In other words, you don't know anything about Aristotle. Okay.
I know as much as I care to about Aristotle. I have read his works. Every damned word. Some of it in the original. Many years ago, before you were
born, child, I attempted a translation of his Metaphysics. I soon realized that
whatever his meaning is, only he and the Devil know.
Aristotle is the pre-eminent amateur naturalist of antiquity, we can give him that.
He is also the Father of Jargon and the man who almost single-handedly
gave "fancy book-learning" a bad name. He is the archetype of the erudite
bore. If he were with us today, he would be another despised television talking-head, festooned with academic honors, and talking, talking, talking.
Even the dimmest reader of the Prior Analytics must come to the point where he cries "enough already, I get it!".
He tells us why the world is round, he tells us how to cure flatulence in elephants (salt and olive oil, rubbed on the ears). He is a wizard of plausibility, the Bill Clinton of philosophy. I despise the man; he took Plato's
living love of truth and turned it into dust; he is to me not a dead figure from the past but an active personal enemy whose minions pester me daily. For centuries Aristotleians were mocked; the reason for this is simple: they resemble their Master, Aristotle the Solace of Tenured Dullards.
Nevertheless, child, I recommend him to you. If you read him, and get the
sensation that you are leaving darkness and entering into light, I will make a novena for you. Or try this thought experiment: If you could for one night have any of the above named great thinkers as a dinner companion, would you choose Aristotle?
To his apologists (hi Plotinus) who say that his impenetrable prose was not meant for publication: we just don't know that. We know where the texts came from, some dates, the names of the editors, some other details. I have some opinions, not worth going into.
Buy my bumper sticker: "Platonists have more fun".