The all-formed cosmos changes but never dissolves; God's one hidden form
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Nous — τούτῳ τῷ λόγῳ, φίλτατέ μοι Ἑρμῆ, καὶ τὸν κόσμον, ὡς ἀκούεις, φημὶ μεταβάλλεσθαι, διὰ τὸ γίνεσθαι μέρος αὐτοῦ καθ᾿ ἑκάστην ἡμέραν ἐν τῷ ἀφανεῖ, μηδέποτε δὲ διαλύεσθαι. καὶ ταῦτά ἐστι τὰ τοῦ κόσμου πάθη, δινήσεις τε καὶ κρύψεις· καὶ ἡ μὲν δίνησις στροφή, ἡ δὲ κρύψις ἀνανέωσις. παντόμορφος δέ ἐστιν ὁ κόσμος, οὐ τὰς μορφὰς ἐκτὸς κειμένας ἔχων, ἐν ἑαυτῷ δὲ αὐτὸς μεταβάλλων. ἐπεὶ οὖν ὁ κόσμος παντόμορφος γέγονεν, ὁ ποιήσας τί ἂν εἴη; ἄμορφος μὲν γὰρ μὴ γένοιτο· εἰ δὲ καὶ αὐτὸς παντόμορφος, ὅμοιος ἔσται τῷ κόσμῳ. ἀλλὰ μίαν ἔχων μορφὴν κατὰ τοῦτο ἐλάττων ἔσται τοῦ κόσμου. τί οὖν φαμεν αὐτὸν εἶναι, μὴ εἰς ἀπορίαν τὸν λόγον περιστήσωμεν; οὐδὲν γὰρ ἄπορον περὶ τοῦ θεοῦ νοούμενον. μίαν οὖν ἔχει ἰδέαν, ἥτις ἐστὶν αὐτοῦ ἰδία, ἥτις ταῖς ὄψεσιν οὐχ ὑποσταίη ἀσώματος, καὶ πάσας διὰ τῶν σωμάτων δείκνυσι.
By this account, dearest Hermes, the cosmos too, as you hear, I say changes, because a part of it comes to be on each day in the unseen, but is never dissolved. And these are the cosmos's affections: whirlings and hidings; and the whirling is a turning, the hiding a renewal. All-formed is the cosmos, not having the forms lying outside it, but itself changing within itself. Since then the cosmos has become all-formed, the one who made it, what would he be? Formless may he not be; but if he himself too were all-formed, he would be like the cosmos. But having one form, in this respect he would be less than the cosmos. What then do we say him to be, lest we reduce the argument to an impasse? For nothing is without resource about God, when thought. So he has one form, which is his own, which to the eyes does not present itself, being incorporeal, and yet all forms through the bodies it shows.
Nous: by this account, dearest Hermes, I say the cosmos too changes, because a part of it comes to be each day in the unseen, but is never dissolved. And these are the cosmos's affections: whirlings and hidings — the whirling a turning, the hiding a renewal. The cosmos is all-formed, not having the forms lying outside it, but itself changing within itself. Since then the cosmos has become all-formed, what would its maker be? Formless he may not be; but if he too were all-formed, he would be like the cosmos; yet having one form, in this respect he would be less than the cosmos. What then do we say he is, lest we reduce the argument to an impasse? For nothing thought about God is without resource. So he has one form, which is his own, which does not present itself to the eyes, being incorporeal, and yet shows all forms through bodies.
The doctrine of death-as-dissolution is now lifted to the cosmic scale, and it reverses the plain sense of what we see. 'The cosmos too changes (μεταβάλλεσθαι), because a part of it comes to be each day in the unseen (ἐν τῷ ἀφανεῖ), but is never dissolved (μηδέποτε… διαλύεσθαι).' What looks like loss — things passing out of sight daily — is only migration into the invisible; the world's substance is never destroyed. Two words name the world's only 'affections (πάθη)': 'whirlings and hidings (δινήσεις… καὶ κρύψεις),' and each is redefined against fear — 'the whirling is a turning (στροφή),' mere rotation, and 'the hiding a renewal (ἀνανέωσις).' Where the eye sees vanishing and decay, the doctrine sees spin and refreshment.
Then the treatise poses a genuine philosophical puzzle about God and form. The cosmos 'has become all-formed (παντόμορφος),' holding every shape — 'not with the forms lying outside it, but itself changing within itself.' So what shape can its Maker have? Three options are tried and all fail: God cannot be 'formless (ἄμορφος),' for formlessness is a defect; he cannot be 'all-formed,' or he would just be another cosmos; and he cannot have merely 'one form,' or he would be 'less than the cosmos (ἐλάττων… τοῦ κόσμου),' poorer than his own work. The dialectic drives straight toward ἀπορία, the Platonic impasse — 'lest we reduce the argument to a dead-end (εἰς ἀπορίαν… περιστήσωμεν).'
And here the treatise refuses the impasse with a confident principle: 'nothing thought about God is without resource (οὐδὲν… ἄπορον περὶ τοῦ θεοῦ νοούμενον).' The way out is a distinction the whole Hermetic tradition rests on: God 'has one form (μίαν… ἰδέαν), which is his own, which does not present itself to the eyes, being incorporeal (ἀσώματος), and yet shows all forms through bodies (πάσας διὰ τῶν σωμάτων δείκνυσι).' God's form is single, but invisible; it is not one shape among the world's shapes but the unseen source that lets every visible shape appear. He is omniform in effect and one in himself — the answer CH V made its title, that the unseen God is 'most manifest,' shown here as the resolution of the form-puzzle: the one hidden ἰδέα behind all the bodies that display it.
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