nature and violence. Second, it addresses how Dewey conceives of how we overcome the threat of violence via cultural means. Third, it discusses our orientation toward the future, as well as problems and catastrophes. Fourth, it addresses the role that education and higher education in particular plays in supporting the task of intelligently responding to problems and catastrophes. Ultimately, Forstenzer argues that Dewey’s conception of intelligent cultural adaptation provides us with a helpful injunction to focus our efforts on fostering the development of moral, civic, and epistemic character across the community.

Is mind a proper topic of investigation in Aristotle’s science of nature? The question is surprisingly vexed. Although some evidence suggests that mind should be studied by natural philosophy as well as first philosophy (metaphysics), Parts of Animals I.1 (641a32−b23) presents a series of arguments often construed as decisive evidence that he excludes mind from natural philosophy. This chapter goes through the relevant text and argues that Aristotle presents three arguments to exclude mind from nature but all in the voice of an opponent. Then in a final argument (641b23−642a1) he responds directly to the third argument, with indirect implications for the second argument as well.

This chapter explores the development of debates on the moral among theologians from the mid twelfth century to the first half of the thirteenth century. It identifies a crucial turning point in the early decades of the thirteenth century, when interest in understanding the very nature of the human being and its faculties paved the way for a general reassessment of the issue of the different kinds of law.

It is common to read that the concept of rights did not exist in ancient times. The most influential proponent of this thesis in the past half-century or so may be Alasdair MacIntyre but he is hardly alone. In a more recent discussion, Tom Campbell says this: “Rights (as distinct from the more general ideas of right and wrong) were unknown to the Ancient Greeks and Romans, although the idea developed in the course of medieval theorizing concerning Roman law.” A slightly more nuanced view is put forward by William Sweet: “The history of the ‘discourse’ of human rights is fairly well known. While the existence of ‘natural rights’ is implied in works of antiquity, it is only in the Middle Ages that we begin to see an acknowledgment of rights as distinct from ‘the right.’”