Bot-S: The Complete Works of Plato

Nay, he replied, "suppose" is not the word—I know it; but you will be found out, and by
sheer force of argument you will never prevail.
I shall not make the attempt, my dear man; but to avoid any misunderstanding
occurring between us in future, let me ask, in what sense do you speak of a ruler or
stronger whose interest, as you were saying, he being the superior, it is just that the
inferior should execute—is he a ruler in the popular or in the strict sense of the term?
In the strictest of all senses, he said. And now cheat and play the informer if you can; I
ask no quarter at your hands. But you never will be able, never.
And do you imagine, I said, that I am such a madman as to try and cheat Thrasymachus?
I might as well shave a lion.
Why, he said, you made the attempt a minute ago, and you failed.
Enough, I said, of these civilities. It will be better that I should ask you a question: Is the
physician, taken in that strict sense of which you are speaking, a healer of the sick or a
maker of money? And remember that I am now speaking of the true physician.
A healer of the sick, he replied.
And the pilot—that is to say, the true pilot—is he a captain of sailors or a mere sailor?
A captain of sailors.
The circumstance that he sails in the ship is not to be taken into account; neither is he to
be called a sailor; the name pilot by which he is distinguished has nothing to do with
sailing, but is significant of his skill and of his authority over the sailors.
Very true, he said.
Now, I said, every art has an interest?
Certainly.
For which the art has to consider and provide?
Yes, that is the aim of art.
And the interest of any art is the perfection of it—this and nothing else?
What do you mean?
I mean what I may illustrate negatively by the example of the body. Suppose you were
to ask me whether the body is selfsufficing or has wants, I should reply: Certainly the
body has wants; for the body may be ill and require to be cured, and has therefore
interests to which the art of medicine ministers; and this is the origin and intention of
medicine, as you will acknowledge. Am I not right?
Quite right, he replied.
But is the art of medicine or any other art faulty or deficient in any quality in the same
way that the eye may be deficient in sight or the ear fail of hearing, and therefore
requires another art to provide for the interests of seeing and hearing—has art in itself, I
say, any similar liability to fault or defect, and does every art require another
supplementary art to provide for its interests, and that another and another without
end? Or have the arts to look only after their own interests? Or have they no need either
of themselves or of another?—having no faults or defects, they have no need to correct
them, either by the exercise of their own art or of any other; they have only to consider
the interest of their subject-matter. For every art remains pure and faultless while
remaining true—that is to say, while perfect and unimpaired. Take the words in your
precise sense, and tell me whether I am not right.
Yes, clearly.
Then medicine does not consider the interest of medicine, but the interest of the body?
True, he said.
Nor does the art of horsemanship consider the interests of the art of horsemanship, but
the interests of the horse; neither do any other arts care for themselves, for they have no
needs; they care only for that which is the subject of their art?
True, he said.
But surely, Thrasymachus, the arts are the superiors and rulers of their own subjects?
To this he assented with a good deal of reluctance.
Then, I said, no science or art considers or enjoins the interest of the stronger or
superior, but only the interest of the subject and weaker?
He made an attempt to contest this proposition also, but finally acquiesced.
Then, I continued, no physician, in so far as he is a physician, considers his own good in
what he prescribes, but the good of his patient; for the true physician is also a ruler
having the human body as a subject, and is not a mere money-maker; that has been
admitted?
Yes.
And the pilot likewise, in the strict sense of the term, is a ruler of sailors, and not a mere
sailor?
That has been admitted.
And such a pilot and ruler will provide and prescribe for the interest of the sailor who is
under him, and not for his own or the ruler's interest?
He gave a reluctant "Yes."
Then, I said, Thrasymachus, there is no one in any rule who, in so far as he is a ruler,
considers or enjoins what is for his own interest, but always what is for the interest of his
subject or suitable to his art; to that he looks, and that alone he considers in everything
which he says and does.
When we had got to this point in the argument, and everyone saw that the definition of
justice had been completely upset, Thrasymachus, instead of replying to me, said, Tell
me, Socrates, have you got a nurse?
Why do you ask such a question, I said, when you ought rather to be answering?
Because she leaves you to snivel, and never wipes your nose: she has not even taught
you to know the shepherd from the sheep.
What makes you say that? I replied.
Because you fancy that the shepherd or neatherd fattens or tends the sheep or oxen
with a view to their own good and not to the good of himself or his master; and you
further imagine that the rulers of States, if they are true rulers, never think of their
subjects as sheep, and that they are not studying their own advantage day and night.
Oh, no; and so entirely astray are you in your ideas about the just and unjust as not even
to know that justice and the just are in reality another's good; that is to say, the interest
of the ruler and stronger, and the loss of the subject and servant; and injustice the
opposite; for the unjust is lord over the truly simple and just: he is the stronger, and his
subjects do what is for his interest, and minister to his happiness, which is very far from
being their own. Consider further, most foolish Socrates, that the just is always a loser in
comparison with the unjust. First of all, in private contracts: wherever the unjust is the
partner of the just you will find that, when the partnership is dissolved, the unjust man
has always more and the just less. Secondly, in their dealings with the State: when there
is an income-tax, the just man will pay more and the unjust less on the same amount of
income; and when there is anything to be received the one gains nothing and the other
much. Observe also what happens when they take an office; there is the just man
neglecting his affairs and perhaps suffering other losses, and getting nothing out of the
public, because he is just; moreover he is hated by his friends and acquaintance for
refusing to serve them in unlawful ways. But all this is reversed in the case of the unjust
man. I am speaking, as before, of injustice on a large scale in which the advantage of the
unjust is most apparent; and my meaning will be most clearly seen if we turn to that
highest form of injustice in which the criminal is the happiest of men, and the sufferers
or those who refuse to do injustice are the most miserable—that is to say tyranny, which
by fraud and force takes away the property of others, not little by little but wholesale;
comprehending in one, things sacred as well as profane, private and public; for which
acts of wrong, if he were detected perpetrating any one of them singly, he would be
punished and incur great disgrace—they who do such wrong in particular cases are
called robbers of temples, and man-stealers and burglars and swindlers and thieves. But
when a man besides taking away the money of the citizens has made slaves of them,
then, instead of these names of reproach, he is termed happy and blessed, not only by
the citizens but by all who hear of his having achieved the consummation of injustice.
For mankind censure injustice, fearing that they may be the victims of it and not
because they shrink from committing it. And thus, as I have shown, Socrates, injustice,
when on a sufficient scale, has more strength and freedom and mastery than justice;
and, as I said at first, justice is the interest of the stronger, whereas injustice is a man's
own profit and interest.
Thrasymachus, when he had thus spoken, having, like a bathman, deluged our ears with
his words, had a mind to go away. But the company would not let him; they insisted that
he should remain and defend his position; and I myself added my own humble request
that he would not leave us. Thrasymachus, I said to him, excellent man, how suggestive
are your remarks! And are you going to run away before you have fairly taught or
learned whether they are true or not? Is the attempt to determine the way of man's life
so small a matter in your eyes—to determine how life may be passed by each one of us
to the greatest advantage?
And do I differ from you, he said, as to the importance of the inquiry?
You appear rather, I replied, to have no care or thought about us, Thrasymachus—
whether we live better or worse from not knowing what you say you know, is to you a
matter of indifference. Prithee, friend, do not keep your knowledge to yourself; we are a
large party; and any benefit which you confer upon us will be amply rewarded. For my
own part I openly declare that I am not convinced, and that I do not believe injustice to
be more gainful than justice, even if uncontrolled and allowed to have free play. For,
granting that there may be an unjust man who is able to commit injustice either by
fraud or force, still this does not convince me of the superior advantage of injustice, and
there may be others who are in the same predicament with myself. Perhaps we may be
wrong; if so, you in your wisdom should convince us that we are mistaken in preferring
justice to injustice.
And how am I to convince you, he said, if you are not already convinced by what I have
just said; what more can I do for you? Would you have me put the proof bodily into
your souls?
Heaven forbid! I said; I would only ask you to be consistent; or, if you change, change
openly and let there be no deception. For I must remark, Thrasymachus, if you will recall
what was previously said, that although you began by defining the true physician in an
exact sense, you did not observe a like exactness when speaking of the shepherd; you
thought that the shepherd as a shepherd tends the sheep not with a view to their own
good, but like a mere diner or banqueter with a view to the pleasures of the table; or,
again, as a trader for sale in the market, and not as a shepherd. Yet surely the art of the
shepherd is concerned only with the good of his subjects; he has only to provide the
best for them, since the perfection of the art is already insured whenever all the
requirements of it are satisfied. And that was what I was saying just now about the ruler.
I conceived that the art of the ruler, considered as a ruler, whether in a State or in
private life, could only regard the good of his flock or subjects; whereas you seem to
think that the rulers in States, that is to say, the true rulers, like being in authority.
Think! Nay, I am sure of it.
Then why in the case of lesser offices do men never take them willingly without
payment, unless under the idea that they govern for the advantage not of themselves
but of others? Let me ask you a question: Are not the several arts different, by reason of
their each having a separate function? And, my dear illustrious friend, do say what you
think, that we may make a little progress.
Yes, that is the difference, he replied.
And each art gives us a particular good and not merely a general one—medicine, for
example, gives us health; navigation, safety at sea, and so on?
Yes, he said.
And the art of payment has the special function of giving pay: but we do not confuse
this with other arts, any more than the art of the pilot is to be confused with the art of
medicine, because the health of the pilot may be improved by a sea voyage. You would
not be inclined to say, would you? that navigation is the art of medicine, at least if we
are to adopt your exact use of language?
Certainly not.
Or because a man is in good health when he receives pay you would not say that the art
of payment is medicine?
I should not.
Nor would you say that medicine is the art of receiving pay because a man takes fees
when he is engaged in healing?
Certainly not.
And we have admitted, I said, that the good of each art is specially confined to the art?
Yes.
Then, if there be any good which all artists have in common, that is to be attributed to
something of which they all have the common use?
True, he replied.
And when the artist is benefited by receiving pay the advantage is gained by an
additional use of the art of pay, which is not the art professed by him?
He gave a reluctant assent to this.
Then the pay is not derived by the several artists from their respective arts. But the truth
is, that while the art of medicine gives health, and the art of the builder builds a house,
another art attends them which is the art of pay. The various arts may be doing their
own business and benefiting that over which they preside, but would the artist receive
any benefit from his art unless he were paid as well?
I suppose not.
But does he therefore confer no benefit when he works for nothing?
Certainly, he confers a benefit.
Then now, Thrasymachus, there is no longer any doubt that neither arts nor
governments provide for their own interests; but, as we were before saying, they rule
and provide for the interests of their subjects who are the weaker and not the
stronger—to their good they attend and not to the good of the superior.
And this is the reason, my dear Thrasymachus, why, as I was just now saying, no one is
willing to govern; because no one likes to take in hand the reformation of evils which
are not his concern, without remuneration. For, in the execution of his work, and in
giving his orders to another, the true artist does not regard his own interest, but always
that of his subjects; and therefore in order that rulers may be willing to rule, they must
be paid in one of three modes of payment, money, or honor, or a penalty for refusing.
What do you mean, Socrates? said Glaucon. The first two modes of payment are
intelligible enough, but what the penalty is I do not understand, or how a penalty can be
a payment.
You mean that you do not understand the nature of this payment which to the best men
is the great inducement to rule? Of course you know that ambition and avarice are held
to be, as indeed they are, a disgrace?
Very true.
And for this reason, I said, money and honor have no attraction for them; good men do
not wish to be openly demanding payment for governing and so to get the name of
hirelings, nor by secretly helping themselves out of the public revenues to get the name
of thieves. And not being ambitious they do not care about honor. Wherefore necessity
must be laid upon them, and they must be induced to serve from the fear of
punishment. And this, as I imagine, is the reason why the forwardness to take office,
instead of waiting to be compelled, has been deemed dishonorable. Now the worst part
of the punishment is that he who refuses to rule is liable to be ruled by one who is
worse than himself. And the fear of this, as I conceive, induces the good to take office,
not because they would, but because they cannot help—not under the idea that they
are going to have any benefit or enjoyment themselves, but as a necessity, and because
they are not able to commit the task of ruling to anyone who is better than themselves,
or indeed as good. For there is reason to think that if a city were composed entirely of
good men, then to avoid office would be as much an object of contention as to obtain
office is at present; then we should have plain proof that the true ruler is not meant by
nature to regard his own interest, but that of his subjects; and everyone who knew this
would choose rather to receive a benefit from another than to have the trouble of
conferring one. So far am I from agreeing with Thrasymachus that justice is the interest
of the stronger. This latter question need not be further discussed at present; but when
Thrasymachus says that the life of the unjust is more advantageous than that of the just,
his new statement appears to me to be of a far more serious character. Which of us has
spoken truly? And which sort of life, Glaucon, do you prefer?
I for my part deem the life of the just to be the more advantageous, he answered.
Did you hear all the advantages of the unjust which Thrasymachus was rehearsing?
Yes, I heard him, he replied, but he has not convinced me.
Then shall we try to find some way of convincing him, if we can, that he is saying what is
not true?
Most certainly, he replied.
If, I said, he makes a set speech and we make another recounting all the advantages of
being just, and he answers and we rejoin, there must be a numbering and measuring of
the goods which are claimed on either side, and in the end we shall want judges to
decide; but if we proceed in our inquiry as we lately did, by making admissions to one
another, we shall unite the offices of judge and advocate in our own persons.
Very good, he said.
And which method do I understand you to prefer? I said.
That which you propose.
Well, then, Thrasymachus, I said, suppose you begin at the beginning and answer me.
You say that perfect injustice is more gainful than perfect justice?
Yes, that is what I say, and I have given you my reasons.
And what is your view about them? Would you call one of them virtue and the other
vice?
Certainly.
I suppose that you would call justice virtue and injustice vice?
What a charming notion! So likely too, seeing that I affirm injustice to be profitable and
justice not.
What else then would you say?
The opposite, he replied.
And would you call justice vice?
No, I would rather say sublime simplicity.
Then would you call injustice malignity?
No; I would rather say discretion.
And do the unjust appear to you to be wise and good?
Yes, he said; at any rate those of them who are able to be perfectly unjust, and who have
the power of subduing States and nations; but perhaps you imagine me to be talking of
cutpurses.
Even this profession, if undetected, has advantages, though they are not to be
compared with those of which I was just now speaking.
I do not think that I misapprehend your meaning, Thrasymachus, I replied; but still I
cannot hear without amazement that you class injustice with wisdom and virtue, and
justice with the opposite.
Certainly I do so class them.
Now, I said, you are on more substantial and almost unanswerable ground; for if the
injustice which you were maintaining to be profitable had been admitted by you as by
others to be vice and deformity, an answer might have been given to you on received
principles; but now I perceive that you will call injustice honorable and strong, and to
the unjust you will attribute all the qualities which were attributed by us before to the
just, seeing that you do not hesitate to rank injustice with wisdom and virtue.
You have guessed most infallibly, he replied.
Then I certainly ought not to shrink from going through with the argument so long as I
have reason to think that you, Thrasymachus, are speaking your real mind; for I do
believe that you are now in earnest and are not amusing yourself at our expense.
I may be in earnest or not, but what is that to you?—to refute the argument is your
business.
Very true, I said; that is what I have to do: But will you be so good as answer yet one
more question? Does the just man try to gain any advantage over the just?
Far otherwise; if he did he would not be the simple amusing creature which he is.
And would he try to go beyond just action?
He would not.
And how would he regard the attempt to gain an advantage over the unjust; would that
be considered by him as just or unjust?
He would think it just, and would try to gain the advantage; but he would not be able.
Whether he would or would not be able, I said, is not to the point. My question is only
whether the just man, while refusing to have more than another just man, would wish
and claim to have more than the unjust?
Yes, he would.
And what of the unjust—does he claim to have more than the just man and to do more
than is just?
Of course, he said, for he claims to have more than all men.
And the unjust man will strive and struggle to obtain more than the just man or action,
in order that he may have more than all?
True.
We may put the matter thus, I said—the just does not desire more than his like, but
more than his unlike, whereas the unjust desires more than both his like and his unlike?
Nothing, he said, can be better than that statement.
And the unjust is good and wise, and the just is neither?
Good again, he said.
And is not the unjust like the wise and good, and the just unlike them?
Of course, he said, he who is of a certain nature, is like those who are of a certain nature;
he who is not, not.
Each of them, I said, is such as his like is?
Certainly, he replied.
Very good, Thrasymachus, I said; and now to take the case of the arts: you would admit
that one man is a musician and another not a musician?
Yes.
And which is wise and which is foolish?
Clearly the musician is wise, and he who is not a musician is foolish.
And he is good in as far as he is wise, and bad in as far as he is foolish?
Yes.
And you would say the same sort of thing of the physician?
Yes.
And do you think, my excellent friend, that a musician when he adjusts the lyre would
desire or claim to exceed or go beyond a musician in the tightening and loosening the
strings?
I do not think that he would.
But he would claim to exceed the non-musician?
Of course.
And what would you say of the physician? In prescribing meats and drinks would he
wish to go beyond another physician or beyond the practice of medicine?
He would not.
But he would wish to go beyond the non-physician?
Yes.
And about knowledge and ignorance in general; see whether you think that any man
who has knowledge ever would wish to have the choice of saying or doing more than
another man who has knowledge. Would he not rather say or do the same as his like in
the same case?
That, I suppose, can hardly be denied.
And what of the ignorant? would he not desire to have more than either the knowing or
the ignorant?
I dare say.
And the knowing is wise?
Yes.
And the wise is good?
True.
Then the wise and good will not desire to gain more than his like, but more than his
unlike and opposite?
I suppose so.
Whereas the bad and ignorant will desire to gain more than both?
Yes.
But did we not say, Thrasymachus, that the unjust goes beyond both his like and unlike?
Were not these your words?
They were.
And you also said that the just will not go beyond his like, but his unlike?
Yes.
Then the just is like the wise and good, and the unjust like the evil and ignorant?
That is the inference.
And each of them is such as his like is?
That was admitted.
Then the just has turned out to be wise and good, and the unjust evil and ignorant.
Thrasymachus made all these admissions, not fluently, as I repeat them, but with
extreme reluctance; it was a hot summer's day, and the perspiration poured from him in
torrents; and then I saw what I had never seen before, Thrasymachus blushing. As we
were now agreed that justice was virtue and wisdom, and injustice vice and ignorance, I
proceeded to another point:
Well, I said, Thrasymachus, that matter is now settled; but were we not also saying that
injustice had strength—do you remember?
Yes, I remember, he said, but do not suppose that I approve of what you are saying or
have no answer; if, however, I were to answer, you would be quite certain to accuse me
of haranguing; therefore either permit me to have my say out, or if you would rather
ask, do so, and I will answer "Very good," as they say to story-telling old women, and
will nod "Yes" and "No."
Certainly not, I said, if contrary to your real opinion.
Yes, he said, I will, to please you, since you will not let me speak. What else would you
have?
Nothing in the world, I said; and if you are so disposed I will ask and you shall answer.
Proceed.
Then I will repeat the question which I asked before, in order that our examination of
the relative nature of justice and injustice may be carried on regularly. A statement was
made that injustice is stronger and more powerful than justice, but now justice, having
been identified with wisdom and virtue, is easily shown to be stronger than injustice, if
injustice is ignorance; this can no longer be questioned by anyone. But I want to view
the matter, Thrasymachus, in a different way: You would not deny that a State may be
unjust and may be unjustly attempting to enslave other States, or may have already
enslaved them, and may be holding many of them in subjection?
True, he replied; and I will add that the best and most perfectly unjust State will be most
likely to do so.
I know, I said, that such was your position; but what I would further consider is, whether
this power which is possessed by the superior State can exist or be exercised without
justice or only with justice.
If you are right in your view, and justice is wisdom, then only with justice; but if I am
right, then without justice.
I am delighted, Thrasymachus, to see you not only nodding assent and dissent, but
making answers which are quite excellent.
That is out of civility to you, he replied.
You are very kind, I said; and would you have the goodness also to inform me, whether
you think that a State, or an army, or a band of robbers and thieves, or any other gang
of evildoers could act at all if they injured one another? No, indeed, he said, they could
not.
But if they abstained from injuring one another, then they might act together better?
Yes.
And this is because injustice creates divisions and hatreds and fighting, and justice
imparts harmony and friendship; is not that true, Thrasymachus?
I agree, he said, because I do not wish to quarrel with you.
How good of you, I said; but I should like to know also whether injustice, having this
tendency to arouse hatred, wherever existing, among slaves or among freemen, will not
make them hate one another and set them at variance and render them incapable of
common action?
Certainly.
And even if injustice be found in two only, will they not quarrel and fight, and become
enemies to one another and to the just?
They will.
And suppose injustice abiding in a single person, would your wisdom say that she loses
or that she retains her natural power?
Let us assume that she retains her power.
Yet is not the power which injustice exercises of such a nature that wherever she takes
up her abode, whether in a city, in an army, in a family, or in any other body, that body
is, to begin with, rendered incapable of united action by reason of sedition and
distraction? and does it not become its own enemy and at variance with all that opposes
it, and with the just? Is not this the case?
Yes, certainly.
And is not injustice equally fatal when existing in a single person—in the first place
rendering him incapable of action because he is not at unity with himself, and in the
second place making him an enemy to himself and the just? Is not that true,
Thrasymachus?
Yes. And, O my friend, I said, surely the gods are just?
Granted that they are. But, if so, the unjust will be the enemy of the gods, and the just
will be their friends?
Feast away in triumph, and take your fill of the argument; I will not oppose you, lest I
should displease the company. Well, then, proceed with your answers, and let me have
the remainder of my repast. For we have already shown that the just are clearly wiser
and better and abler than the unjust, and that the unjust are incapable of common
action; nay, more, that to speak as we did of men who are evil acting at any time
vigorously together, is not strictly true, for, if they had been perfectly evil, they would
have laid hands upon one another; but it is evident that there must have been some
remnant of justice in them, which enabled them to combine; if there had not been they
would have injured one another as well as their victims; they were but half-villains in
their enterprises; for had they been whole villains, and utterly unjust, they would have
been utterly incapable of action. That, as I believe, is the truth of the matter, and not
what you said at first. But whether the just have a better and happier life than the unjust
is a further question which we also proposed to consider. I think that they have, and for
the reasons which I have given; but still I should like to examine further, for no light
matter is at stake, nothing less than the rule of human life.
Proceed.
I will proceed by asking a question: Would you not say that a horse has some end?
I should.
And the end or use of a horse or of anything would be that which could not be
accomplished, or not so well accomplished, by any other thing?
I do not understand, he said.
Let me explain: Can you see, except with the eye?
Certainly not.
Or hear, except with the ear?
No. These, then, may be truly said to be the ends of these organs?
They may.
But you can cut off a vine-branch with a dagger or with a chisel, and in many other
ways?
Of course.
And yet not so well as with a pruning-hook made for the purpose?
True.
May we not say that this is the end of a pruning-hook?
We may.
Then now I think you will have no difficulty in understanding my meaning when I asked
the question whether the end of anything would be that which could not be
accomplished, or not so well accomplished, by any other thing?
I understand your meaning, he said, and assent.
And that to which an end is appointed has also an excellence? Need I ask again whether
the eye has an end?
It has.
And has not the eye an excellence?
Yes.
And the ear has an end and an excellence also?
True.
And the same is true of all other things; they have each of them an end and a special
excellence?
That is so.
Well, and can the eyes fulfil their end if they are wanting in their own proper excellence
and have a defect instead?
How can they, he said, if they are blind and cannot see?
You mean to say, if they have lost their proper excellence, which is sight; but I have not
arrived at that point yet. I would rather ask the question more generally, and only
inquire whether the things which fulfil their ends fulfil them by their own proper
excellence, and fail of fulfilling them by their own defect?
Certainly, he replied.
I might say the same of the ears; when deprived of their own proper excellence they
cannot fulfil their end?
True.
And the same observation will apply to all other things?
I agree.
Well; and has not the soul an end which nothing else can fulfil? for example, to
superintend and command and deliberate and the like. Are not these functions proper
to the soul, and can they rightly be assigned to any other?
To no other.
And is not life to be reckoned among the ends of the soul?
Assuredly, he said.
And has not the soul an excellence also?
Yes.
And can she or can she not fulfil her own ends when deprived of that excellence?
She cannot.
Then an evil soul must necessarily be an evil ruler and superintendent, and the good
soul a good ruler?
Yes, necessarily.
And we have admitted that justice is the excellence of the soul, and injustice the defect
of the soul?
That has been admitted.
Then the just soul and the just man will live well, and the unjust man will live ill?
That is what your argument proves.
And he who lives well is blessed and happy, and he who lives ill the reverse of happy?
Certainly.
Then the just is happy, and the unjust miserable?
So be it.
But happiness, and not misery, is profitable?
Of course.
Then, my blessed Thrasymachus, injustice can never be more profitable than justice.
Let this, Socrates, he said, be your entertainment at the Bendidea.
For which I am indebted to you, I said, now that you have grown gentle toward me and
have left off scolding. Nevertheless, I have not been well entertained; but that was my
own fault and not yours. As an epicure snatches a taste of every dish which is
successively brought to table, he not having allowed himself time to enjoy the one
before, so have I gone from one subject to another without having discovered what I
sought at first, the nature of justice. I left that inquiry and turned away to consider
whether justice is virtue and wisdom, or evil and folly; and when there arose a further
question about the comparative advantages of justice and injustice, I could not refrain
from passing on to that. And the result of the whole discussion has been that I know
nothing at all. For I know not what justice is, and therefore I am not likely to know
whether it is or is not a virtue, nor can I say whether the just man is happy or unhappy.

BOOK II
THE INDIVIDUAL,
THE STATE, AND
EDUCATION
(SOCRATES, GLAUCON.)
WITH these words I was thinking that I had made an end of the discussion; but the end,
in truth, proved to be only a beginning. For Glaucon, who is always the most pugnacious
of men, was dissatisfied at Thrasymachus's retirement; he wanted to have the battle out.
So he said to me: Socrates, do you wish really to persuade us, or only to seem to have
persuaded us, that to be just is always better than to be unjust?
I should wish really to persuade you, I replied, if I could.
Then you certainly have not succeeded. Let me ask you now: How would you arrange
goods—are there not some which we welcome for their own sakes, and independently
of their consequences, as, for example, harmless pleasures and enjoyments, which
delight us at the time, although nothing follows from them?
I agree in thinking that there is such a class, I replied.
Is there not also a second class of goods, such as knowledge, sight, health, which are
desirable not only in themselves, but also for their results?
Certainly, I said.
And would you not recognize a third class, such as gymnastic, and the care of the sick,
and the physician's art; also the various ways of money-making—these do us good but
we regard them as disagreeable; and no one would choose them for their own sakes,
but only for the sake of some reward or result which flows from them?
There is, I said, this third class also. But why do you ask?
Because I want to know in which of the three classes you would place justice?
In the highest class, I replied—among those goods which he who would be happy
desires both for their own sake and for the sake of their results.
Then the many are of another mind; they think that justice is to be reckoned in the
troublesome class, among goods which are to be pursued for the sake of rewards and of
reputation, but in themselves are disagreeable and rather to be avoided.
I know, I said, that this is their manner of thinking, and that this was the thesis which
Thrasymachus was maintaining just now, when he censured justice and praised injustice.
But I am too stupid to be convinced by him.
I wish, he said, that you would hear me as well as him, and then I shall see whether you
and I agree. For Thrasymachus seems to me, like a snake, to have been charmed by your
voice sooner than he ought to have been; but to my mind the nature of justice and
injustice has not yet been made clear. Setting aside their rewards and results, I want to
know what they are in themselves, and how they inwardly work in the soul. If you please,
then, I will revive the argument of Thrasymachus. And first I will speak of the nature and
origin of justice according to the common view of them. Secondly, I will show that all
men who practise justice do so against their will, of necessity, but not as a good. And
thirdly, I will argue that there is reason in this view, for the life of the unjust is after all
better far than the life of the just—if what they say is true, Socrates, since I myself am
not of their opinion. But still I acknowledge that I am perplexed when I hear the voices
of Thrasymachus and myriads of others dinning in my ears; and, on the other hand, I
have never yet heard the superiority of justice to injustice maintained by anyone in a
satisfactory way. I want to hear justice praised in respect of itself; then I shall be satisfied,
and you are the person from whom I think that I am most likely to hear this; and
therefore I will praise the unjust life to the utmost of my power, and my manner of
speaking will indicate the manner in which I desire to hear you too praising justice and
censuring injustice. Will you say whether you approve of my proposal?
Indeed I do; nor can I imagine any theme about which a man of sense would oftener
wish to converse.
I am delighted, he replied, to hear you say so, and shall begin by speaking, as I
proposed, of the nature and origin of justice.
They say that to do injustice is, by nature, good; to suffer injustice, evil; but that the evil
is greater than the good. And so when men have both done and suffered injustice and
have had experience of both, not being able to avoid the one and obtain the other, they
think that they had better agree among themselves to have neither; hence there arise
laws and mutual covenants; and that which is ordained by law is termed by them lawful
and just. This they affirm to be the origin and nature of justice; it is a mean or
compromise, between the best of all, which is to do injustice and not be punished, and
the worst of all, which is to suffer injustice without the power of retaliation; and justice,
being at a middle point between the two, is tolerated not as a good, but as the lesser
evil, and honored by reason of the inability of men to do injustice. For no man who is
worthy to be called a man would ever submit to such an agreement if he were able to
resist; he would be mad if he did. Such is the received account, Socrates, of the nature
and origin of justice.
Now that those who practise justice do so involuntarily and because they have not the
power to be unjust will best appear if we imagine something of this kind: having given
both to the just and the unjust power to do what they will, let us watch and see whither
desire will lead them; then we shall discover in the very act the just and unjust man to be
proceeding along the same road, following their interest, which all natures deem to be
their good, and are only diverted into the path of justice by the force of law. The liberty
which we are supposing may be most completely given to them in the form of such a
power as is said to have been possessed by Gyges, the ancestor of Croesus the Lydian.
According to the tradition, Gyges was a shepherd in the service of the King of Lydia;
there was a great storm, and an earthquake made an opening in the earth at the place
where he was feeding his flock. Amazed at the sight, he descended into the opening,
where, among other marvels, he beheld a hollow brazen horse, having doors, at which
he, stooping and looking in, saw a dead body of stature, as appeared to him, more than
human and having nothing on but a gold ring; this he took from the finger of the dead
and reascended. Now the shepherds met together, according to custom, that they
might send their monthly report about the flocks to the King; into their assembly he
came having the ring on his finger, and as he was sitting among them he chanced to
turn the collet of the ring inside his hand, when instantly he became invisible to the rest
of the company and they began to speak of him as if he were no longer present. He was
astonished at this, and again touching the ring he turned the collet outward and
reappeared; he made several trials of the ring, and always with the same result—when
he turned the collet inward he became invisible, when outward he reappeared.
Whereupon he contrived to be chosen one of the messengers who were sent to the
court; where as soon as he arrived he seduced the Queen, and with her help conspired
against the King and slew him and took the kingdom. Suppose now that there were two
such magic rings, and the just put on one of them and the unjust the other; no man can
be imagined to be of such an iron nature that he would stand fast in justice. No man
would keep his hands off what was not his own when he could safely take what he liked
out of the market, or go into houses and lie with anyone at his pleasure, or kill or release
from prison whom he would, and in all respects be like a god among men. Then the
actions of the just would be as the actions of the unjust; they would both come at last to
the same point. And this we may truly affirm to be a great proof that a man is just, not
willingly or because he thinks that justice is any good to him individually, but of
necessity, for wherever anyone thinks that he can safely be unjust, there he is unjust. For
all men believe in their hearts that injustice is far more profitable to the individual than
justice, and he who argues as I have been supposing, will say that they are right. If you
could imagine anyone obtaining this power of becoming invisible, and never doing any
wrong or touching what was another's, he would be thought by the lookers-on to be a
most wretched idiot, although they would praise him to one another's faces, and keep
up appearances with one another from a fear that they too might suffer injustice.
Enough of this.
Now, if we are to form a real judgment of the life of the just and unjust, we must isolate
them; there is no other way; and how is the isolation to be effected? I answer: Let the
unjust man be entirely unjust, and the just man entirely just; nothing is to be taken away
from either of them, and both are to be perfectly furnished for the work of their
respective lives. First, let the unjust be like other distinguished masters of craft; like the
skilful pilot or physician, who knows intuitively his own powers and keeps within their
limits, and who, if he fails at any point, is able to recover himself. So let the unjust make
his unjust attempts in the right way, and lie hidden if he means to be great in his
injustice (he who is found out is nobody): for the highest reach of injustice is, to be
deemed just when you are not. Therefore I say that in the perfectly unjust man we must
assume the most perfect injustice; there is to be no deduction, but we must allow him,
while doing the most unjust acts, to have acquired the greatest reputation for justice. If
he have taken a false step he must be able to recover himself; he must be one who can
speak with effect, if any of his deeds come to light, and who can force his way where
force is required by his courage and strength, and command of money and friends. And
at his side let us place the just man in his nobleness and simplicity, wishing, as AEschylus
says, to be and not to seem good. There must be no seeming, for if he seem to be just
he will be honored and rewarded, and then we shall not know whether he is just for the
sake of justice or for the sake of honor and rewards; therefore, let him be clothed in
justice only, and have no other covering; and he must be imagined in a state of life the
opposite of the former. Let him be the best of men, and let him be thought the worst;
then he will have been put to the proof; and we shall see whether he will be affected by
the fear of infamy and its consequences. And let him continue thus to the hour of death;
being just and seeming to be unjust. When both have reached the uttermost extreme,
the one of justice and the other of injustice, let judgment be given which of them is the
happier of the two.
Heavens! my dear Glaucon, I said, how energetically you polish them up for the decision,
first one and then the other, as if they were two statues.
I do my best, he said. And now that we know what they are like there is no difficulty in
tracing out the sort of life which awaits either of them. This I will proceed to describe;
but as you may think the description a little too coarse, I ask you to suppose, Socrates,
that the words which follow are not mine. Let me put them into the mouths of the
eulogists of injustice: They will tell you that the just man who is thought unjust will be
scourged, racked, bound—will have his eyes burnt out; and, at last, after suffering every
kind of evil, he will be impaled. Then he will understand that he ought to seem only, and
not to be, just; the words of AEschylus may be more truly spoken of the unjust than of
the just. For the unjust is pursuing a reality; he does not live with a view to
appearances—he wants to be really unjust and not to seem only—
"His mind has a soil deep and fertile, Out of which spring his prudent counsels."
In the first place, he is thought just, and therefore bears rule in the city; he can marry
whom he will, and give in marriage to whom he will; also he can trade and deal where
he likes, and always to his own advantage, because he has no misgivings about injustice;
and at every contest, whether in public or private, he gets the better of his antagonists,
and gains at their expense, and is rich, and out of his gains he can benefit his friends,
and harm his enemies; moreover, he can offer sacrifices, and dedicate gifts to the gods
abundantly and magnificently, and can honor the gods or any man whom he wants to
honor in a far better style than the just, and therefore he is likely to be dearer than they
are to the gods. And thus, Socrates, gods and men are said to unite in making the life of
the unjust better than the life of the just.
I was going to say something in answer to Glaucon, when Adeimantus, his brother,
interposed: Socrates, he said, you do not suppose that there is nothing more to be
urged?
Why, what else is there? I answered.
The strongest point of all has not been even mentioned, he replied.
Well, then, according to the proverb, "Let brother help brother"—if he fails in any part,
do you assist him; although I must confess that Glaucon has already said quite enough
to lay me in the dust, and take from me the power of helping justice.
Nonsense, he replied. But let me add something more: There is another side to
Glaucon's argument about the praise and censure of justice and injustice, which is
equally required in order to bring out what I believe to be his meaning. Parents and
tutors are always telling their sons and their wards that they are to be just; but why? not
for the sake of justice, but for the sake of character and reputation; in the hope of
obtaining for him who is reputed just some of those offices, marriages, and the like
which Glaucon has enumerated among the advantages accruing to the unjust from the
reputation of justice. More, however, is made of appearances by this class of persons
than by the others; for they throw in the good opinion of the gods, and will tell you of a
shower of benefits which the heavens, as they say, rain upon the pious; and this accords
with the testimony of the noble Hesiod and Homer, the first of whom says that the gods
make the oaks of the just—
"To bear acorns at their summit, and bees in the middle; And the sheep are bowed
down with the weight of their fleeces,"
and many other blessings of a like kind are provided for them. And Homer has a very
similar strain; for he speaks of one whose fame is
"As the fame of some blameless king who, like a god, Maintains justice; to whom the
black earth brings forth Wheat and barley, whose trees are bowed with fruit, And his
sheep never fail to bear, and the sea gives him fish."
Still grander are the gifts of heaven which Musaeus and his son vouchsafe to the just;
they take them down into the world below, where they have the saints lying on couches
at a feast, everlastingly drunk, crowned with garlands; their idea seems to be that an
immortality of drunkenness is the highest meed of virtue. Some extend their rewards yet
further; the posterity, as they say, of the faithful and just shall survive to the third and
fourth generation. This is the style in which they praise justice. But about the wicked
there is another strain; they bury them in a slough in Hades, and make them carry water
in a sieve; also while they are yet living they bring them to infamy, and inflict upon them
the punishments which Glaucon described as the portion of the just who are reputed to
be unjust; nothing else does their invention supply. Such is their manner of praising the
one and censuring the other.
Once more, Socrates, I will ask you to consider another way of speaking about justice
and injustice, which is not confined to the poets, but is found in prose writers. The
universal voice of mankind is always declaring that justice and virtue are honorable, but
grievous and toilsome; and that the pleasures of vice and injustice are easy of
attainment, and are only censured by law and opinion. They say also that honesty is for
the most part less profitable than dishonesty; and they are quite ready to call wicked
men happy, and to honor them both in public and private when they are rich or in any
other way influential, while they despise and overlook those who may be weak and
poor, even though acknowledging them to be better than the others. But most
extraordinary of all is their mode of speaking about virtue and the gods: they say that
the gods apportion calamity and misery to many good men, and good and happiness to
the wicked. And mendicant prophets go to rich men's doors and persuade them that
they have a power committed to them by the gods of making an atonement for a man's
own or his ancestor's sins by sacrifices or charms, with rejoicings and feasts; and they
promise to harm an enemy, whether just or unjust, at a small cost; with magic arts and
incantations binding heaven, as they say, to execute their will. And the poets are the
authorities to whom they appeal, now smoothing the path of vice with the words of
Hesiod:
"Vice may be had in abundance without trouble; the way is smooth and her dwellingplace
is near. But before virtue the gods have set toil,"
and a tedious and uphill road: then citing Homer as a witness that the gods may be
influenced by men; for he also says:
"The gods, too, may be turned from their purpose; and men pray to them and avert
their wrath by sacrifices and soothing entreaties, and by libations and the odor of fat,
when they have sinned and trangressed."
And they produce a host of books written by Musaeus and Orpheus, who were children
of the Moon and the muses—that is what they say—according to which they perform
their ritual, and persuade not only individuals, but whole cities, that expiations and
atonements for sin may be made by sacrifices and amusements which fill a vacant hour,
and are equally at the service of the living and the dead; the latter sort they call
mysteries, and they redeem us from the pains of hell, but if we neglect them no one
knows what awaits us.
He proceeded: And now when the young hear all this said about virtue and vice, and the
way in which gods and men regard them, how are their minds likely to be affected, my
dear Socrates—those of them, I mean, who are quick-witted, and, like bees on the wing,
light on every flower, and from all that they hear are prone to draw conclusions as to
what manner of persons they should be and in what way they should walk if they would
make the best of life? Probably the youth will say to himself in the words of Pindar:
"Can I by justice or by crooked ways of deceit ascend a loftier tower which may be a
fortress to me all my days?"
For what men say is that, if I am really just and am not also thought just, profit there is
none, but the pain and loss on the other hand are unmistakable. But if, though unjust, I
acquire the reputation of justice, a heavenly life is promised to me. Since then, as
philosophers prove, appearance tyrannizes over truth and is lord of happiness, to
appearance I must devote myself. I will describe around me a picture and shadow of
virtue to be the vestibule and exterior of my house; behind I will trail the subtle and
crafty fox, as Archilochus, greatest of sages, recommends. But I hear someone
exclaiming that the concealment of wickedness is often difficult; to which I answer,
Nothing great is easy. Nevertheless, the argument indicates this, if we would be happy,
to be the path along which we should proceed. With a view to concealment we will
establish secret brotherhoods and political clubs. And there are professors of rhetoric
who teach the art of persuading courts and assemblies; and so, partly by persuasion and
partly by force, I shall make unlawful gains and not be punished. Still I hear a voice
saying that the gods cannot be deceived, neither can they be compelled. But what if
there are no gods? or, suppose them to have no care of human things—why in either
case should we mind about concealment? And even if there are gods, and they do care
about us, yet we know of them only from tradition and the genealogies of the poets;
and these are the very persons who say that they may be influenced and turned by
"sacrifices and soothing entreaties and by offerings." Let us be consistent, then, and
believe both or neither. If the poets speak truly, why, then, we had better be unjust, and
offer of the fruits of injustice; for if we are just, although we may escape the vengeance
of heaven, we shall lose the gains of injustice; but, if we are unjust, we shall keep the
gains, and by our sinning and praying, and praying and sinning, the gods will be
propitiated, and we shall not be punished. "But there is a world below in which either we
or our posterity will suffer for our unjust deeds." Yes, my friend, will be the reflection,
but there are mysteries and atoning deities, and these have great power. That is what
mighty cities declare; and the children of the gods, who were their poets and prophets,
bear a like testimony.
On what principle, then, shall we any longer choose justice rather than the worst
injustice? when, if we only unite the latter with a deceitful regard to appearances, we
shall fare to our mind both with gods and men, in life and after death, as the most
numerous and the highest authorities tell us. Knowing all this, Socrates, how can a man
who has any superiority of mind or person or rank or wealth, be willing to honor justice;
or indeed to refrain from laughing when he hears justice praised? And even if there
should be someone who is able to disprove the truth of my words, and who is satisfied
that justice is best, still he is not angry with the unjust, but is very ready to forgive them,
because he also knows that men are not just of their own free will; unless, peradventure,
there be someone whom the divinity within him may have inspired with a hatred of
injustice, or who has attained knowledge of the truth—but no other man. He only
blames injustice, who, owing to cowardice or age or some weakness, has not the power
of being unjust. And this is proved by the fact that when he obtains the power, he
immediately becomes unjust as far as he can be.
The cause of all this, Socrates, was indicated by us at the beginning of the argument,
when my brother and I told you how astonished we were to find that of all the
professing panegyrists of justice—beginning with the ancient heroes of whom any
memorial has been preserved to us, and ending with the men of our own time—no one
has ever blamed injustice or praised justice except with a view to the glories, honors,
and benefits which flow from them. No one has ever adequately described either in
verse or prose the true essential nature of either of them abiding in the soul, and
invisible to any human or divine eye; or shown that of all the things of a man's soul
which he has within him, justice is the greatest good, and injustice the greatest evil. Had
this been the universal strain, had you sought to persuade us of this from our youth
upward, we should not have been on the watch to keep one another from doing wrong,
but everyone would have been his own watchman, because afraid, if he did wrong, of
harboring in himself the greatest of evils. I dare say that Thrasymachus and others
would seriously hold the language which I have been merely repeating, and words even
stronger than these about justice and injustice, grossly, as I conceive, perverting their
true nature. But I speak in this vehement manner, as I must frankly confess to you,
because I want to hear from you the opposite side; and I would ask you to show not
only the superiority which justice has over injustice, but what effect they have on the
possessor of them which makes the one to be a good and the other an evil to him. And
please, as Glaucon requested of you, to exclude reputations; for unless you take away
from each of them his true reputation and add on the false, we shall say that you do not
praise justice, but the appearance of it; we shall think that you are only exhorting us to
keep injustice dark, and that you really agree with Thrasymachus in thinking that justice
is another's good and the interest of the stronger, and that injustice is a man's own
profit and interest, though injurious to the weaker. Now as you have admitted that
justice is one of that highest class of goods which are desired, indeed, for their results,
but in a far greater degree for their own sakes—like sight or hearing or knowledge or
health, or any other real and natural and not merely conventional good—I would ask
you in your praise of justice to regard one point only: I mean the essential good and evil
which justice and injustice work in the possessors of them. Let others praise justice and
censure injustice, magnifying the rewards and honors of the one and abusing the other;
that is a manner of arguing which, coming from them, I am ready to tolerate, but from
you who have spent your whole life in the consideration of this question, unless I hear
the contrary from your own lips, I expect something better. And therefore, I say, not only
prove to us that justice is better than injustice, but show what they either of them do to
the possessor of them, which makes the one to be a good and the other an evil,
whether seen or unseen by gods and men.
I had always admired the genius of Glaucon and Adeimantus, but on hearing these
words I was quite delighted, and said: Sons of an illustrious father, that was not a bad
beginning of the elegiac verses which the admirer of Glaucon made in honor of you
after you had distinguished yourselves at the battle of Megara:
"Sons of Ariston," he sang, "divine offspring of an illustrious hero."
The epithet is very appropriate, for there is something truly divine in being able to argue
as you have done for the superiority of injustice, and remaining unconvinced by your
own arguments. And I do believe that you are not convinced— this I infer from your
general character, for had I judged only from your speeches I should have mistrusted
you. But now, the greater my confidence in you, the greater is my difficulty in knowing
what to say. For I am in a strait between two; on the one hand I feel that I am unequal to
the task; and my inability is brought home to me by the fact that you were not satisfied
with the answer which I made to Thrasymachus, proving, as I thought, the superiority
which justice has over injustice. And yet I cannot refuse to help, while breath and speech
remain to me; I am afraid that there would be an impiety in being present when justice
is evil spoken of and not lifting up a hand in her defence. And therefore I had best give
such help as I can.
Glaucon and the rest entreated me by all means not to let the question drop, but to
proceed in the investigation. They wanted to arrive at the truth, first, about the nature of
justice and injustice, and secondly, about their relative advantages. I told them, what I
really thought, that the inquiry would be of a serious nature, and would require very
good eyes. Seeing then, I said, that we are no great wits, I think that we had better
adopt a method which I may illustrate thus; suppose that a short-sighted person had
been asked by someone to read small letters from a distance; and it occurred to
someone else that they might be found in another place which was larger and in which
the letters were larger—if they were the same and he could read the larger letters first,
and then proceed to the lesser —this would have been thought a rare piece of goodfortune.

Very true, said Adeimantus; but how does the illustration apply to our inquiry?
I will tell you, I replied; justice, which is the subject of our inquiry, is, as you know,
sometimes spoken of as the virtue of an individual, and sometimes as the virtue of a
State.
True, he replied.
And is not a State larger than an individual?
It is.
Then in the larger the quantity of justice is likely to be larger and more easily discernible.
I propose therefore that we inquire into the nature of justice and injustice, first as they
appear in the State, and secondly in the individual, proceeding from the greater to the
lesser and comparing them.
That, he said, is an excellent proposal.
And if we imagine the State in process of creation, we shall see the justice and injustice
of the State in process of creation also.
I dare say.
When the State is completed there may be a hope that the object of our search will be
more easily discovered.
Yes, far more easily.
But ought we to attempt to construct one? I said; for to do so, as I am inclined to think,
will be a very serious task. Reflect therefore.
I have reflected, said Adeimantus, and am anxious that you should proceed.
A State, I said, arises, as I conceive, out of the needs of mankind; no one is self-sufficing,
but all of us have many wants. Can any other origin of a State be imagined?
There can be no other.
Then, as we have many wants, and many persons are needed to supply them, one takes
a helper for one purpose and another for another; and when these partners and helpers
are gathered together in one habitation the body of inhabitants is termed a State.
True, he said.
And they exchange with one another, and one gives, and another receives, under the
idea that the exchange will be for their good.
Very true.
Then, I said, let us begin and create in idea a State; and yet the true creator is necessity,
who is the mother of our invention.
Of course, he replied.
Now the first and greatest of necessities is food, which is the condition of life and
existence.
Certainly.
The second is a dwelling, and the third clothing and the like.
True.
And now let us see how our city will be able to supply this great demand: We may
suppose that one man is a husbandman, another a builder, someone else a weaver—
shall we add to them a shoemaker, or perhaps some other purveyor to our bodily
wants?
Quite right.
The barest notion of a State must include four or five men.
Clearly.
And how will they proceed? Will each bring the result of his labors into a common
stock?—the individual husbandman, for example, producing for four, and laboring four
times as long and as much as he need in the provision of food with which he supplies
others as well as himself; or will he have nothing to do with others and not be at the
trouble of producing for them, but provide for himself alone a fourth of the food in a
fourth of the time, and in the remaining three-fourths of his time be employed in
making a house or a coat or a pair of shoes, having no partnership with others, but
supplying himself all his own wants?
Adeimantus thought that he should aim at producing food only and not at producing
everything.
Probably, I replied, that would be the better way; and when I hear you say this, I am
myself reminded that we are not all alike; there are diversities of natures among us
which are adapted to different occupations.
Very true.
And will you have a work better done when the workman has many occupations, or
when he has only one?
When he has only one.
Further, there can be no doubt that a work is spoilt when not done at the right time?
No doubt.
For business is not disposed to wait until the doer of the business is at leisure; but the
doer must follow up what he is doing, and make the business his first object.
He must.
And if so, we must infer that all things are produced more plentifully and easily and of a
better quality when one man does one thing which is natural to him and does it at the
right time, and leaves other things. Undoubtedly.
Then more than four citizens will be required; for the husbandman will not make his
own plough or mattock, or other implements of agriculture, if they are to be good for
anything. Neither will the builder make his tools—and he, too, needs many; and in like
manner the weaver and shoemaker.
True.
Then carpenters and smiths and many other artisans will be sharers in our little State,
which is already beginning to grow?
True.
Yet even if we add neatherds, shepherds, and other herdsmen, in order that our
husbandmen may have oxen to plough with, and builders as well as husbandmen may
have draught cattle, and curriers and weavers fleeces and hides—still our State will not
be very large.
That is true; yet neither will it be a very small State which contains all these.
Then, again, there is the situation of the city—to find a place where nothing need be
imported is well-nigh impossible.
Impossible.
Then there must be another class of citizens who will bring the required supply from
another city?
There must.
But if the trader goes empty-handed, having nothing which they require who would
supply his need, he will come back empty-handed.
That is certain.
And therefore what they produce at home must be not only enough for themselves, but
such both in quantity and quality as to accommodate those from whom their wants are
supplied.
Very true.
Then more husbandmen and more artisans will be required?
They will.
Not to mention the importers and exporters, who are called merchants?
Yes.
Then we shall want merchants?
We shall.
And if merchandise is to be carried over the sea, skilful sailors will also be needed, and
in considerable numbers?
Yes, in considerable numbers.
Then, again, within the city, how will they exchange their productions? To secure such an
exchange was, as you will remember, one of our principal objects when we formed them
into a society and constituted a State.
Clearly they will buy and sell.
Then they will need a market-place, and a money-token for purposes of exchange.
Certainly.
Suppose now that a husbandman or an artisan brings some production to market, and
he comes at a time when there is no one to exchange with him—is he to leave his
calling and sit idle in the market-place?
Not at all; he will find people there who, seeing the want, undertake the office of
salesmen. In well-ordered States they are commonly those who are the weakest in
bodily strength, and therefore of little use for any other purpose; their duty is to be in
the market, and to give money in exchange for goods to those who desire to sell, and to
take money from those who desire to buy.
This want, then, creates a class of retail-traders in our State. Is not "retailer" the term
which is applied to those who sit in the market-place engaged in buying and selling,
while those who wander from one city to another are called merchants?
Yes, he said.
And there is another class of servants, who are intellectually hardly on the level of
companionship; still they have plenty of bodily strength for labor, which accordingly
they sell, and are called, if I do not mistake, hirelings, "hire" being the name which is
given to the price of their labor.
True.
Then hirelings will help to make up our population?
Yes.
And now, Adeimantus, is our State matured and perfected?
I think so.
Where, then, is justice, and where is injustice, and in what part of the State did they
spring up?
Probably in the dealings of these citizens with one another. I cannot imagine that they
are more likely to be found anywhere else.
I dare say that you are right in your suggestion, I said; we had better think the matter
out, and not shrink from the inquiry.
Let us then consider, first of all, what will be their way of life, now that we have thus
established them. Will they not produce corn and wine and clothes and shoes, and build
houses for themselves? And when they are housed, they will work, in summer,
commonly, stripped and barefoot, but in winter substantially clothed and shod. They will
feed on barley-meal and flour of wheat, baking and kneading them, making noble cakes
and loaves; these they will serve up on a mat of reeds or on clean leaves, themselves
reclining the while upon beds strewn with yew or myrtle. And they and their children will
feast, drinking of the wine which they have made, wearing garlands on their heads, and
hymning the praises of the gods, in happy converse with one another. And they will take
care that their families do not exceed their means; having an eye to poverty or war.
But, said Glaucon, interposing, you have not given them a relish to their meal.
True, I replied, I had forgotten; of course they must have a relish—salt and olives and
cheese—and they will boil roots and herbs such as country people prepare; for a dessert
we shall give them figs and peas and beans; and they will roast myrtle-berries and
acorns at the fire, drinking in moderation. And with such a diet they may be expected to
live in peace and health to a good old age, and bequeath a similar life to their children
after them.
Yes, Socrates, he said, and if you were providing for a city of pigs, how else would you
feed the beasts?
But what would you have, Glaucon? I replied.
Why, he said, you should give them the ordinary conveniences of life. People who are to
be comfortable are accustomed to lie on sofas, and dine off tables, and they should
have sauces and sweets in the modern style.
Yes, I said, now I understand: the question which you would have me consider is, not
only how a State, but how a luxurious State is created; and possibly there is no harm in
this, for in such a State we shall be more likely to see how justice and injustice originate.
In my opinion the true and healthy constitution of the State is the one which I have
described. But if you wish also to see a State at fever-heat, I have no objection. For I
suspect that many will not be satisfied with the simpler way of life. They will be for
adding sofas and tables and other furniture; also dainties and perfumes and incense and
courtesans and cakes, all these not of one sort only, but in every variety. We must go
beyond the necessaries of which I was at first speaking, such as houses and clothes and
shoes; the arts of the painter and the embroiderer will have to be set in motion, and
gold and ivory and all sorts of materials must be procured.
True, he said.
Then we must enlarge our borders; for the original healthy State is no longer sufficient.
Now will the city have to fill and swell with a multitude of callings which are not required
by any natural want; such as the whole tribe of hunters and actors, of whom one large
class have to do with forms and colors; another will be the votaries of music—poets and
their attendant train of rhapsodists, players, dancers, contractors; also makers of divers
kinds of articles, including women's dresses. And we shall want more servants. Will not
tutors be also in request, and nurses wet and dry, tirewomen and barbers, as well as
confectioners and cooks; and swineherds, too, who were not needed and therefore had
no place in the former edition of our State, but are needed now? They must not be
forgotten: and there will be animals of many other kinds, if people eat them.
Certainly.
And living in this way we shall have much greater need of physicians than before?
Much greater.
And the country which was enough to support the original inhabitants will be too small
now, and not enough?
Quite true.
Then a slice of our neighbors' land will be wanted by us for pasture and tillage, and they
will want a slice of ours, if, like ourselves, they exceed the limit of necessity, and give
themselves up to the unlimited accumulation of wealth?
That, Socrates, will be inevitable.
And so we shall go to war, Glaucon. Shall we not?
Most certainly, he replied. Then, without determining as yet whether war does good or
harm, thus much we may affirm, that now we have discovered war to be derived from
causes which are also the causes of almost all the evils in States, private as well as
public.
Undoubtedly.
And our State must once more enlarge; and this time the enlargement will be nothing
short of a whole army, which will have to go out and fight with the invaders for all that
we have, as well as for the things and persons whom we were describing above.
Why? he said; are they not capable of defending themselves?
No, I said; not if we were right in the principle which was acknowledged by all of us
when we were framing the State. The principle, as you will remember, was that one man
cannot practise many arts with success.
Very true, he said.
But is not war an art?
Certainly.
And an art requiring as much attention as shoemaking?
Quite true.
And the shoemaker was not allowed by us to be a husbandman, or a weaver, or a
builder—in order that we might have our shoes well made; but to him and to every
other worker was assigned one work for which he was by nature fitted, and at that he
was to continue working all his life long and at no other; he was not to let opportunities
slip, and then he would become a good workman. Now nothing can be more important
than that the work of a soldier should be well done. But is war an art so easily acquired
that a man may be a warrior who is also a husbandman, or shoemaker, or other artisan;
although no one in the world would be a good dice or draught player who merely took
up the game as a recreation, and had not from his earliest years devoted himself to this
and nothing else?
No tools will make a man a skilled workman or master of defence, nor be of any use to
him who has not learned how to handle them, and has never bestowed any attention
upon them. How, then, will he who takes up a shield or other implement of war become
a good fighter all in a day, whether with heavyarmed or any other kind of troops?
Yes, he said, the tools which would teach men their own use would be beyond price.
And the higher the duties of the guardian, I said, the more time and skill and art and
application will be needed by him?
No doubt, he replied.
Will he not also require natural aptitude for his calling?
Certainly.
Then it will be our duty to select, if we can, natures which are fitted for the task of
guarding the city?
It will.
And the selection will be no easy matter, I said; but we must be brave and do our best.
We must.
Is not the noble youth very like a well-bred dog in respect of guarding and watching?
What do you mean?
I mean that both of them ought to be quick to see, and swift to overtake the enemy
when they see him; and strong too if, when they have caught him, they have to fight
with him.
All these qualities, he replied, will certainly be required by them.
Well, and your guardian must be brave if he is to fight well?
Certainly.
And is he likely to be brave who has no spirit, whether horse or dog or any other
animal? Have you never observed how invincible and unconquerable is spirit and how
the presence of it makes the soul of any creature to be absolutely fearless and
indomitable?
I have.
Then now we have a clear notion of the bodily qualities which are required in the
guardian.
True.
And also of the mental ones; his soul is to be full of spirit?
Yes.
But are not these spirited natures apt to be savage with one another, and with
everybody else?
A difficulty by no means easy to overcome, he replied.
Whereas, I said, they ought to be dangerous to their enemies, and gentle to their
friends; if not, they will destroy themselves without waiting for their enemies to destroy
them.
True, he said.
What is to be done, then? I said; how shall we find a gentle nature which has also a
great spirit, for the one is the contradiction of the other?
True.
He will not be a good guardian who is wanting in either of these two qualities; and yet
the combination of them appears to be impossible; and hence we must infer that to be
a good guardian is impossible.
I am afraid that what you say is true, he replied.
Here feeling perplexed I began to think over what had preceded. My friend, I said, no
wonder that we are in a perplexity; for we have lost sight of the image which we had
before us.
What do you mean? he said.
I mean to say that there do exist natures gifted with those opposite qualities.
And where do you find them?
Many animals, I replied, furnish examples of them; our friend the dog is a very good
one: you know that well-bred dogs are perfectly gentle to their familiars and
acquaintances, and the reverse to strangers.
Yes, I know.
Then there is nothing impossible or out of the order of nature in our finding a guardian
who has a similar combination of qualities?
Certainly not.
Would not he who is fitted to be a guardian, besides the spirited nature, need to have
the qualities of a philosopher?
I do not apprehend your meaning.
The trait of which I am speaking, I replied, may be also seen in the dog, and is
remarkable in the animal.
What trait?
Why, a dog, whenever he sees a stranger, is angry; when an acquaintance, he welcomes
him, although the one has never done him any harm, nor the other any good. Did this
never strike you as curious?
The matter never struck me before; but I quite recognize the truth of your remark.
And surely this instinct of the dog is very charming; your dog is a true philosopher.
Why?
Why, because he distinguishes the face of a friend and of an enemy only by the criterion
of knowing and not knowing. And must not an animal be a lover of learning who
determines what he likes and dislikes by the test of knowledge and ignorance?
Most assuredly.
And is not the love of learning the love of wisdom, which is philosophy?
They are the same, he replied.
And may we not say confidently of man also, that he who is likely to be gentle to his
friends and acquaintances, must by nature be a lover of wisdom and knowledge?
That we may safely affirm.
Then he who is to be a really good and noble guardian of the State will require to unite
in himself philosophy and spirit and swiftness and strength?
Undoubtedly.
Then we have found the desired natures; and now that we have found them, how are
they to be reared and educated? Is not this an inquiry which may be expected to throw
light on the greater inquiry which is our final end—How do justice and injustice grow up
in States? for we do not want either to omit what is to the point or to draw out the
argument to an inconvenient length.
Adeimantus thought that the inquiry would be of great service to us.
Then, I said, my dear friend, the task must not be given up, even if somewhat long.
Certainly not.
Come then, and let us pass a leisure hour in story-telling, and our story shall be the
education of our heroes.
By all means.
And what shall be their education? Can we find a better than the traditional sort?—and
this has two divisions, gymnastics for the body, and music for the soul.
True.
Shall we begin education with music, and go on to gymnastics afterward?
By all means.
And when you speak of music, do you include literature or not?
I do.
And literature may be either true or false?
Yes.
And the young should be trained in both kinds, and we begin with the false?
I do not understand your meaning, he said.
You know, I said, that we begin by telling children stories which, though not wholly
destitute of truth, are in the main fictitious; and these stories are told them when they
are not of an age to learn gymnastics.
Very true.
That was my meaning when I said that we must teach music before gymnastics.
Quite right, he said.
You know also that the beginning is the most important part of any work, especially in
the case of a young and tender thing; for that is the time at which the character is being
formed and the desired impression is more readily taken.
Quite true.
And shall we just carelessly allow children to hear any casual tales which may be devised
by casual persons, and to receive into their minds ideas for the most part the very
opposite of those which we should wish them to have when they are grown up?
We cannot.
Then the first thing will be to establish a censorship of the writers of fiction, and let the
censors receive any tale of fiction which is good, and reject the bad; and we will desire
mothers and nurses to tell their children the authorized ones only. Let them fashion the
mind with such tales, even more fondly than they mould the body with their hands; but
most of those which are now in use must be discarded.
Of what tales are you speaking? he said.
You may find a model of the lesser in the greater, I said; for they are necessarily of the
same type, and there is the same spirit in both of them.
Very likely, he replied; but I do not as yet know what you would term the greater.
Those, I said, which are narrated by Homer and Hesiod, and the rest of the poets, who
have ever been the great storytellers of mankind.
But which stories do you mean, he said; and what fault do you find with them?
A fault which is most serious, I said; the fault of telling a lie, and, what is more, a bad lie.
But when is this fault committed?
Whenever an erroneous representation is made of the nature of gods and heroes—as
when a painter paints a portrait not having the shadow of a likeness to the original.
Yes, he said, that sort of thing is certainly very blamable; but what are the stories which
you mean?
First of all, I said, there was that greatest of all lies in high places, which the poet told
about Uranus, and which was a bad lie too—I mean what Hesiod says that Uranus did,
and how Cronus retaliated on him. The doings of Cronus, and the sufferings which in
turn his son inflicted upon him, even if they were true, ought certainly not to be lightly
told to young and thoughtless persons; if possible, they had better be buried in silence.
But if there is an absolute necessity for their mention, a chosen few might hear them in
a mystery, and they should sacrifice not a common [Eleusinian] pig, but some huge and
unprocurable victim; and then the number of the hearers will be very few indeed.
Why, yes, said he, those stories are extremely objectionable.
Yes, Adeimantus, they are stories not to be repeated in our State; the young man should
not be told that in committing the worst of crimes he is far from doing anything
outrageous; and that even if he chastises his father when he does wrong, in whatever
manner, he will only be following the example of the first and greatest among the gods.
I entirely agree with you, he said; in my opinion those stories are quite unfit to be
repeated.
Neither, if we mean our future guardians to regard the habit of quarrelling among
themselves as of all things the basest, should any word be said to them of the wars in
heaven, and of the plots and fightings of the gods against one another, for they are not
true. No, we shall never mention the battles of the giants, or let them be embroidered
on garments; and we shall be silent about the innumerable other quarrels of gods and
heroes with their friends and relatives. If they would only believe us we would tell them
that quarrelling is unholy, and that never up to this time has there been any quarrel
between citizens; this is what old men and old women should begin by telling children;
and when they grow up, the poets also should be told to compose them in a similar
spirit. But the narrative of Hephaestus binding Here his mother, or how on another
occasion Zeus sent him flying for taking her part when she was being beaten, and all the
battles of the gods in Homer—these tales must not be admitted into our State, whether
they are supposed to have an allegorical meaning or not. For a young person cannot
judge what is allegorical and what is literal; anything that he receives into his mind at
that age is likely to become indelible and unalterable; and therefore it is most important
that the tales which the young first hear should be models of virtuous thoughts.
There you are right, he replied; but if anyone asks where are such models to be found
and of what tales are you speaking—how shall we answer him?
I said to him, You and I, Adeimantus, at this moment are not poets, but founders of a
State: now the founders of a State ought to know the general forms in which poets
should cast their tales, and the limits which must be observed by them, but to make the
tales is not their business.
Very true, he said; but what are these forms of theology which you mean?
Something of this kind, I replied: God is always to be represented as he truly is, whatever
be the sort of poetry, epic, lyric, or tragic, in which the representation is given.
Right.
And is he not truly good? and must he not be represented as such?
Certainly.
And no good thing is hurtful?
No, indeed.
And that which is not hurtful hurts not?
Certainly not.
And that which hurts not does no evil?
No.
And can that which does no evil be a cause of evil?
Impossible.
And the good is advantageous?
Yes.
And therefore the cause of well-being?
Yes.
It follows, therefore, that the good is not the cause of all things, but of the good only?
Assuredly.
Then God, if he be good, is not the author of all things, as the many assert, but he is the
cause of a few things only, and not of most things that occur to men. For few are the
goods of human life, and many are the evils, and the good is to be attributed to God
alone; of the evils the causes are to be sought elsewhere, and not in him.
That appears to me to be most true, he said.
Then we must not listen to Homer or to any other poet who is guilty of the folly of
saying that two casks
"Lie at the threshold of Zeus, full of lots, one of good, the other of evil lots,"
and that he to whom Zeus gives a mixture of the two
"Sometimes meets with evil fortune, at other times with good;"
but that he to whom is given the cup of unmingled ill,
"Him wild hunger drives o'er the beauteous earth."
And again—
"Zeus, who is the dispenser of good and evil to us."
And if anyone asserts that the violation of oaths and treaties, which was really the work
of Pandarus, was brought about by Athene and Zeus, or that the strife and contention of
the gods were instigated by Themis and Zeus, he shall not have our approval; neither
will we allow our young men to hear the words of AEschylus, that
"God plants guilt among men when he desires utterly to destroy a house."
And if a poet writes of the sufferings of Niobe—the subject of the tragedy in which
these iambic verses occur—or of the house of Pelops, or of the Trojan War or on any
similar theme, either we must not permit him to say that these are the works of God, or
if they are of God, he must devise some explanation of them such as we are seeking: he
must say that God did what was just and right, and they were the better for being
punished; but that those who are punished are miserable, and that God is the author of
their misery—the poet is not to be permitted to say; though he may say that the wicked
are miserable because they require to be punished, and are benefited by receiving
punishment from God; but that God being good is the author of evil to anyone is to be
strenuously denied, and not to be said or sung or heard in verse or prose by anyone
whether old or young in any well-ordered commonwealth. Such a fiction is suicidal,
ruinous, impious.
I agree with you, he replied, and am ready to give my assent to the law.
Let this then be one of our rules and principles concerning the gods, to which our poets
and reciters will be expected to conform—that God is not the author of all things, but of
good only.
That will do, he said.
And what do you think of a second principle? Shall I ask you whether God is a magician,
and of a nature to appear insidiously now in one shape, and now in another—
sometimes himself changing and passing into many forms, sometimes deceiving us with
the semblance of such transformations; or is he one and the same immutably fixed in his
own proper image?
I cannot answer you, he said, without more thought.
Well, I said; but if we suppose a change in anything, that change must be effected either
by the thing itself or by some other thing?
Most certainly.
And things which are at their best are also least liable to be altered or discomposed; for
example, when healthiest and strongest, the human frame is least liable to be affected
by meats and drinks, and the plant which is in the fullest vigor also suffers least from
winds or the heat of the sun or any similar causes.
Of course.
And will not the bravest and wisest soul be least confused or deranged by any external
influence?
True.
And the same principle, as I should suppose, applies to all composite things—furniture,
houses, garments: when good and well made, they are least altered by time and
circumstances.
Very true.
Then everything which is good, whether made by art or nature, or both, is least liable to
suffer change from without?
True.
But surely God and the things of God are in every way perfect?
Of course they are.
Then he can hardly be compelled by external influence to take many shapes?
He cannot.
But may he not change and transform himself?
Clearly, he said, that must be the case if he is changed at all.
And will he then change himself for the better and fairer, or for the worse and more
unsightly?
If he change at all he can only change for the worse, for we cannot suppose him to be
deficient either in virtue or beauty.
Very true, Adeimantus; but then, would anyone, whether God or man, desire to make
himself worse?
Impossible.
Then it is impossible that God should ever be willing to change; being, as is supposed,
the fairest and best that is conceivable, every God remains absolutely and forever in his
own form.
That necessarily follows, he said, in my judgment.
Then, I said, my dear friend, let none of the poets tell us that
"The gods, taking the disguise of strangers from other lands, walk up and down cities in
all sorts of forms;"
and let no one slander Proteus and Thetis, neither let anyone, either in tragedy or in any
other kind of poetry, introduce Here disguised in the likeness of a priestess asking an
alms
"For the life-giving daughters of Inachus the river of Argos;"
—let us have no more lies of that sort. Neither must we have mothers under the
influence of the poets scaring their children with a bad version of these myths—telling
how certain gods, as they say, "Go about by night in the likeness of so many strangers
and in divers forms;" but let them take heed lest they make cowards of their children,
and at the same time speak blasphemy against the gods.
Heaven forbid, he said.
But although the gods are themselves unchangeable, still by witchcraft and deception
they may make us think that they appear in various forms?
Perhaps, he replied.
Well, but can you imagine that God will be willing to lie, whether in word or deed, or to
put forth a phantom of himself?
I cannot say, he replied.
Do you not know, I said, that the true lie, if such an expression may be allowed, is hated
of gods and men?
What do you mean? he said.
I mean that no one is willingly deceived in that which is the truest and highest part of
himself, or about the truest and highest matters; there, above all, he is most afraid of a
lie having possession of him.
Still, he said, I do not comprehend you.
The reason is, I replied, that you attribute some profound meaning to my words; but I
am only saying that deception, or being deceived or uninformed about the highest
realities in the highest part of themselves, which is the soul, and in that part of them to
have and to hold the lie, is what mankind least like; —that, I say, is what they utterly
detest.
There is nothing more hateful to them.
And, as I was just now remarking, this ignorance in the soul of him who is deceived may
be called the true lie; for the lie in words is only a kind of imitation and shadowy image
of a previous affection of the soul, not pure unadulterated falsehood. Am I not right?
Perfectly right.
The true lie is hated not only by the gods, but also by men?
Yes.
Whereas the lie in words is in certain cases useful and not hateful; in dealing with
enemies—that would be an instance; or again, when those whom we call our friends in a
fit of madness or illusion are going to do some harm, then it is useful and is a sort of
medicine or preventive; also in the tales of mythology, of which we were just now
speaking—because we do not know the truth about ancient times, we make falsehood
as much like truth as we can, and so turn it to account.
Very true, he said.
But can any of these reasons apply to God? Can we suppose that he is ignorant of
antiquity, and therefore has recourse to invention?
That would be ridiculous, he said.
Then the lying poet has no place in our idea of God?
I should say not.
Or perhaps he may tell a lie because he is afraid of enemies?
That is inconceivable.
But he may have friends who are senseless or mad?
But no mad or senseless person can be a friend of God.
Then no motive can be imagined why God should lie?
None whatever.
Then the superhuman, and divine, is absolutely incapable of falsehood?
Yes.
Then is God perfectly simple and true both in word and deed; he changes not; he
deceives not, either by sign or word, by dream or waking vision.
Your thoughts, he said, are the reflection of my own.
You agree with me then, I said, that this is the second type or form in which we should
write and speak about divine things. The gods are not magicians who transform
themselves, neither do they deceive mankind in any way.
I grant that.
Then, although we are admirers of Homer, we do not admire the lying dream which
Zeus sends to Agamemnon; neither will we praise the verses of AEschylus in which
Thetis says that Apollo at her nuptials
"was celebrating in song her fair progeny whose days were to be long, and to know no
sickness. And when he had spoken of my lot as in all things blessed of heaven, he raised
a note of triumph and cheered my soul. And I thought that the word of Phoebus, being
divine and full of prophecy, would not fail. And now he himself who uttered the strain,
he who was present at the banquet, and who said this—he it is who has slain my son."
These are the kind of sentiments about the gods which will arouse our anger; and he
who utters them shall be refused a chorus; neither shall we allow teachers to make use
of them in the instruction of the young, meaning, as we do, that our guardians, as far as
men can be, should be true worshippers of the gods and like them.
I entirely agree, he said, in these principles, and promise to make them my laws.

BOOK III
THE ARTS IN
EDUCATION
(SOCRATES, ADEIMANTUS.)
SUCH, then, I said, are our principles of theology—some tales are to be told, and others
are not to be told to our disciples from their youth upward, if we mean them to honor
the gods and their parents, and to value friendship with one another.
Yes; and I think that our principles are right, he said.
But if they are to be courageous, must they not learn other lessons beside these, and
lessons of such a kind as will take away the fear of death? Can any man be courageous
who has the fear of death in him?
Certainly not, he said.
And can he be fearless of death, or will he choose death in battle rather than defeat and
slavery, who believes the world below to be real and terrible?
Impossible.
Then we must assume a control over the narrators of this class of tales as well as over
the others, and beg them not simply to revile, but rather to commend the world below,
intimating to them that their descriptions are untrue, and will do harm to our future
warriors.
That will be our duty, he said.
Then, I said, we shall have to obliterate many obnoxious passages, beginning with the
verses
"I would rather be a serf on the land of a poor and portionless man than rule over all the
dead who have come to naught."
We must also expunge the verse which tells us how Pluto feared
"Lest the mansions grim and squalid which the gods abhor should be seen both of
mortals and immortals."
And again:
"O heavens! verily in the house of Hades there is soul and ghostly form but no mind at
all!"
Again of Tiresias:
"[To him even after death did Persephone grant mind,] that he alone should be wise; but
the other souls are flitting shades."
Again:
"The soul flying from the limbs had gone to Hades, lamentng her fate, leaving manhood
and youth."
Again:
"And the soul, with shrilling cry, passed like smoke beneath the earth."
And,
"As bats in hollow of mystic cavern, whenever any of them has dropped out of the string
and falls from the rock, fly shrilling and cling to one another, so did they with shrilling
cry hold together as they moved."
And we must beg Homer and the other poets not to be angry if we strike out these and
similar passages, not because they are unpoetical, or unattractive to the popular ear, but
because the greater the poetical charm of them, the less are they meet for the ears of
boys and men who are meant to be free, and who should fear slavery more than death.
Undoubtedly.
Also we shall have to reject all the terrible and appalling names which describe the
world below—Cocytus and Styx, ghosts under the earth, and sapless shades, and any
similar words of which the very mention causes a shudder to pass through the inmost
soul of him who hears them. I do not say that these horrible stories may not have a use
of some kind; but there is a danger that the nerves of our guardians may be rendered
too excitable and effeminate by them.
There is a real danger, he said.
Then we must have no more of them.
True.
Another and a nobler strain must be composed and sung by us.
Clearly.
And shall we proceed to get rid of the weepings and wailings of famous men?
They will go with the rest.
But shall we be right in getting rid of them? Reflect: our principle is that the good man
will not consider death terrible to any other good man who is his comrade.
Yes; that is our principle.
And therefore he will not sorrow for his departed friend as though he had suffered
anything terrible?
He will not.
Such an one, as we further maintain, is sufficient for himself and his own happiness, and
therefore is least in need of other men.
True, he said.
And for this reason the loss of a son or brother, or the deprivation of fortune, is to him
of all men least terrible.
Assuredly.
And therefore he will be least likely to lament, and will bear with the greatest equanimity
any misfortune of this sort which may befall him.
Yes, he will feel such a misfortune far less than another.
Then we shall be right in getting rid of the lamentations of famous men, and making
them over to women (and not even to women who are good for anything), or to men of
a baser sort, that those who are being educated by us to be the defenders of their
country may scorn to do the like.
That will be very right.
Then we will once more entreat Homer and the other poets not to depict Achilles, who
is the son of a goddess, first lying on his side, then on his back, and then on his face;
then starting up and sailing in a frenzy along the shores of the barren sea; now taking
the sooty ashes in both his hands and pouring them over his head, or weeping and
wailing in the various modes which Homer has delineated. Nor should he describe
Priam, the kinsman of the gods, as praying and beseeching,
"Rolling in the dirt, calling each man loudly by his name."
Still more earnestly will we beg of him at all events not to introduce the gods lamenting
and saying,
"Alas! my misery! Alas! that I bore the bravest to my sorrow."
But if he must introduce the gods, at any rate let him not dare so completely to
misrepresent the greatest of the gods, as to make him say—
"O heavens! with my eyes verily I behold a dear friend of mine chased round and round
the city, and my heart is sorrowful."
Or again:
"Woe is me that I am fated to have Sarpedon, dearest of men to me, subdued at the
hands of Patroclus the son of Menoetius."
For if, my sweet Adeimantus, our youth seriously listen to such unworthy
representations of the gods, instead of laughing at them as they ought, hardly will any
of them deem that he himself, being but a man, can be dishonored by similar actions;
neither will he rebuke any inclination which may arise in his mind to say and do the like.
And instead of having any shame or self-control, he will be always whining and
lamenting on slight occasions.
Yes, he said, that is most true.
Yes, I replied; but that surely is what ought not to be, as the argument has just proved to
us; and by that proof we must abide until it is disproved by a better.
It ought not to be.
Neither ought our guardians to be given to laughter. For a fit of laughter which has
been indulged to excess almost always produces a violent reaction.
So I believe.
Then persons of worth, even if only mortal men, must not be represented as overcome
by laughter, and still less must such a representation of the gods be allowed.
Still less of the gods, as you say, he replied.
Then we shall not suffer such an expression to be used about the gods as that of Homer
when he describes how
"Inextinguishable laughter arose among the blessed gods, when they saw Hephaestus
bustling about the mansion."
On your views, we must not admit them.
On my views, if you like to father them on me; that we must not admit them is certain.
Again, truth should be highly valued; if, as we were saying, a lie is useless to the gods,
and useful only as a medicine to men, then the use of such medicines should be
restricted to physicians; private individuals have no business with them.
Clearly not, he said.
Then if anyone at all is to have the privilege of lying, the rulers of the State should be
the persons; and they, in their dealings either with enemies or with their own citizens,
may be allowed to lie for the public good. But nobody else should meddle with anything
of the kind; and although the rulers have this privilege, for a private man to lie to them
in return is to be deemed a more heinous fault than for the patient or the pupil of a
gymnasium not to speak the truth about his own bodily illnesses to the physician or to
the trainer, or for a sailor not to tell the captain what is happening about the ship and
the rest of the crew, and how things are going with himself or his fellow-sailors.
Most true, he said.
If, then, the ruler catches anybody beside himself lying in the State,
"Any of the craftsmen, whether he be priest or physician or carpenter,"
he will punish him for introducing a practice which is equally subversive and destructive
of ship or State.
Most certainly, he said, if our idea of the State is ever carried out.
In the next place our youth must be temperate?
Certainly.
Are not the chief elements of temperance, speaking generally, obedience to
commanders and self-control in sensual pleasures?
True.
Then we shall approve such language as that of Diomede in Homer,
"Friend sit still and obey my word,"
and the verses which follow,
"The Greeks marched breathing prowess,"
"...in silent awe of their leaders."
and other sentiments of the same kind.
We shall.
What of this line,
"O heavy with wine, who hast the eyes of a dog and the heart of a stag,"
and of the words which follow? Would you say that these, or any similar impertinences
which private individuals are supposed to address to their rulers, whether in verse or
prose, are well or ill spoken?
They are ill spoken.
They may very possibly afford some amusement, but they do not conduce to
temperance. And therefore they are likely to do harm to our young men—you would
agree with me there?
Yes.
And then, again, to make the wisest of men say that nothing in his opinion is more
glorious than
"When the tables are full of bread and meat, and the cup-bearer carries round wine
which he draws from the bowl and pours into the cups;"
is it fit or conducive to temperance for a young man to hear such words? or the verse
"The saddest of fates is to die and meet destiny from hunger"?
What would you say again to the tale of Zeus, who, while other gods and men were
asleep and he the only person awake, lay devising plans, but forgot them all in a
moment through his lust, and was so completely overcome at the sight of Here that he
would not even go into the hut, but wanted to lie with her on the ground, declaring that
he had never been in such a state of rapture before, even when they first met one
another,
"Without the knowledge of their parents"
or that other tale of how Hephaestus, because of similar goings on, cast a chain around
Ares and Aphrodite?
Indeed, he said, I am strongly of opinion that they ought not to hear that sort of thing.
But any deeds of endurance which are done or told by famous men, these they ought to
see and hear; as, for example, what is said in the verses,
"He smote his breast, and thus reproached his heart, Endure, my heart; far worse hast
thou endured!"
Certainly, he said.
In the next place, we must not let them be receivers of gifts or lovers of money.
Certainly not.
Neither must we sing to them of
"Gifts persuading gods, and persuading reverend kings."
Neither is Phoenix, the tutor of Achilles, to be approved or deemed to have given his
pupil good counsel when he told him that he should take the gifts of the Greeks and
assist them; but that without a gift he should not lay aside his anger. Neither will we
believe or acknowledge Achilles himself to have been such a lover of money that he
took Agamemnon's gifts, or that when he had received payment he restored the dead
body of Hector, but that without payment he was unwilling to do so.
Undoubtedly, he said, these are not sentiments which can be approved.
Loving Homer as I do, I hardly like to say that in attributing these feelings to Achilles, or
in believing that they are truly attributed to him, he is guilty of downright impiety. As
little can I believe the narrative of his insolence to Apollo, where he says,
"Thou hast wronged me, O Far-darter, most abominable of deities. Verily I would be
even with thee, if I had only the power;"
or his insubordination to the river-god, on whose divinity he is ready to lay hands; or his
offerings to the dead Patroclus of his own hair, which had been previously dedicated to
the other river-god Spercheius, and that he actually performed this vow; or that he
dragged Hector round the tomb of Patroclus, and slaughtered the captives at the pyre;
of all this I cannot believe that he was guilty, any more than I can allow our citizens to
believe that he, the wise Cheiron's pupil, the son of a goddess and of Peleus who was
the gentlest of men and third in descent from Zeus, was so disordered in his wits as to
be at one time the slave of two seemingly inconsistent passions, meanness, not
untainted by avarice, combined with overweening contempt of gods and men.
You are quite right, he replied.
And let us equally refuse to believe, or allow to be repeated, the tale of Theseus, son of
Poseidon, or of Peirithous, son of Zeus, going forth as they did to perpetrate a horrid
rape; or of any other hero or son of a god daring to do such impious and dreadful
things as they falsely ascribe to them in our day: and let us further compel the poets to
declare either that these acts were done by them, or that they were not the sons of God;
both in the same breath they shall not be permitted to affirm. We will not have them
trying to persuade our youth that the gods are the authors of evil, and that heroes are
no better than men—sentiments which, as we were saying, are neither pious nor true,
for we have already proved that evil cannot come from the gods.
Assuredly not. And, further, they are likely to have a bad effect on those who hear them;
for everybody will begin to excuse his own vices when he is convinced that similar
wickednesses are always being perpetrated by
"The kindred of the gods, the relatives of Zeus, whose ancestral altar, the altar of Zeus, is
aloft in air on the peak of Ida,"
and who have
"the blood of deities yet flowing in their veins."
And therefore let us put an end to such tales, lest they engender laxity of morals among
the young.
By all means, he replied.
But now that we are determining what classes of subjects are or are not to be spoken of,
let us see whether any have been omitted by us. The manner in which gods and
demigods and heroes and the world below should be treated has been already laid
down.
Very true.
And what shall we say about men? That is clearly the remaining portion of our subject.
Clearly so.
But we are not in a condition to answer this question at present, my friend.
Why not?
Because, if I am not mistaken, we shall have to say that about men; poets and storytellers
are guilty of making the gravest misstatements when they tell us that wicked men
are often happy, and the good miserable; and that injustice is profitable when
undetected, but that justice is a man's own loss and another's gain—these things we
shall forbid them to utter, and command them to sing and say the opposite.
To be sure we shall, he replied.
But if you admit that I am right in this, then I shall maintain that you have implied the
principle for which we have been all along contending.
I grant the truth of your inference.
That such things are or are not to be said about men is a question which we cannot
determine until we have discovered what justice is, and how naturally advantageous to
the possessor, whether he seem to be just or not.
Most true, he said.
Enough of the subjects of poetry: let us now speak of the style; and when this has been
considered, both matter and manner will have been completely treated.
I do not understand what you mean, said Adeimantus.
Then I must make you understand; and perhaps I may be more intelligible if I put the
matter in this way. You are aware, I suppose, that all mythology and poetry are a
narration of events, either past, present, or to come?
Certainly, he replied.
And narration may be either simple narration or imitation, or a union of the two? That,
again, he said, I do not quite understand.
I fear that I must be a ridiculous teacher when I have so much difficulty in making myself
apprehended. Like a bad speaker, therefore, I will not take the whole of the subject, but
will break a piece off in illustration of my meaning. You know the first lines of the "Iliad,"
in which the poet says that Chryses prayed Agamemnon to release his daughter, and
that Agamemnon flew into a passion with him; whereupon Chryses, failing of his object,
invoked the anger of the god against the Achaeans. Now as far as these lines,
"And he prayed all the Greeks, but especially the two sons of Atreus, the chiefs of the
people,"
the poet is speaking in his own person; he never leads us to suppose that he is anyone
else. But in what follows he takes the person of Chryses, and then he does all that he can
to make us believe that the speaker is not Homer, but the aged priest himself. And in
this double form he has cast the entire narrative of the events which occurred at Troy
and in Ithaca and throughout the "Odyssey."
Yes.
And a narrative it remains both in the speeches which the poet recites from time to time
and in the intermediate passages?
Quite true.
But when the poet speaks in the person of another, may we not say that he assimilates
his style to that of the person who, as he informs you, is going to speak?
Certainly.
And this assimilation of himself to another, either by the use of voice or gesture, is the
imitation of the person whose character he assumes?
Of course.
Then in this case the narrative of the poet may be said to proceed by way of imitation?
Very true.
Or, if the poet everywhere appears and never conceals himself, then again the imitation
is dropped, and his poetry becomes simple narration. However, in order that I may make
my meaning quite clear, and that you may no more say, "I don't understand," I will show
how the change might be effected. If Homer had said, "The priest came, having his
daughter's ransom in his hands, supplicating the Achaeans, and above all the kings;"
and then if, instead of speaking in the person of Chryses, he had continued in his own
person, the words would have been, not imitation, but simple narration. The passage
would have run as follows (I am no poet, and therefore I drop the metre): "The priest
came and prayed the gods on behalf of the Greeks that they might capture Troy and
return safely home, but begged that they would give him back his daughter, and take
the ransom which he brought, and respect the god. Thus he spoke, and the other
Greeks revered the priest and assented. But Agamemnon was wroth, and bade him
depart and not come again, lest the staff and chaplets of the god should be of no avail
to him—the daughter of Chryses should not be released, he said—she should grow old
with him in Argos. And then he told him to go away and not to provoke him, if he
intended to get home unscathed. And the old man went away in fear and silence, and,
when he had left the camp, he called upon Apollo by his many names, reminding him of
everything which he had done pleasing to him, whether in building his temples, or in
offering sacrifice, and praying that his good deeds might be returned to him, and that
the Achaeans might expiate his tears by the arrows of the god"—and so on. In this way
the whole becomes simple narrative.
I understand, he said.
Or you may suppose the opposite case—that the intermediate passages are omitted,
and the dialogue only left.
That also, he said, I understand; you mean, for example, as in tragedy.
You have conceived my meaning perfectly; and if I mistake not, what you failed to
apprehend before is now made clear to you, that poetry and mythology are, in some
cases, wholly imitative—instances of this are supplied by tragedy and comedy; there is
likewise the opposite style, in which the poet is the only speaker—of this the dithyramb
affords the best example; and the combination of both is found in epic and in several
other styles of poetry. Do I take you with me?
Yes, he said; I see now what you meant.
I will ask you to remember also what I began by saying, that we had done with the
subject and might proceed to the style.
Yes, I remember.
In saying this, I intended to imply that we must come to an understanding about the
mimetic art—whether the poets, in narrating their stories, are to be allowed by us to
imitate, and if so, whether in whole or in part, and if the latter, in what parts; or should
all imitation be prohibited?
You mean, I suspect, to ask whether tragedy and comedy shall be admitted into our
State?
Yes, I said; but there may be more than this in question: I really do not know as yet, but
whither the argument may blow, thither we go.
And go we will, he said.
Then, Adeimantus, let me ask you whether our guardians ought to be imitators; or
rather, has not this question been decided by the rule already laid down that one man
can only do one thing well, and not many; and that if he attempt many, he will
altogether fail of gaining much reputation in any?
Certainly.
And this is equally true of imitation; no one man can imitate many things as well as he
would imitate a single one?
He cannot.
Then the same person will hardly be able to play a serious part in life, and at the same
time to be an imitator and imitate many other parts as well; for even when two species
of imitation are nearly allied, the same persons cannot succeed in both, as, for example,
the writers of tragedy and comedy—did you not just now call them imitations?
Yes, I did; and you are right in thinking that the same persons cannot succeed in both.
Any more than they can be rhapsodists and actors at once?
True.
Neither are comic and tragic actors the same; yet all these things are but imitations.
They are so.
And human nature, Adeimantus, appears to have been coined into yet smaller pieces,
and to be as incapable of imitating many things well, as of performing well the actions
of which the imitations are copies.
Quite true, he replied.
If then we adhere to our original notion and bear in mind that our guardians, setting
aside every other business, are to dedicate themselves wholly to the maintenance of
freedom in the State, making this their craft, and engaging in no work which does not
bear on this end, they ought not to practise or imitate anything else; if they imitate at
all, they should imitate from youth upward only those characters which are suitable to
their profession—the courageous, temperate, holy, free, and the like; but they should
not depict or be skilful at imitating any kind of illiberality or baseness, lest from imitation
they should come to be what they imitate. Did you never observe how imitations,
beginning in early youth and continuing far into life, at length grow into habits and
become a second nature, affecting body, voice, and mind?
Yes, certainly, he said.
Then, I said, we will not allow those for whom we profess a care and of whom we say
that they ought to be good men, to imitate a woman, whether young or old, quarrelling
with her husband, or striving and vaunting against the gods in conceit of her happiness,
or when she is in affliction, or sorrow, or weeping; and certainly not one who is in
sickness, love, or labor.
Very right, he said.
Neither must they represent slaves, male or female, performing the offices of slaves?
They must not.
And surely not bad men, whether cowards or any others, who do the reverse of what we
have just been prescribing, who scold or mock or revile one another in drink or out of
drink, or who in any other manner sin against themselves and their neighbors in word or
deed, as the manner of such is. Neither should they be trained to imitate the action or
speech of men or women who are mad or bad; for madness, like vice, is to be known
but not to be practised or imitated.
Very true, he replied.
Neither may they imitate smiths or other artificers, or oarsmen, or boatswains, or the
like?
How can they, he said, when they are not allowed to apply their minds to the callings of
any of these?
Nor may they imitate the neighing of horses, the bellowing of bulls, the murmur of
rivers and roll of the ocean, thunder, and all that sort of thing?
Nay, he said, if madness be forbidden, neither may they copy the behavior of madmen.
You mean, I said, if I understand you aright, that there is one sort of narrative style which
may be employed by a truly good man when he has anything to say, and that another
sort will be used by a man of an opposite character and education.
And which are these two sorts? he asked.
Suppose, I answered, that a just and good man in the course of a narration comes on
some saying or action of another good man—I should imagine that he will like to
personate him, and will not be ashamed of this sort of imitation: he will be most ready
to play the part of the good man when he is acting firmly and wisely; in a less degree
when he is overtaken by illness or love or drink, or has met with any other disaster. But
when he comes to a character which is unworthy of him, he will not make a study of
that; he will disdain such a person, and will assume his likeness, if at all, for a moment
only when he is performing some good action; at other times he will be ashamed to play
a part which he has never practised, nor will he like to fashion and frame himself after
the baser models; he feels the employment of such an art, unless in jest, to be beneath
him, and his mind revolts at it.
So I should expect, he replied.
Then he will adopt a mode of narration such as we have illustrated out of Homer, that is
to say, his style will be both imitative and narrative; but there will be very little of the
former, and a great deal of the latter. Do you agree?
Certainly, he said; that is the model which such a speaker must necessarily take.
But there is another sort of character who will narrate anything, and, the worse he is, the
more unscrupulous he will be; nothing will be too bad for him: and he will be ready to
imitate anything, not as a joke, but in right good earnest, and before a large company.
As I was just now saying, he will attempt to represent the roll of thunder, the noise of
wind and hail, or the creaking of wheels, and pulleys, and the various sounds of flutes,
pipes, trumpets, and all sorts of instruments: he will bark like a dog, bleat like a sheep, or
crow like a cock; his entire art will consist in imitation of voice and gesture, and there
will be very little narration.
That, he said, will be his mode of speaking.
These, then, are the two kinds of style?
Yes.
And you would agree with me in saying that one of them is simple and has but slight
changes; and if the harmony and rhythm are also chosen for their simplicity, the result is
that the speaker, if he speaks correctly, is always pretty much the same in style, and he
will keep within the limits of a single harmony (for the changes are not great), and in like
manner he will make use of nearly the same rhythm?
That is quite true, he said.
Whereas the other requires all sorts of harmonies and all sorts of rhythms, if the music
and the style are to correspond, because the style has all sorts of changes.
That is also perfectly true, he replied.
And do not the two styles, or the mixture of the two, comprehend all poetry, and every
form of expression in words? No one can say anything except in one or other of them or
in both together.
They include all, he said.
And shall we receive into our State all the three styles, or one only of the two unmixed
styles? or would you include the mixed?
I should prefer only to admit the pure imitator of virtue.
Yes, I said, Adeimantus; but the mixed style is also very charming: and indeed the
pantomimic, which is the opposite of the one chosen by you, is the most popular style
with children and their attendants, and with the world in general.
I do not deny it.
But I suppose you would argue that such a style is unsuitable to our State, in which
human nature is not twofold or manifold, for one man plays one part only?
Yes; quite unsuitable.
And this is the reason why in our State, and in our State only, we shall find a shoemaker
to be a shoemaker and not a pilot also, and a husbandman to be a husbandman and
not a dicast also, and a soldier a soldier and not a trader also, and the same throughout?
True, he said.
And therefore when any one of these pantomimic gentlemen, who are so clever that
they can imitate anything, comes to us, and makes a proposal to exhibit himself and his
poetry, we will fall down and worship him as a sweet and holy and wonderful being; but
we must also inform him that in our State such as he are not permitted to exist; the law
will not allow them. And so when we have anointed him with myrrh, and set a garland of
wool upon his head, we shall send him away to another city. For we mean to employ for
our souls' health the rougher and severer poet or story-teller, who will imitate the style
of the virtuous only, and will follow those models which we prescribed at first when we
began the education of our soldiers.
We certainly will, he said, if we have the power.
Then now, my friend, I said, that part of music or literary education which relates to the
story or myth may be considered to be finished; for the matter and manner have both
been discussed.
I think so too, he said.
Next in order will follow melody and song.
That is obvious. Everyone can see already what we ought to say about them, if we are to
be consistent with ourselves.
I fear, said Glaucon, laughing, that the word "everyone" hardly includes me, for I cannot
at the moment say what they should be; though I may guess.
At any rate you can tell that a song or ode has three parts— the words, the melody, and
the rhythm; that degree of knowledge I may presuppose?
Yes, he said; so much as that you may.
And as for the words, there will surely be no difference between words which are and
which are not set to music; both will conform to the same laws, and these have been
already determined by us?
Yes.
And the melody and rhythm will depend upon the words?
Certainly.
We were saying, when we spoke of the subject-matter, that we had no need of
lamentation and strains of sorrow?
True.
And which are the harmonies expressive of sorrow? You are musical, and can tell me.
The harmonies which you mean are the mixed or tenor Lydian, and the full-toned or
bass Lydian, and such like.
These then, I said, must be banished; they are of no use, even to women who have a
character to maintain, and much less to men. Certainly.
In the next place, drunkenness and softness and indolence are utterly unbecoming the
character of our guardians.
Utterly unbecoming.
And which are the soft or drinking harmonies?
The Ionian, he replied, and the Lydian; they are termed "relaxed."
Well, and are these of any military use?
Quite the reverse, he replied; and if so, the Dorian and the Phrygian are the only ones
which you have left.
I answered: Of the harmonies I know nothing, but I want to have one warlike, to sound
the note or accent which a brave man utters in the hour of danger and stern resolve, or
when his cause is failing, and he is going to wounds or death or is overtaken by some
other evil, and at every such crisis meets the blows of fortune with firm step and a
determination to endure; and another to be used by him in times of peace and freedom
of action, when there is no pressure of necessity, and he is seeking to persuade God by
prayer, or man by instruction and admonition, or on the other hand, when he is
expressing his willingness to yield to persuasion or entreaty or admonition, and which
represents him when by prudent conduct he has attained his end, not carried away by
his success, but acting moderately and wisely under the circumstances, and acquiescing
in the event. These two harmonies I ask you to leave; the strain of necessity and the
strain of freedom, the strain of the unfortunate and the strain of the fortunate, the strain
of courage, and the strain of temperance; these, I say, leave.
And these, he replied, are the Dorian and Phrygian harmonies of which I was just now
speaking.
Then, I said, if these and these only are to be used in our songs and melodies, we shall
not want multiplicity of notes or a panharmonic scale?
I suppose not.
Then we shall not maintain the artificers of lyres with three corners and complex scales,
or the makers of any other manystringed, curiously harmonized instruments?
Certainly not.
But what do you say to flute-makers and flute-players? Would you admit them into our
State when you reflect that in this composite use of harmony the flute is worse than all
the stringed instruments put together; even the panharmonic music is only an imitation
of the flute?
Clearly not.
There remain then only the lyre and the harp for use in the city, and the shepherds may
have a pipe in the country.
That is surely the conclusion to be drawn from the argument.
The preferring of Apollo and his instruments to Marsyas and his instruments is not at all
strange, I said.
Not at all, he replied.
And so, by the dog of Egypt, we have been unconsciously purging the State, which not
long ago we termed luxurious.
And we have done wisely, he replied.
Then let us now finish the purgation, I said. Next in order to harmonies, rhythms will
naturally follow, and they should be subject to the same rules, for we ought not to seek
out complex systems of metre, or metres of every kind, but rather to discover what
rhythms are the expressions of a courageous and harmonious life; and when we have
found them, we shall adapt the foot and the melody to words having a like spirit, not
the words to the foot and melody. To say what these rhythms are will be your duty—you
must teach me them, as you have already taught me the harmonies.
But, indeed, he replied, I cannot tell you. I only know that there are some three
principles of rhythm out of which metrical systems are framed, just as in sounds there
are four notes out of which all the harmonies are composed; that is an observation
which I have made. But of what sort of lives they are severally the imitations I am unable
to say.
Then, I said, we must take Damon into our counsels; and he will tell us what rhythms are
expressive of meanness, or insolence, or fury, or other unworthiness, and what are to be
reserved for the expression of opposite feelings. And I think that I have an indistinct
recollection of his mentioning a complex Cretic rhythm; also a dactylic or heroic, and he
arranged them in some manner which I do not quite understand, making the rhythms
equal in the rise and fall of the foot, long and short alternating; and, unless I am
mistaken, he spoke of an iambic as well as of a trochaic rhythm, and assigned to them
short and long quantities. Also in some cases he appeared to praise or censure the
movement of the foot quite as much as the rhythm; or perhaps a combination of the
two; for I am not certain what he meant. These matters, however, as I was saying, had
better be referred to Damon himself, for the analysis of the subject would be difficult,
you know?
Rather so, I should say.
But there is no difficulty in seeing that grace or the absence of grace is an effect of good
or bad rhythm.
None at all.
And also that good and bad rhythm naturally assimilate to a good and bad style; and
that harmony and discord in like manner follow style; for our principle is that rhythm
and harmony are regulated by the words, and not the words by them.
Just so, he said, they should follow the words.
And will not the words and the character of the style depend on the temper of the soul?
Yes.
And everything else on the style?
Yes.
Then beauty of style and harmony and grace and good rhythm depend on simplicity—I
mean the true simplicity of a rightly and nobly ordered mind and character, not that
other simplicity which is only an euphemism for folly?
Very true, he replied.
And if our youth are to do their work in life, must they not make these graces and
harmonies their perpetual aim?
They must.
And surely the art of the painter and every other creative and constructive art are full of
them—weaving, embroidery, architecture, and every kind of manufacture; also nature,
animal and vegetable—in all of them there is grace or the absence of grace. And
ugliness and discord and inharmonious motion are nearly allied to ill-words and illnature,
as grace and harmony are the twin sisters of goodness and virtue and bear their
likeness.
That is quite true, he said.
But shall our superintendence go no further, and are the poets only to be required by us
to express the image of the good in their works, on pain, if they do anything else, of
expulsion from our State? Or is the same control to be extended to other artists, and are
they also to be prohibited from exhibiting the opposite forms of vice and intemperance
and meanness and indecency in sculpture and building and the other creative arts; and
is he who cannot conform to this rule of ours to be prevented from practising his art in
our State, lest the taste of our citizens be corrupted by him? We would not have our
guardians grow up amid images of moral deformity, as in some noxious pasture, and
there browse and feed upon many a baneful herb and flower day by day, little by little,
until they silently gather a festering mass of corruption in their own soul. Let our artists
rather be those who are gifted to discern the true nature of the beautiful and graceful;
then will our youth dwell in a land of health, amid fair sights and sounds, and receive the
good in everything; and beauty, the effluence of fair works, shall flow into the eye and
ear, like a health-giving breeze from a purer region, and insensibly draw the soul from
earliest years into likeness and sympathy with the beauty of reason.
There can be no nobler training than that, he replied.
And therefore, I said, Glaucon, musical training is a more potent instrument than any
other, because rhythm and harmony find their way into the inward places of the soul, on
which they mightily fasten, imparting grace, and making the soul of him who is rightly
educated graceful, or of him who is ill-educated ungraceful; and also because he who
has received this true education of the inner being will most shrewdly perceive
omissions or faults in art and nature, and with a true taste, while he praises and rejoices
over and receives into his soul the good, and becomes noble and good, he will justly
blame and hate the bad, now in the days of his youth, even before he is able to know
the reason why; and when reason comes he will recognize and salute the friend with
whom his education has made him long familiar.
Yes, he said, I quite agree with you in thinking that our youth should be trained in music
and on the grounds which you mention.
Just as in learning to read, I said, we were satisfied when we knew the letters of the
alphabet, which are very few, in all their recurring sizes and combinations; not slighting
them as unimportant whether they occupy a space large or small, but everywhere eager
to make them out; and not thinking ourselves perfect in the art of reading until we
recognize them wherever they are found: True—
Or, as we recognize the reflection of letters in the water, or in a mirror, only when we
know the letters themselves; the same art and study giving us the knowledge of both:
Exactly—
Even so, as I maintain, neither we nor our guardians, whom we have to educate, can ever
become musical until we and they know the essential forms of temperance, courage,
liberality, magnificence, and their kindred, as well as the contrary forms, in all their
combinations, and can recognize them and their images wherever they are found, not
slighting them either in small things or great, but believing them all to be within the
sphere of one art and study.
Most assuredly.
And when a beautiful soul harmonizes with a beautiful form, and the two are cast in one
mould, that will be the fairest of sights to him who has an eye to see it?
The fairest indeed.
And the fairest is also the loveliest?
That may be assumed.
And the man who has the spirit of harmony will be most in love with the loveliest; but
he will not love him who is of an inharmonious soul?
That is true, he replied, if the deficiency be in his soul; but if there be any merely bodily
defect in another he will be patient of it, and will love all the same.
I perceive, I said, that you have or have had experiences of this sort, and I agree. But let
me ask you another question: Has excess of pleasure any affinity to temperance?
How can that be? he replied; pleasure deprives a man of the use of his faculties quite as
much as pain.
Or any affinity to virtue in general?
None whatever.
Any affinity to wantonness and intemperance?
Yes, the greatest.
And is there any greater or keener pleasure than that of sensual love?
No, nor a madder.
Whereas true love is a love of beauty and order—temperate and harmonious?
Quite true, he said.
Then no intemperance or madness should be allowed to approach true love?
Certainly not.
Then mad or intemperate pleasure must never be allowed to come near the lover and
his beloved; neither of them can have any part in it if their love is of the right sort?
No, indeed, Socrates, it must never come near them.
Then I suppose that in the city which we are founding you would make a law to the
effect that a friend should use no other familiarity to his love than a father would use to
his son, and then only for a noble purpose, and he must first have the other's consent;
and this rule is to limit him in all his intercourse, and he is never to be seen going
further, or, if he exceeds, he is to be deemed guilty of coarseness and bad taste.
I quite agree, he said.
Thus much of music, which makes a fair ending; for what should be the end of music if
not the love of beauty?
I agree, he said.
After music comes gymnastics, in which our youth are next to be trained.
Certainly. Gymnastics as well as music should begin in early years; the training in it
should be careful and should continue through life. Now my belief is—and this is a
matter upon which I should like to have your opinion in confirmation of my own, but my
own belief is—not that the good body by any bodily excellence improves the soul, but,
on the contrary, that the good soul, by her own excellence, improves the body as far as
this may be possible. What do you say?
Yes, I agree.
Then, to the mind when adequately trained, we shall be right in handing over the more
particular care of the body; and in order to avoid prolixity we will now only give the
general outlines of the subject.
Very good.
That they must abstain from intoxication has been already remarked by us; for of all
persons a guardian should be the last to get drunk and not know where in the world he
is.
Yes, he said; that a guardian should require another guardian to take care of him is
ridiculous indeed.
But next, what shall we say of their food; for the men are in training for the great contest
of all—are they not?
Yes, he said.
And will the habit of body of our ordinary athletes be suited to them?
Why not?
I am afraid, I said, that a habit of body such as they have is but a sleepy sort of thing,
and rather perilous to health. Do you not observe that these athletes sleep away their
lives, and are liable to most dangerous illnesses if they depart, in ever so slight a degree,
from their customary regimen?
Yes, I do.
Then, I said, a finer sort of training will be required for our warrior athletes, who are to
be like wakeful dogs, and to see and hear with the utmost keenness; amid the many
changes of water and also of food, of summer heat and winter cold, which they will have
to endure when on a campaign, they must not be liable to break down in health.
That is my view.
The really excellent gymnastics is twin sister of that simple music which we were just
now describing.
How so?
Why, I conceive that there is a gymnastics which, like our music, is simple and good; and
especially the military gymnastics.
What do you mean?
My meaning may be learned from Homer; he, you know, feeds his heroes at their feasts,
when they are campaigning, on soldiers' fare; they have no fish, although they are on
the shores of the Hellespont, and they are not allowed boiled meats, but only roast,
which is the food most convenient for soldiers, requiring only that they should light a
fire, and not involving the trouble of carrying about pots and pans.
True.
And I can hardly be mistaken in saying that sweet sauces are nowhere mentioned in
Homer. In proscribing them, however, he is not singular; all professional athletes are well
aware that a man who is to be in good condition should take nothing of the kind.
Yes, he said; and knowing this, they are quite right in not taking them.
Then you would not approve of Syracusan dinners, and the refinements of Sicilian
cookery?
I think not.
Nor, if a man is to be in condition, would you allow him to have a Corinthian girl as his
fair friend?
Certainly not.
Neither would you approve of the delicacies, as they are thought, of Athenian
confectionery?
Certainly not.
All such feeding and living may be rightly compared by us to melody and song
composed in the panharmonic style, and in all the rhythms. Exactly.
There complexity engendered license, and here disease; whereas simplicity in music was
the parent of temperance in the soul; and simplicity in gymnastics of health in the body.
Most true, he said.
But when intemperance and diseases multiply in a State, halls of justice and medicine
are always being opened; and the arts of the doctor and the lawyer give themselves airs,
finding how keen is the interest which not only the slaves but the freemen of a city take
about them.
Of course.
And yet what greater proof can there be of a bad and disgraceful state of education
than this, that not only artisans and the meaner sort of people need the skill of first-rate
physicians and judges, but also those who would profess to have had a liberal
education? Is it not disgraceful, and a great sign of the want of good-breeding, that a
man should have to go abroad for his law and physic because he has none of his own at
home, and must therefore surrender himself into the hands of other men whom he
makes lords and judges over him?
Of all things, he said, the most disgraceful.
Would you say "most," I replied, when you consider that there is a further stage of the
evil in which a man is not only a life-long litigant, passing all his days in the courts,
either as plaintiff or defendant, but is actually led by his bad taste to pride himself on his
litigiousness; he imagines that he is a master in dishonesty; able to take every crooked
turn, and wriggle into and out of every hole, bending like a withy and getting out of the
way of justice: and all for what?—in order to gain small points not worth mentioning, he
not knowing that so to order his life as to be able to do without a napping judge is a far
higher and nobler sort of thing. Is not that still more disgraceful?
Yes, he said, that is still more disgraceful.
Well, I said, and to require the help of medicine, not when a wound has to be cured, or
on occasion of an epidemic, but just because, by indolence and a habit of life such as we
have been describing, men fill themselves with waters and winds, as if their bodies were
a marsh, compelling the ingenious sons of Asclepius to find more names for diseases,
such as flatulence and catarrh; is not this, too, a disgrace?
Yes, he said, they do certainly give very strange and newfangled names to diseases.
Yes, I said, and I do not believe that there were any such diseases in the days of
Asclepius; and this I infer from the circumstance that the hero Eurypylus, after he has
been wounded in Homer, drinks a posset of Pramnian wine well besprinkled with barleymeal
and grated cheese, which are certainly inflammatory, and yet the sons of Asclepius
who were at the Trojan war do not blame the damsel who gives him the drink, or rebuke
Patroclus, who is treating his case.
Well, he said, that was surely an extraordinary drink to be given to a person in his
condition.
Not so extraordinary, I replied, if you bear in mind that in former days, as is commonly
said, before the time of Herodicus, the guild of Asclepius did not practise our present
system of medicine, which may be said to educate diseases. But Herodicus, being a
trainer, and himself of a sickly constitution, by a combination of training and doctoring
found out a way of torturing first and chiefly himself, and secondly the rest of the world.
How was that? he said.
By the invention of lingering death; for he had a mortal disease which he perpetually
tended, and as recovery was out of the question, he passed his entire life as a
valetudinarian; he could do nothing but attend upon himself, and he was in constant
torment whenever he departed in anything from his usual regimen, and so dying hard,
by the help of science he struggled on to old age.
A rare reward of his skill!
Yes, I said; a reward which a man might fairly expect who never understood that, if
Asclepius did not instruct his descendants in valetudinarian arts, the omission arose, not
from ignorance or inexperience of such a branch of medicine, but because he knew that
in all well-ordered States every individual has an occupation to which he must attend,
and has therefore no leisure to spend in continually being ill. This we remark in the case
of the artisan, but, ludicrously enough, do not apply the same rule to people of the
richer sort.
How do you mean? he said.
I mean this: When a carpenter is ill he asks the physician for a rough and ready cure; an
emetic or a purge or a cautery or the knife—these are his remedies. And if someone
prescribes for him a course of dietetics, and tells him that he must swathe and swaddle
his head, and all that sort of thing, he replies at once that he has no time to be ill, and
that he sees no good in a life which is spent in nursing his disease to the neglect of his
customary employment; and therefore bidding good-by to this sort of physician, he
resumes his ordinary habits, and either gets well and lives and does his business, or, if
his constitution fails, he dies and has no more trouble.
Yes, he said, and a man in his condition of life ought to use the art of medicine thus far
only.
Has he not, I said, an occupation; and what profit would there be in his life if he were
deprived of his occupation?
Quite true, he said.
But with the rich man this is otherwise; of him we do not say that he has any specially
appointed work which he must perform, if he would live.
He is generally supposed to have nothing to do.
Then you never heard of the saying of Phocylides, that as soon as a man has a livelihood
he should practise virtue?
Nay, he said, I think that he had better begin somewhat sooner.
Let us not have a dispute with him about this, I said; but rather ask ourselves: Is the
practise of virtue obligatory on the rich man, or can he live without it? And if obligatory
on him, then let us raise a further question, whether this dieting of disorders, which is an
impediment to the application of the mind in carpentering and the mechanical arts,
does not equally stand in the way of the sentiment of Phocylides?
Of that, he replied, there can be no doubt; such excessive care of the body, when carried
beyond the rules of gymnastics, is most inimical to the practice of virtue.
Yes, indeed, I replied, and equally incompatible with the management of a house, an
army, or an office of state; and, what is most Important of all, irreconcileable with any
kind of study or thought or self-reflection—there is a constant suspicion that headache
and giddiness are to be ascribed to philosophy, and hence all practising or making trial
of virtue in the higher sense is absolutely stopped; for a man is always fancying that he
is being made ill, and is in constant anxiety about the state of his body.
Yes, likely enough.
And therefore our politic Asclepius may be supposed to have exhibited the power of his
art only to persons who, being generally of healthy constitution and habits of life, had a
definite ailment; such as these he cured by purges and operations, and bade them live
as usual, herein consulting the interests of the State; but bodies which disease had
penetrated through and through he would not have attempted to cure by gradual
processes of evacuation and infusion: he did not want to lengthen out good-for-nothing
lives, or to have weak fathers begetting weaker sons;—if a man was not able to live in
the ordinary way he had no business to cure him; for such a cure would have been of no
use either to himself, or to the State.
Then, he said, you regard Asclepius as a statesman.
Clearly; and his character is further illustrated by his sons. Note that they were heroes in
the days of old and practised the medicines of which I am speaking at the siege of Troy:
You will remember how, when Pandarus wounded Menelaus, they
"Sucked the blood out of the wound, and sprinkled soothing remedies,"
but they never prescribed what the patient was afterward to eat or drink in the case of
Menelaus, any more than in the case of Eurypylus; the remedies, as they conceived, were
enough to heal any man who before he was wounded was healthy and regular in his
habits; and even though he did happen to drink a posset of Pramnian wine, he might
get well all the same. But they would have nothing to do with unhealthy and
intemperate subjects, whose lives were of no use either to themselves or others; the art
of medicine was not designed for their good, and though they were as rich as Midas,
the sons of Asclepius would have declined to attend them.
They were very acute persons, those sons of Asclepius.
Naturally so, I replied. Nevertheless, the tragedians and Pindar disobeying our behests,
although they acknowledge that Asclepius was the son of Apollo, say also that he was
bribed into healing a rich man who was at the point of death, and for this reason he was
struck by lightning. But we, in accordance with the principle already affirmed by us, will
not believe them when they tell us both; if he was the son of a god, we maintain that he
was not avaricious; or, if he was avaricious, he was not the son of a god.
All that, Socrates, is excellent; but I should like to put a question to you: Ought there not
to be good physicians in a State, and are not the best those who have treated the
greatest number of constitutions, good and bad? and are not the best judges in like
manner those who are acquainted with all sorts of moral natures?
Yes, I said, I too would have good judges and good physicians. But do you know whom I
think good?
Will you tell me?
I will, if I can. Let me, however, note that in the same question you join two things which
are not the same.
How so? he asked.
Why, I said, you join physicians and judges. Now the most skilful physicians are those
who, from their youth upward, have combined with the knowledge of their art the
greatest experience of disease; they had better not be robust in health, and should have
had all manner of diseases in their own persons. For the body, as I conceive, is not the
instrument with which they cure the body; in that case we could not allow them ever to
be or to have been sickly; but they cure the body with the mind, and the mind which has
become and is sick can cure nothing.
That is very true, he said.
But with the judge it is otherwise; since he governs mind by mind; he ought not
therefore to have been trained among vicious minds, and to have associated with them
from youth upward, and to have gone through the whole calendar of crime, only in
order that he may quickly infer the crimes of others as he might their bodily diseases
from his own self-consciousness; the honorable mind which is to form a healthy
judgment should have had no experience or contamination of evil habits when young.
And this is the reason why in youth good men often appear to be simple, and are easily
practised upon by the dishonest, because they have no examples of what evil is in their
own souls.
Yes, he said, they are far too apt to be deceived.
Therefore, I said, the judge should not be young; he should have learned to know evil,
not from his own soul, but from late and long observation of the nature of evil in others:
knowledge should be his guide, not personal experience.
Yes, he said, that is the ideal of a judge.
Yes, I replied, and he will be a good man (which is my answer to your question); for he is
good who has a good soul. But the cunning and suspicious nature of which we spoke—
he who has committed many crimes, and fancies himself to be a master in wickedness—
when he is among his fellows, is wonderful in the precautions which he takes, because
he judges of them by himself: but when he gets into the company of men of virtue, who
have the experience of age, he appears to be a fool again, owing to his unseasonable
suspicions; he cannot recognize an honest man, because he has no pattern of honesty in
himself; at the same time, as the bad are more numerous than the good, and he meets
with them oftener, he thinks himself, and is by others thought to be, rather wise than
foolish.
Most true, he said.
Then the good and wise judge whom we are seeking is not this man, but the other; for
vice cannot know virtue too, but a virtuous nature, educated by time, will acquire a
knowledge both of virtue and vice: the virtuous, and not the vicious, man has wisdom—
in my opinion.
And in mine also.
This is the sort of medicine, and this is the sort of law, which you will sanction in your
State. They will minister to better natures, giving health both of soul and of body; but
those who are diseased in their bodies they will leave to die, and the corrupt and
incurable souls they will put an end to themselves.
That is clearly the best thing both for the patients and for the State.
And thus our youth, having been educated only in that simple music which, as we said,
inspires temperance, will be reluctant to go to law.
Clearly.
And the musician, who, keeping to the same track, is content to practise the simple
gymnastics, will have nothing to do with medicine unless in some extreme case.
That I quite believe.
The very exercises and toils which he undergoes are intended to stimulate the spirited
element of his nature, and not to increase his strength; he will not, like common
athletes, use exercise and regimen to develop his muscles.
Very right, he said.
Neither are the two arts of music and gymnastics really designed, as is often supposed,
the one for the training of the soul, the other for the training of the body.
What then is the real object of them?
I believe, I said, that the teachers of both have in view chiefly the improvement of the
soul.
How can that be? he asked.
Did you never observe, I said, the effect on the mind itself of exclusive devotion to
gymnastics, or the opposite effect of an exclusive devotion to music?
In what way shown? he said.
The one producing a temper of hardness and ferocity, the other of softness and
effeminacy, I replied.
Yes, he said, I am quite aware that the mere athlete becomes too much of a savage, and
that the mere musician IS melted and softened beyond what is good for him.
Yet surely, I said, this ferocity only comes from spirit, which, if rightly educated, would
give courage, but, if too much intensified, is liable to become hard and brutal.
That I quite think.
On the other hand the philosopher will have the quality of gentleness. And this also,
when too much indulged, will turn to softness, but, if educated rightly, will be gentle and
moderate.
True.
And in our opinion the guardians ought to have both these qualities?
Assuredly.
And both should be in harmony?
Beyond question.
And the harmonious soul is both temperate and courageous?
Yes.
And the inharmonious is cowardly and boorish?
Very true.
And, when a man allows music to play upon him and to pour into his soul through the
funnel of his ears those sweet and soft and melancholy airs of which we were just now
speaking, and his whole life is passed in warbling and the delights of song; in the first
stage of the process the passion or spirit which is in him is tempered like iron, and made
useful, instead of brittle and useless. But, if he carries on the softening and soothing
process, in the next stage he begins to melt and waste, until he has wasted away his
spirit and cut out the sinews of his soul; and he becomes a feeble warrior.
Very true.
If the element of spirit is naturally weak in him the change is speedily accomplished, but
if he have a good deal, then the power of music weakening the spirit renders him
excitable; on the least provocation he flames up at once, and is speedily extinguished;
instead of having spirit he grows irritable and passionate and is quite impractical.
Exactly.
And so in gymnastics, if a man takes violent exercise and is a great feeder, and the
reverse of a great student of music and philosophy, at first the high condition of his
body fills him with pride and spirit, and he becomes twice the man that he was.
Certainly.
And what happens? if he do nothing else, and holds no converse with the muses, does
not even that intelligence which there may be in him, having no taste of any sort of
learning or inquiry or thought or culture, grow feeble and dull and blind, his mind never
waking up or receiving nourishment, and his senses not being purged of their mists?
True, he said.
And he ends by becoming a hater of philosophy, uncivilized, never using the weapon of
persuasion—he is like a wild beast, all violence and fierceness, and knows no other way
of dealing; and he lives in all ignorance and evil conditions, and has no sense of
propriety and grace.
That is quite true, he said.
And as there are two principles of human nature, one the spirited and the other the
philosophical, some god, as I should say, has given mankind two arts answering to them
(and only indirectly to the soul and body), in order that these two principles (like the
strings of an instrument) may be relaxed or drawn tighter until they are duly
harmonized.
That appears to be the intention.
And he who mingles music with gymnastics in the fairest proportions, and best
attempers them to the soul, may be rightly called the true musician and harmonist in a
far higher sense than the tuner of the strings.
You are quite right, Socrates.
And such a presiding genius will be always required in our State if the government is to
last.
Yes, he will be absolutely necessary.
Such, then, are our principles of nurture and education: Where would be the use of
going into further details about the dances of our citizens, or about their hunting and
coursing, their gymnastic and equestrian contests? For these all follow the general
principle, and having found that, we shall have no difficulty in discovering them.
I dare say that there will be no difficulty.
Very good, I said; then what is the next question? Must we not ask who are to be rulers
and who subjects?
Certainly.
There can be no doubt that the elder must rule the younger.
Clearly.
And that the best of these must rule.
That is also clear.
Now, are not the best husbandmen those who are most devoted to husbandry?
Yes.
And as we are to have the best of guardians for our city, must they not be those who
have most the character of guardians?
Yes.
And to this end they ought to be wise and efficient, and to have a special care of the
State?
True.
And a man will be most likely to care about that which he loves?
To be sure.
And he will be most likely to love that which he regards as having the same interests
with himself, and that of which the good or evil fortune is supposed by him at any time
most to affect his own?
Very true, he replied.
Then there must be a selection. Let us note among the guardians those who in their
whole life show the greatest eagerness to do what is for the good of their country, and
the greatest repugnance to do what is against her interests.
Those are the right men.
And they will have to be watched at every age, in order that we may see whether they
preserve their resolution, and never, under the influence either of force or enchantment,
forget or cast off their sense of duty to the State.
How cast off? he said.
I will explain to you, he replied. A resolution may go out of a man's mind either with his
will or against his will; with his will when he gets rid of a falsehood and learns better,
against his will whenever he is deprived of a truth.
I understand, he said, the willing loss of a resolution; the meaning of the unwilling I have
yet to learn.
Why, I said, do you not see that men are unwillingly deprived of good, and willingly of
evil? Is not to have lost the truth an evil, and to possess the truth a good? and you
would agree that to conceive things as they are is to possess the truth?
Yes, he replied; I agree with you in thinking that mankind are deprived of truth against
their will.
And is not this involuntary deprivation caused either by theft, or force, or enchantment?
Still, he replied, I do not understand you.
I fear that I must have been talking darkly, like the tragedians. I only mean that some
men are changed by persuasion and that others forget; argument steals away the hearts
of one class, and time of the other; and this I call theft. Now you understand me?
Yes.
Those again who are forced, are those whom the violence of some pain or grief compels
to change their opinion.
I understand, he said, and you are quite right.
And you would also acknowledge that the enchanted are those who change their minds
either under the softer influence of pleasure, or the sterner influence of fear?
Yes, he said; everything that deceives may be said to enchant.
Therefore, as I was just now saying, we must inquire who are the best guardians of their
own conviction that what they think the interest of the State is to be the rule of their
lives. We must watch them from their youth upward, and make them perform actions in
which they are most likely to forget or to be deceived, and he who remembers and is
not deceived is to be selected, and he who fails in the trial is to be rejected. That will be
the way?
Yes.
And there should also be toils and pains and conflicts prescribed for them, in which they
will be made to give further proof of the same qualities.
Very right, he replied.
And then, I said, we must try them with enchantments—that is the third sort of test—
and see what will be their behavior: like those who take colts amid noise and tumult to
see if they are of a timid nature, so must we take our youth amid terrors of some kind,
and again pass them into pleasures, and prove them more thoroughly than gold is
proved in the furnace, that we may discover whether they are armed against all
enchantments, and of a noble bearing always, good guardians of themselves and of the
music which they have learned, and retaining under all circumstances a rhythmical and
harmonious nature, such as will be most serviceable to the individual and to the State.
And he who at every age, as boy and youth and in mature life, has come out of the trial
victorious and pure, shall be appointed a ruler and guardian of the State; he shall be
honored in life and death, and shall receive sepulture and other memorials of honor, the
greatest that we have to give. But him who fails, we must reject. I am inclined to think
that this is the sort of way in which our rulers and guardians should be chosen and
appointed. I speak generally, and not with any pretension to exactness.
And, speaking generally, I agree with you, he said.
And perhaps the word "guardian" in the fullest sense ought to be applied to this higher
class only who preserve us against foreign enemies and maintain peace among our
citizens at home, that the one may not have the will, or the others the power, to harm
us. The young men whom we before called guardians may be more properly designated
auxiliaries and supporters of the principles of the rulers.
I agree with you, he said.
How then may we devise one of those needful falsehoods of which we lately spoke—
just one royal lie which may deceive the rulers, if that be possible, and at any rate the
rest of the city?
What sort of lie? he said.
Nothing new, I replied; only an old Phoenician tale of what has often occurred before
now in other places (as the poets say, and have made the world believe), though not in
our time, and I do not know whether such an event could ever happen again, or could
now even be made probable, if it did.
How your words seem to hesitate on your lips!
You will not wonder, I replied, at my hesitation when you have heard.
Speak, he said, and fear not. Well, then, I will speak, although I really know not how to
look you in the face, or in what words to utter the audacious fiction, which I propose to
communicate gradually, first to the rulers, then to the soldiers, and lastly to the people.
They are to be told that their youth was a dream, and the education and training which
they received from us, an appearance only; in reality during all that time they were being
formed and fed in the womb of the earth, where they themselves and their arms and
appurtenances were manufactured; when they were completed, the earth, their mother,
sent them up; and so, their country being their mother and also their nurse, they are
bound to advise for her good, and to defend her against attacks, and her citizens they
are to regard as children of the earth and their own brothers.
You had good reason, he said, to be ashamed of the lie which you were going to tell.
True, I replied, but there is more coming; I have only told you half. Citizens, we shall say
to them in our tale, you are brothers, yet God has framed you differently. Some of you
have the power of command, and in the composition of these he has mingled gold,
wherefore also they have the greatest honor; others he has made of silver, to be
auxiliaries; others again who are to be husbandmen and craftsmen he has composed of
brass and iron; and the species will generally be preserved in the children. But as all are
of the same original stock, a golden parent will sometimes have a silver son, or a silver
parent a golden son. And God proclaims as a first principle to the rulers, and above all
else, that there is nothing which they should so anxiously guard, or of which they are to
be such good guardians, as of the purity of the race. They should observe what
elements mingle in their offspring; for if the son of a golden or silver parent has an
admixture of brass and iron, then nature orders a transposition of ranks, and the eye of
the ruler must not be pitiful toward the child because he has to descend in the scale and
become a husbandman or artisan, just as there may be sons of artisans who having an
admixture of gold or silver in them are raised to honor, and become guardians or
auxiliaries. For an oracle says that when a man of brass or iron guards the State, it will be
destroyed. Such is the tale; is there any possibility of making our citizens believe in it?
Not in the present generation, he replied; there is no way of accomplishing this; but
their sons may be made to believe in the tale, and their sons' sons, and posterity after
them.
I see the difficulty, I replied; yet the fostering of such a belief will make them care more
for the city and for one another. Enough, however, of the fiction, which may now fly
abroad upon the wings of rumor, while we arm our earth-born heroes, and lead them
forth under the command of their rulers. Let them look round and select a spot whence
they can best suppress insurrection, if any prove refractory within, and also defend
themselves against enemies, who, like wolves, may come down on the fold from
without; there let them encamp, and when they have encamped, let them sacrifice to the
proper gods and prepare their dwellings.
Just so, he said.
And their dwellings must be such as will shield them against the cold of winter and the
heat of summer.
I suppose that you mean houses, he replied.
Yes, I said; but they must be the houses of soldiers, and not of shopkeepers.
What is the difference? he said.
That I will endeavor to explain, I replied. To keep watchdogs, who, from want of
discipline or hunger, or some evil habit or other, would turn upon the sheep and worry
them, and behave not like dogs, but wolves, would be a foul and monstrous thing in a
shepherd?
Truly monstrous, he said.
And therefore every care must be taken that our auxiliaries, being stronger than our
citizens, may not grow to be too much for them and become savage tyrants instead of
friends and allies?
Yes, great care should be taken.
And would not a really good education furnish the best safeguard?
But they are well-educated already, he replied.
I cannot be so confident, my dear Glaucon, I said; I am much more certain that they
ought to be, and that true education, whatever that may be, will have the greatest
tendency to civilize and humanize them in their relations to one another, and to those
who are under their protection.
Very true, he replied.
And not only their education, but their habitations, and all that belongs to them, should
be such as will neither impair their virtue as guardians, nor tempt them to prey upon the
other citizens. Any man of sense must acknowledge that.
He must.
Then now let us consider what will be their way of life, if they are to realize our idea of
them. In the first place, none of them should have any property of his own beyond what
is absolutely necessary; neither should they have a private house or store closed against
anyone who has a mind to enter; their provisions should be only such as are required by
trained warriors, who are men of temperance and courage; they should agree to receive
from the citizens a fixed rate of pay, enough to meet the expenses of the year and no
more; and they will go to mess and live together like soldiers in a camp. Gold and silver
we will tell them that they have from God; the diviner metal is within them, and they
have therefore no need of the dross which is current among men, and ought not to
pollute the divine by any such earthly admixture; for that commoner metal has been the
source of many unholy deeds, but their own is undefiled. And they alone of all the
citizens may not touch or handle silver or gold, or be under the same roof with them, or
wear them, or drink from them. And this will be their salvation, and they will be the
saviours of the State. But should they ever acquire homes or lands or moneys of their
own, they will become good housekeepers and husbandmen instead of guardians,
enemies and tyrants instead of allies of the other citizens; hating and being hated,
plotting and being plotted against, they will pass their whole life in much greater terror
of internal than of external enemies, and the hour of ruin, both to themselves and to the
rest of the State, will be at hand. For all which reasons may we not say that thus shall our
State be ordered, and that these shall be the regulations appointed by us for our
guardians concerning their houses and all other matters?
Yes, said Glaucon.

BOOK IV
WEALTH,
POVERTY, AND
VIRTUE
(ADEIMANTUS, SOCRATES.)
HERE Adeimantus interposed a question: How would you answer, Socrates, said he, if a
person were to say that you are making these people miserable, and that they are the
cause of their own unhappiness; the city in fact belongs to them, but they are none the
better for it; whereas other men acquire lands, and build large and handsome houses,
and have everything handsome about them, offering sacrifices to the gods on their own
account, and practising hospitality; moreover, as you were saying just now, they have
gold and silver, and all that is usual among the favorites of fortune; but our poor citizens
are no better than mercenaries who are quartered in the city and are always mounting
guard?
Yes, I said; and you may add that they are only fed, and not paid in addition to their
food, like other men; and therefore they cannot, if they would, take a journey of
pleasure; they have no money to spend on a mistress or any other luxurious fancy,
which, as the world goes, is thought to be happiness; and many other accusations of the
same nature might be added.
But, said he, let us suppose all this to be included in the charge.
You mean to ask, I said, what will be our answer?
Yes.
If we proceed along the old path, my belief, I said, is that we shall find the answer. And
our answer will be that, even as they are, our guardians may very likely be the happiest
of men; but that our aim in founding the State was not the disproportionate happiness
of any one class, but the greatest happiness of the whole; we thought that in a State
which is ordered with a view to the good of the whole we should be most likely to find
justice, and in the ill-ordered State injustice: and, having found them, we might then
decide which of the two is the happier. At present, I take it, we are fashioning the happy
State, not piecemeal, or with a view of making a few happy citizens, but as a whole; and
by and by we will proceed to view the opposite kind of State. Suppose that we were
painting a statue, and someone came up to us and said: Why do you not put the most
beautiful colors on the most beautiful parts of the body—the eyes ought to be purple,
but you have made them black—to him we might fairly answer: Sir, you would not
surely have us beautify the eyes to such a degree that they are no longer eyes; consider
rather whether, by giving this and the other features their due proportion, we make the
whole beautiful. And so I say to you, do not compel us to assign to the guardians a sort
of happiness which will make them anything but guardians; for we too can clothe our
husbandmen in royal apparel, and set crowns of gold on their heads, and bid them till
the ground as much as they like, and no more. Our potters also might be allowed to
repose on couches, and feast by the fireside, passing round the wine-cup, while their
wheel is conveniently at hand, and working at pottery only as much as they like; in this
way we might make every class happy—and then, as you imagine, the whole State
would be happy. But do not put this idea into our heads; for, if we listen to you, the
husbandman will be no longer a husbandman, the potter will cease to be a potter, and
no one will have the character of any distinct class in the State. Now this is not of much
consequence where the corruption of society, and pretension to be what you are not,
are confined to cobblers; but when the guardians of the laws and of the government are
only seeming and not real guardians, then see how they turn the State upside down;
and on the other hand they alone have the power of giving order and happiness to the
State. We mean our guardians to be true saviours and not the destroyers of the State,
whereas our opponent is thinking of peasants at a festival, who are enjoying a life of
revelry, not of citizens who are doing their duty to the State. But, if so, we mean
different things, and he is speaking of something which is not a State. And therefore we
must consider whether in appointing our guardians we would look to their greatest
happiness individually, or whether this principle of happiness does not rather reside in
the State as a whole. But if the latter be the truth, then the guardians and auxiliaries, and
all others equally with them, must be compelled or induced to do their own work in the
best way. And thus the whole State will grow up in a noble order, and the several classes
will receive the proportion of happiness which nature assigns to them.
I think that you are quite right.
I wonder whether you will agree with another remark which occurs to me.
What may that be?
There seem to be two causes of the deterioration of the arts.
What are they?
Wealth, I said, and poverty.
How do they act?
The process is as follows: When a potter becomes rich, will he, think you, any longer
take the same pains with his art?
Certainly not.
He will grow more and more indolent and careless?
Very true.
And the result will be that he becomes a worse potter?
Yes; he greatly deteriorates.
But, on the other hand, if he has no money, and cannot provide himself with tools or
instruments, he will not work equally well himself, nor will he teach his sons or
apprentices to work equally well.
Certainly not.
Then, under the influence either of poverty or of wealth, workmen and their work are
equally liable to degenerate?
That is evident.
Here, then, is a discovery of new evils, I said, against which the guardians will have to
watch, or they will creep into the city unobserved.
What evils?
Wealth, I said, and poverty; the one is the parent of luxury and indolence, and the other
of meanness and viciousness, and both of discontent.
That is very true, he replied; but still I should like to know, Socrates, how our city will be
able to go to war, especially against an enemy who is rich and powerful, if deprived of
the sinews of war.
There would certainly be a difficulty, I replied, in going to war with one such enemy; but
there is no difficulty where there are two of them.
How so? he asked.
In the first place, I said, if we have to fight, our side will be trained warriors fighting
against an army of rich men.
That is true, he said.
And do you not suppose, Adeimantus, that a single boxer who was perfect in his art
would easily be a match for two stout and well-to-do gentlemen who were not boxers?
Hardly, if they came upon him at once.
What, not, I said, if he were able to run away and then turn and strike at the one who
first came up? And supposing he were to do this several times under the heat of a
scorching sun, might he not, being an expert, overturn more than one stout personage?
Certainly, he said, there would be nothing wonderful in that.
And yet rich men probably have a greater superiority in the science and practise of
boxing than they have in military qualities.
Likely enough.
Then we may assume that our athletes will be able to fight with two or three times their
own number?
I agree with you, for I think you right.
And suppose that, before engaging, our citizens send an embassy to one of the two
cities, telling them what is the truth: Silver and gold we neither have nor are permitted
to have, but you may; do you therefore come and help us in war, and take the spoils of
the other city: Who, on hearing these words, would choose to fight against lean wiry
dogs, rather than, with the dogs on their side, against fat and tender sheep?
That is not likely; and yet there might be a danger to the poor State if the wealth of
many States were to be gathered into one.
But how simple of you to use the term State at all of any but our own!
Why so?
You ought to speak of other States in the plural number; not one of them is a city, but
many cities, as they say in the game. For indeed any city, however small, is in fact
divided into two, one the city of the poor, the other of the rich; these are at war with
one another; and in either there are many smaller divisions, and you would be
altogether beside the mark if you treated them all as a single State. But if you deal with
them as many, and give the wealth or power or persons of the one to the others, you
will always have a great many friends and not many enemies. And your State, while the
wise order which has now been prescribed continues to prevail in her, will be the
greatest of States, I do not mean to say in reputation or appearance, but in deed and
truth, though she number not more than 1,000 defenders. A single State which is her
equal you will hardly find, either among Hellenes or barbarians, though many that
appear to be as great and many times greater.
That is most true, he said.
And what, I said, will be the best limit for our rulers to fix when they are considering the
size of the State and the amount of territory which they are to include, and beyond
which they will not go?
What limit would you propose?
I would allow the State to increase so far as is consistent with unity; that, I think, is the
proper limit.
Very good, he said.
Here then, I said, is another order which will have to be conveyed to our guardians: Let
our city be accounted neither large nor small, but one and self-sufficing.
And surely, said he, this is not a very severe order which we impose upon them.
And the other, said I, of which we were speaking before is lighter still—I mean the duty
of degrading the offspring of the guardians when inferior, and of elevating into the rank
of guardians the offspring of the lower classes, when naturally superior. The intention
was, that, in the case of the citizens generally, each individual should be put to the use
for which nature intended him, one to one work, and then every man would do his own
business, and be one and not many; and so the whole city would be one and not many.
Yes, he said; that is not so difficult.
The regulations which we are prescribing, my good Adeimantus, are not, as might be
supposed, a number of great principles, but trifles all, if care be taken, as the saying is,
of the one great thing—a thing, however, which I would rather call, not, great, but
sufficient for our purpose.
What may that be? he asked.
Education, I said, and nurture: If our citizens are well educated, and grow into sensible
men, they will easily see their way through all these, as well as other matters which I
omit; such, for example, as marriage, the possession of women and the procreation of
children, which will all follow the general principle that friends have all things in
common, as the proverb says.
That will be the best way of settling them.
Also, I said, the State, if once started well, moves with accumulating force like a wheel.
For good nurture and education implant good constitutions, and these good
constitutions taking root in a good education improve more and more, and this
improvement affects the breed in man as in other animals.
Very possibly, he said.
Then to sum up: This is the point to which, above all, the attention of our rulers should
be directed—that music and gymnastics be preserved in their original form, and no
innovation made. They must do their utmost to maintain them intact. And when anyone
says that mankind most regard
"The newest song which the singers have,"
they will be afraid that he may be praising, not new songs, but a new kind of song; and
this ought not to be praised, or conceived to be the meaning of the poet; for any
musical innovation is full of danger to the whole State, and ought to be prohibited. So
Damon tells me, and I can quite believe him; he says that when modes of music change,
the fundamental laws of the State always change with them.
Yes, said Adeimantus; and you may add my suffrage to Damon's and your own.
Then, I said, our guardians must lay the foundations of their fortress in music?
Yes, he said; the lawlessness of which you speak too easily steals in.
Yes, I replied, in the form of amusement; and at first sight it appears harmless.
Why, yes, he said, and there is no harm; were it not that little by little this spirit of
license, finding a home, imperceptibly penetrates into manners and customs; whence,
issuing with greater force, it invades contracts between man and man, and from
contracts goes on to laws and constitutions, in utter recklessness, ending at last,
Socrates, by an overthrow of all rights, private as well as public.
Is that true? I said.
That is my belief, he replied.
Then, as I was saying, our youth should be trained from the first in a stricter system, for
if amusements become lawless, and the youths themselves become lawless, they can
never grow up into well-conducted and virtuous citizens.
Very true, he said.
And when they have made a good beginning in play, and by the help of music have
gained the habit of good order, then this habit of order, in a manner how unlike the
lawless play of the others! will accompany them in all their actions and be a principle of
growth to them, and if there be any fallen places [a] [principle] in the State will raise
them up again.
Very true, he said.
Thus educated, they will invent for themselves any lesser rules which their predecessors
have altogether neglected.
What do you mean?
I mean such things as these:—when the young are to be silent before their elders; how
they are to show respect to them by standing and making them sit; what honor is due to
parents; what garments or shoes are to be worn; the mode of dressing the hair;
deportment and manners in general. You would agree with me?
Yes.
But there is, I think, small wisdom in legislating about such matters—I doubt if it is ever
done; nor are any precise written enactments about them likely to be lasting.
Impossible.
It would seem, Adeimantus, that the direction in which education starts a man, will
determine his future life. Does not like always attract like?
To be sure.
Until some one rare and grand result is reached which may be good, and may be the
reverse of good?
That is not to be denied.
And for this reason, I said, I shall not attempt to legislate further about them.
Naturally enough, he replied.
Well, and about the business of the agora, and the ordinary dealings between man and
man, or again about agreements with artisans; about insult and injury, or the
commencement of actions, and the appointment of juries, what would you say? there
may also arise questions about any impositions and exactions of market and harbor
dues which may be required, and in general about the regulations of markets, police,
harbors, and the like.. But, O heavens! shall we condescend to legislate on any of these
particulars?
I think, he said, that there is no need to impose laws about them on good men; what
regulations are necessary they will find out soon enough for themselves.
Yes, I said, my friend, if God will only preserve to them the laws which we have given
them.
And without divine help, said Adeimantus, they will go on forever making and mending
the laws and their lives in the hope of attaining perfection.
You would compare them, I said, to those invalids who, having no self-restraint, will not
leave off their habits of intemperance?
Exactly.
Yes, I said; and what a delightful life they lead! they are always doctoring and increasing
and complicating their disorders, and always fancying that they will be cured by any
nostrum which anybody advises them to try.
Such cases are very common, he said, with invalids of this sort.
Yes, I replied; and the charming thing is that they deem him their worst enemy who tells
them the truth, which is simply that, unless they give up eating and drinking and
wenching and idling, nether drug nor cautery nor spell nor amulet nor any other remedy
will avail.
Charming! he replied. I see nothing in going into a passion with a man who tells you
what is right.
These gentlemen, I said, do not seem to be in your good graces.
Assuredly not.
Nor would you praise the behavior of States which act like the men whom I was just now
describing. For are there not ill-ordered States in which the citizens are forbidden under
pain of death to alter the constitution; and yet he who most sweetly courts those who
live under this regime and indulges them and fawns upon them and is skilful in
anticipating and gratifying their humors is held to be a great and good statesman—do
not these States resemble the persons whom I was describing?
Yes, he said; the States are as bad as the men; and I am very far from praising them.
But do you not admire, I said, the coolness and dexterity of these ready ministers of
political corruption?
Yes, he said, I do; but not of all of them, for there are some whom the applause of the
multitude has deluded into the belief that they are really statesmen, and these are not
much to be admired.
What do you mean? I said; you should have more feeling for them. When a man cannot
measure, and a great many others who cannot measure declare that he is four cubits
high, can he help believing what they say?
Nay, he said, certainly not in that case.
Well, then, do not be angry with them; for are they not as good as a play, trying their
hand at paltry reforms such as I was describing; they are always fancying that by
legislation they will make an end of frauds in contracts, and the other rascalities which I
was mentioning, not knowing that they are in reality cutting off the heads of a hydra?
Yes, he said; that is just what they are doing.
I conceive, I said, that the true legislator will not trouble himself with this class of
enactments whether concerning laws or the constitution either in an ill-ordered or in a
wellordered State; for in the former they are quite useless, and in the latter there will be
no difficulty in devising them; and many of them will naturally flow out of our previous
regulations.
What, then, he said, is still remaining to us of the work of legislation?
Nothing to us, I replied; but to Apollo, the god of Delphi, there remains the ordering of
the greatest and noblest and chiefest things of all.
Which are they? he said.
The institution of temples and sacrifices, and the entire service of gods, demigods, and
heroes; also the ordering of the repositories of the dead, and the rites which have to be
observed by him who would propitiate the inhabitants of the world below. These are
matters of which we are ignorant ourselves, and as founders of a city we should be
unwise in trusting them to any interpreter but our ancestral deity. He is the god who sits
in the centre, on the navel of the earth, and he is the interpreter of religion to all
mankind.
You are right, and we will do as you propose.
But where, amid all this, is justice? Son of Ariston, tell me where. Now that our city has
been made habitable, light a candle and search, and get your brother and Polemarchus
and the rest of our friends to help, and let us see where in it we can discover justice and
where injustice, and in what they differ from one another, and which of them the man
who would be happy should have for his portion, whether seen or unseen by gods and
men.
Nonsense, said Glaucon: did you not promise to search yourself, saying that for you not
to help justice in her need would be an impiety?
I do not deny that I said so; and as you remind me, I will be as good as my word; but
you must join.
We will, he replied.
Well, then, I hope to make the discovery in this way: I mean to begin with the
assumption that our State, if rightly ordered, is perfect.
That is most certain.
And being perfect, is therefore wise and valiant and temperate and just.
That is likewise clear.
And whichever of these qualities we find in the State, the one which is not found will be
the residue?
Very good.
If there were four things, and we were searching for one of them, wherever it might be,
the one sought for might be known to us from the first, and there would be no further
trouble; or we might know the other three first, and then the fourth would clearly be the
one left.
Very true, he said.
And is not a similar method to be pursued about the virtues, which are also four in
number?
Clearly.
First among the virtues found in the State, wisdom comes into view, and in this I detect
a certain peculiarity.
What is that?
The State which we have been describing is said to be wise as being good in counsel?
Very true.
And good counsel is clearly a kind of knowledge, for not by ignorance, but by
knowledge, do men counsel well?
Clearly.
And the kinds of knowledge in a State are many and diverse?
Of course.
There is the knowledge of the carpenter; but is that the sort of knowledge which gives a
city the title of wise and good in counsel?
Certainly not; that would only give a city the reputation of skill in carpentering.
Then a city is not to be called wise because possessing a knowledge which counsels for
the best about wooden implements?
Certainly not.
Nor by reason of a knowledge which advises about brazen pots, he said, nor as
possessing any other similar knowledge?
Not by reason of any of them, he said.
Nor yet by reason of a knowledge which cultivates the earth; that would give the city the
name of agricultural?
Yes.
Well, I said, and is there any knowledge in our recently founded State among any of the
citizens which advises, not about any particular thing in the State, but about the whole,
and considers how a State can best deal with itself and with other States?
There certainly is.
And what is this knowledge, and among whom is it found? I asked.
It is the knowledge of the guardians, he replied, and is found among those whom we
were just now describing as perfect guardians.
And what is the name which the city derives from the possession of this sort of
knowledge?
The name of good in counsel and truly wise.
And will there be in our city more of these true guardians or more smiths?
The smiths, he replied, will be far more numerous.
Will not the guardians be the smallest of all the classes who receive a name from the
profession of some kind of knowledge?
Much the smallest.
And so by reason of the smallest part or class, and of the knowledge which resides in
this presiding and ruling part of itself, the whole State, being thus constituted according
to nature, will be wise; and this, which has the only knowledge worthy to be called
wisdom, has been ordained by nature to be of all classes the least.
Most true.
Thus, then, I said, the nature and place in the State of one of the four virtues have
somehow or other been discovered.
And, in my humble opinion, very satisfactorily discovered, he replied.
Again, I said, there is no difficulty in seeing the nature of courage, and in what part that
quality resides which gives the name of courageous to the State.
How do you mean?
Why, I said, everyone who calls any State courageous or cowardly, will be thinking of the
part which fights and goes out to war on the State's behalf.
No one, he replied, would ever think of any other.
The rest of the citizens may be courageous or may be cowardly, but their courage or
cowardice will not, as I conceive, have the effect of making the city either the one or the
other.
Certainly not.
The city will be courageous in virtue of a portion of herself which preserves under all
circumstances that opinion about the nature of things to be feared and not to be feared
in which our legislator educated them; and this is what you term courage.
I should like to hear what you are saying once more, for I do not think that I perfectly
understand you.
I mean that courage is a kind of salvation.
Salvation of what?
Of the opinion respecting things to be feared, what they are and of what nature, which
the law implants through education; and I mean by the words "under all circumstances"
to intimate that in pleasure or in pain, or under the influence of desire or fear, a man
preserves, and does not lose this opinion. Shall I give you an illustration?
If you please.
You know, I said, that dyers, when they want to dye wool for making the true sea-purple,
begin by selecting their white color first; this they prepare and dress with much care and
pains, in order that the white ground may take the purple hue in full perfection. The
dyeing then proceeds; and whatever is dyed in this manner becomes a fast color, and no
washing either with lyes or without them can take away the bloom. But, when the
ground has not been duly prepared, you will have noticed how poor is the look either of
purple or of any other color.
Yes, he said; I know that they have a washed-out and ridiculous appearance.
Then now, I said, you will understand what our object was in selecting our soldiers, and
educating them in music and gymnastics; we were contriving influences which would
prepare them to take the dye of the laws in perfection, and the color of their opinion
about dangers and of every other opinion was to be indelibly fixed by their nurture and
training, not to be washed away by such potent lyes as pleasure— mightier agent far in
washing the soul than any soda or lye; or by sorrow, fear, and desire, the mightiest of all
other solvents. And this sort of universal saving power of true opinion in conformity with
law about real and false dangers I call and maintain to be courage, unless you disagree.
But I agree, he replied; for I suppose that you mean to exclude mere uninstructed
courage, such as that of a wild beast or of a slave—this, in your opinion, is not the
courage which the law ordains, and ought to have another name.
Most certainly.
Then I may infer courage to be such as you describe?
Why, yes, said I, you may, and if you add the words "of a citizen," you will not be far
wrong—hereafter, if you like, we will carry the examination further, but at present we are
seeking, not for courage, but justice; and for the purpose of our inquiry we have said
enough.
You are right, he replied.
Two virtues remain to be discovered in the State—first, temperance, and then justice,
which is the end of our search.
Very true.
Now, can we find justice without troubling ourselves about temperance?
I do not know how that can be accomplished, he said, nor do I desire that justice should
be brought to light and temperance lost sight of; and therefore I wish that you would do
me the favor of considering temperance first.
Certainly, I replied, I should not be justified in refusing your request.
Then consider, he said.
Yes, I replied; I will; and as far as I can at present see, the virtue of temperance has more
of the nature of harmony and symphony than the preceding.
How so? he asked.
Temperance, I replied, is the ordering or controlling of certain pleasures and desires; this
is curiously enough implied in the saying of "a man being his own master;" and other
traces of the same notion may be found in language.
No doubt, he said.
There is something ridiculous in the expression "master of himself;" for the master is
also the servant and the servant the master; and in all these modes of speaking the
same person is denoted.
Certainly.
The meaning is, I believe, that in the human soul there is a better and also a worse
principle; and when the better has the worse under control, then a man is said to be
master of himself; and this is a term of praise: but when, owing to evil education or
association, the better principle, which is also the smaller, is overwhelmed by the greater
mass of the worse —in this case he is blamed and is called the slave of self and
unprincipled.
Yes, there is reason in that.
And now, I said, look at our newly created State, and there you will find one of these two
conditions realized; for the State, as you will acknowledge, may be justly called master of
itself, if the words "temperance" and "self-mastery" truly express the rule of the better
part over the worse.
Yes, he said, I see that what you say is true.
Let me further note that the manifold and complex pleasures and desires and pains are
generally found in children and women and servants, and in the freemen so called who
are of the lowest and more numerous class.
Certainly, he said.
Whereas the simple and moderate desires which follow reason, and are under the
guidance of mind and true opinion, are to be found only in a few, and those the best
born and best educated.
Very true. These two, as you may perceive, have a place in our State; and the meaner
desires of the many are held down by the virtuous desires and wisdom of the few.
That I perceive, he said.
Then if there be any city which may be described as master of its own pleasures and
desires, and master of itself, ours may claim such a designation?
Certainly, he replied.
It may also be called temperate, and for the same reasons?
Yes.
And if there be any State in which rulers and subjects will be agreed as to the question
who are to rule, that again will be our State?
Undoubtedly.
And the citizens being thus agreed among themselves, in which class will temperance be
found—in the rulers or in the subjects?
In both, as I should imagine, he replied.
Do you observe that we were not far wrong in our guess that temperance was a sort of
harmony?
Why so?
Why, because temperance is unlike courage and wisdom, each of which resides in a part
only, the one making the State wise and the other valiant; not so temperance, which
extends to the whole, and runs through all the notes of the scale, and produces a
harmony of the weaker and the stronger and the middle class, whether you suppose
them to be stronger or weaker in wisdom, or power, or numbers, or wealth, or anything
else. Most truly then may we deem temperance to be the agreement of the naturally
superior and inferior, as to the right to rule of either, both in States and individuals.
I entirely agree with you.
And so, I said, we may consider three out of the four virtues to have been discovered in
our State. The last of those qualities which make a State virtuous must be justice, if we
only knew what that was.
The inference is obvious.
The time then has arrived, Glaucon, when, like huntsmen, we should surround the cover,
and look sharp that justice does not steal away, and pass out of sight and escape us; for
beyond a doubt she is somewhere in this country: watch therefore and strive to catch a
sight of her, and if you see her first, let me know.
Would that I could! but you should regard me rather as a follower who has just eyes
enough to see what you show him—that is about as much as I am good for.
Offer up a prayer with me and follow.
I will, but you must show me the way.
Here is no path, I said, and the wood is dark and perplexing; still we must push on.
Let us push on.
Here I saw something: Halloo! I said, I begin to perceive a track, and I believe that the
quarry will not escape.
Good news, he said.
Truly, I said, we are stupid fellows.
Why so?
Why, my good sir, at the beginning of our inquiry, ages ago, there was Justice tumbling
out at our feet, and we never saw her; nothing could be more ridiculous. Like people
who go about looking for what they have in their hands—that was the way with us—we
looked not at what we were seeking, but at what was far off in the distance; and
therefore, I suppose, we missed her.
What do you mean?
I mean to say that in reality for a long time past we have been talking of Justice, and
have failed to recognize her.
I grow impatient at the length of your exordium. Well, then, tell me, I said, whether I am
right or not: You remember the original principle which we were always laying down at
the foundation of the State, that one man should practise one thing only, the thing to
which his nature was best adapted; now justice is this principle or a part of it.
Yes, we often said that one man should do one thing only.
Further, we affirmed that Justice was doing one's own business, and not being a
busybody; we said so again and again, and many others have said the same to us.
Yes, we said so.
Then to do one's own business in a certain way may be assumed to be justice. Can you
tell me whence I derive this inference?
I cannot, but I should like to be told.
Because I think that this is the only virtue which remains in the State when the other
virtues of temperance and courage and wisdom are abstracted; and, that this is the
ultimate cause and condition of the existence of all of them, and while remaining in
them is also their preservative; and we were saying that if the three were discovered by
us, justice would be the fourth, or remaining one.
That follows of necessity.
If we are asked to determine which of these four qualities by its presence contributes
most to the excellence of the State, whether the agreement of rulers and subjects, or the
preservation in the soldiers of the opinion which the law ordains about the true nature
of dangers, or wisdom and watchfulness in the rulers, or whether this other which I am
mentioning, and which is found in children and women, slave and freeman, artisan, ruler,
subject—the quality, I mean, of everyone doing his own work, and not being a
busybody, would claim the palm—the question is not so easily answered.
Certainly, he replied, there would be a difficulty in saying which.
Then the power of each individual in the State to do his own work appears to compete
with the other political virtues, wisdom, temperance, courage.
Yes, he said.
And the virtue which enters into this competition is justice?
Exactly.
Let us look at the question from another point of view: Are not the rulers in a State
those to whom you would intrust the office of determining suits-at-law?
Certainly.
And are suits decided on any other ground but that a man may neither take what is
another's, nor be deprived of what is his own?
Yes; that is their principle.
Which is a just principle?
Yes.
Then on this view also justice will be admitted to be the having and doing what is a
man's own, and belongs to him?
Very true.
Think, now, and say whether you agree with me or not. Suppose a carpenter to be doing
the business of a cobbler, or a cobbler of a carpenter; and suppose them to exchange
their implements or their duties, or the same person to be doing the work of both, or
whatever be the change; do you think that any great harm would result to the State?
Not much.
But when the cobbler or any other man whom nature designed to be a trader, having
his heart lifted up by wealth or strength or the number of his followers, or any like
advantage, attempts to force his way into the class of warriors, or a warrior into that of
legislators and guardians, for which he is unfitted, and either to take the implements or
the duties of the other; or when one man is trader, legislator, and warrior all in one, then
I think you will agree with me in saying that this interchange and this meddling of one
with another is the ruin of the State.
Most true. Seeing, then, I said, that there are three distinct classes, any meddling of one
with another, or the change of one into another, is the greatest harm to the State, and
may be most justly termed evil-doing?
Precisely.
And the greatest degree of evil-doing to one's own city would be termed by you
injustice?
Certainly. This, then, is injustice; and on the other hand when the trader, the auxiliary,
and the guardian each do their own business, that is justice, and will make the city just.
I agree with you.
We will not, I said, be over-positive as yet; but if, on trial, this conception of justice be
verified in the individual as well as in the State, there will be no longer any room for
doubt; if it be not verified, we must have a fresh inquiry. First let us complete the old
investigation, which we began, as you remember, under the impression that, if we could
previously examine justice on the larger scale, there would be less difficulty in discerning
her in the individual. That larger example appeared to be the State, and accordingly we
constructed as good a one as we could, knowing well that in the good State justice
would be found. Let the discovery which we made be now applied to the individual—if
they agree, we shall be satisfied; or, if there be a difference in the individual, we will
come back to the State and have another trial of the theory. The friction of the two
when rubbed together may possibly strike a light in which justice will shine forth, and
the vision which is then revealed we will fix in our souls.
That will be in regular course; let us do as you say.
I proceeded to ask: When two things, a greater and less, are called by the same name,
are they like or unlike in so far as they are called the same?
Like, he replied.
The just man then, if we regard the idea of justice only, will be like the just State?
He will.
And a State was thought by us to be just when the three classes in the State severally
did their own business; and also thought to be temperate and valiant and wise by
reason of certain other affections and qualities of these same classes?
True, he said.
And so of the individual; we may assume that he has the same three principles in his
own soul which are found in the State; and he may be rightly described in the same
terms, because he is affected in the same manner?
Certainly, he said.
Once more, then, O my friend, we have alighted upon an easy question—whether the
soul has these three principles or not?
An easy question! Nay, rather, Socrates, the proverb holds that hard is the good.
Very true, I said; and I do not think that the method which we are employing is at all
adequate to the accurate solution of this question; the true method is another and a
longer one. Still we may arrive at a solution not below the level of the previous inquiry.
May we not be satisfied with that? he said; under the circumstances, I am quite content.
I, too, I replied, shall be extremely well satisfied.
Then faint not in pursuing the speculation, he said.
Must we not acknowledge, I said, that in each of us there are the same principles and
habits which there are in the State; and that from the individual they pass into the
State?—how else can they come there? Take the quality of passion or spirit; it would be
ridiculous to imagine that this quality, when found in States, is not derived from the
individuals who are supposed to possess it, e.g., the Thracians, Scythians, and in general
the Northern nations; and the same may be said of the love of knowledge, which is the
special characteristic of our part of the world, or of the love of money, which may, with
equal truth, be attributed to the Phoenicians and Egyptians.
Exactly so, he said.
There is no difficulty in understanding this.
None whatever.
But the question is not quite so easy when we proceed to ask whether these principles
are three or one; whether, that is to say, we learn with one part of our nature, are angry
with another, and with a third part desire the satisfaction of our natural appetites; or
whether the whole soul comes into play in each sort of action—to determine that is the
difficulty.
Yes, he said; there lies the difficulty.
Then let us now try and determine whether they are the same or different.
How can we? he asked.
I replied as follows: The same thing clearly cannot act or be acted upon in the same part
or in relation to the same thing at the same time, in contrary ways; and therefore
whenever this contradiction occurs in things apparently the same, we know that they are
really not the same, but different.
Good.
For example, I said, can the same thing be at rest and in motion at the same time in the
same part?
Impossible.
Still, I said, let us have a more precise statement of terms, lest we should hereafter fall
out by the way. Imagine the case of a man who is standing and also moving his hands
and his head, and suppose a person to say that one and the same person is in motion
and at rest at the same moment—to such a mode of speech we should object, and
should rather say that one part of him is in motion while another is at rest.
Very true.
And suppose the objector to refine still further, and to draw the nice distinction that not
only parts of tops, but whole tops, when they spin round with their pegs fixed on the
spot, are at rest and in motion at the same time (and he may say the same of anything
which revolves in the same spot), his objection would not be admitted by us, because in
such cases things are not at rest and in motion in the same parts of themselves; we
should rather say that they have both an axis and a circumference; and that the axis
stands still, for there is no deviation from the perpendicular; and that the circumference
goes round. But if, while revolving, the axis inclines either to the right or left, forward or
backward, then in no point of view can they be at rest.
That is the correct mode of describing them, he replied.
Then none of these objections will confuse us, or incline us to believe that the same
thing at the same time, in the same part or in relation to the same thing, can act or be
acted upon in contrary ways.
Certainly not, according to my way of thinking.
Yet, I said, that we may not be compelled to examine all such objections, and prove at
length that they are untrue, let us assume their absurdity, and go forward on the
understanding that hereafter, if this assumption turn out to be untrue, all the
consequences which follow shall be withdrawn.
Yes, he said, that will be the best way.
Well, I said, would you not allow that assent and dissent, desire and aversion, attraction
and repulsion, are all of them opposites, whether they are regarded as active or passive
(for that makes no difference in the fact of their opposition)?
Yes, he said, they are opposites.
Well, I said, and hunger and thirst, and the desires in general, and again willing and
wishing—all these you would refer to the classes already mentioned. You would say—
would you not?—that the soul of him who desires is seeking after the object of his
desire; or that he is drawing to himself the thing which he wishes to possess: or again,
when a person wants anything to be given him, his mind, longing for the realization of
his desire, intimates his wish to have it by a nod of assent, as if he had been asked a
question?
Very true.
And what would you say of unwillingness and dislike and the absence of desire; should
not these be referred to the opposite class of repulsion and rejection?
Certainly.
Admitting this to be true of desire generally, let us suppose a particular class of desires,
and out of these we will select hunger and thirst, as they are termed, which are the most
obvious of them?
Let us take that class, he said.
The object of one is food, and of the other drink?
Yes.
And here comes the point: is not thirst the desire which the soul has of drink, and of
drink only; not of drink qualified by anything else; for example, warm or cold, or much or
little, or, in a word, drink of any particular sort: but if the thirst be accompanied by heat,
then the desire is of cold drink; or, if accompanied by cold, then of warm drink; or, if the
thirst be excessive, then the drink which is desired will be excessive; or, if not great, the
quantity of drink will also be small: but thirst pure and simple will desire drink pure and
simple, which is the natural satisfaction of thirst, as food is of hunger?
Yes, he said; the simple desire is, as you say, in every case of the simple object, and the
qualified desire of the qualified object.
But here a confusion may arise; and I should wish to guard against an opponent starting
up and saying that no man desires drink only, but good drink, or food only, but good
food; for good is the universal object of desire, and thirst being a desire, will necessarily
be thirst after good drink; and the same is true of every other desire.
Yes, he replied, the opponent might have something to say.
Nevertheless I should still maintain, that of relatives some have a quality attached to
either term of the relation; others are simple and have their correlatives simple.
I do not know what you mean.
Well, you know of course that the greater is relative to the less?
Certainly.
And the much greater to the much less?
Yes.
And the sometime greater to the sometime less, and the greater that is to be to the less
that is to be?
Certainly, he said.
And so of more or less, and of other correlative terms, such as the double and the half,
or, again, the heavier and the lighter, the swifter and the slower; and of hot and cold,
and of any other relatives; is not this true of all of them?
Yes.
And does not the same principle hold in the sciences? The object of science is
knowledge (assuming that to be the true definition), but the object of a particular
science is a particular kind of knowledge; I mean, for example, that the science of housebuilding
is a kind of knowledge which is defined and
distinguished from other kinds and is therefore termed architecture.
Certainly.
Because it has a particular quality which no other has?
Yes.
And it has this particular quality because it has an object of a particular kind; and this is
true of the other arts and sciences?
Yes.
Now, then, if I have made myself clear, you will understand my original meaning in what
I said about relatives. My meaning was, that if one term of a relation is taken alone, the
other is taken alone; if one term is qualified, the other is also qualified. I do not mean to
say that relatives may not be disparate, or that the science of health is healthy, or of
disease necessarily diseased, or that the sciences of good and evil are therefore good
and evil; but only that, when the term "science" is no longer used absolutely, but has a
qualified object which in this case is the nature of health and disease, it becomes
defined, and is hence called not merely science, but the science of medicine.
I quite understand, and, I think, as you do.
Would you not say that thirst is one of these essentially relative terms, having clearly a
relation—
Yes, thirst is relative to drink.
And a certain kind of thirst is relative to a certain kind of drink; but thirst taken alone is
neither of much nor little, nor of good nor bad, nor of any particular kind of drink, but of
drink only?
Certainly.
Then the soul of the thirsty one, in so far as he is thirsty, desires only drink; for this he
yearns and tries to obtain it?
That is plain.
And if you suppose something which pulls a thirsty soul away from drink, that must be
different from the thirsty principle which draws him like a beast to drink; for, as we were
saying, the same thing cannot at the same time with the same part of itself act in
contrary ways about the same.
Impossible.
No more than you can say that the hands of the archer push and pull the bow at the
same time, but what you say is that one hand pushes and the other pulls.
Exactly so, he replied.
And might a man be thirsty, and yet unwilling to drink?
Yes, he said, it constantly happens.
And in such a case what is one to say? Would you not say that there was something in
the soul bidding a man to drink, and something else forbidding him, which is other and
stronger than the principle which bids him?
I should say so.
And the forbidding principle is derived from reason, and that which bids and attracts
proceeds from passion and disease?
Clearly.
Then we may fairly assume that they are two, and that they differ from one another; the
one with which a man reasons, we may call the rational principle of the soul; the other,
with which he loves, and hungers, and thirsts, and feels the flutterings of any other
desire, may be termed the irrational or appetitive, the ally of sundry pleasures and
satisfactions?
Yes, he said, we may fairly assume them to be different.
Then let us finally determine that there are two principles existing in the soul. And what
of passion, or spirit? Is it a third, or akin to one of the preceding?
I should be inclined to say—akin to desire.
Well, I said, there is a story which I remember to have heard, and in which I put faith.
The story is, that Leontius, the son of Aglaion, coming up one day from the Piraeus,
under the north wall on the outside, observed some dead bodies lying on the ground at
the place of execution. He felt a desire to see them, and also a dread and abhorrence of
them; for a time he struggled and covered his eyes, but at length the desire got the
better of him; and forcing them open, he ran up to the dead bodies, saying, Look, ye
wretches, take your fill of the fair sight.
I have heard the story myself, he said.
The moral of the tale is, that anger at times goes to war with desire, as though they were
two distinct things.
Yes; that is the meaning, he said.
And are there not many other cases in which we observe that when a man's desires
violently prevail over his reason, he reviles himself, and is angry at the violence within
him, and that in this struggle, which is like the struggle of factions in a State, his spirit is
on the side of his reason; but for the passionate or spirited element to take part with the
desires when reason decides that she should not be opposed, is a sort of thing which I
believe that you never observed occurring in yourself, nor, as I should imagine, in
anyone else?
Certainly not.
Suppose that a man thinks he has done a wrong to another, the nobler he is, the less
able is he to feel indignant at any suffering, such as hunger, or cold, or any other pain
which the injured person may inflict upon him—these he deems to be just, and, as I say,
his anger refuses to be excited by them.
True, he said.
But when he thinks that he is the sufferer of the wrong, then he boils and chafes, and is
on the side of what he believes to be justice; and because he suffers hunger or cold or
other pain he is only the more determined to persevere and conquer. His noble spirit
will not be quelled until he either slays or is slain; or until he hears the voice of the
shepherd, that is, reason, bidding his dog bark no more.
The illustration is perfect, he replied; and in our State, as we were saying, the auxiliaries
were to be dogs, and to hear the voice of the rulers, who are their shepherds.
I perceive, I said, that you quite understand me; there is, however, a further point which I
wish you to consider.
What point?
You remember that passion or spirit appeared at first sight to be a kind of desire, but
now we should say quite the contrary; for in the conflict of the soul spirit is arrayed on
the side of the rational principle.
Most assuredly.
But a further question arises: Is passion different from reason also, or only a kind of
reason; in which latter case, instead of three principles in the soul, there will only be two,
the rational and the concupiscent; or rather, as the State was composed of three classes,
traders, auxiliaries, counsellors, so may there not be in the individual soul a third
element which is passion or spirit, and when not corrupted by bad education is the
natural auxiliary of reason?
Yes, he said, there must be a third.
Yes, I replied, if passion, which has already been shown to be different from desire, turn
out also to be different from reason.
But that is easily proved: We may observe even in young children that they are full of
spirit almost as soon as they are born, whereas some of them never seem to attain to
the use of reason, and most of them late enough.
Excellent, I said, and you may see passion equally in brute animals, which is a further
proof of the truth of what you are saying. And we may once more appeal to the words
of Homer, which have been already quoted by us,
"He smote his breast, and thus rebuked his soul;" for in this verse Homer has clearly
supposed the power which reasons about the better and worse to be different from the
unreasoning anger which is rebuked by it.
Very true, he said.
And so, after much tossing, we have reached land, and are fairly agreed that the same
principles which exist in the State exist also in the individual, and that they are three in
number.
Exactly.
Must we not then infer that the individual is wise in the same way, and in virtue of the
same quality which makes the State wise?
Certainly.
Also that the same quality which constitutes courage in the State constitutes courage in
the individual, and that both the State and the individual bear the same relation to all
the other virtues?
Assuredly.
And the individual will be acknowledged by us to be just in the same way in which the
State is just?
That follows of course.
We cannot but remember that the justice of the State consisted in each of the three
classes doing the work of its own class?
We are not very likely to have forgotten, he said.
We must recollect that the individual in whom the several qualities of his nature do their
own work will be just, and will do his own work?
Yes, he said, we must remember that too.
And ought not the rational principle, which is wise, and has the care of the whole soul,
to rule, and the passionate or spirited principle to be the subject and ally?
Certainly.
And, as we were saying, the united influence of music and gymnastics will bring them
into accord, nerving and sustaining the reason with noble words and lessons, and
moderating and soothing and civilizing the wildness of passion by harmony and
rhythm?
Quite true, he said.
And these two, thus nurtured and educated, and having learned truly to know their own
functions, will rule over the concupiscent, which in each of us is the largest part of the
soul and by nature most insatiable of gain; over this they will keep guard, lest, waxing
great and strong with the fulness of bodily pleasures, as they are termed, the
concupiscent soul, no longer confined to her own sphere, should attempt to enslave and
rule those who are not her natural-born subjects, and overturn the whole life of man?
Very true, he said.
Both together will they not be the best defenders of the whole soul and the whole body
against attacks from without; the one counselling, and the other fighting under his
leader, and courageously executing his commands and counsels?
True.
And he is to be deemed courageous whose spirit retains in pleasure and in pain the
commands of reason about what he ought or ought not to fear?
Right, he replied.
And him we call wise who has in him that little part which rules, and which proclaims
these commands; that part too being supposed to have a knowledge of what is for the
interest of each of the three parts and of the whole?
Assuredly.
And would you not say that he is temperate who has these same elements in friendly
harmony, in whom the one ruling principle of reason, and the two subject ones of spirit
and desire, are equally agreed that reason ought to rule, and do not rebel?
Certainly, he said, that is the true account of temperance whether in the State or
individual.
And surely, I said, we have explained again and again how and by virtue of what quality
a man will be just.
That is very certain.
And is justice dimmer in the individual, and is her form different, or is she the same
which we found her to be in the State?
There is no difference, in my opinion, he said.
Because, if any doubt is still lingering in our minds, a few commonplace instances will
satisfy us of the truth of what I am saying.
What sort of instances do you mean?
If the case is put to us, must we not admit that the just State, or the man who is trained
in the principles of such a State, will be less likely than the unjust to make away with a
deposit of gold or silver? Would anyone deny this?
No one, he replied.
Will the just man or citizen ever be guilty of sacrilege or theft, or treachery either to his
friends or to his country?
Never.
Neither will he ever break faith where there have been oaths or agreements.
Impossible.
No one will be less likely to commit adultery, or to dishonor his father and mother, or to
fail in his religious duties?
No one.
And the reason is that each part of him is doing its own business, whether in ruling or
being ruled?
Exactly so.
Are you satisfied, then, that the quality which makes such men and such States is justice,
or do you hope to discover some other?
Not I, indeed.
Then our dream has been realized; and the suspicion which we entertained at the
beginning of our work of construction, that some divine power must have conducted us
to a primary form of justice, has now been verified?
Yes, certainly.
And the division of labor which required the carpenter and the shoemaker and the rest
of the citizens to be doing each his own business, and not another's, was a shadow of
justice, and for that reason it was of use?
Clearly.
But in reality justice was such as we were describing, being concerned, however, not
with the outward man, but with the inward, which is the true self and concernment of
man: for the just man does not permit the several elements within him to interfere with
one another, or any of them to do the work of others—he sets in order his own inner
life, and is his own master and his own law, and at peace with himself; and when he has
bound together the three principles within him, which may be compared to the higher,
lower, and middle notes of the scale, and the intermediate intervals—when he has
bound all these together, and is no longer many, but has become one entirely
temperate and perfectly adjusted nature, then he proceeds to act, if he has to act,
whether in a matter of property, or in the treatment of the body, or in some affair of
politics or private business; always thinking and calling that which preserves and cooperates
with this harmonious condition just and good action, and the knowledge which
presides over it wisdom, and that which at any time impairs this condition he will call
unjust action, and the opinion which presides over it ignorance.
You have said the exact truth, Socrates.
Very good; and if we were to affirm that we had discovered the just man and the just
State, and the nature of justice in each of them, we should not be telling a falsehood?
Most certainly not.
May we say so, then?
Let us say so.
And now, I said, injustice has to be considered.
Clearly.
Must not injustice be a strife which arises among the three principles—a
meddlesomeness, and interference, and rising up of a part of the soul against the whole,
an assertion of unlawful authority, which is made by a rebellious subject against a true
prince, of whom he is the natural vassal—what is all this confusion and delusion but
injustice, and intemperance, and cowardice, and ignorance, and every form of vice?
Exactly so.
And if the nature of justice and injustice be known, then the meaning of acting unjustly
and being unjust, or, again, of acting justly, will also be perfectly clear?
What do you mean? he said.
Why, I said, they are like disease and health; being in the soul just what disease and
health are in the body.
How so? he said.
Why, I said, that which is healthy causes health, and that which is unhealthy causes
disease.
Yes.
And just actions cause justice, and unjust actions cause injustice?
That is certain.
And the creation of health is the institution of a natural order and government of one by
another in the parts of the body; and the creation of disease is the production of a state
of things at variance with this natural order?
True.
And is not the creation of justice the institution of a natural order and government of
one by another in the parts of the soul, and the creation of injustice the production of a
state of things at variance with the natural order?
Exactly so, he said.
Then virtue is the health, and beauty, and well-being of the soul, and vice the disease,
and weakness, and deformity, of the same?
True.
And do not good practices lead to virtue, and evil practices to vice?
Assuredly.
Still our old question of the comparative advantage of justice and injustice has not been
answered: Which is the more profitable, to be just and act justly and practise virtue,
whether seen or unseen of gods and men, or to be unjust and act unjustly, if only
unpunished and unreformed?
In my judgment, Socrates, the question has now become ridiculous. We know that,
when the bodily constitution is gone, life is no longer endurable, though pampered with
all kinds of meats and drinks, and having all wealth and all power; and shall we be told
that when the very essence of the vital principle is undermined and corrupted, life is still
worth having to a man, if only he be allowed to do whatever he likes with the single
exception that he is not to acquire justice and virtue, or to escape from injustice and
vice; assuming them both to be such as we have described?
Yes, I said, the question is, as you say, ridiculous. Still, as we are near the spot at which
we may see the truth in the clearest manner with our own eyes, let us not faint by the
way.
Certainly not, he replied.
Come up hither, I said, and behold the various forms of vice, those of them, I mean,
which are worth looking at.
I am following you, he replied: proceed.
I said: The argument seems to have reached a height from which, as from some tower of
speculation, a man may look down and see that virtue is one, but that the forms of vice
are innumerable; there being four special ones which are deserving of note.
What do you mean? he said.
I mean, I replied, that there appear to be as many forms of the soul as there are distinct
forms of the State.
How many?
There are five of the State, and five of the soul, I said.
What are they?
The first, I said, is that which we have been describing, and which may be said to have
two names, monarchy and aristocracy, according as rule is exercised by one
distinguished man or by many.
True, he replied.
But I regard the two names as describing one form only; for whether the government is
in the hands of one or many, if the governors have been trained in the manner which we
have supposed, the fundamental laws of the State will be maintained.
That is true, he replied.

BOOK V
ON MATRIMONY
AND PHILOSOPHY
(SOCRATES, GLAUCON, ADEIMANTUS.)
SUCH is the good and true City or State, and the good and true man is of the same
pattern; and if this is right every other is wrong; and the evil is one which affects not
only the ordering of the State, but also the regulation of the individual soul, and is
exhibited in four forms.
What are they? he said.
I was proceeding to tell the order in which the four evil forms appeared to me to
succeed one another, when Polemarchus, who was sitting a little way off, just beyond
Adeimantus, began to whisper to him: stretching forth his hand, he took hold of the
upper part of his coat by the shoulder, and drew him toward him, leaning forward
himself so as to be quite close and saying something in his ear, of which I only caught
the words, "Shall we let him off, or what shall we do?"
Certainly not, said Adeimantus, raising his voice.
Who is it, I said, whom you are refusing to let off?
You, he said.
I repeated, Why am I especially not to be let off?
Why, he said, we think that you are lazy, and mean to cheat us out of a whole chapter
which is a very important part of the story; and you fancy that we shall not notice your
airy way of proceeding; as if it were self-evident to everybody, that in the matter of
women and children "friends have all things in common."
And was I not right, Adeimantus?
Yes, he said; but what is right in this particular case, like everything else, requires to be
explained; for community may be of many kinds. Please, therefore, to say what sort of
community you mean. We have been long expecting that you would tell us something
about the family life of your citizens— how they will bring children into the world, and
rear them when they have arrived, and, in general, what is the nature of this community
of women and children—for we are of opinion that the right or wrong management of
such matters will have a great and paramount influence on the State for good or for evil.
And now, since the question is still undetermined, and you are taking in hand another
State, we have resolved, as you heard, not to let you go until you give an account of all
this.
To that resolution, said Glaucon, you may regard me as saying: Agreed.
And without more ado, said Thrasymachus, you may consider us all to be equally
agreed.
I said, You know not what you are doing in thus assailing me: What an argument are you
raising about the State! Just as I thought that I had finished, and was only too glad that I
had laid this question to sleep, and was reflecting how fortunate I was in your
acceptance of what I then said, you ask me to begin again at the very foundation,
ignorant of what a hornet's nest of words you are stirring. Now I foresaw this gathering
trouble, and avoided it.
For what purpose do you conceive that we have come here, said Thrasymachus—to look
for gold, or to hear discourse?
Yes, but discourse should have a limit.
Yes, Socrates, said Glaucon, and the whole of life is the only limit which wise men assign
to the hearing of such discourses. But never mind about us; take heart yourself and
answer the question in your own way: What sort of community of women and children is
this which is to prevail among our guardians? and how shall we manage the period
between birth and education, which seems to require the greatest care? Tell us how
these things will be.
Yes, my simple friend, but the answer is the reverse of easy; many more doubts arise
about this than about our previous conclusions. For the practicability of what is said may
be doubted; and looked at in another point of view, whether the scheme, if ever so
practicable, would be for the best, is also doubtful. Hence I feel a reluctance to approach
the subject, lest our aspiration, my dear friend, should turn out to be a dream only.
Fear not, he replied, for your audience will not be hard upon you; they are not sceptical
or hostile.
I said: My good friend, I suppose that you mean to encourage me by these words.
Yes, he said.
Then let me tell you that you are doing just the reverse; the encouragement which you
offer would have been all very well had I myself believed that I knew what I was talking
about. To declare the truth about matters of high interest which a man honors and
loves, among wise men who love him, need occasion no fear or faltering in his mind; but
to carry on an argument when you are yourself only a hesitating inquirer, which is my
condition, is a dangerous and slippery thing; and the danger is not that I shall be
laughed at (of which the fear would be childish), but that I shall miss the truth where I
have most need to be sure of my footing, and drag my friends after me in my fall. And I
pray Nemesis not to visit upon me the words which I am going to utter. For I do indeed
believe that to be an involuntary homicide is a less crime than to be a deceiver about
beauty, or goodness, or justice, in the matter of laws. And that is a risk which I would
rather run among enemies than among friends; and therefore you do well to encourage
me.
Glaucon laughed and said: Well, then, Socrates, in case you and your argument do us
any serious injury you shall be acquitted beforehand of the homicide, and shall not be
held to be a deceiver; take courage then and speak.
Well, I said, the law says that when a man is acquitted he is free from guilt, and what
holds at law may hold in argument.
Then why should you mind?
Well, I replied, I suppose that I must retrace my steps and say what I perhaps ought to
have said before in the proper place. The part of the men has been played out, and now
properly enough comes the turn of the women. Of them I will proceed to speak, and the
more readily since I am invited by you.
For men born and educated like our citizens, the only way, in my opinion, of arriving at a
right conclusion about the possession and use of women and children is to follow the
path on which we originally started, when we said that the men were to be the
guardians and watch-dogs of the herd.
True.
Let us further suppose the birth and education of our women to be subject to similar or
nearly similar regulations; then we shall see whether the result accords with our design.
What do you mean?
What I mean may be put into the form of a question, I said: Are dogs divided into he's
and she's, or do they both share equally in hunting and in keeping watch and in the
other duties of dogs? or do we intrust to the males the entire and exclusive care of the
flocks, while we leave the females at home, under the idea that the bearing and the
suckling of their puppies are labor enough for them?
No, he said, they share alike; the only difference between them is that the males are
stronger and the females weaker.
But can you use different animals for the same purpose, unless they are bred and fed in
the same way?
You cannot.
Then, if women are to have the same duties as men, they must have the same nurture
and education?
Yes.
The education which was assigned to the men was music and gymnastics. Yes.
Then women must be taught music and gymnastics and also the art of war, which they
must practise like the men?
That is the inference, I suppose.
I should rather expect, I said, that several of our proposals, if they are carried out, being
unusual, may appear ridiculous.
No doubt of it.
Yes, and the most ridiculous thing of all will be the sight of women naked in the
palaestra, exercising with the men, especially when they are no longer young; they
certainly will not be a vision of beauty, any more than the enthusiastic old men who, in
spite of wrinkles and ugliness, continue to frequent the gymnasia.
Yes, indeed, he said: according to present notions the proposal would be thought
ridiculous.
But then, I said, as we have determined to speak our minds, we must not fear the jests of
the wits which will be directed against this sort of innovation; how they will talk of
women's attainments, both in music and gymnastics, and above all about their wearing
armor and riding upon horseback!
Very true, he replied. Yet, having begun, we must go forward to the rough places of the
law; at the same time begging of these gentlemen for once in their life to be serious.
Not long ago, as we shall remind them, the Hellenes were of the opinion, which is still
generally received among the barbarians, that the sight of a naked man was ridiculous
and improper; and when first the Cretans, and then the Lacedaemonians, introduced the
custom, the wits of that day might equally have ridiculed the innovation.
No doubt.
But when experience showed that to let all things be uncovered was far better than to
cover them up, and the ludicrous effect to the outward eye had vanished before the
better principle which reason asserted, then the man was perceived to be a fool who
directs the shafts of his ridicule at any other sight but that of folly and vice, or seriously
inclines to weigh the beautiful by any other standard but that of the good.
Very true, he replied.
First, then, whether the question is to be put in jest or in earnest, let us come to an
understanding about the nature of woman: Is she capable of sharing either wholly or
partially in the actions of men, or not at all? And is the art of war one of those arts in
which she can or cannot share? That will be the best way of commencing the inquiry,
and will probably lead to the fairest conclusion.
That will be much the best way.
Shall we take the other side first and begin by arguing against ourselves? in this manner
the adversary's position will not be undefended.
Why not? he said.
Then let us put a speech into the mouths of our opponents. They will say: "Socrates and
Glaucon, no adversary need convict you, for you yourselves, at the first foundation of
the State, admitted the principle that everybody was to do the one work suited to his
own nature." And certainly, if I am not mistaken, such an admission was made by us.
"And do not the natures of men and women differ very much indeed?" And we shall
reply, Of course they do. Then we shall be asked, "Whether the tasks assigned to men
and to women should not be different, and such as are agreeable to their different
natures?" Certainly they should. "But if so, have you not fallen into a serious
inconsistency in saying that men and women, whose natures are so entirely different,
ought to perform the same actions?" What defence will you make for us, my good sir,
against anyone who offers these objections?
That is not an easy question to answer when asked suddenly; and I shall and I do beg of
you to draw out the case on our side.
These are the objections, Glaucon, and there are many others of a like kind, which I
foresaw long ago; they made me afraid and reluctant to take in hand any law about the
possession and nurture of women and children.
By Zeus, he said, the problem to be solved is anything but easy. Why, yes, I said, but the
fact is that when a man is out of his depth, whether he has fallen into a little swimmingbath
or into mid-ocean, he has to swim all the same.
Very true.
And must not we swim and try to reach the shore—we will hope that Arion's dolphin or
some other miraculous help may save us?
I suppose so, he said. Well, then, let us see if any way of escape can be found. We
acknowledged—did we not?—that different natures ought to have different pursuits,
and that men's and women's natures are different. And now what are we saying?—that
different natures ought to have the same pursuits—this is the inconsistency which is
charged upon us.
Precisely.
Verily, Glaucon, I said, glorious is the power of the art of contradiction!
Why do you say so?
Because I think that many a man falls into the practice against his will. When he thinks
that he is reasoning he is really disputing, just because he cannot define and divide, and
so know that of which he is speaking; and he will pursue a merely verbal opposition in
the spirit of contention and not of fair discussion.
Yes, he replied, such is very often the case; but what has that to do with us and our
argument?
A great deal; for there is certainly a danger of our getting unintentionally into a verbal
opposition.
In what way? Why we valiantly and pugnaciously insist upon the verbal truth, that
different natures ought to have different pursuits, but we never considered at all what
was the meaning of sameness or difference of nature, or why we distinguished them
when we assigned different pursuits to different natures and the same to the same
natures.
Why, no, he said, that was never considered by us.
I said: Suppose that by way of illustration we were to ask the question whether there is
not an opposition in nature between bald men and hairy men; and if this is admitted by
us, then, if bald men are cobblers, we should forbid the hairy men to be cobblers, and
conversely?
That would be a jest, he said.
Yes, I said, a jest; and why? because we never meant when we constructed the State,
that the opposition of natures should extend to every difference, but only to those
differences which affected the pursuit in which the individual is engaged; we should
have argued, for example, that a physician and one who is in mind a physician may be
said to have the same nature.
True.
Whereas the physician and the carpenter have different natures?
Certainly.
And if, I said, the male and female sex appear to differ in their fitness for any art or
pursuit, we should say that such pursuit or art ought to be assigned to one or the other
of them; but if the difference consists only in women bearing and men begetting
children, this does not amount to a proof that a woman differs from a man in respect of
the sort of education she should receive; and we shall therefore continue to maintain
that our guardians and their wives ought to have the same pursuits.
Very true, he said.
Next, we shall ask our opponent how, in reference to any of the pursuits or arts of civic
life, the nature of a woman differs from that of a man?
That will be quite fair.
And perhaps he, like yourself, will reply that to give a sufficient answer on the instant is
not easy; but after a little reflection there is no difficulty.
Yes, perhaps.
Suppose then that we invite him to accompany us in the argument, and then we may
hope to show him that there is nothing peculiar in the constitution of women which
would affect them in the administration of the State.
By all means.
Let us say to him: Come now, and we will ask you a question: When you spoke of a
nature gifted or not gifted in any respect, did you mean to say that one man will acquire
a thing easily, another with difficulty; a little learning will lead the one to discover a great
deal, whereas the other, after much study and application, no sooner learns than he
forgets; or again, did you mean, that the one has a body which is a good servant to his
mind, while the body of the other is a hinderance to him? —would not these be the sort
of differences which distinguish the man gifted by nature from the one who is ungifted?
No one will deny that.
And can you mention any pursuit of mankind in which the male sex has not all these
gifts and qualities in a higher degree than the female? Need I waste time in speaking of
the art of weaving, and the management of pancakes and preserves, in which
womankind does really appear to be great, and in which for her to be beaten by a man
is of all things the most absurd?
You are quite right, he replied, in maintaining the general inferiority of the female sex:
although many women are in many things superior to many men, yet on the whole what
you say is true.
And if so, my friend, I said, there is no special faculty of administration in a State which a
woman has because she is a woman, or which a man has by virtue of his sex, but the
gifts of nature are alike diffused in both; all the pursuits of men are the pursuits of
women also, but in all of them a woman is inferior to a man.
Very true.
Then are we to impose all our enactments on men and none of them on women?
That will never do.
One woman has a gift of healing, another not; one is a musician, and another has no
music in her nature?
Very true.
And one woman has a turn for gymnastic and military exercises, and another is
unwarlike and hates gymnastics?
Certainly.
And one woman is a philosopher, and another is an enemy of philosophy; one has spirit,
and another is without spirit?
That is also true.
Then one woman will have the temper of a guardian, and another not. Was not the
selection of the male guardians determined by differences of this sort?
Yes.
Men and women alike possess the qualities which make a guardian; they differ only in
their comparative strength or weakness.
Obviously.
And those women who have such qualities are to be selected as the companions and
colleagues of men who have similar qualities and whom they resemble in capacity and
in character?
Very true.
And ought not the same natures to have the same pursuits?
They ought.
Then, as we were saying before, there is nothing unnatural in assigning music and
gymnastics to the wives of the guardians—to that point we come round again.
Certainly not.
The law which we then enacted was agreeable to nature, and therefore not an
impossibility or mere aspiration; and the contrary practice, which prevails at present, is
in reality a violation of nature.
That appears to be true.
We had to consider, first, whether our proposals were possible, and secondly whether
they were the most beneficial?
Yes.
And the possibility has been acknowledged?
Yes.
The very great benefit has next to be established?
Quite so.
You will admit that the same education which makes a man a good guardian will make a
woman a good guardian; for their original nature is the same?
Yes.
I should like to ask you a question.
What is it?
Would you say that all men are equal in excellence, or is one man better than another?
The latter.
And in the commonwealth which we were founding do you conceive the guardians who
have been brought up on our model system to be more perfect men, or the cobblers
whose education has been cobbling?
What a ridiculous question!
You have answered me, I replied: Well, and may we not further say that our guardians
are the best of our citizens?
By far the best.
And will not their wives be the best women?
Yes, by far the best.
And can there be anything better for the interests of the State than that the men and
women of a State should be as good as possible?
There can be nothing better.
And this is what the arts of music and gymnastics, when present in such a manner as we
have described, will accomplish?
Certainly.
Then we have made an enactment not only possible but in the highest degree beneficial
to the State?
True.
Then let the wives of our guardians strip, for their virtue will be their robe, and let them
share in the toils of war and the defence of their country; only in the distribution of
labors the lighter are to be assigned to the women, who are the weaker natures, but in
other respects their duties are to be the same. And as for the man who laughs at naked
women exercising their bodies from the best of motives, in his laughter he is plucking
"A fruit of unripe wisdom,"
and he himself is ignorant of what he is laughing at, or what he is about; for that is, and
ever will be, the best of sayings, "that the useful is the noble, and the hurtful is the
base."
Very true.
Here, then, is one difficulty in our law about women, which we may say that we have
now escaped; the wave has not swallowed us up alive for enacting that the guardians of
either sex should have all their pursuits in common; to the utility and also to the
possibility of this arrangement the consistency of the argument with itself bears witness.
Yes, that was a mighty wave which you have escaped.
Yes, I said, but a greater is coming; you will not think much of this when you see the
next.
Go on; let me see.
The law, I said, which is the sequel of this and of all that has preceded, is to the
following effect, "that the wives of our guardians are to be common, and their children
are to be common, and no parent is to know his own child, nor any child his parent."
Yes, he said, that is a much greater wave than the other; and the possibility as well as
the utility of such a law are far more questionable.
I do not think, I said, that there can be any dispute about the very great utility of having
wives and children in common; the possibility is quite another matter, and will be very
much disputed.
I think that a good many doubts may be raised about both.
You imply that the two questions must be combined, I replied. Now I meant that you
should admit the utility; and in this way, as I thought, I should escape from one of them,
and then there would remain only the possibility.
But that little attempt is detected, and therefore you will please to give a defence of
both.
Well, I said, I submit to my fate. Yet grant me a little favor: let me feast my mind with the
dream as day-dreamers are in the habit of feasting themselves when they are walking
alone; for before they have discovered any means of effecting their wishes—that is a
matter which never troubles them—they would rather not tire themselves by thinking
about possibilities; but assuming that what they desire is already granted to them, they
proceed with their plan, and delight in detailing what they mean to do when their wish
has come true—that is a way which they have of not doing much good to a capacity
which was never good for much. Now I myself am beginning to lose heart, and I should
like, with your permission, to pass over the question of possibility at present. Assuming
therefore the possibility of the proposal, I shall now proceed to inquire how the rulers
will carry out these arrangements, and I shall demonstrate that our plan, if executed, will
be of the greatest benefit to the State and to the guardians. First of all, then, if you have
no objection, I will endeavor with your help to consider the advantages of the measure;
and hereafter the question of possibility.
I have no objection; proceed.
First, I think that if our rulers and their auxiliaries are to be worthy of the name which
they bear, there must be willingness to obey in the one and the power of command in
the other; the guardians themselves must obey the laws, and they must also imitate the
spirit of them in any details which are intrusted to their care.
That is right, he said.
You, I said, who are their legislator, having selected the men, will now select the women
and give them to them; they must be as far as possible of like natures with them; and
they must live in common houses and meet at common meals. None of them will have
anything specially his or her own; they will be together, and will be brought up together,
and will associate at gymnastic exercises. And so they will be drawn by a necessity of
their natures to have intercourse with each other— necessity is not too strong a word, I
think?
Yes, he said; necessity, not geometrical, but another sort of necessity which lovers know,
and which is far more convincing and constraining to the mass of mankind.
True, I said; and this, Glaucon, like all the rest, must proceed after an orderly fashion; in a
city of the blessed, licentiousness is an unholy thing which the rulers will forbid.
Yes, he said, and it ought not to be permitted.
Then clearly the next thing will be to make matrimony sacred in the highest degree, and
what is most beneficial will be deemed sacred?
Exactly.
And how can marriages be made most beneficial? that is a question which I put to you,
because I see in your house dogs for hunting, and of the nobler sort of birds not a few.
Now, I beseech you, do tell me, have you ever attended to their pairing and breeding?
In what particulars?
Why, in the first place, although they are all of a good sort, are not some better than
others?
True.
And do you breed from them all indifferently, or do you take care to breed from the
best only?
From the best.
And do you take the oldest or the youngest, or only those of ripe age?
I choose only those of ripe age.
And if care was not taken in the breeding, your dogs and birds would greatly
deteriorate?
Certainly.
And the same of horses and of animals in general?
Undoubtedly.
Good heavens! my dear friend, I said, what consummate skill will our rulers need if the
same principle holds of the human species!
Certainly, the same principle holds; but why does this involve any particular skill?
Because, I said, our rulers will often have to practise upon the body corporate with
medicines. Now you know that when patients do not require medicines, but have only
to be put under a regimen, the inferior sort of practitioner is deemed to be good
enough; but when medicine has to be given, then the doctor should be more of a man.
That is quite true, he said; but to what are you alluding?
I mean, I replied, that our rulers will find a considerable dose of falsehood and deceit
necessary for the good of their subjects: we were saying that the use of all these things
regarded as medicines might be of advantage.
And we were very right.
And this lawful use of them seems likely to be often needed in the regulations of
marriages and births.
How so?
Why, I said, the principle has been already laid down that the best of either sex should
be united with the best as often, and the inferior with the inferior as seldom, as possible;
and that they should rear the offspring of the one sort of union, but not of the other, if
the flock is to be maintained in first-rate condition. Now these goings on must be a
secret which the rulers only know, or there will be a further danger of our herd, as the
guardians may be termed, breaking out into rebellion.
Very true.
Had we better not appoint certain festivals at which we will bring together the brides
and bridegrooms, and sacrifices will be offered and suitable hymeneal songs composed
by our poets: the number of weddings is a matter which must be left to the discretion of
the rulers, whose aim will be to preserve the average of population? There are many
other things which they will have to consider, such as the effects of wars and diseases
and any similar agencies, in order as far as this is possible to prevent the State from
becoming either too large or too small.
Certainly, he replied.
We shall have to invent some ingenious kind of lots which the less worthy may draw on
each occasion of our bringing them together, and then they will accuse their own ill-luck
and not the rulers.
To be sure, he said.
And I think that our braver and better youth, besides their other honors and rewards,
might have greater facilities of intercourse with women given them; their bravery will be
a reason, and such fathers ought to have as many sons as possible.
True.
And the proper officers, whether male or female or both, for offices are to be held by
women as well as by men— Yes—
The proper officers will take the offspring of the good parents to the pen or fold, and
there they will deposit them with certain nurses who dwell in a separate quarter; but the
offspring of the inferior, or of the better when they chance to be deformed, will be put
away in some mysterious, unknown place, as they should be.
Yes, he said, that must be done if the breed of the guardians is to be kept pure.
They will provide for their nurture, and will bring the mothers to the fold when they are
full of milk, taking the greatest possible care that no mother recognizes her own child;
and other wet-nurses may be engaged if more are required. Care will also be taken that
the process of suckling shall not be protracted too long; and the mothers will have no
getting up at night or other trouble, but will hand over all this sort of thing to the nurses
and attendants.
You suppose the wives of our guardians to have a fine easy time of it when they are
having children.
Why, said I, and so they ought. Let us, however, proceed with our scheme. We were
saying that the parents should be in the prime of life?
Very true.
And what is the prime of life? May it not be defined as a period of about twenty years in
a woman's life, and thirty years in a man's?
Which years do you mean to include?
A woman, I said, at twenty years of age may begin to bear children to the State, and
continue to bear them until forty; a man may begin at five-and-twenty, when he has
passed the point at which the pulse of life beats quickest, and continue to beget
children until he be fifty-five.
Certainly, he said, both in men and women those years are the prime of physical as well
as of intellectual vigor. Anyone above or below the prescribed ages who takes part in
the public hymeneals shall be said to have done an unholy and unrighteous thing; the
child of which he is the father, if it steals into life, will have been conceived under
auspices very unlike the sacrifices and prayers, which at each hymeneal priestesses and
priests and the whole city will offer, that the new generation may be better and more
useful than their good and useful parents, whereas his child will be the offspring of
darkness and strange lust.
Very true, he replied.
And the same law will apply to any one of those within the prescribed age who forms a
connection with any woman in the prime of life without the sanction of the rulers; for we
shall say that he is raising up a bastard to the State, uncertified and unconsecrated.
Very true, he replied.
This applies, however, only to those who are within the specified age: after that we will
allow them to range at will, except that a man may not marry his daughter or his
daughter's daughter, or his mother or his mother's mother; and women, on the other
hand, are prohibited from marrying their sons or fathers, or son's son or father's father,
and so on in either direction. And we grant all this, accompanying the permission with
strict orders to prevent any embryo which may come into being from seeing the light;
and if any force a way to the birth, the parents must understand that the offspring of
such a union cannot be maintained, and arrange accordingly.
That also, he said, is a reasonable proposition. But how will they know who are fathers
and daughters, and so on?
They will never know. The way will be this: dating from the day of the hymeneal, the
bridegroom who was then married will call all the male children who are born in the
seventh and the tenth month afterward his sons, and the female children his daughters,
and they will call him father, and he will call their children his grandchildren, and they
will call the elder generation grandfathers and grandmothers. All who were begotten at
the time when their fathers and mothers came together will be called their brothers and
sisters, and these, as I was saying, will be forbidden to intermarry. This, however, is not
to be understood as an absolute prohibition of the marriage of brothers and sisters; if
the lot favors them, and they receive the sanction of the Pythian oracle, the law will
allow them.
Quite right, he replied.
Such is the scheme, Glaucon, according to which the guardians of our State are to have
their wives and families in common. And now you would have the argument show that
this community is consistent with the rest of our polity, and also that nothing can be
better—would you not?
Yes, certainly.
Shall we try to find a common basis by asking of ourselves what ought to be the chief
aim of the legislator in making laws and in the organization of a State—what is the
greatest good, and what is the greatest evil, and then consider whether our previous
description has the stamp of the good or of the evil?
By all means.
Can there be any greater evil than discord and distraction and plurality where unity
ought to reign? or any greater good than the bond of unity?
There cannot.
And there is unity where there is community of pleasures and pains—where all the
citizens are glad or grieved on the same occasions of joy and sorrow?
No doubt.
Yes; and where there is no common but only private feeling a State is disorganized—
when you have one-half of the world triumphing and the other plunged in grief at the
same events happening to the city or the citizens?
Certainly.
Such differences commonly originate in a disagreement about the use of the terms
"mine" and "not mine," "his" and "not his."
Exactly so.
And is not that the best-ordered State in which the greatest number of persons apply
the terms "mine" and "not mine" in the same way to the same thing?
Quite true.
Or that again which most nearly approaches to the condition of the individual—as in the
body, when but a finger of one of us is hurt, the whole frame, drawn toward the soul as
a centre and forming one kingdom under the ruling power therein, feels the hurt and
sympathizes all together with the part affected, and we say that the man has a pain in
his finger; and the same expression is used about any other part of the body, which has
a sensation of pain at suffering or of pleasure at the alleviation of suffering.
Very true, he replied; and I agree with you that in the bestordered State there is the
nearest approach to this common feeling which you describe.
Then when any one of the citizens experiences any good or evil, the whole State will
make his case their own, and will either rejoice or sorrow with him?
Yes, he said, that is what will happen in a well-ordered State.
It will now be time, I said, for us to return to our State and see whether this or some
other form is most in accordance with these fundamental principles.
Very good.
Our State, like every other, has rulers and subjects?
True.
All of whom will call one another citizens?
Of course.
But is there not another name which people give to their rulers in other States?
Generally they call them masters, but in democratic States they simply call them rulers.
And in our State what other name besides that of citizens do the people give the rulers?
They are called saviours and helpers, he replied.
And what do the rulers call the people?
Their maintainers and foster-fathers.
And what do they call them in other States?
Slaves.
And what do the rulers call one another in other States?
Fellow-rulers.
And what in ours?
Fellow-guardians.
Did you ever know an example in any other State of a ruler who would speak of one of
his colleagues as his friend and of another as not being his friend?
Yes, very often.
And the friend he regards and describes as one in whom he has an interest, and the
other as a stranger in whom he has no interest?
Exactly.
But would any of your guardians think or speak of any other guardian as a stranger?
Certainly he would not; for everyone whom they meet will be regarded by them either
as a brother or sister, or father or mother, or son or daughter, or as the child or parent
of those who are thus connected with him.
Capital, I said; but let me ask you once more: Shall they be a family in name only; or shall
they in all their actions be true to the name? For example, in the use of the word
"father," would the care of a father be implied and the filial reverence and duty and
obedience to him which the law commands; and is the violator of these duties to be
regarded as an impious and unrighteous person who is not likely to receive much good
either at the hands of God or of man? Are these to be or not to be the strains which the
children will hear repeated in their ears by all the citizens about those who are intimated
to them to be their parents and the rest of their kinsfolk?
These, he said, and none other; for what can be more ridiculous than for them to utter
the names of family ties with the lips only and not to act in the spirit of them?
Then in our city the language of harmony and concord will be more often heard than in
any other. As I was describing before, when anyone is well or ill, the universal word will
be "with me it is well" or "it is ill."
Most true.
And agreeably to this mode of thinking and speaking, were we not saying that they will
have their pleasures and pains in common?
Yes, and so they will.
And they will have a common interest in the same thing which they will alike call "my
own," and having this common interest they will have a common feeling of pleasure and
pain?
Yes, far more so than in other States.
And the reason of this, over and above the general constitution of the State, will be that
the guardians will have a community of women and children?
That will be the chief reason.
And this unity of feeling we admitted to be the greatest good, as was implied in our
comparison of a well-ordered State to the relation of the body and the members, when
affected by pleasure or pain?
That we acknowledged, and very rightly.
Then the community of wives and children among our citizens is clearly the source of
the greatest good to the State?
Certainly.
And this agrees with the other principle which we were affirming—that the guardians
were not to have houses or lands or any other property; their pay was to be their food,
which they were to receive from the other citizens, and they were to have no private
expenses; for we intended them to preserve their true character of guardians.
Right, he replied.
Both the community of property and the community of families, as I am saying, tend to
make them more truly guardians; they will not tear the city in pieces by differing about
"mine" and "not mine;" each man dragging any acquisition which he has made into a
separate house of his own, where he has a separate wife and children and private
pleasures and pains; but all will be affected as far as may be by the same pleasures and
pains because they are all of one opinion about what is near and dear to them, and
therefore they all tend toward a common end.
Certainly, he replied.
And as they have nothing but their persons which they can call their own, suits and
complaints will have no existence among them; they will be delivered from all those
quarrels of which money or children or relations are the occasion.
Of course they will.
Neither will trials for assault or insult ever be likely to occur among them. For that
equals should defend themselves against equals we shall maintain to be honorable and
right; we shall make the protection of the person a matter of necessity.
That is good, he said.
Yes; and there is a further good in the law; viz., that if a man has a quarrel with another
he will satisfy his resentment then and there, and not proceed to more dangerous
lengths.
Certainly.
To the elder shall be assigned the duty of ruling and chastising the younger.
Clearly.
Nor can there be a doubt that the younger will not strike or do any other violence to an
elder, unless the magistrates command him; nor will he slight him in any way. For there
are two guardians, shame and fear, mighty to prevent him: shame, which makes men
refrain from laying hands on those who are to them in the relation of parents; fear, that
the injured one will be succored by the others who are his brothers, sons, fathers.
That is true, he replied.
Then in every way the laws will help the citizens to keep the peace with one another?
Yes, there will be no want of peace.
And as the guardians will never quarrel among themselves there will be no danger of
the rest of the city being divided either against them or against one another.
None whatever.
I hardly like even to mention the little meannesses of which they will be rid, for they are
beneath notice: such, for example, as the flattery of the rich by the poor, and all the
pains and pangs which men experience in bringing up a family, and in finding money to
buy necessaries for their household, borrowing and then repudiating, getting how they
can, and giving the money into the hands of women and slaves to keep— the many
evils of so many kinds which people suffer in this way are mean enough and obvious
enough, and not worth speaking of.
Yes, he said, a man has no need of eyes in order to perceive that.
And from all these evils they will be delivered, and their life will be blessed as the life of
Olympic victors and yet more blessed.
How so?
The Olympic victor, I said, is deemed happy in receiving a part only of the blessedness
which is secured to our citizens, who have won a more glorious victory and have a more
complete maintenance at the public cost. For the victory which they have won is the
salvation of the whole State; and the crown with which they and their children are
crowned is the fulness of all that life needs; they receive rewards from the hands of their
country while living, and after death have an honorable burial.
Do you remember, I said, how in the course of the previous discussion someone who
shall be nameless accused us of making our guardians unhappy—they had nothing and
might have possessed all things—to whom we replied that, if an occasion offered, we
might perhaps hereafter consider this question, but that, as at present divided, we
would make our guardians truly guardians, and that we were fashioning the State with a
view to the greatest happiness, not of any particular class, but of the whole?
Yes, I remember.
And what do you say, now that the life of our protectors is made out to be far better
and nobler than that of Olympic victors—is the life of shoemakers, or any other artisans,
or of husbandmen, to be compared with it?
Certainly not.
At the same time I ought here to repeat what I have said elsewhere, that if any of our
guardians shall try to be happy in such a manner that he will cease to be a guardian, and
is not content with this safe and harmonious life, which, in our judgment, is of all lives
the best, but, infatuated by some youthful conceit of happiness which gets up into his
head shall seek to appropriate the whole State to himself, then he will have to learn how
wisely Hesiod spoke, when he said, "half is more than the whole."
If he were to consult me, I should say to him: Stay where you are, when you have the
offer of such a life.
You agree then, I said, that men and women are to have a common way of life such as
we have described—common education, common children; and they are to watch over
the citizens in common whether abiding in the city or going out to war; they are to keep
watch together, and to hunt together like dogs; and always and in all things, as far as
they are able, women are to share with the men? And in so doing they will do what is
best, and will not violate, but preserve, the natural relation of the sexes.
I agree with you, he replied.
The inquiry, I said, has yet to be made, whether such a community will be found
possible—as among other animals, so also among men—and if possible, in what way
possible?
You have anticipated the question which I was about to suggest.
There is no difficulty, I said, in seeing how war will be carried on by them.
How?
Why, of course they will go on expeditions together; and will take with them any of their
children who are strong enough, that, after the manner of the artisan's child, they may
look on at the work which they will have to do when they are grown up; and besides
looking on they will have to help and be of use in war, and to wait upon their fathers
and mothers. Did you never observe in the arts how the potters' boys look on and help,
long before they touch the wheel?
Yes, I have.
And shall potters be more careful in educating their children and in giving them the
opportunity of seeing and practising their duties than our guardians will be?
The idea is ridiculous, he said.
There is also the effect on the parents, with whom, as with other animals, the presence
of their young ones will be the greatest incentive to valor.
That is quite true, Socrates; and yet if they are defeated, which may often happen in war,
how great the danger is! the children will be lost as well as their parents, and the State
will never recover.
True, I said; but would you never allow them to run any risk?
I am far from saying that.
Well, but if they are ever to run a risk should they not do so on some occasion when, if
they escape disaster, they will be the better for it?
Clearly.
Whether the future soldiers do or do not see war in the days of their youth is a very
important matter, for the sake of which some risk may fairly be incurred.
Yes, very important.
This then must be our first step—to make our children spectators of war; but we must
also contrive that they shall be secured against danger; then all will be well.
True.
Their parents may be supposed not to be blind to the risks of war, but to know, as far as
human foresight can, what expeditions are safe and what dangerous?
That may be assumed.
And they will take them on the safe expeditions and be cautious about the dangerous
ones?
True.
And they will place them under the command of experienced veterans who will be their
leaders and teachers?
Very properly.
Still, the dangers of war cannot be always foreseen; there is a good deal of chance about
them?
True.
Then against such chances the children must be at once furnished with wings, in order
that in the hour of need they may fly away and escape.
What do you mean? he said.
I mean that we must mount them on horses in their earliest youth, and when they have
learnt to ride, take them on horseback to see war: the horses must not be spirited and
warlike, but the most tractable and yet the swiftest that can be had. In this way they will
get an excellent view of what is hereafter to be their own business; and if there is danger
they have only to follow their elder leaders and escape.
I believe that you are right, he said.
Next, as to war; what are to be the relations of your soldiers to one another and to their
enemies? I should be inclined to propose that the soldier who leaves his rank or throws
away his arms, or is guilty of any other act of cowardice, should be degraded into the
rank of a husbandman or artisan. What do you think?
By all means, I should say.
And he who allows himself to be taken prisoner may as well be made a present of to his
enemies; he is their lawful prey, and let them do what they like with him.
Certainly.
But the hero who has distinguished himself, what shall be done to him? In the first place,
he shall receive honor in the army from his youthful comrades; every one of them in
succession shall crown him. What do you say?
I approve.
And what do you say to his receiving the right hand of fellowship?
To that too, I agree.
But you will hardly agree to my next proposal.
What is your proposal?
That he should kiss and be kissed by them.
Most certainly, and I should be disposed to go further, and say: Let no one whom he has
a mind to kiss refuse to be kissed by him while the expedition lasts. So that if there be a
lover in the army, whether his love be youth or maiden, he may be more eager to win
the prize of valor.
Capital, I said. That the brave man is to have more wives than others has been already
determined: and he is to have first choices in such matters more than others, in order
that he may have as many children as possible?
Agreed.
Again, there is another manner in which, according to Homer, brave youths should be
honored; for he tells how Ajax, after he had distinguished himself in battle, was
rewarded with long chines, which seems to be a compliment appropriate to a hero in
the flower of his age, being not only a tribute of honor but also a very strengthening
thing.
Most true, he said.
Then in this, I said, Homer shall be our teacher; and we too, at sacrifices and on the like
occasions, will honor the brave according to the measure of their valor, whether men or
women, with hymns and those other distinctions which we were mentioning; also with
"seats of precedence, and meats and full cups;"
and in honoring them, we shall be at the same time training them.
That, he replied, is excellent.
Yes, I said; and when a man dies gloriously in war shall we not say, in the first place, that
he is of the golden race?
To be sure.
Nay, have we not the authority of Hesiod for affirming that when they are dead
"They are holy angels upon the earth, authors of good, averters of evil, the guardians of
speech-gifted men"?
Yes; and we accept his authority.
We must learn of the god how we are to order the sepulture of divine and heroic
personages, and what is to be their special distinction; and we must do as he bids?
By all means.
And in ages to come we will reverence them and kneel before their sepulchres as at the
graves of heroes. And not only they but any who are deemed pre-eminently good,
whether they die from age or in any other way, shall be admitted to the same honors.
That is very right, he said.
Next, how shall our soldiers treat their enemies? What about this?
In what respect do you mean?
First of all, in regard to slavery? Do you think it right that Hellenes should enslave
Hellenic States, or allow others to enslave them, if they can help? Should not their
custom be to spare them, considering the danger which there is that the whole race
may one day fall under the yoke of the barbarians?
To spare them is infinitely better.
Then no Hellene should be owned by them as a slave; that is a rule which they will
observe and advise the other Hellenes to observe.
Certainly, he said; they will in this way be united against the barbarians and will keep
their hands off one another.
Next as to the slain; ought the conquerors, I said, to take anything but their armor? Does
not the practice of despoiling an enemy afford an excuse for not facing the battle?
Cowards skulk about the dead, pretending that they are fulfilling a duty, and many an
army before now has been lost from this love of plunder.
Very true.
And is there not illiberality and avarice in robbing a corpse, and also a degree of
meanness and womanishness in making an enemy of the dead body when the real
enemy has flown away and left only his fighting gear behind him—is not this rather like
a dog who cannot get at his assailant, quarrelling with the stones which strike him
instead?
Very like a dog, he said.
Then we must abstain from spoiling the dead or hindering their burial?
Yes, he replied, we most certainly must.
Neither shall we offer up arms at the temples of the gods, least of all the arms of
Hellenes, if we care to maintain good feeling with other Hellenes; and, indeed, we have
reason to fear that the offering of spoils taken from kinsmen may be a pollution unless
commanded by the god himself?
Very true.
Again, as to the devastation of Hellenic territory or the burning of houses, what is to be
the practice?
May I have the pleasure, he said, of hearing your opinion?
Both should be forbidden, in my judgment; I would take the annual produce and no
more. Shall I tell you why?
Pray do.
Why, you see, there is a difference in the names "discord" and "war," and I imagine that
there is also a difference in their natures; the one is expressive of what is internal and
domestic, the other of what is external and foreign; and the first of the two is termed
discord, and only the second, war.
That is a very proper distinction, he replied.
And may I not observe with equal propriety that the Hellenic race is all united together
by ties of blood and friendship, and alien and strange to the barbarians?
Very good, he said.
And therefore when Hellenes fight with barbarians, and barbarians with Hellenes, they
will be described by us as being at war when they fight, and by nature enemies, and this
kind of antagonism should be called war; but when Hellenes fight with one another we
shall say that Hellas is then in a state of disorder and discord, they being by nature
friends; and such enmity is to be called discord.
I agree.
Consider then, I said, when that which we have acknowledged to be discord occurs, and
a city is divided, if both parties destroy the lands and burn the houses of one another,
how wicked does the strife appear! No true lover of his country would bring himself to
tear in pieces his own nurse and mother: There might be reason in the conqueror
depriving the conquered of their harvest, but still they would have the idea of peace in
their hearts, and would not mean to go on fighting forever.
Yes, he said, that is a better temper than the other.
And will not the city, which you are founding, be an Hellenic city?
It ought to be, he replied.
Then will not the citizens be good and civilized?
Yes, very civilized.
And will they not be lovers of Hellas, and think of Hellas as their own land, and share in
the common temples?
Most certainly.
And any difference which arises among them will be regarded by them as discord
only—a quarrel among friends, which is not to be called a war?
Certainly not.
Then they will quarrel as those who intend some day to be reconciled? Certainly.
They will use friendly correction, but will not enslave or destroy their opponents; they
will be correctors, not enemies?
Just so.
And as they are Hellenes themselves they will not devastate Hellas, nor will they burn
houses, nor ever suppose that the whole population of a city—men, women, and
children—are equally their enemies, for they know that the guilt of war is always
confined to a few persons and that the many are their friends. And for all these reasons
they will be unwilling to waste their lands and raze their houses; their enmity to them
will only last until the many innocent sufferers have compelled the guilty few to give
satisfaction?
I agree, he said, that our citizens should thus deal with their Hellenic enemies; and with
barbarians as the Hellenes now deal with one another.
Then let us enact this law also for our guardians: that they are neither to devastate the
lands of Hellenes nor to burn their houses.
Agreed; and we may agree also in thinking that these, like all our previous enactments,
are very good.
But still I must say, Socrates, that if you are allowed to go on in this way you will entirely
forget the other question which at the commencement of this discussion you thrust
aside: Is such an order of things possible, and how, if at all? For I am quite ready to
acknowledge that the plan which you propose, if only feasible, would do all sorts of
good to the State. I will add, what you have omitted, that your citizens will be the
bravest of warriors, and will never leave their ranks, for they will all know one another,
and each will call the other father, brother, son; and if you suppose the women to join
their armies, whether in the same rank or in the rear, either as a terror to the enemy, or
as auxiliaries in case of need, I know that they will then be absolutely invincible; and
there are many domestic advantages which might also be mentioned and which I also
fully acknowledge: but, as I admit all these advantages and as many more as you please,
if only this State of yours were to come into existence, we need say no more about
them; assuming then the existence of the State, let us now turn to the question of
possibility and ways and means—the rest may be left.
If I loiter for a moment, you instantly make a raid upon me, I said, and have no mercy; I
have hardly escaped the first and second waves, and you seem not to be aware that you
are now bringing upon me the third, which is the greatest and heaviest. When you have
seen and heard the third wave, I think you will be more considerate and will
acknowledge that some fear and hesitation were natural respecting a proposal so
extraordinary as that which I have now to state and investigate.
The more appeals of this sort which you make, he said, the more determined are we that
you shall tell us how such a State is possible: speak out and at once.
Let me begin by reminding you that we found our way hither in the search after justice
and injustice.
True, he replied; but what of that?
I was only going to ask whether, if we have discovered them, we are to require that the
just man should in nothing fail of absolute justice; or may we be satisfied with an
approximation, and the attainment in him of a higher degree of justice than is to be
found in other men?
The approximation will be enough.
We were inquiring into the nature of absolute justice and into the character of the
perfectly just, and into injustice and the perfectly unjust, that we might have an ideal.
We were to look at these in order that we might judge of our own happiness and
unhappiness according to the standard which they exhibited and the degree in which
we resembled them, but not with any view of showing that they could exist in fact.
True, he said.
Would a painter be any the worse because, after having delineated with consummate
art an ideal of a perfectly beautiful man, he was unable to show that any such man could
ever have existed?
He would be none the worse.
Well, and were we not creating an ideal of a perfect State?
To be sure.
And is our theory a worse theory because we are unable to prove the possibility of a city
being ordered in the manner described?
Surely not, he replied.
That is the truth, I said. But if, at your request, I am to try and show how and under what
conditions the possibility is highest, I must ask you, having this in view, to repeat your
former admissions.
What admissions?
I want to know whether ideals are ever fully realized in language? Does not the word
express more than the fact, and must not the actual, whatever a man may think, always,
in the nature of things, fall short of the truth? What do you say?
I agree.
Then you must not insist on my proving that the actual State will in every respect
coincide with the ideal: if we are only able to discover how a city may be governed
nearly as we proposed, you will admit that we have discovered the possibility which you
demand; and will be contented. I am sure that I should be contented—will not you?
Yes, I will.
Let me next endeavor to show what is that fault in States which is the cause of their
present maladministration, and what is the least change which will enable a State to
pass into the truer form; and let the change, if possible, be of one thing only, or, if not,
of two; at any rate, let the changes be as few and slight as possible.
Certainly, he replied.
I think, I said, that there might be a reform of the State if only one change were made,
which is not a slight or easy though still a possible one.
What is it? he said.
Now then, I said, I go to meet that which I liken to the greatest of the waves; yet shall
the word be spoken, even though the wave break and drown me in laughter and
dishonor; and do you mark my words.
Proceed.
I said: "Until philosophers are kings, or the kings and princes of this world have the spirit
and power of philosophy, and political greatness and wisdom meet in one, and those
commoner natures who pursue either to the exclusion of the other are compelled to
stand aside, cities will never have rest from their evils—no, nor the human race, as I
believe—and then only will this our State have a possibility of life and behold the light
of day." Such was the thought, my dear Glaucon, which I would fain have uttered if it
had not seemed too extravagant; for to be convinced that in no other State can there be
happiness private or public is indeed a hard thing.
Socrates, what do you mean? I would have you consider that the word which you have
uttered is one at which numerous persons, and very respectable persons too, in a figure
pulling off their coats all in a moment, and seizing any weapon that comes to hand, will
run at you might and main, before you know where you are, intending to do heaven
knows what; and if you don't prepare an answer, and put yourself in motion, you will be
"pared by their fine wits," and no mistake.
You got me into the scrape, I said.
And I was quite right; however, I will do all I can to get you out of it; but I can only give
you good-will and good advice, and, perhaps, I may be able to fit answers to your
questions better than another—that is all. And now, having such an auxiliary, you must
do your best to show the unbelievers that you are right.
I ought to try, I said, since you offer me such invaluable assistance. And I think that, if
there is to be a chance of our escaping, we must explain to them whom we mean when
we say that philosophers are to rule in the State; then we shall be able to defend
ourselves: There will be discovered to be some natures who ought to study philosophy
and to be leaders in the State; and others who are not born to be philosophers, and are
meant to be followers rather than leaders.
Then now for a definition, he said.
Follow me, I said, and I hope that I may in some way or other be able to give you a
satisfactory explanation.
Proceed.
I dare say that you remember, and therefore I need not remind you, that a lover, if he is
worthy of the name, ought to show his love, not to some one part of that which he
loves, but to the whole.
I really do not understand, and therefore beg of you to assist my memory.
Another person, I said, might fairly reply as you do; but a man of pleasure like yourself
ought to know that all who are in the flower of youth do somehow or other raise a pang
or emotion in a lover's breast, and are thought by him to be worthy of his affectionate
regards. Is not this a way which you have with the fair: one has a snub nose, and you
praise his charming face; the hook-nose of another has, you say, a royal look; while he
who is neither snub nor hooked has the grace of regularity: the dark visage is manly, the
fair are children of the gods; and as to the sweet "honey-pale," as they are called, what is
the very name but the invention of a lover who talks in diminutives, and is not averse to
paleness if appearing on the cheek of youth? In a word, there is no excuse which you
will not make, and nothing which you will not say, in order not to lose a single flower
that blooms in the spring-time of youth.
If you make me an authority in matters of love, for the sake of the argument, I assent.
And what do you say of lovers of wine? Do you not see them doing the same? They are
glad of any pretext of drinking any wine.
Very good.
And the same is true of ambitious men; if they cannot command an army, they are
willing to command a file; and if they cannot be honored by really great and important
persons, they are glad to be honored by lesser and meaner people—but honor of some
kind they must have.
Exactly.
Once more let me ask: Does he who desires any class of goods, desire the whole class or
a part only?
The whole.
And may we not say of the philosopher that he is a lover, not of a part of wisdom only,
but of the whole?
Yes, of the whole.
And he who dislikes learning, especially in youth, when he has no power of judging what
is good and what is not, such a one we maintain not to be a philosopher or a lover of
knowledge, just as he who refuses his food is not hungry, and may be said to have a bad
appetite and not a good one?
Very true, he said.
Whereas he who has a taste for every sort of knowledge and who is curious to learn and
is never satisfied, may be justly termed a philosopher? Am I not right?
Glaucon said: If curiosity makes a philosopher, you will find many a strange being will
have a title to the name. All the lovers of sights have a delight in learning, and must
therefore be included. Musical amateurs, too, are a folk strangely out of place among
philosophers, for they are the last persons in the world who would come to anything like
a philosophical discussion, if they could help, while they run about at the Dionysiac
festivals as if they had let out their ears to hear every chorus; whether the performance
is in town or country—that makes no difference—they are there. Now are we to
maintain that all these and any who have similar tastes, as well as the professors of quite
minor arts, are philosophers?
Certainly not, I replied; they are only an imitation.
He said: Who then are the true philosophers?
Those, I said, who are lovers of the vision of truth.
That is also good, he said; but I should like to know what you mean?
To another, I replied, I might have a difficulty in explaining; but I am sure that you will
admit a proposition which I am about to make.
What is the proposition?
That since beauty is the opposite of ugliness, they are two?
Certainly.
And inasmuch as they are two, each of them is one?
True again.
And of just and unjust, good and evil, and of every other class, the same remark holds:
taken singly, each of them is one; but from the various combinations of them with
actions and things and with one another, they are seen in all sorts of lights and appear
many? Very true.
And this is the distinction which I draw between the sightloving, art-loving, practical
class and those of whom I am speaking, and who are alone worthy of the name of
philosophers.
How do you distinguish them? he said.
The lovers of sounds and sights, I replied, are, as I conceive, fond of fine tones and
colors and forms and all the artificial products that are made out of them, but their
minds are incapable of seeing or loving absolute beauty.
True, he replied.
Few are they who are able to attain to the sight of this.
Very true.
And he who, having a sense of beautiful things has no sense of absolute beauty, or who,
if another lead him to a knowledge of that beauty is unable to follow—of such a one I
ask, Is he awake or in a dream only? Reflect: is not the dreamer, sleeping or waking, one
who likens dissimilar things, who puts the copy in the place of the real object?
I should certainly say that such a one was dreaming.
But take the case of the other, who recognizes the existence of absolute beauty and is
able to distinguish the idea from the objects which participate in the idea, neither
putting the objects in the place of the idea nor the idea in the place of the objects— is
he a dreamer, or is he awake?
He is wide awake.
And may we not say that the mind of the one who knows has knowledge, and that the
mind of the other, who opines only, has opinion?
Certainly.
But suppose that the latter should quarrel with us and dispute our statement, can we
administer any soothing cordial or advice to him, without revealing to him that there is
sad disorder in his wits?
We must certainly offer him some good advice, he replied.
Come, then, and let us think of something to say to him. Shall we begin by assuring him
that he is welcome to any knowledge which he may have, and that we are rejoiced at his
having it? But we should like to ask him a question: Does he who has knowledge know
something or nothing? (You must answer for him).
I answer that he knows something.
Something that is or is not?
Something that is; for how can that which is not ever be known?
And are we assured, after looking at the matter from many points of view, that absolute
being is or may be absolutely known, but that the utterly non-existent is utterly
unknown?
Nothing can be more certain.
Good. But if there be anything which is of such a nature as to be and not to be, that will
have a place intermediate between pure being and the absolute negation of being?
Yes, between them.
And, as knowledge corresponded to being and ignorance of necessity to not-being, for
that intermediate between being and not-being there has to be discovered a
corresponding intermediate between ignorance and knowledge, if there be such?
Certainly.
Do we admit the existence of opinion?
Undoubtedly.
As being the same with knowledge, or another faculty?
Another faculty.
Then opinion and knowledge have to do with different kinds of matter corresponding to
this difference of faculties?
Yes.
And knowledge is relative to being and knows being. But before I proceed further I will
make a division.
What division?
I will begin by placing faculties in a class by themselves: they are powers in us, and in all
other things, by which we do as we do. Sight and hearing, for example, I should call
faculties. Have I clearly explained the class which I mean?
Yes, I quite understand.
Then let me tell you my view about them. I do not see them, and therefore the
distinctions of figure, color, and the like, which enable me to discern the differences of
some things, do not apply to them. In speaking of a faculty I think only of its sphere and
its result; and that which has the same sphere and the same result I call the same faculty,
but that which has another sphere and another result I call different. Would that be your
way of speaking?
Yes.
And will you be so very good as to answer one more question? Would you say that
knowledge is a faculty, or in what class would you place it?
Certainly knowledge is a faculty, and the mightiest of all faculties.
And is opinion also a faculty?
Certainly, he said; for opinion is that with which we are able to form an opinion.
And yet you were acknowledging a little while ago that knowledge is not the same as
opinion?
Why, yes, he said: how can any reasonable being ever identify that which is infallible
with that which errs?
An excellent answer, proving, I said, that we are quite conscious of a distinction between
them.
Yes.
Then knowledge and opinion having distinct powers have also distinct spheres or
subject-matters?
That is certain.
Being is the sphere or subject-matter of knowledge, and knowledge is to know the
nature of being?
Yes.
And opinion is to have an opinion?
Yes.
And do we know what we opine? or is the subject-matter of opinion the same as the
subject-matter of knowledge?
Nay, he replied, that has been already disproven; if difference in faculty implies
difference in the sphere or subject- matter, and if, as we were saying, opinion and
knowledge are distinct faculties, then the sphere of knowledge and of opinion cannot
be the same.
Then if being is the subject-matter of knowledge, something else must be the subjectmatter
of opinion?
Yes, something else. Well, then, is not-being the subject-matter of opinion? or, rather,
how can there be an opinion at all about not-being? Reflect: when a man has an
opinion, has he not an opinion about something? Can he have an opinion which is an
opinion about nothing?
Impossible.
He who has an opinion has an opinion about some one thing?
Yes.
And not-being is not one thing, but, properly speaking, nothing?
True.
Of not-being, ignorance was assumed to be the necessary correlative; of being,
knowledge?
True, he said.
Then opinion is not concerned either with being or with not-being?
Not with either.
And can therefore neither be ignorance nor knowledge?
That seems to be true.
But is opinion to be sought without and beyond either of them, in a greater clearness
than knowledge, or in a greater darkness than ignorance?
In neither.
Then I suppose that opinion appears to you to be darker than knowledge, but lighter
than ignorance?
Both; and in no small degree.
And also to be within and between them?
Yes.
Then you would infer that opinion is intermediate?
No question.
But were we not saying before, that if anything appeared to be of a sort which is and is
not at the same time, that sort of thing would appear also to lie in the interval between
pure being and absolute not-being; and that the corresponding faculty is neither
knowledge nor ignorance, but will be found in the interval between them?
True.
And in that interval there has now been discovered something which we call opinion?
There has.
Then what remains to be discovered is the object which partakes equally of the nature
of being and not-being, and cannot rightly be termed either, pure and simple; this
unknown term, when discovered, we may truly call the subject of opinion, and assign
each to their proper faculty—the extremes to the faculties of the extremes and the
mean to the faculty of the mean.
True.
This being premised, I would ask the gentleman who is of opinion that there is no
absolute or unchangeable idea of beauty —in whose opinion the beautiful is the
manifold—he, I say, your lover of beautiful sights, who cannot bear to be told that the
beautiful is one, and the just is one, or that anything is one—to him I would appeal,
saying, Will you be so very kind, sir, as to tell us whether, of all these beautiful things,
there is one which will not be found ugly; or of the just, which will not be found unjust;
or of the holy, which will not also be unholy?
No, he replied; the beautiful will in some point of view be found ugly; and the same is
true of the rest.
And may not the many which are doubles be also halves?— doubles, that is, of one
thing, and halves of another?
Quite true.
And things great and small, heavy and light, as they are termed, will not be denoted by
these any more than by the opposite names?
True; both these and the opposite names will always attach to all of them.
And can any one of those many things which are called by particular names be said to
be this rather than not to be this?
He replied: They are like the punning riddles which are asked at feasts or the children's
puzzle about the eunuch aiming at the bat, with what he hit him, as they say in the
puzzle, and upon what the bat was sitting. The individual objects of which I am speaking
are also a riddle, and have a double sense: nor can you fix them in your mind, either as
being or not-being, or both, or neither.
Then what will you do with them? I said. Can they have a better place than between
being and not-being? For they are clearly not in greater darkness or negation than notbeing,
or more full of light and existence than being.
That is quite true, he said.
Thus then we seem to have discovered that the many ideas which the multitude
entertain about the beautiful and about all other things are tossing about in some
region which is halfway between pure being and pure not-being?
We have.
Yes; and we had before agreed that anything of this kind which we might find was to be
described as matter of opinion, and not as matter of knowledge; being the intermediate
flux which is caught and detained by the intermediate faculty.
Quite true.
Then those who see the many beautiful, and who yet neither see absolute beauty, nor
can follow any guide who points the way thither; who see the many just, and not
absolute justice, and the like—such persons may be said to have opinion but not
knowledge?
That is certain.
But those who see the absolute and eternal and immutable may be said to know, and
not to have opinion only?
Neither can that be denied.
The one love and embrace the subjects of knowledge, the other those of opinion? The
latter are the same, as I dare say you will remember, who listened to sweet sounds and
gazed upon fair colors, but would not tolerate the existence of absolute beauty.
Yes, I remember.
Shall we then be guilty of any impropriety in calling them lovers of opinion rather than
lovers of wisdom, and will they be very angry with us for thus describing them?
I shall tell them not to be angry; no man should be angry at what is true.
But those who love the truth in each thing are to be called lovers of wisdom and not
lovers of opinion.
Assuredly.

BOOK VI
THE PHILOSOPHY
OF GOVERNMENT
(SOCRATES, GLAUCON.)
AND thus, Glaucon, after the argument has gone a weary way, the true and the false
philosophers have at length appeared in view.
I do not think, he said, that the way could have been shortened.
I suppose not, I said; and yet I believe that we might have had a better view of both of
them if the discussion could have been confined to this one subject and if there were
not many other questions awaiting us, which he who desires to see in what respect the
life of the just differs from that of the unjust must consider.
And what is the next question? he asked.
Surely, I said, the one which follows next in order. Inasmuch as philosophers only are
able to grasp the eternal and unchangeable, and those who wander in the region of the
many and variable are not philosophers, I must ask you which of the two classes should
be the rulers of our State?
And how can we rightly answer that question?
Whichever of the two are best able to guard the laws and institutions of our State—let
them be our guardians.
Very good.
Neither, I said, can there be any question that the guardian who is to keep anything
should have eyes rather than no eyes?
There can be no question of that.
And are not those who are verily and indeed wanting in the knowledge of the true being
of each thing, and who have in their souls no clear pattern, and are unable as with a
painter's eye to look at the absolute truth and to that original to repair, and having
perfect vision of the other world to order the laws about beauty, goodness, justice in
this, if not already ordered, and to guard and preserve the order of them—are not such
persons, I ask, simply blind?
Truly, he replied, they are much in that condition.
And shall they be our guardians when there are others who, besides being their equals
in experience and falling short of them in no particular of virtue, also know the very
truth of each thing?
There can be no reason, he said, for rejecting those who have this greatest of all great
qualities; they must always have the first place unless they fail in some other respect.
Suppose, then, I said, that we determine how far they can unite this and the other
excellences.
By all means.
In the first place, as we began by observing, the nature of the philosopher has to be
ascertained. We must come to an understanding about him, and, when we have done
so, then, if I am not mistaken, we shall also acknowledge that such a union of qualities is
possible, and that those in whom they are united, and those only, should be rulers in the
State.
What do you mean?
Let us suppose that philosophical minds always love knowledge of a sort which shows
them the eternal nature not varying from generation and corruption.
Agreed.
And further, I said, let us agree that they are lovers of all true being; there is no part
whether greater or less, or more or less honorable, which they are willing to renounce;
as we said before of the lover and the man of ambition.
True.
And if they are to be what we were describing, is there not another quality which they
should also possess?
What quality?
Truthfulness: they will never intentionally receive into their minds falsehood, which is
their detestation, and they will love the truth.
Yes, that may be safely affirmed of them.
"May be." my friend, I replied, is not the word; say rather, "must be affirmed:" for he
whose nature is amorous of anything cannot help loving all that belongs or is akin to
the object of his affections.
Right, he said.
And is there anything more akin to wisdom than truth?
How can there be?
Can the same nature be a lover of wisdom and a lover of falsehood?
Never.
The true lover of learning then must from his earliest youth, as far as in him lies, desire
all truth?
Assuredly.
But then again, as we know by experience, he whose desires are strong in one direction
will have them weaker in others; they will be like a stream which has been drawn off into
another channel.
True.
He whose desires are drawn toward knowledge in every form will be absorbed in the
pleasures of the soul, and will hardly feel bodily pleasure—I mean, if he be a true
philosopher and not a sham one.
That is most certain.
Such a one is sure to be temperate and the reverse of covetous; for the motives which
make another man desirous of having and spending, have no place in his character.
Very true.
Another criterion of the philosophical nature has also to be considered.
What is that?
There should be no secret corner of illiberality; nothing can be more antagonistic than
meanness to a soul which is ever longing after the whole of things both divine and
human.
Most true, he replied.
Then how can he who has magnificence of mind and is the spectator of all time and all
existence, think much of human life?
He cannot.
Or can such a one account death fearful? No, indeed.
Then the cowardly and mean nature has no part in true philosophy?
Certainly not.
Or again: can he who is harmoniously constituted, who is not covetous or mean, or a
boaster, or a coward—can he, I say, ever be unjust or hard in his dealings?
Impossible.
Then you will soon observe whether a man is just and gentle, or rude and unsociable;
these are the signs which distinguish even in youth the philosophical nature from the
unphilosophical.
True.
There is another point which should be remarked.
What point?
Whether he has or has not a pleasure in learning; for no one will love that which gives
him pain, and in which after much toil he makes little progress.
Certainly not.
And again, if he is forgetful and retains nothing of what he learns, will he not be an
empty vessel?
That is certain. Laboring in vain, he must end in hating himself and his fruitless
occupation? Yes.
Then a soul which forgets cannot be ranked among genuine philosophic natures; we
must insist that the philosopher should have a good memory?
Certainly.
And once more, the inharmonious and unseemly nature can only tend to disproportion?
Undoubtedly.
And do you consider truth to be akin to proportion or to disproportion?
To proportion.
Then, besides other qualities, we must try to find a naturally well-proportioned and
gracious mind, which will move spontaneously toward the true being of everything.
Certainly.
Well, and do not all these qualities, which we have been enumerating, go together, and
are they not, in a manner, necessary to a soul, which is to have a full and perfect
participation of being?
They are absolutely necessary, he replied.
And must not that be a blameless study which he only can pursue who has the gift of a
good memory, and is quick to learn—noble, gracious, the friend of truth, justice,
courage, temperance, who are his kindred?
The god of jealousy himself, he said, could find no fault with such a study.
And to men like him, I said, when perfected by years and education, and to these only
you will intrust the State.
Here Adeimantus interposed and said: To these statements, Socrates, no one can offer a
reply; but when you talk in this way, a strange feeling passes over the minds of your
hearers: They fancy that they are led astray a little at each step in the argument, owing
to their own want of skill in asking and answering questions; these littles accumulate,
and at the end of the discussion they are found to have sustained a mighty overthrow
and all their former notions appear to be turned upside down. And as unskilful players
of draughts are at last shut up by their more skilful adversaries and have no piece to
move, so they too find themselves shut up at last; for they have nothing to say in this
new game of which words are the counters; and yet all the time they are in the right.
The observation is suggested to me by what is now occurring. For any one of us might
say, that although in words he is not able to meet you at each step of the argument, he
sees as a fact that the votaries of philosophy, when they carry on the study, not only in
youth as a part of education, but as the pursuit of their maturer years, most of them
become strange monsters, not to say utter rogues, and that those who may be
considered the best of them are made useless to the world by the very study which you
extol.
Well, and do you think that those who say so are wrong?
I cannot tell, he replied; but I should like to know what is your opinion.
Hear my answer; I am of opinion that they are quite right.
Then how can you be justified in saying that cities will not cease from evil until
philosophers rule in them, when philosophers are acknowledged by us to be of no use
to them?
You ask a question, I said, to which a reply can only be given in a parable.
Yes, Socrates; and that is a way of speaking to which you are not at all accustomed, I
suppose.
I perceive, I said, that you are vastly amused at having plunged me into such a hopeless
discussion; but now hear the parable, and then you will be still more amused at the
meagreness of my imagination: for the manner in which the best men are treated in
their own States is so grievous that no single thing on earth is comparable to it; and
therefore, if I am to plead their cause, I must have recourse to fiction, and put together a
figure made up of many things, like the fabulous unions of goats and stags which are
found in pictures. Imagine then a fleet or a ship in which there is a captain who is taller
and stronger than any of the crew, but he is a little deaf and has a similar infirmity in
sight, and his knowledge of navigation is not much better. The sailors are quarrelling
with one another about the steering—everyone is of opinion that he has a right to steer,
though he has never learned the art of navigation and cannot tell who taught him or
when he learned, and will further assert that it cannot be taught, and they are ready to
cut in pieces anyone who says the contrary. They throng about the captain, begging and
praying him to commit the helm to them; and if at any time they do not prevail, but
others are preferred to them, they kill the others or throw them overboard, and having
first chained up the noble captain's senses with drink or some narcotic drug, they
mutiny and take possession of the ship and make free with the stores; thus, eating and
drinking, they proceed on their voyage in such manner as might be expected of them.
Him who is their partisan and cleverly aids them in their plot for getting the ship out of
the captain's hands into their own whether by force or persuasion, they compliment
with the name of sailor, pilot, able seaman, and abuse the other sort of man, whom they
call a good-for-nothing; but that the true pilot must pay attention to the year and
seasons and sky and stars and winds, and whatever else belongs to his art, if he intends
to be really qualified for the command of a ship, and that he must and will be the
steerer, whether other people like or not—the possibility of this union of authority with
the steerer's art has never seriously entered into their thoughts or been made part of
their calling. Now in vessels which are in a state of mutiny and by sailors who are
mutineers, how will the true pilot be regarded? Will he not be called by them a prater, a
star-gazer, a good-for-nothing?
Of course, said Adeimantus.
Then you will hardly need, I said, to hear the interpretation of the figure, which describes
the true philosopher in his relation to the State; for you understand already.
Certainly.
Then suppose you now take this parable to the gentleman who is surprised at finding
that philosophers have no honor in their cities; explain it to him and try to convince him
that their having honor would be far more extraordinary.
I will.
Say to him, that, in deeming the best votaries of philosophy to be useless to the rest of
the world, he is right; but also tell him to attribute their uselessness to the fault of those
who will not use them, and not to themselves. The pilot should not humbly beg the
sailors to be commanded by him—that is not the order of nature; neither are "the wise
to go to the doors of the rich"—the ingenious author of this saying told a lie— but the
truth is, that, when a man is ill, whether he be rich or poor, to the physician he must go,
and he who wants to be governed, to him who is able to govern. The ruler who is good
for anything ought not to beg his subjects to be ruled by him; although the present
governors of mankind are of a different stamp; they may be justly compared to the
mutinous sailors, and the true helmsmen to those who are called by them goodfornothings
and star-gazers.
Precisely so, he said.
For these reasons, and among men like these, philosophy, the noblest pursuit of all, is
not likely to be much esteemed by those of the opposite faction; not that the greatest
and most lasting injury is done to her by her opponents, but by her own professing
followers, the same of whom you suppose the accuser to say that the greater number of
them are arrant rogues, and the best are useless; in which opinion I agreed.
Yes.
And the reason why the good are useless has now been explained?
True.
Then shall we proceed to show that the corruption of the majority is also unavoidable,
and that this is not to be laid to the charge of philosophy any more than the other?
By all means.
And let us ask and answer in turn, first going back to the description of the gentle and
noble nature. Truth, as you will remember, was his leader, whom he followed always and
in all things; failing in this, he was an impostor, and had no part or lot in true
philosophy.
Yes, that was said.
Well, and is not this one quality, to mention no others, greatly at variance with present
notions of him?
Certainly, he said.
And have we not a right to say in his defence, that the true lover of knowledge is always
striving after being—that is his nature; he will not rest in the multiplicity of individuals
which is an appearance only, but will go on—the keen edge will not be blunted, nor the
force of his desire abate until he have attained the knowledge of the true nature of
every essence by a sympathetic and kindred power in the soul, and by that power
drawing near and mingling and becoming incorporate with very being, having begotten
mind and truth, he will have knowledge and will live and grow truly, and then, and not
till then, will he cease from his travail.
Nothing, he said, can be more just than such a description of him.
And will the love of a lie be any part of a philosopher's nature? Will he not utterly hate a
lie?
He will.
And when truth is the captain, we cannot suspect any evil of the band which he leads?
Impossible.
Justice and health of mind will be of the company, and temperance will follow after?
True, he replied.
Neither is there any reason why I should again set in array the philosopher's virtues, as
you will doubtless remember that courage, magnificence, apprehension, memory, were
his natural gifts. And you objected that, although no one could deny what I then said,
still, if you leave words and look at facts, the persons who are thus described are some
of them manifestly useless, and the greater number utterly depraved, we were then led
to inquire into the grounds of these accusations, and have now arrived at the point of
asking why are the majority bad, which question of necessity brought us back to the
examination and definition of the true philosopher.
Exactly.
And we have next to consider the corruptions of the philosophic nature, why so many
are spoiled and so few escape spoiling—I am speaking of those who were said to be
useless but not wicked—and, when we have done with them, we will speak of the
imitators of philosophy, what manner of men are they who aspire after a profession
which is above them and of which they are unworthy, and then, by their manifold
inconsistencies, bring upon philosophy and upon all philosophers that universal
reprobation of which we speak.
What are these corruptions? he said.
I will see if I can explain them to you. Everyone will admit that a nature having in
perfection all the qualities which we required in a philosopher is a rare plant which is
seldom seen among men?
Rare indeed.
And what numberless and powerful causes tend to destroy these rare natures!
What causes?
In the first place there are their own virtues, their courage, temperance, and the rest of
them, every one of which praiseworthy qualities (and this is a most singular
circumstance) destroys and distracts from philosophy the soul which is the possessor of
them.
That is very singular, he replied.
Then there are all the ordinary goods of life—beauty, wealth, strength, rank, and great
connections in the State—you understand the sort of things—these also have a
corrupting and distracting effect.
I understand; but I should like to know more precisely what you mean about them.
Grasp the truth as a whole, I said, and in the right way; you will then have no difficulty in
apprehending the preceding remarks, and they will no longer appear strange to you.
And how am I to do so? he asked.
Why, I said, we know that all germs or seeds, whether vegetable or animal, when they
fail to meet with proper nutriment, or climate, or soil, in proportion to their vigor, are all
the more sensitive to the want of a suitable environment, for evil is a greater enemy to
what is good than to what is not.
Very true.
There is reason in supposing that the finest natures, when under alien conditions,
receive more injury than the inferior, because the contrast is greater.
Certainly.
And may we not say, Adeimantus, that the most gifted minds, when they are illeducated,
become pre-eminently bad? Do not great crimes and the spirit of pure evil
spring out of a fulness of nature ruined by education rather than from any inferiority,
whereas weak natures are scarcely capable of any very great good or very great evil?
There I think that you are right.
And our philosopher follows the same analogy—he is like a plant which, having proper
nurture, must necessarily grow and mature into all virtue, but, if sown and planted in an
alien soil, becomes the most noxious of all weeds, unless he be preserved by some
divine power. Do you really think, as people so often say, that our youth are corrupted
by Sophists, or that private teachers of the art corrupt them in any degree worth
speaking of? Are not the public who say these things the greatest of all Sophists? And
do they not educate to perfection young and old, men and women alike, and fashion
them after their own hearts?
When is this accomplished? he said.
When they meet together, and the world sits down at an assembly, or in a court of law,
or a theatre, or a camp, or in any other popular resort, and there is a great uproar, and
they praise some things which are being said or done, and blame other things, equally
exaggerating both, shouting and clapping their hands, and the echo of the rocks and
the place in which they are assembled redoubles the sound of the praise or blame—at
such a time will not a young man's heart, as they say, leap within him? Will any private
training enable him to stand firm against the overwhelming flood of popular opinion? or
will he be carried away by the stream? Will he not have the notions of good and evil
which the public in general have—he will do as they do, and as they are, such will he be?
Yes, Socrates; necessity will compel him.
And yet, I said, there is a still greater necessity, which has not been mentioned.
What is that?
The gentle force of attainder, or confiscation, or death, which, as you are aware, these
new Sophists and educators, who are the public, apply when their words are powerless.
Indeed they do; and in right good earnest.
Now what opinion of any other Sophist, or of any private person, can be expected to
overcome in such an unequal contest?
None, he replied.
No, indeed, I said, even to make the attempt is a great piece of folly; there neither is, nor
has been, nor is ever likely to be, any different type of character which has had no other
training in virtue but that which is supplied by public opinion— I speak, my friend, of
human virtue only; what is more than human, as the proverb says, is not included: for I
would not have you ignorant that, in the present evil state of governments, whatever is
saved and comes to good is saved by the power of God, as we may truly say.
I quite assent, he replied.
Then let me crave your assent also to a further observation.
What are you going to say?
Why, that all those mercenary individuals, whom the many call Sophists and whom they
deem to be their adversaries, do, in fact, teach nothing but the opinion of the many, that
is to say, the opinions of their assemblies; and this is their wisdom. I might compare
them to a man who should study the tempers and desires of a mighty strong beast who
is fed by him—he would learn how to approach and handle him, also at what times and
from what causes he is dangerous or the reverse, and what is the meaning of his several
cries, and by what sounds, when another utters them, he is soothed or infuriated; and
you may suppose further, that when, by continually attending upon him, he has become
perfect in all this, he calls his knowledge wisdom, and makes of it a system or art, which
he proceeds to teach, although he has no real notion of what he means by the principles
or passions of which he is speaking, but calls this honorable and that dishonorable, or
good or evil, or just or unjust, all in accordance with the tastes and tempers of the great
brute. Good he pronounces to be that in which the beast delights, and evil to be that
which he dislikes; and he can give no other account of them except that the just and
noble are the necessary, having never himself seen, and having no power of explaining
to others, the nature of either, or the difference between them, which is immense. By
heaven, would not such a one be a rare educator?
Indeed, he would.
And in what way does he who thinks that wisdom is the discernment of the tempers and
tastes of the motley multitude, whether in painting or in music, or, finally, in politics,
differ from him whom I have been describing? For when a man consorts with the many,
and exhibits to them his poem or other work of art or the service which he has done the
State, making them his judges when he is not obliged, the so-called necessity of
Diomede will oblige him to produce whatever they praise. And yet the reasons are
utterly ludicrous which they give in confirmation of their own notions about the
honorable and good. Did you ever hear any of them which were not?
No, nor am I likely to hear.
You recognize the truth of what I have been saying? Then let me ask you to consider
further whether the world will ever be induced to believe in the existence of absolute
beauty rather than of the many beautiful, or of the absolute in each kind rather than of
the many in each kind?
Certainly not.
Then the world cannot possibly be a philosopher?
Impossible.
And therefore philosophers must inevitably fall under the censure of the world?
They must.
And of individuals who consort with the mob and seek to please them?
That is evident.
Then, do you see any way in which the philosopher can be preserved in his calling to the
end?—and remember what we were saying of him, that he was to have quickness and
memory and courage and magnificence—these were admitted by us to be the true
philosopher's gifts.
Yes.
Will not such an one from his early childhood be in all things first among us all,
especially if his bodily endowments are like his mental ones?
Certainly, he said.
And his friends and fellow-citizens will want to use him as he gets older for their own
purposes?
No question.
Falling at his feet, they will make requests to him and do him honor and flatter him,
because they want to get into their hands now the power which he will one day possess.
That often happens, he said.
And what will a man such as he is be likely to do under such circumstances, especially if
he be a citizen of a great city, rich and noble, and a tall, proper youth? Will he not be full
of boundless aspirations, and fancy himself able to manage the affairs of Hellenes and
of barbarians, and having got such notions into his head will he not dilate and elevate
himself in the fulness of vain pomp and senseless pride?
To be sure he will.
Now, when he is in this state of mind, if someone gently comes to him and tells him that
he is a fool and must get understanding, which can only be got by slaving for it, do you
think that, under such adverse circumstances, he will be easily induced to listen?
Far otherwise.
And even if there be someone who through inherent goodness or natural
reasonableness has had his eyes opened a little and is humbled and taken captive by
philosophy, how will his friends behave when they think that they are likely to lose the
advantage which they were hoping to reap from his companionship? Will they not do
and say anything to prevent him from yielding to his better nature and to render his
teacher powerless, using to this end private intrigues as well as public prosecutions?
There can be no doubt of it.
And how can one who is thus circumstanced ever become a philosopher?
Impossible.
Then were we not right in saying that even the very qualities which make a man a
philosopher, may, if he be ill-educated, divert him from philosophy, no less than riches
and their accompaniments and the other so-called goods of life?
We were quite right.
Thus, my excellent friend, is brought about all that ruin and failure which I have been
describing of the natures best adapted to the best of all pursuits; they are natures which
we maintain to be rare at any time; this being the class out of which come the men who
are the authors of the greatest evil to States and individuals; and also of the greatest
good when the tide carries them in that direction; but a small man never was the doer
of any great thing either to individuals or to States.
That is most true, he said.
And so philosophy is left desolate, with her marriage rite incomplete: for her own have
fallen away and forsaken her, and while they are leading a false and unbecoming life,
other unworthy persons, seeing that she has no kinsmen to be her protectors, enter in
and dishonor her; and fasten upon her the reproaches which, as you say, her reprovers
utter, who affirm of her votaries that some are good for nothing, and that the greater
number deserve the severest punishment.
That is certainly what people say.
Yes; and what else would you expect, I said, when you think of the puny creatures who,
seeing this land open to them—a land well stocked with fair names and showy titles—
like prisoners running out of prison into a sanctuary, take a leap out of their trades into
philosophy; those who do so being probably the cleverest hands at their own miserable
crafts? For, although philosophy be in this evil case, still there remains a dignity about
her which is not to be found in the arts. And many are thus attracted by her whose
natures are imperfect and whose souls are maimed and disfigured by their meannesses,
as their bodies are by their trades and crafts. Is not this unavoidable?
Yes.
Are they not exactly like a bald little tinker who has just got out of durance and come
into a fortune—he takes a bath and puts on a new coat, and is decked out as a
bridegroom going to marry his master's daughter, who is left poor and desolate?
A most exact parallel.
What will be the issue of such marriages? Will they not be vile and bastard?
There can be no question of it.
And when persons who are unworthy of education approach philosophy and make an
alliance with her who is in a rank above them, what sort of ideas and opinions are likely
to be generated? Will they not be sophisms captivating to the ear, having nothing in
them genuine, or worthy of or akin to true wisdom?
No doubt, he said.
Then, Adeimantus, I said, the worthy disciples of philosophy will be but a small remnant:
perchance some noble and welleducated person, detained by exile in her service, who in
the absence of corrupting influences remains devoted to her; or some lofty soul born in
a mean city, the politics of which he contemns and neglects; and there may be a gifted
few who leave the arts, which they justly despise, and come to her; or peradventure
there are some who are restrained by our friend Theages's bridle; for everything in the
life of Theages conspired to divert him from philosophy; but ill-health kept him away
from politics. My own case of the internal sign is hardly worth mentioning, for rarely, if
ever, has such a monitor been given to any other man. Those who belong to this small
class have tasted how sweet and blessed a possession philosophy is, and have also seen
enough of the madness of the multitude; and they know that no politician is honest, nor
is there any champion of justice at whose side they may fight and be saved. Such a one
may be compared to a man who has fallen among wild beasts—he will not join in the
wickedness of his fellows, but neither is he able singly to resist all their fierce natures,
and therefore seeing that he would be of no use to the State or to his friends, and
reflecting that he would have to throw away his life without doing any good either to
himself or others, he holds his peace, and goes his own way. He is like one who, in the
storm of dust and sleet which the driving wind hurries along, retires under the shelter of
a wall; and seeing the rest of mankind full of wickedness, he is content, if only he can
live his own life and be pure from evil or unrighteousness, and depart in peace and
good-will, with bright hopes.
Yes, he said, and he will have done a great work before he departs.
A great work—yes; but not the greatest, unless he find a State suitable to him; for in a
State which is suitable to him, he will have a larger growth and be the saviour of his
country, as well as of himself.
The causes why philosophy is in such an evil name have now been sufficiently explained:
the injustice of the charges against her has been shown—is there anything more which
you wish to say?
Nothing more on that subject, he replied; but I should like to know which of the
governments now existing is in your opinion the one adapted to her.
Not any of them, I said; and that is precisely the accusation which I bring against them—
not one of them is worthy of the philosophic nature, and hence that nature is warped
and estranged; as the exotic seed which is sown in a foreign land becomes
denaturalized, and is wont to be overpowered and to lose itself in the new soil, even so
this growth of philosophy, instead of persisting, degenerates and receives another
character. But if philosophy ever finds in the State that perfection which she herself is,
then will be seen that she is in truth divine, and that all other things, whether natures of
men or institutions, are but human; and now, I know that you are going to ask, What
that State is:
No, he said; there you are wrong, for I was going to ask another question—whether it is
the State of which we are the founders and inventors, or some other?
Yes, I replied, ours in most respects; but you may remember my saying before, that
some living authority would always be required in the State having the same idea of the
constitution which guided you when as legislator you were laying down the laws.
That was said, he replied.
Yes, but not in a satisfactory manner; you frightened us by interposing objections, which
certainly showed that the discussion would be long and difficult; and what still remains
is the reverse of easy.
What is there remaining?
The question how the study of philosophy may be so ordered as not to be the ruin of
the State: All great attempts are attended with risk; "hard is the good," as men say.
Still, he said, let the point be cleared up, and the inquiry will then be complete.
I shall not be hindered, I said, by any want of will, but, if at all, by a want of power: my
zeal you may see for yourselves; and please to remark in what I am about to say how
boldly and unhesitatingly I declare that States should pursue philosophy, not as they do
now, but in a different spirit.
In what manner?
At present, I said, the students of philosophy are quite young; beginning when they are
hardly past childhood, they devote only the time saved from money-making and
housekeeping to such pursuits; and even those of them who are reputed to have most
of the philosophic spirit, when they come within sight of the great difficulty of the
subject, I mean dialectic, take themselves off. In after life, when invited by someone else,
they may, perhaps, go and hear a lecture, and about this they make much ado, for
philosophy is not considered by them to be their proper business: at last, when they
grow old, in most cases they are extinguished more truly than Heracleitus's sun,
inasmuch as they never light up again.
But what ought to be their course?
Just the opposite. In childhood and youth their study, and what philosophy they learn,
should be suited to their tender years: during this period while they are growing up
toward manhood, the chief and special care should be given to their bodies that they
may have them to use in the service of philosophy; as life advances and the intellect
begins to mature, let them increase the gymnastics of the soul; but when the strength of
our citizens fails and is past civil and military duties, then let them range at will and
engage in no serious labor, as we intend them to live happily here, and to crown this life
with a similar happiness in another.
How truly in earnest you are, Socrates! he said; I am sure of that; and yet most of your
hearers, if I am not mistaken, are likely to be still more earnest in their opposition to
you, and will never be convinced; Thrasymachus least of all.
Do not make a quarrel, I said, between Thrasymachus and me, who have recently
become friends, although, indeed, we were never enemies; for I shall go on striving to
the utmost until I either convert him and other men, or do something which may profit
them against the day when they live again, and hold the like discourse in another state
of existence.
You are speaking of a time which is not very near.
Rather, I replied, of a time which is as nothing in comparison with eternity. Nevertheless,
I do not wonder that the many refuse to believe; for they have never seen that of which
we are now speaking realized; they have seen only a conventional imitation of
philosophy, consisting of words artificially brought together, not like these of ours
having a natural unity. But a human being who in word and work is perfectly moulded,
as far as he can be, into the proportion and likeness of virtue— such a man ruling in a
city which bears the same image, they have never yet seen, neither one nor many of
them—do you think that they ever did?
No indeed.
No, my friend, and they have seldom, if ever, heard free and noble sentiments; such as
men utter when they are earnestly and by every means in their power seeking after truth
for the sake of knowledge, while they look coldly on the subtleties of controversy, of
which the end is opinion and strife, whether they meet with them in the courts of law or
in society.
They are strangers, he said, to the words of which you speak.
And this was what we foresaw, and this was the reason why truth forced us to admit, not
without fear and hesitation, that neither cities nor States nor individuals will ever attain
perfection until the small class of philosophers whom we termed useless but not corrupt
are providentially compelled, whether they will or not, to take care of the State, and until
a like necessity be laid on the State to obey them; or until kings, or if not kings, the sons
of kings or princes, are divinely inspired with a true love of true philosophy. That either
or both of these alternatives are impossible, I see no reason to affirm: if they were so, we
might indeed be justly ridiculed as dreamers and visionaries. Am I not right?
Quite right.
If then, in the countless ages of the past, or at the present hour in some foreign clime
which is far away and beyond our ken, the perfected philosopher is or has been or
hereafter shall be compelled by a superior power to have the charge of the State, we are
ready to assert to the death, that this our constitution has been, and is—yea, and will be
whenever the muse of philosophy is queen. There is no impossibility in all this; that
there is a difficulty, we acknowledge ourselves.
My opinion agrees with yours, he said.
But do you mean to say that this is not the opinion of the multitude?
I should imagine not, he replied.
O my friends, I said, do not attack the multitude: they will change their minds, if, not in
an aggressive spirit, but gently and with the view of soothing them and removing their
dislike of over-education, you show them your philosophers as they really are and
describe as you were just now doing their character and profession, and then mankind
will see that he of whom you are speaking is not such as they supposed—if they view
him in this new light, they will surely change their notion of him, and answer in another
strain. Who can be at enmity with one who loves him, who that is himself gentle and
free from envy will be jealous of one in whom there is no jealousy? Nay, let me answer
for you, that in a few this harsh temper may be found, but not in the majority of
mankind.
I quite agree with you, he said.
And do you not also think, as I do, that the harsh feeling which the many entertain
toward philosophy originates in the pretenders, who rush in uninvited, and are always
abusing them, and finding fault with them, who make persons instead of things the
theme of their conversation? and nothing can be more unbecoming in philosophers
than this.
It is most unbecoming.
For he, Adeimantus, whose mind is fixed upon true being, has surely no time to look
down upon the affairs of earth, or to be filled with malice and envy, contending against
men; his eye is ever directed toward things fixed and immutable, which he sees neither
injuring nor injured by one another, but all in order moving according to reason; these
he imitates, and to these he will, as far as he can, conform himself. Can a man help
imitating that with which he holds reverential converse?
Impossible.
And the philosopher holding converse with the divine order, becomes orderly and
divine, as far as the nature of man allows; but like everyone else, he will suffer from
detraction.
Of course.
And if a necessity be laid upon him of fashioning, not only himself, but human nature
generally, whether in States or individuals, into that which he beholds elsewhere, will be,
think you, be an unskilful artificer of justice, temperance, and every civil virtue?
Anything but unskilful.
And if the world perceives that what we are saying about him is the truth, will they be
angry with philosophy? Will they disbelieve us, when we tell them that no State can be
happy which is not designed by artists who imitate the heavenly pattern?
They will not be angry if they understand, he said. But how will they draw out the plan of
which you are speaking?
They will begin by taking the State and the manners of men, from which, as from a
tablet, they will rub out the picture, and leave a clean surface. This is no easy task. But
whether easy or not, herein will lie the difference between them and every other
legislator—they will have nothing to do either with individual or State, and will inscribe
no laws, until they have either found, or themselves made, a clean surface.
They will be very right, he said.
Having effected this, they will proceed to trace an outline of the constitution?
No doubt.
And when they are filling in the work, as I conceive, they will often turn their eyes
upward and downward: I mean that they will first look at absolute justice and beauty
and temperance, and again at the human copy; and will mingle and temper the various
elements of life into the image of a man; and this they will conceive according to that
other image, which, when existing among men, Homer calls the form and likeness of
God.
Very true, he said.
And one feature they will erase, and another they will put in, until they have made the
ways of men, as far as possible, agreeable to the ways of God?
Indeed, he said, in no way could they make a fairer picture.
And now, I said, are we beginning to persuade those whom you described as rushing at
us with might and main, that the painter of constitutions is such a one as we were
praising; at whom they were so very indignant because to his hands we committed the
State; and are they growing a little calmer at what they have just heard?
Much calmer, if there is any sense in them.
Why, where can they still find any ground for objection? Will they doubt that the
philosopher is a lover of truth and being?
They would not be so unreasonable.
Or that his nature, being such as we have delineated, is akin to the highest good?
Neither can they doubt this.
But again, will they tell us that such a nature, placed under favorable circumstances, will
not be perfectly good and wise if any ever was? Or will they prefer those whom we have
rejected?
Surely not.
Then will they still be angry at our saying, that, until philosophers bear rule, States and
individuals will have no rest from evil, nor will this our imaginary State ever be realized?
I think that they will be less angry.
Shall we assume that they are not only less angry but quite gentle, and that they have
been converted and for very shame, if for no other reason, cannot refuse to come to
terms?
By all means, he said.
Then let us suppose that the reconciliation has been effected. Will anyone deny the
other point, that there may be sons of kings or princes who are by nature philosophers?
Surely no man, he said.
And when they have come into being will anyone say that they must of necessity be
destroyed; that they can hardly be saved is not denied even by us; but that in the whole
course of ages no single one of them can escape—who will venture to affirm this?
Who indeed!
But, said I, one is enough; let there be one man who has a city obedient to his will, and
he might bring into existence the ideal polity about which the world is so incredulous.
Yes, one is enough.
The ruler may impose the laws and institutions which we have been describing, and the
citizens may possibly be willing to obey them?
Certainly.
And that others should approve, of what we approve, is no miracle or impossibility?
I think not.
But we have sufficiently shown, in what has preceded, that all this, if only possible, is
assuredly for the best.
We have.
And now we say not only that our laws, if they could be enacted, would be for the best,
but also that the enactment of them, though difficult, is not impossible.
Very good.
And so with pain and toil we have reached the end of one subject, but more remains to
be discussed; how and by what studies and pursuits will the saviours of the constitution
be created, and at what ages are they to apply themselves to their several studies?
Certainly.
I omitted the troublesome business of the possession of women, and the procreation of
children, and the appointment of the rulers, because I knew that the perfect State would
be eyed with jealousy and was difficult of attainment; but that piece of cleverness was
not of much service to me, for I had to discuss them all the same. The women and
children are now disposed of, but the other question of the rulers must be investigated
from the very beginning. We were saying, as you will remember, that they were to be
lovers of their country, tried by the test of pleasures and pains, and neither in hardships,
nor in dangers, nor at any other critical moment were to lose their patriotism—he was
to be rejected who failed, but he who always came forth pure, like gold tried in the
refiner's fire, was to be made a ruler, and to receive honors and rewards in life and after
death. This was the sort of thing which was being said, and then the argument turned
aside and veiled her face; not liking to stir the question which has now arisen.
I perfectly remember, he said.
Yes, my friend, I said, and I then shrank from hazarding the bold word; but now let me
dare to say—that the perfect guardian must be a philosopher.
Yes, he said, let that be affirmed.
And do not suppose that there will be many of them; for the gifts which were deemed
by us to be essential rarely grow together; they are mostly found in shreds and patches.
What do you mean? he said.
You are aware, I replied, that quick intelligence, memory, sagacity, cleverness, and
similar qualities, do not often grow together, and that persons who possess them and
are at the same time high-spirited and magnanimous are not so constituted by nature
as to live orderly and in a peaceful and settled manner; they are driven any way by their
impulses, and all solid principle goes out of them.
Very true, he said.
On the other hand, those steadfast natures which can better be depended upon, which
in a battle are impregnable to fear and immovable, are equally immovable when there is
anything to be learned; they are always in a torpid state, and are apt to yawn and go to
sleep over any intellectual toil.
Quite true.
And yet we were saying that both qualities were necessary in those to whom the higher
education is to be imparted, and who are to share in any office or command.
Certainly, he said.
And will they be a class which is rarely found?
Yes, indeed.
Then the aspirant must not only be tested in those labors and dangers and pleasures
which we mentioned before, but there is another kind of probation which we did not
mention— he must be exercised also in many kinds of knowledge, to see whether the
soul will be able to endure the highest of all, or will faint under them, as in any other
studies and exercises.
Yes, he said, you are quite right in testing them. But what do you mean by the highest of
all knowledge?
You may remember, I said, that we divided the soul into three parts; and distinguished
the several natures of justice, temperance, courage, and wisdom?
Indeed, he said, if I had forgotten, I should not deserve to hear more.
And do you remember the word of caution which preceded the discussion of them?
To what do you refer?
We were saying, if I am not mistaken, that he who wanted to see them in their perfect
beauty must take a longer and more circuitous way, at the end of which they would
appear; but that we could add on a popular exposition of them on a level with the
discussion which had preceded. And you replied that such an exposition would be
enough for you, and so the inquiry was continued in what to me seemed to be a very
inaccurate manner; whether you were satisfied or not, it is for you to say.
Yes, he said, I thought and the others thought that you gave us a fair measure of truth.
But, my friend, I said, a measure of such things which in any degree falls short of the
whole truth is not fair measure; for nothing imperfect is the measure of anything,
although persons are too apt to be contented and think that they need search no
further.
Not an uncommon case when people are indolent.
Yes, I said; and there cannot be any worse fault in a guardian of the State and of the
laws.
True.
The guardian then, I said, must be required to take the longer circuit, and toil at learning
as well as at gymnastics, or he will never reach the highest knowledge of all which, as we
were just now saying, is his proper calling.
What, he said, is there a knowledge still higher than this— higher than justice and the
other virtues?
Yes, I said, there is. And of the virtues too we must behold not the outline merely, as at
present—nothing short of the most finished picture should satisfy us. When little things
are elaborated with an infinity of pains, in order that they may appear in their full beauty
and utmost clearness, how ridiculous that we should not think the highest truths worthy
of attaining the highest accuracy!
A right noble thought; but do you suppose that we shall refrain from asking you what is
this highest knowledge?
Nay, I said, ask if you will; but I am certain that you have heard the answer many times,
and now you either do not understand me or, as I rather think, you are disposed to be
troublesome; for you have often been told that the idea of good is the highest
knowledge, and that all other things become useful and advantageous only by their use
of this. You can hardly be ignorant that of this I was about to speak, concerning which,
as you have often heard me say, we know so little; and, without which, any other
knowledge or possession of any kind will profit us nothing. Do you think that the
possession of all other things is of any value if we do not possess the good? or the
knowledge of all other things if we have no knowledge of beauty and goodness?
Assuredly not.
You are further aware that most people affirm pleasure to be the good, but the finer
sort of wits say it is knowledge?
Yes.
And you are aware too that the latter cannot explain what they mean by knowledge, but
are obliged after all to say knowledge of the good?
How ridiculous!
Yes, I said, that they should begin by reproaching us with our ignorance of the good,
and then presume our knowledge of it—for the good they define to be knowledge of
the good, just as if we understood them when they use the term "good" —this is of
course ridiculous.
Most true, he said.
And those who make pleasure their good are in equal perplexity; for they are compelled
to admit that there are bad pleasures as well as good.
Certainly.
And therefore to acknowledge that bad and good are the same?
True.
There can be no doubt about the numerous difficulties in which this question is
involved.
There can be none.
Further, do we not see that many are willing to do or to have or to seem to be what is
just and honorable without the reality; but no one is satisfied with the appearance of
good— the reality is what they seek; in the case of the good, appearance is despised by
everyone.
Very true, he said.
Of this then, which every soul of man pursues and makes the end of all his actions,
having a presentiment that there is such an end, and yet hesitating because neither
knowing the nature nor having the same assurance of this as of other things, and
therefore losing whatever good there is in other things— of a principle such and so
great as this ought the best men in our State, to whom everything is intrusted, to be in
the darkness of ignorance?
Certainly not, he said.
I am sure, I said, that he who does not know how the beautiful and the just are likewise
good will be but a sorry guardian of them; and I suspect that no one who is ignorant of
the good will have a true knowledge of them.
That, he said, is a shrewd suspicion of yours.
And if we only have a guardian who has this knowledge, our State will be perfectly
ordered?
Of course, he replied; but I wish that you would tell me whether you conceive this
supreme principle of the good to be knowledge or pleasure, or different from either?
Aye, I said, I knew all along that a fastidious gentleman like you would not be contented
with the thoughts of other people about these matters.
True, Socrates; but I must say that one who like you has passed a lifetime in the study of
philosophy should not be always repeating the opinions of others, and never telling his
own.
Well, but has anyone a right to say positively what he does not know?
Not, he said, with the assurance of positive certainty; he has no right to do that: but he
may say what he thinks, as a matter of opinion.
And do you not know, I said, that all mere opinions are bad, and the best of them blind?
You would not deny that those who have any true notion without intelligence are only
like blind men who feel their way along the road?
Very true.
And do you wish to behold what is blind and crooked and base, when others will tell
you of brightness and beauty?
Still, I must implore you, Socrates, said Glaucon, not to turn away just as you are
reaching the goal; if you will only give such an explanation of the good as you have
already given of justice and temperance and the other virtues, we shall be satisfied.
Yes, my friend, and I shall be at least equally satisfied, but I cannot help fearing that I
shall fail, and that my indiscreet zeal will bring ridicule upon me. No, sweet sirs, let us
not at present ask what is the actual nature of the good, for to reach what is now in my
thoughts would be an effort too great for me. But of the child of the good who is likest
him, I would fain speak, if I could be sure that you wished to hear— otherwise, not.
By all means, he said, tell us about the child, and you shall remain in our debt for the
account of the parent.
I do indeed wish, I replied, that I could pay, and you receive, the account of the parent,
and not, as now, of the offspring only; take, however, this latter by way of interest, and
at the same time have a care that I do not render a false account, although I have no
intention of deceiving you.
Yes, we will take all the care that we can: proceed.
Yes, I said, but I must first come to an understanding with you, and remind you of what I
have mentioned in the course of this discussion, and at many other times.
What?
The old story, that there is many a beautiful and many a good, and so of other things
which we describe and define; to all of them the term "many" is implied.
True, he said.
And there is an absolute beauty and an absolute good, and of other things to which the
term "many" is applied there is an absolute; for they may be brought under a single
idea, which is called the essence of each.
Very true.
The many, as we say, are seen but not known, and the ideas are known but not seen.
Exactly.
And what is the organ with which we see the visible things?
The sight, he said.
And with the hearing, I said, we hear, and with the other senses perceive the other
objects of sense?
True.
But have you remarked that sight is by far the most costly and complex piece of
workmanship which the artificer of the senses ever contrived?
No, I never have, he said.
Then reflect: has the ear or voice need of any third or additional nature in order that the
one may be able to hear and the other to be heard?
Nothing of the sort.
No, indeed, I replied; and the same is true of most, if not all, the other senses—you
would not say that any of them requires such an addition?
Certainly not.
But you see that without the addition of some other nature there is no seeing or being
seen?
How do you mean?
Sight being, as I conceive, in the eyes, and he who has eyes wanting to see; color being
also present in them, still unless there be a third nature specially adapted to the
purpose, the owner of the eyes will see nothing and the colors will be invisible.
Of what nature are you speaking?
Of that which you term light, I replied.
True, he said.
Noble, then, is the bond which links together sight and visibility, and great beyond other
bonds by no small difference of nature; for light is their bond, and light is no ignoble
thing?
Nay, he said, the reverse of ignoble.
And which, I said, of the gods in heaven would you say was the lord of this element?
Whose is that light which makes the eye to see perfectly and the visible to appear?
You mean the sun, as you and all mankind say.
May not the relation of sight to this deity be described as follows?
How?
Neither sight nor the eye in which sight resides is the sun?
No.
Yet of all the organs of sense the eye is the most like the sun?
By far the most like.
And the power which the eye possesses is a sort of effluence which is dispensed from
the sun?
Exactly.
Then the sun is not sight, but the author of sight who is recognized by sight?
True, he said.
And this is he whom I call the child of the good, whom the good begat in his own
likeness, to be in the visible world, in relation to sight and the things of sight, what the
good is in the intellectual world in relation to mind and the things of mind:
Will you be a little more explicit? he said.
Why, you know, I said, that the eyes, when a person directs them toward objects on
which the light of day is no longer shining, but the moon and stars only, see dimly, and
are nearly blind; they seem to have no clearness of vision in them?
Very true.
But when they are directed toward objects on which the sun shines, they see clearly and
there is sight in them?
Certainly.
And the soul is like the eye: when resting upon that on which truth and being shine, the
soul perceives and understands, and is radiant with intelligence; but when turned
toward the twilight of becoming and perishing, then she has opinion only, and goes
blinking about, and is first of one opinion and then of another, and seems to have no
intelligence?
Just so.
Now, that which imparts truth to the known and the power of knowing to the knower is
what I would have you term the idea of good, and this you will deem to be the cause of
science, and of truth in so far as the latter becomes the subject of knowledge; beautiful
too, as are both truth and knowledge, you will be right in esteeming this other nature as
more beautiful than either; and, as in the previous instance, light and sight may be truly
said to be like the sun, and yet not to be the sun, so in this other sphere, science and
truth may be deemed to be like the good, but not the good; the good has a place of
honor yet higher.
What a wonder of beauty that must be, he said, which is the author of science and truth,
and yet surpasses them in beauty; for you surely cannot mean to say that pleasure is the
good?
God forbid, I replied; but may I ask you to consider the image in another point of view?
In what point of view?
You would say, would you not? that the sun is not only the author of visibility in all
visible things, but of generation and nourishment and growth, though he himself is not
generation?
Certainly.
In like manner the good may be said to be not only the author of knowledge to all
things known, but of their being and essence, and yet the good is not essence, but far
exceeds essence in dignity and power.
Glaucon said, with a ludicrous earnestness: By the light of heaven, how amazing!
Yes, I said, and the exaggeration may be set down to you; for you made me utter my
fancies.
And pray continue to utter them; at any rate let us hear if there is anything more to be
said about the similitude of the sun.
Yes, I said, there is a great deal more.
Then omit nothing, however slight.
I will do my best, I said; but I should think that a great deal will have to be omitted. I
hope not, he said.
You have to Imagine, then, that there are two ruling powers, and that one of them is set
over the intellectual world, the other over the visible. I do not say heaven, lest you
should fancy that I am playing upon the name (ovpavos, opatos). May I suppose that
you have this distinction of the visible and intelligible fixed in your mind?
I have.
Now take a line which has been cut into two unequal parts, and divide each of them
again in the same proportion, and suppose the two main divisions to answer, one to the
visible and the other to the intelligible, and then compare the subdivisions in respect of
their clearness and want of clearness, and you will find that the first section in the
sphere of the visible consists of images. And by images I mean, in the first place,
shadows, and in the second place, reflections in water and in solid, smooth and polished
bodies and the like: Do you understand?
Yes, I understand.
Imagine, now, the other section, of which this is only the resemblance, to include the
animals which we see, and everything that grows or is made.
Very good.
Would you not admit that both the sections of this division have different degrees of
truth, and that the copy is to the original as the sphere of opinion is to the sphere of
knowledge?
Most undoubtedly.
Next proceed to consider the manner in which the sphere of the intellectual is to be
divided.
In what manner?
Thus: There are two subdivisions, in the lower of which the soul uses the figures given by
the former division as images; the inquiry can only be hypothetical, and instead of going
upward to a principle descends to the other end; in the higher of the two, the soul
passes out of hypotheses, and goes up to a principle which is above hypotheses, making
no use of images as in the former case, but proceeding only in and through the ideas
themselves.
I do not quite understand your meaning, he said.
Then I will try again; you will understand me better when I have made some preliminary
remarks. You are aware that students of geometry, arithmetic, and the kindred sciences
assume the odd, and the even, and the figures, and three kinds of angles, and the like, in
their several branches of science; these are their hypotheses, which they and everybody
are supposed to know, and therefore they do not deign to give any account of them
either to themselves or others; but they begin with them, and go on until they arrive at
last, and in a consistent manner, at their conclusion?
Yes, he said, I know.
And do you not know also that although they make use of the visible forms and reason
about them, they are thinking not of these, but of the ideals which they resemble; not of
the figures which they draw, but of the absolute square and the absolute diameter, and
so on—the forms which they draw or make, and which have shadows and reflections in
water of their own, are converted by them into images, but they are really seeking to
behold the things themselves, which can only be seen with the eye of the mind?
That is true.
And of this kind I spoke as the intelligible, although in the search after it the soul is
compelled to use hypotheses; not ascending to a first principle, because she is unable to
rise above the region of hypothesis, but employing the objects of which the shadows
below are resemblances in their turn as images, they having in relation to the shadows
and reflections of them a greater distinctness, and therefore a higher value.
I understand, he said, that you are speaking of the province of geometry and the sister
arts.
And when I speak of the other division of the intelligible, you will understand me to
speak of that other sort of knowledge which reason herself attains by the power of
dialectic, using the hypotheses not as first principles, but only as hypotheses— that is to
say, as steps and points of departure into a world which is above hypotheses, in order
that she may soar beyond them to the first principle of the whole; and clinging to this
and then to that which depends on this, by successive steps she descends again without
the aid of any sensible object, from ideas, through ideas, and in ideas she ends.
I understand you, he replied; not perfectly, for you seem to me to be describing a task
which is really tremendous; but, at any rate, I understand you to say that knowledge and
being, which the science of dialectic contemplates, are clearer than the notions of the
arts, as they are termed, which proceed from hypotheses only: these are also
contemplated by the understanding, and not by the senses: yet, because they start from
hypotheses and do not ascend to a principle, those who contemplate them appear to
you not to exercise the higher reason upon them, although when a first principle is
added to them they are cognizable by the higher reason. And the habit which is
concerned with geometry and the cognate sciences I suppose that you would term
understanding, and not reason, as being intermediate between opinion and reason.
You have quite conceived my meaning, I said; and now, corresponding to these four
divisions, let there be four faculties in the soul—reason answering to the highest,
understanding to the second, faith (or conviction) to the third, and perception of
shadows to the last—and let there be a scale of them, and let us suppose that the
several faculties have clearness in the same degree that their objects have truth.
I understand, he replied, and give my assent, and accept your arrangement.

BOOK VII
ON SHADOWS AND
REALITIES IN
EDUCATION
(SOCRATES, GLAUCON.)
AND now, I said, let me show in a figure how far our nature is enlightened or
unenlightened: Behold! human beings living in an underground den, which has a mouth
open toward the light and reaching all along the den; here they have been from their
childhood, and have their legs and necks chained so that they cannot move, and can
only see before them, being prevented by the chains from turning round their heads.
Above and behind them a fire is blazing at a distance, and between the fire and the
prisoners there is a raised way; and you will see, if you look, a low wall built along the
way, like the screen which marionette-players have in front of them, over which they
show the puppets.
I see.
And do you see, I said, men passing along the wall carrying all sorts of vessels, and
statues and figures of animals made of wood and stone and various materials, which
appear over the wall? Some of them are talking, others silent.
You have shown me a strange image, and they are strange prisoners.
Like ourselves, I replied; and they see only their own shadows, or the shadows of one
another, which the fire throws on the opposite wall of the cave?
True, he said; how could they see anything but the shadows if they were never allowed
to move their heads?
And of the objects which are being carried in like manner they would only see the
shadows?
Yes, he said.
And if they were able to converse with one another, would they not suppose that they
were naming what was actually before them?
Very true.
And suppose further that the prison had an echo which came from the other side, would
they not be sure to fancy when one of the passers-by spoke that the voice which they
heard came from the passing shadow?
No question, he replied.
To them, I said, the truth would be literally nothing but the shadows of the images.
That is certain.
And now look again, and see what will naturally follow if the prisoners are released and
disabused of their error. At first, when any of them is liberated and compelled suddenly
to stand up and turn his neck round and walk and look toward the light, he will suffer
sharp pains; the glare will distress him, and he will be unable to see the realities of which
in his former state he had seen the shadows; and then conceive someone saying to him,
that what he saw before was an illusion, but that now, when he is approaching nearer to
being and his eye is turned toward more real existence, he has a clearer vision—what
will be his reply? And you may further imagine that his instructor is pointing to the
objects as they pass and requiring him to name them—will he not be perplexed? Will he
not fancy that the shadows which he formerly saw are truer than the objects which are
now shown to him?
Far truer.
And if he is compelled to look straight at the light, will he not have a pain in his eyes
which will make him turn away to take refuge in the objects of vision which he can see,
and which he will conceive to be in reality clearer than the things which are now being
shown to him?
True, he said.
And suppose once more, that he is reluctantly dragged up a steep and rugged ascent,
and held fast until he is forced into the presence of the sun himself, is he not likely to be
pained and irritated? When he approaches the light his eyes will be dazzled, and he will
not be able to see anything at all of what are now called realities.
Not all in a moment, he said.
He will require to grow accustomed to the sight of the upper world. And first he will see
the shadows best, next the reflections of men and other objects in the water, and then
the objects themselves; then he will gaze upon the light of the moon and the stars and
the spangled heaven; and he will see the sky and the stars by night better than the sun
or the light of the sun by day?
Certainly.
Last of all he will be able to see the sun, and not mere reflections of him in the water,
but he will see him in his own proper place, and not in another; and he will contemplate
him as he is.
Certainly.
He will then proceed to argue that this is he who gives the season and the years, and is
the guardian of all that is in the visible world, and in a certain way the cause of all things
which he and his fellows have been accustomed to behold?
Clearly, he said, he would first see the sun and then reason about him.
And when he remembered his old habitation, and the wisdom of the den and his fellowprisoners,
do you not suppose that he would felicitate himself on the change, and pity
him?
Certainly, he would.
And if they were in the habit of conferring honors among themselves on those who
were quickest to observe the passing shadows and to remark which of them went
before, and which followed after, and which were together; and who were therefore best
able to draw conclusions as to the future, do you think that he would care for such
honors and glories, or envy the possessors of them? Would he not say with Homer,
"Better to be the poor servant of a poor master,"
and to endure anything, rather than think as they do and live after their manner?
Yes, he said, I think that he would rather suffer anything than entertain these false
notions and live in this miserable manner.
Imagine once more, I said, such a one coming suddenly out of the sun to be replaced in
his old situation; would he not be certain to have his eyes full of darkness?
To be sure, he said.
And if there were a contest, and he had to compete in measuring the shadows with the
prisoners who had never moved out of the den, while his sight was still weak, and
before his eyes had become steady (and the time which would be needed to acquire
this new habit of sight might be very considerable), would he not be ridiculous? Men
would say of him that up he went and down he came without his eyes; and that it was
better not even to think of ascending; and if anyone tried to loose another and lead him
up to the light, let them only catch the offender, and they would put him to death.
No question, he said.
This entire allegory, I said, you may now append, dear Glaucon, to the previous
argument; the prison-house is the world of sight, the light of the fire is the sun, and you
will not misapprehend me if you interpret the journey upward to be the ascent of the
soul into the intellectual world according to my poor belief, which, at your desire, I have
expressed—whether rightly or wrongly, God knows. But, whether true or false, my
opinion is that in the world of knowledge the idea of good appears last of all, and is
seen only with an effort; and, when seen, is also inferred to be the universal author of all
things beautiful and right, parent of light and of the lord of light in this visible world,
and the immediate source of reason and truth in the intellectual; and that this is the
power upon which he who would act rationally either in public or private life must have
his eye fixed.
I agree, he said, as far as I am able to understand you.
Moreover, I said, you must not wonder that those who attain to this beatific vision are
unwilling to descend to human affairs; for their souls are ever hastening into the upper
world where they desire to dwell; which desire of theirs is very natural, if our allegory
may be trusted.
Yes, very natural.
And is there anything surprising in one who passes from divine contemplations to the
evil state of man, misbehaving himself in a ridiculous manner; if, while his eyes are
blinking and before he has become accustomed to the surrounding darkness, he is
compelled to fight in courts of law, or in other places, about the images or the shadows
of images of justice, and is endeavoring to meet the conceptions of those who have
never yet seen absolute justice?
Anything but surprising, he replied. Anyone who has common-sense will remember that
the bewilderments of the eyes are of two kinds, and arise from two causes, either from
coming out of the light or from going into the light, which is true of the mind's eye,
quite as much as of the bodily eye; and he who remembers this when he sees anyone
whose vision is perplexed and weak, will not be too ready to laugh; he will first ask
whether that soul of man has come out of the brighter life, and is unable to see because
unaccustomed to the dark, or having turned from darkness to the day is dazzled by
excess of light. And he will count the one happy in his condition and state of being, and
he will pity the other; or, if he have a mind to laugh at the soul which comes from below
into the light, there will be more reason in this than in the laugh which greets him who
returns from above out of the light into the den.
That, he said, is a very just distinction.
But then, if I am right, certain professors of education must be wrong when they say that
they can put a knowledge into the soul which was not there before, like sight into blind
eyes.
They undoubtedly say this, he replied.
Whereas, our argument shows that the power and capacity of learning exists in the soul
already; and that just as the eye was unable to turn from darkness to light without the
whole body, so too the instrument of knowledge can only by the movement of the
whole soul be turned from the world of becoming into that of being, and learn by
degrees to endure the sight of being, and of the brightest and best of being, or, in other
words, of the good.
Very true.
And must there not be some art which will effect conversion in the easiest and quickest
manner; not implanting the faculty of sight, for that exists already, but has been turned
in the wrong direction, and is looking away from the truth?
Yes, he said, such an art may be presumed.
And whereas the other so-called virtues of the soul seem to be akin to bodily qualities,
for even when they are not originally innate they can be implanted later by habit and
exercise, the virtue of wisdom more than anything else contains a divine element which
always remains, and by this conversion is rendered useful and profitable; or, on the
other hand, hurtful and useless. Did you never observe the narrow intelligence flashing
from the keen eye of a clever rogue—how eager he is, how clearly his paltry soul sees
the way to his end; he is the reverse of blind, but his keen eyesight is forced into the
service of evil, and he is mischievous in proportion to his cleverness?
Very true, he said.
But what if there had been a circumcision of such natures in the days of their youth; and
they had been severed from those sensual pleasures, such as eating and drinking, which,
like leaden weights, were attached to them at their birth, and which drag them down
and turn the vision of their souls upon the things that are below—if, I say, they had been
released from these impediments and turned in the opposite direction, the very same
faculty in them would have seen the truth as keenly as they see what their eyes are
turned to now.
Very likely.
Yes, I said; and there is another thing which is likely, or rather a necessary inference from
what has preceded, that neither the uneducated and uninformed of the truth, nor yet
those who never make an end of their education, will be able ministers of the State; not
the former, because they have no single aim of duty which is the rule of all their actions,
private as well as public; nor the latter, because they will not act at all except upon
compulsion, fancying that they are already dwelling apart in the islands of the blessed.
Very true, he replied.
Then, I said, the business of us who are the founders of the State will be to compel the
best minds to attain that knowledge which we have already shown to be the greatest of
all—they must continue to ascend until they arrive at the good; but when they have
ascended and seen enough we must not allow them to do as they do now.
What do you mean?
I mean that they remain in the upper world: but this must not be allowed; they must be
made to descend again among the prisoners in the den, and partake of their labors and
honors, whether they are worth having or not.
But is not this unjust? he said; ought we to give them a worse life, when they might have
a better?
You have again forgotten, my friend, I said, the intention of the legislator, who did not
aim at making any one class in the State happy above the rest; the happiness was to be
in the whole State, and he held the citizens together by persuasion and necessity,
making them benefactors of the State, and therefore benefactors of one another; to this
end he created them, not to please themselves, but to be his instruments in binding up
the State.
True, he said, I had forgotten.
Observe, Glaucon, that there will be no injustice in compelling our philosophers to have
a care and providence of others; we shall explain to them that in other States, men of
their class are not obliged to share in the toils of politics: and this is reasonable, for they
grow up at their own sweet will, and the government would rather not have them. Being
self-taught, they cannot be expected to show any gratitude for a culture which they
have never received. But we have brought you into the world to be rulers of the hive,
kings of yourselves and of the other citizens, and have educated you far better and
more perfectly than they have been educated, and you are better able to share in the
double duty. Wherefore each of you, when his turn comes, must go down to the general
underground abode, and get the habit of seeing in the dark. When you have acquired
the habit, you will see ten thousand times better than the inhabitants of the den, and
you will know what the several images are, and what they represent, because you have
seen the beautiful and just and good in their truth. And thus our State, which is also
yours, will be a reality, and not a dream only, and will be administered in a spirit unlike
that of other States, in which men fight with one another about shadows only and are
distracted in the struggle for power, which in their eyes is a great good. Whereas the
truth is that the State in which the rulers are most reluctant to govern is always the best
and most quietly governed, and the State in which they are most eager, the worst.
Quite true, he replied.
And will our pupils, when they hear this, refuse to take their turn at the toils of State,
when they are allowed to spend the greater part of their time with one another in the
heavenly light?
Impossible, he answered; for they are just men, and the commands which we impose
upon them are just; there can be no doubt that every one of them will take office as a
stern necessity, and not after the fashion of our present rulers of State.
Yes, my friend, I said; and there lies the point. You must contrive for your future rulers
another and a better life than that of a ruler, and then you may have a well-ordered
State; for only in the State which offers this, will they rule who are truly rich, not in silver
and gold, but in virtue and wisdom, which are the true blessings of life. Whereas, if they
go to the administration of public affairs, poor and hungering after their own private
advantage, thinking that hence they are to snatch the chief good, order there can never
be; for they will be fighting about office, and the civil and domestic broils which thus
arise will be the ruin of the rulers themselves and of the whole State.
Most true, he replied.
And the only life which looks down upon the life of political ambition is that of true
philosophy. Do you know of any other?
Indeed, I do not, he said.
And those who govern ought not to be lovers of the task? For, if they are, there will be
rival lovers, and they will fight.
No question. Who, then, are those whom we shall compel to be guardians? Surely they
will be the men who are wisest about affairs of State, and by whom the State is best
administered, and who at the same time have other honors and another and a better life
than that of politics?
They are the men, and I will choose them, he replied.
And now shall we consider in what way such guardians will be produced, and how they
are to be brought from darkness to light—as some are said to have ascended from the
world below to the gods?
By all means, he replied.
The process, I said, is not the turning over of an oystershell, but the turning round of a
soul passing from a day which is little better than night to the true day of being, that is,
the ascent from below, which we affirm to be true philosophy?
Quite so.
And should we not inquire what sort of knowledge has the power of effecting such a
change?
Certainly.
What sort of knowledge is there which would draw the soul from becoming to being?
And another consideration has just occurred to me: You will remember that our young
men are to be warrior athletes?
Yes, that was said.
Then this new kind of knowledge must have an additional quality?
What quality?
Usefulness in war.
Yes, if possible.
There were two parts in our former scheme of education, were there not?
Just so.
There was gymnastics, which presided over the growth and decay of the body, and may
therefore be regarded as having to do with generation and corruption?
True.
Then that is not the knowledge which we are seeking to discover? No.
But what do you say of music, what also entered to a certain extent into our former
scheme?
Music, he said, as you will remember, was the counterpart of gymnastics, and trained
the guardians by the influences of habit, by harmony making them harmonious, by
rhythm rhythmical, but not giving them science; and the words, whether fabulous or
possibly true, had kindred elements of rhythm and harmony in them. But in music there
was nothing which tended to that good which you are now seeking.
You are most accurate, I said, in your recollection; in music there certainly was nothing
of the kind. But what branch of knowledge is there, my dear Glaucon, which is of the
desired nature; since all the useful arts were reckoned mean by us?
Undoubtedly; and yet if music and gymnastics are excluded, and the arts are also
excluded, what remains?
Well, I said, there may be nothing left of our special subjects; and then we shall have to
take something which is not special, but of the universal application.
What may that be?
A something which all arts and sciences and intelligences use in common, and which
everyone first has to learn among the elements of education.
What is that?
The little matter of distinguishing one, two, and three—in a word, number and
calculation: do not all arts and sciences necessarily partake of them?
Yes.
Then the art of war partakes of them?
To be sure.
Then Palamedes, whenever he appears in tragedy, proves Agamemnon ridiculously unfit
to be a general. Did you never remark how he declares that he had invented number,
and had numbered the ships and set in array the ranks of the army at Troy; which
implies that they had never been numbered before, and Agamemnon must be supposed
literally to have been incapable of counting his own fleet—how could he if he was
ignorant of number? And if that is true, what sort of general must he have been?
I should say a very strange one, if this was as you say.
Can we deny that a warrior should have a knowledge of arithmetic?
Certainly he should, if he is to have the smallest understanding of military tactics, or
indeed, I should rather say, if he is to be a man at all.
I should like to know whether you have the same notion which I have of this study?
What is your notion?
It appears to me to be a study of the kind which we are seeking, and which leads
naturally to reflection, but never to have been rightly used; for the true use of it is simply
to draw the soul toward being.
Will you explain your meaning? he said.
I will try, I said; and I wish you would share the inquiry with me, and say "yes" or "no"
when I attempt to distinguish in my own mind what branches of knowledge have this
attracting power, in order that we may have clearer proof that arithmetic is, as I suspect,
one of them.
Explain, he said.
I mean to say that objects of sense are of two kinds; some of them do not invite thought
because the sense is an adequate judge of them; while in the case of other objects
sense is so untrustworthy that further inquiry is imperatively demanded.
You are clearly referring, he said, to the manner in which the senses are imposed upon
by distance, and by painting in light and shade.
No, I said, that is not at all my meaning.
Then what is your meaning?
When speaking of uninviting objects, I mean those which do not pass from one
sensation to the opposite; inviting objects are those which do; in this latter case the
sense coming upon the object, whether at a distance or near, gives no more vivid idea
of anything in particular than of its opposite. An illustration will make my meaning
clearer: here are three fingers— a little finger, a second finger, and a middle finger.
Very good.
You may suppose that they are seen quite close: And here comes the point.
What is it?
Each of them equally appears a finger, whether seen in the middle or at the extremity,
whether white or black, or thick or thin—it makes no difference; a finger is a finger all
the same. In these cases a man is not compelled to ask of thought the question, What is
a finger? for the sight never intimates to the mind that a finger is other than a finger.
True.
And therefore, I said, as we might expect, there is nothing here which invites or excites
intelligence.
There is not, he said.
But is this equally true of the greatness and smallness of the fingers? Can sight
adequately perceive them? and is no difference made by the circumstance that one of
the fingers is in the middle and the other at the extremity? And in like manner does the
touch adequately perceive the qualities of thickness or thinness, of softness or
hardness? And so of the other senses; do they give perfect intimations of such matters?
Is not their mode of operation on this wise—the sense which is concerned with the
quality of hardness is necessarily concerned also with the quality of softness, and only
intimates to the soul that the same thing is felt to be both hard and soft?
You are quite right, he said.
And must not the soul be perplexed at this intimation which the sense gives of a hard
which is also soft? What, again, is the meaning of light and heavy, if that which is light is
also heavy, and that which is heavy, light?
Yes, he said, these intimations which the soul receives are very curious and require to be
explained.
Yes, I said, and in these perplexities the soul naturally summons to her aid calculation
and intelligence, that she may see whether the several objects announced to her are one
or two.
True.
And if they turn out to be two, is not each of them one and different?
Certainly.
And if each is one, and both are two, she will conceive the two as in a state of division,
for if they were undivided they could only be conceived of as one?
True.
The eye certainly did see both small and great, but only in a confused manner; they
were not distinguished.
Yes.
Whereas the thinking mind, intending to light up the chaos, was compelled to reverse
the process, and look at small and great as separate and not confused.
Very true.
Was not this the beginning of the inquiry, "What is great?" and "What is small?"
Exactly so.
And thus arose the distinction of the visible and the intelligible.
Most true.
This was what I meant when I spoke of impressions which invited the intellect, or the
reverse—those which are simultaneous with opposite impressions, invite thought; those
which are not simultaneous do not.
I understand, he said, and agree with you.
And to which class do unity and number belong?
I do not know, he replied.
Think a little and you will see that what has preceded will supply the answer; for if simple
unity could be adequately perceived by the sight or by any other sense, then, as we
were saying in the case of the finger, there would be nothing to attract toward being;
but when there is some contradiction always present, and one is the reverse of one and
involves the conception of plurality, then thought begins to be aroused within us, and
the soul perplexed and wanting to arrive at a decision asks, "What is absolute unity?"
This is the way in which the study of the one has a power of drawing and converting the
mind to the contemplation of true being.
And surely, he said, this occurs notably in the case of one; for we see the same thing to
be both one and infinite in multitude?
Yes, I said; and this being true of one must be equally true of all number?
Certainly.
And all arithmetic and calculation have to do with number?
Yes.
And they appear to lead the mind toward truth?
Yes, in a very remarkable manner.
Then this is knowledge of the kind for which we are seeking, having a double use,
military and philosophical; for the man of war must learn the art of number or he will
not know how to array his troops, and the philosopher also, because he has to rise out
of the sea of change and lay hold of true being, and therefore he must be an
arithmetician.
That is true.
And our guardian is both warrior and philosopher?
Certainly.
Then this is a kind of knowledge which legislation may fitly prescribe; and we must
endeavor to persuade those who are to be the principal men of our State to go and
learn arithmetic, not as amateurs, but they must carry on the study until they see the
nature of numbers with the mind only; nor again, like merchants or retail-traders, with a
view to buying or selling, but for the sake of their military use, and of the soul herself;
and because this will be the easiest way for her to pass from becoming to truth and
being.
That is excellent, he said.
Yes, I said, and now having spoken of it, I must add how charming the science is! and in
how many ways it conduces to our desired end, if pursued in the spirit of a philosopher,
and not of a shopkeeper!
How do you mean?
I mean, as I was saying, that arithmetic has a very great and elevating effect, compelling
the soul to reason about abstract number, and rebelling against the introduction of
visible or tangible objects into the argument. You know how steadily the masters of the
art repel and ridicule anyone who attempts to divide absolute unity when he is
calculating, and if you divide, they multiply, taking care that one shall continue one and
not become lost in fractions.
That is very true.
Now, suppose a person were to say to them: O my friends, what are these wonderful
numbers about which you are reasoning, in which, as you say, there is a unity such as
you demand, and each unit is equal, invariable, indivisible—what would they answer?
They would answer, as I should conceive, that they were speaking of those numbers
which can only be realized in thought.
Then you see that this knowledge may be truly called necessary, necessitating as it
clearly does the use of the pure intelligence in the attainment of pure truth?
Yes; that is a marked characteristic of it.
And have you further observed that those who have a natural talent for calculation are
generally quick at every other kind of knowledge; and even the dull, if they have had an
arithmetical training, although they may derive no other advantage from it, always
become much quicker than they would otherwise have been?
Very true, he said.
And indeed, you will not easily find a more difficult study, and not many as difficult.
You will not.
And, for all these reasons, arithmetic is a kind of knowledge in which the best natures
should be trained, and which must not be given up.
I agree.
Let this then be made one of our subjects of education. And next, shall we inquire
whether the kindred science also concerns us?
You mean geometry?
Exactly so.
Clearly, he said, we are concerned with that part of geometry which relates to war; for in
pitching a camp or taking up a position or closing or extending the lines of an army, or
any other military manoeuvre, whether in actual battle or on a march, it will make all the
difference whether a general is or is not a geometrician.
Yes, I said, but for that purpose a very little of either geometry or calculation will be
enough; the question relates rather to the greater and more advanced part of
geometry—whether that tends in any degree to make more easy the vision of the idea
of good; and thither, as I was saying, all things tend which compel the soul to turn her
gaze toward that place, where is the full perfection of being, which she ought, by all
means, to behold.
True, he said.
Then if geometry compels us to view being, it concerns us; if becoming only, it does not
concern us?
Yes, that is what we assert.
Yet anybody who has the least acquaintance with geometry will not deny that such a
conception of the science is in flat contradiction to the ordinary language of
geometricians.
How so?
They have in view practice only, and are always speaking, in a narrow and ridiculous
manner, of squaring and extending and applying and the like—they confuse the
necessities of geometry with those of daily life; whereas knowledge is the real object of
the whole science.
Certainly, he said.
Then must not a further admission be made?
What admission?
That the knowledge at which geometry aims is knowledge of the eternal, and not of
aught perishing and transient.
That, he replied, may be readily allowed, and is true.
Then, my noble friend, geometry will draw the soul toward truth, and create the spirit of
philosophy, and raise up that which is now unhappily allowed to fall down.
Nothing will be more likely to have such an effect.
Then nothing should be more sternly laid down than that the inhabitants of your fair city
should by all means learn geometry. Moreover, the science has indirect effects, which
are not small.
Of what kind? he said.
There are the military advantages of which you spoke, I said; and in all departments of
knowledge, as experience proves, anyone who has studied geometry is infinitely quicker
of apprehension than one who has not. Yes, indeed, he said, there is an infinite
difference between them.
Then shall we propose this as a second branch of knowledge which our youth will study?
Let us do so, he replied.
And suppose we make astronomy the third—what do you say?
I am strongly inclined to it, he said; the observation of the seasons and of months and
years is as essential to the general as it is to the farmer or sailor.
I am amused, I said, at your fear of the world, which makes you guard against the
appearance of insisting upon useless studies; and I quite admit the difficulty of believing
that in every man there is an eye of the soul which, when by other pursuits lost and
dimmed, is by these purified and reillumined; and is more precious far than ten
thousand bodily eyes, for by it alone is truth seen. Now there are two classes of persons:
one class of those who will agree with you and will take your words as a revelation;
another class to whom they will be utterly unmeaning, and who will naturally deem
them to be idle tales, for they see no sort of profit which is to be obtained from them.
And therefore you had better decide at once with which of the two you are proposing to
argue. You will very likely say with neither, and that your chief aim in carrying on the
argument is your own improvement; at the same time you do not grudge to others any
benefit which they may receive.
I think that I should prefer to carry on the argument mainly on my own behalf.
Then take a step backward, for we have gone wrong in the order of the sciences.
What was the mistake? he said.
After plane geometry, I said, we proceeded at once to solids in revolution, instead of
taking solids in themselves; whereas after the second dimension, the third, which is
concerned with cubes and dimensions of depth, ought to have followed.
That is true, Socrates; but so little seems to be known as yet about these subjects.
Why, yes, I said, and for two reasons: in the first place, no government patronizes them;
this leads to a want of energy in the pursuit of them, and they are difficult; in the second
place, students cannot learn them unless they have a director. But then a director can
hardly be found, and, even if he could, as matters now stand, the students, who are very
conceited, would not attend to him. That, however, would be otherwise if the whole
State became the director of these studies and gave honor to them; then disciples
would want to come, and there would be continuous and earnest search, and
discoveries would be made; since even now, disregarded as they are by the world, and
maimed of their fair proportions, and although none of their votaries can tell the use of
them, still these studies force their way by their natural charm, and very likely, if they
had the help of the State, they would some day emerge into light.
Yes, he said, there is a remarkable charm in them. But I do not clearly understand the
change in the order. First you began with a geometry of plane surfaces?
Yes, I said.
And you placed astronomy next, and then you made a step backward?
Yes, and I have delayed you by my hurry; the ludicrous state of solid geometry, which, in
natural order, should have followed, made me pass over this branch and go on to
astronomy, or motion of solids.
True, he said.
Then assuming that the science now omitted would come into existence if encouraged
by the State, let us go on to astronomy, which will be fourth.
The right order, he replied. And now, Socrates, as you rebuked the vulgar manner in
which I praised astronomy before, my praise shall be given in your own spirit. For
everyone, as I think, must see that astronomy compels the soul to look upward and
leads us from this world to another. Everyone but myself, I said; to everyone else this
may be clear, but not to me.
And what, then, would you say?
I should rather say that those who elevate astronomy into philosophy appear to me to
make us look downward, and not upward.
What do you mean? he asked.
You, I replied, have in your mind a truly sublime conception of our knowledge of the
things above. And I dare say that if a person were to throw his head back and study the
fretted ceiling, you would still think that his mind was the percipient, and not his eyes.
And you are very likely right, and I may be a simpleton: but, in my opinion, that
knowledge only which is of being and of the unseen can make the soul look upward,
and whether a man gapes at the heavens or blinks on the ground, seeking to learn some
particular of sense, I would deny that he can learn, for nothing of that sort is matter of
science; his soul is looking downward, not upward, whether his way to knowledge is by
water or by land, whether he floats or only lies on his back.
I acknowledge, he said, the justice of your rebuke. Still, I should like to ascertain how
astronomy can be learned in any manner more conducive to that knowledge of which
we are speaking?
I will tell you, I said: The starry heaven which we behold is wrought upon a visible
ground, and therefore, although the fairest and most perfect of visible things, must
necessarily be deemed inferior far to the true motions of absolute swiftness and
absolute slowness, which are relative to each other, and carry with them that which is
contained in them, in the true number and in every true figure. Now, these are to be
apprehended by reason and intelligence, but not by sight.
True, he replied.
The spangled heavens should be used as a pattern and with a view to that higher
knowledge; their beauty is like the beauty of figures or pictures excellently wrought by
the hand of Daedalus, or some other great artist, which we may chance to behold; any
geometrician who saw them would appreciate the exquisiteness of their workmanship,
but he would never dream of thinking that in them he could find the true equal or the
true double, or the truth of any other proportion.
No, he replied, such an idea would be ridiculous.
And will not a true astronomer have the same feeling when he looks at the movements
of the stars? Will he not think that heaven and the things in heaven are framed by the
Creator of them in the most perfect manner? But he will never imagine that the
proportions of night and day, or of both to the month, or of the month to the year, or of
the stars to these and to one another, and any other things that are material and visible
can also be eternal and subject to no deviation—that would be absurd; and it is equally
absurd to take so much pains in investigating their exact truth.
I quite agree, though I never thought of this before.
Then, I said, in astronomy, as in geometry, we should employ problems, and let the
heavens alone if we would approach the subject in the right way and so make the
natural gift of reason to be of any real use.
That, he said, is a work infinitely beyond our present astronomers.
Yes, I said; and there are many other things which must also have a similar extension
given to them, if our legislation is to be of any value. But can you tell me of any other
suitable study?
No, he said, not without thinking.
Motion, I said, has many forms, and not one only; two of them are obvious enough even
to wits no better than ours; and there are others, as I imagine, which may be left to wiser
persons.
But where are the two?
There is a second, I said, which is the counterpart of the one already named.
And what may that be?
The second, I said, would seem relatively to the ears to be what the first is to the eyes;
for I conceive that as the eyes are designed to look up at the stars, so are the ears to
hear harmonious motions; and these are sister sciences—as the Pythagoreans say, and
we, Glaucon, agree with them?
Yes, he replied.
But this, I said, is a laborious study, and therefore we had better go and learn of them;
and they will tell us whether there are any other applications of these sciences. At the
same time, we must not lose sight of our own higher object.
What is that?
There is a perfection which all knowledge ought to reach, and which our pupils ought
also to attain, and not to fall short of, as I was saying that they did in astronomy. For in
the science of harmony, as you probably know, the same thing happens. The teachers of
harmony compare the sounds and consonances which are heard only, and their labor,
like that of the astronomers, is in vain.
Yes, by heaven! he said; and 'tis as good as a play to hear them talking about their
condensed notes, as they call them; they put their ears close alongside of the strings like
persons catching a sound from their neighbor's wall—one set of them declaring that
they distinguish an intermediate note and have found the least interval which should be
the unit of measurement; the others insisting that the two sounds have passed into the
same—either party setting their ears before their understanding.
You mean, I said, those gentlemen who tease and torture the strings and rack them on
the pegs of the instrument: I might carry on the metaphor and speak after their manner
of the blows which the plectrum gives, and make accusations against the strings, both of
backwardness and forwardness to sound; but this would be tedious, and therefore I will
only say that these are not the men, and that I am referring to the Pythagoreans, of
whom I was just now proposing to inquire about harmony. For they too are in error, like
the astronomers; they investigate the numbers of the harmonies which are heard, but
they never attain to problems—that is to say, they never reach the natural harmonies of
number, or reflect why some numbers are harmonious and others not.
That, he said, is a thing of more than mortal knowledge.
A thing, I replied, which I would rather call useful; that is, if sought after with a view to
the beautiful and good; but if pursued in any other spirit, useless. Very true, he said.
Now, when all these studies reach the point of intercommunion and connection with
one another, and come to be considered in their mutual affinities, then, I think, but not
till then, will the pursuit of them have a value for our objects; otherwise there is no profit
in them.
I suspect so; but you are speaking, Socrates, of a vast work.
What do you mean? I said; the prelude, or what? Do you not know that all this is but the
prelude to the actual strain which we have to learn? For you surely would not regard the
skilled mathematician as a dialectician?
Assuredly not, he said; I have hardly ever known a mathematician who was capable of
reasoning.
But do you imagine that men who are unable to give and take a reason will have the
knowledge which we require of them?
Neither can this be supposed.
And so, Glaucon, I said, we have at last arrived at the hymn of dialectic. This is that strain
which is of the intellect only, but which the faculty of sight will nevertheless be found to
imitate; for sight, as you may remember, was imagined by us after a while to behold the
real animals and stars, and last of all the sun himself. And so with dialectic; when a
person starts on the discovery of the absolute by the light of reason only, and without
any assistance of sense, and perseveres until by pure intelligence he arrives at the
perception of the absolute good, he at last finds himself at the end of the intellectual
world, as in the case of sight at the end of the visible.
Exactly, he said.
Then this is the progress which you call dialectic?
True.
But the release of the prisoners from chains, and their translation from the shadows to
the images and to the light, and the ascent from the underground den to the sun, while
in his presence they are vainly trying to look on animals and plants and the light of the
sun, but are able to perceive even with their weak eyes the images in the water (which
are divine), and are the shadows of true existence (not shadows of images cast by a light
of fire, which compared with the sun is only an image)—this power of elevating the
highest principle in the soul to the contemplation of that which is best in existence, with
which we may compare the raising of that faculty which is the very light of the body to
the sight of that which is brightest in the material and visible world—this power is given,
as I was saying, by all that study and pursuit of the arts which have been described.
I agree in what you are saying, he replied, which may be hard to believe, yet, from
another point of view, is harder still to deny. This, however, is not a theme to be treated
of in passing only, but will have to be discussed again and again. And so, whether our
conclusion be true or false, let us assume all this, and proceed at once from the prelude
or preamble to the chief strain, and describe that in like manner. Say, then, what is the
nature and what are the divisions of dialectic, and what are the paths which lead thither;
for these paths will also lead to our final rest.
Dear Glaucon, I said, you will not be able to follow me here, though I would do my best,
and you should behold not an image only, but the absolute truth, according to my
notion. Whether what I told you would or would not have been a reality I cannot
venture to say; but you would have seen something like reality; of that I am confident.
Doubtless, he replied.
But I must also remind you that the power of dialectic alone can reveal this, and only to
one who is a disciple of the previous sciences.
Of that assertion you may be as confident as of the last.
And assuredly no one will argue that there is any other method of comprehending by
any regular process all true existence, or of ascertaining what each thing is in its own
nature; for the arts in general are concerned with the desires or opinions of men, or are
cultivated with a view to production and construction, or for the preservation of such
productions and constructions; and as to the mathematical sciences which, as we were
saying, have some apprehension of true being— geometry and the like—they only
dream about being, but never can they behold the waking reality so long as they leave
the hypotheses which they use unexamined, and are unable to give an account of them.
For when a man knows not his own first principle, and when the conclusion and
intermediate steps are also constructed out of he knows not what, how can he imagine
that such a fabric of convention can ever become science?
Impossible, he said.
Then dialectic, and dialectic alone, goes directly to the first principle and is the only
science which does away with hypotheses in order to make her ground secure; the eye
of the soul, which is literally buried in an outlandish slough, is by her gentle aid lifted
upward; and she uses as handmaids and helpers in the work of conversion, the sciences
which we have been discussing. Custom terms them sciences, but they ought to have
some other name, implying greater clearness than opinion and less clearness than
science: and this, in our previous sketch, was called understanding. But why should we
dispute about names when we have realities of such importance to consider? Why,
indeed, he said, when any name will do which expresses the thought of the mind with
clearness?
At any rate, we are satisfied, as before, to have four divisions; two for intellect and two
for opinion, and to call the first division science, the second understanding, the third
belief, and the fourth perception of shadows, opinion being concerned with becoming,
and intellect with being; and so to make a proportion:
"As being is to becoming, so is pure intellect to opinion. And as intellect is to opinion, so
is science to belief, and understand ing to the perception of shadows."
But let us defer the further correlation and subdivision of the subjects of opinion and of
intellect, for it will be a long inquiry, many times longer than this has been.
As far as I understand, he said, I agree.
And do you also agree, I said, in describing the dialectician as one who attains a
conception of the essence of each thing? And he who does not possess and is therefore
unable to impart this conception, in whatever degree he fails, may in that degree also be
said to fail in intelligence? Will you admit so much?
Yes, he said; how can I deny it?
And you would say the same of the conception of the good?
Until the person is able to abstract and define rationally the idea of good, and unless he
can run the gauntlet of all objections, and is ready to disprove them, not by appeals to
opinion, but to absolute truth, never faltering at any step of the argument—unless he
can do all this, you would say that he knows neither the idea of good nor any other
good; he apprehends only a shadow, if anything at all, which is given by opinion, and
not by science; dreaming and slumbering in this life, before he is well awake here, he
arrives at the world below, and has his final quietus.
In all that I should most certainly agree with you.
And surely you would not have the children of your ideal State, whom you are nurturing
and educating—if the ideal ever becomes a reality—you would not allow the future
rulers to be like posts, having no reason in them, and yet to be set in authority over the
highest matters?
Certainly not.
Then you will make a law that they shall have such an education as will enable them to
attain the greatest skill in asking and answering questions?
Yes, he said, you and I together will make it.
Dialectic, then, as you will agree, is the coping-stone of the sciences, and is set over
them; no other science can be placed higher—the nature of knowledge can no further
go?
I agree, he said.
But to whom we are to assign these studies, and in what way they are to be assigned,
are questions which remain to be considered.
Yes, clearly.
You remember, I said, how the rulers were chosen before?
Certainly, he said.
The same natures must still be chosen, and the preference again given to the surest and
the bravest, and, if possible, to the fairest; and, having noble and generous tempers,
they should also have the natural gifts which will facilitate their education.
And what are these?
Such gifts as keenness and ready powers of acquisition; for the mind more often faints
from the severity of study than from the severity of gymnastics: the toil is more entirely
the mind's own, and is not shared with the body.
Very true, he replied.
Further, he of whom we are in search should have a good memory, and be an unwearied
solid man who is a lover of labor in any line; or he will never be able to endure the great
amount of bodily exercise and to go through all the intellectual discipline and study
which we require of him.
Certainly, he said; he must have natural gifts.
The mistake at present is that those who study philosophy have no vocation, and this, as
I was before saying, is the reason why she has fallen into disrepute: her true sons should
take her by the hand, and not bastards.
What do you mean?
In the first place, her votary should not have a lame or halting industry—I mean, that he
should not be half industrious and half idle: as, for example, when a man is a lover of
gymnastics and hunting, and all other bodily exercises, but a hater rather than a lover of
the labor of learning or listening or inquiring. Or the occupation to which he devotes
himself may be of an opposite kind, and he may have the other sort of lameness.
Certainly, he said.
And as to truth, I said, is not a soul equally to be deemed halt and lame which hates
voluntary falsehood and is extremely indignant at herself and others when they tell lies,
but is patient of involuntary falsehood, and does not mind wallowing like a swinish
beast in the mire of ignorance, and has no shame at being detected?
To be sure.
And, again, in respect of temperance, courage, magnificence, and every other virtue,
should we not carefully distinguish between the true son and the bastard? for where
there is no discernment of such qualities, States and individuals unconsciously err; and
the State makes a ruler, and the individual a friend, of one who, being defective in some
part of virtue, is in a figure lame or a bastard.
That is very true, he said.
All these things, then, will have to be carefully considered by us; and if only those whom
we introduce to this vast system of education and training are sound in body and mind,
justice herself will have nothing to say against us, and we shall be the saviours of the
constitution and of the State; but, if our pupils are men of another stamp, the reverse
will happen, and we shall pour a still greater flood of ridicule on philosophy than she has
to endure at present.
That would not be creditable.
Certainly not, I said; and yet perhaps, in thus turning jest into earnest I am equally
ridiculous.
In what respect?
I had forgotten, I said, that we were not serious, and spoke with too much excitement.
For when I saw philosophy so undeservedly trampled under foot of men I could not help
feeling a sort of indignation at the authors of her disgrace: and my anger made me too
vehement.
Indeed! I was listening, and did not think so.
But I, who am the speaker, felt that I was. And now let me remind you that, although in
our former selection we chose old men, we must not do so in this. Solon was under a
delusion when he said that a man when he grows old may learn many things—for he
can no more learn much than he can run much; youth is the time for any extraordinary
toil.
Of course.
And, therefore, calculation and geometry and all the other elements of instruction,
which are a preparation for dialectic, should be presented to the mind in childhood; not,
however, under any notion of forcing our system of education.
Why not?
Because a freeman ought not to be a slave in the acquisition of knowledge of any kind.
Bodily exercise, when compulsory, does no harm to the body; but knowledge which is
acquired under compulsion obtains no hold on the mind.
Very true.
Then, my good friend, I said, do not use compulsion, but let early education be a sort of
amusement; you will then be better able to find out the natural bent.
That is a very rational notion, he said.
Do you remember that the children, too, were to be taken to see the battle on
horseback; and that if there were no danger they were to be brought close up and, like
young hounds, have a taste of blood given them?
Yes, I remember.
The same practice may be followed, I said, in all these things —labors, lessons,
dangers—and he who is most at home in all of them ought to be enrolled in a select
number.
At what age?
At the age when the necessary gymnastics are over: the period, whether of two or three
years, which passes in this sort of training is useless for any other purpose; for sleep and
exercise are unpropitious to learning; and the trial of who is first in gymnastic exercises
is one of the most important tests to which our youth are subjected.
Certainly, he replied.
After that time those who are selected from the class of twenty years old will be
promoted to higher honor, and the sciences which they learned without any order in
their early education will now be brought together, and they will be able to see the
natural relationship of them to one another and to true being.
Yes, he said, that is the only kind of knowledge which takes lasting root.
Yes, I said; and the capacity for such knowledge is the great criterion of dialectical talent:
the comprehensive mind is always the dialectical.
I agree with you, he said.
These, I said, are the points which you must consider; and those who have most of this
comprehension, and who are most steadfast in their learning, and in their military and
other appointed duties, when they have arrived at the age of thirty will have to be
chosen by you out of the select class, and elevated to higher honor; and you will have to
prove them by the help of dialectic, in order to learn which of them is able to give up
the use of sight and the other senses, and in company with truth to attain absolute
being: And here, my friend, great caution is required.
Why great caution?
Do you not remark, I said, how great is the evil which dialectic has introduced?
What evil? he said.
The students of the art are filled with lawlessness.
Quite true, he said.
Do you think that there is anything so very unnatural or inexcusable in their case? or will
you make allowance for them?
In what way make allowance?
I want you, I said, by way of parallel, to imagine a supposititious son who is brought up
in great wealth; he is one of a great and numerous family, and has many flatterers.
When he grows up to manhood, he learns that his alleged are not his real parents; but
who the real are he is unable to discover. Can you guess how he will be likely to behave
toward his flatterers and his supposed parents, first of all during the period when he is
ignorant of the false relation, and then again when he knows? Or shall I guess for you?
If you please.
Then I should say that while he is ignorant of the truth he will be likely to honor his
father and his mother and his supposed relations more than the flatterers; he will be less
inclined to neglect them when in need, or to do or say anything against them; and he
will be less willing to disobey them in any important matter.
He will.
But when he has made the discovery, I should imagine that he would diminish his honor
and regard for them, and would become more devoted to the flatterers; their influence
over him would greatly increase; he would now live after their ways, and openly
associate with them, and, unless he were of an unusually good disposition, he would
trouble himself no more about his supposed parents or other relations.
Well, all that is very probable. But how is the image applicable to the disciples of
philosophy?
In this way: you know that there are certain principles about justice and honor, which
were taught us in childhood, and under their parental authority we have been brought
up, obeying and honoring them.
That is true.
There are also opposite maxims and habits of pleasure which flatter and attract the soul,
but do not influence those of us who have any sense of right, and they continue to obey
and honor the maxims of their fathers.
True.
Now, when a man is in this state, and the questioning spirit asks what is fair or
honorable, and he answers as the legislator has taught him, and then arguments many
and diverse refute his words, until he is driven into believing that nothing is honorable
any more than dishonorable, or just and good any more than the reverse, and so of all
the notions which he most valued, do you think that he will still honor and obey them as
before?
Impossible.
And when he ceases to think them honorable and natural as heretofore, and he fails to
discover the true, can he be expected to pursue any life other than that which flatters his
desires?
He cannot.
And from being a keeper of the law he is converted into a breaker of it?
Unquestionably.
Now all this is very natural in students of philosophy such as I have described, and also,
as I was just now saying, most excusable.
Yes, he said; and, I may add, pitiable.
Therefore, that your feelings may not be moved to pity about our citizens who are now
thirty years of age, every care must be taken in introducing them to dialectic.
Certainly.
There is a danger lest they should taste the dear delight too early; for youngsters, as you
may have observed, when they first get the taste in their mouths, argue for amusement,
and are always contradicting and refuting others in imitation of those who refute them;
like puppy-dogs, they rejoice in pulling and tearing at all who come near them.
Yes, he said, there is nothing which they like better.
And when they have made many conquests and received defeats at the hands of many,
they violently and speedily get into a way of not believing anything which they believed
before, and hence, not only they, but philosophy and all that relates to it is apt to have a
bad name with the rest of the world.
Too true, he said.
But when a man begins to get older, he will no longer be guilty of such insanity; he will
imitate the dialectician who is seeking for truth, and not the eristic, who is contradicting
for the sake of amusement; and the greater moderation of his character will increase
instead of diminishing the honor of the pursuit.
Very true, he said.
And did we not make special provision for this, when we said that the disciples of
philosophy were to be orderly and steadfast, not, as now, any chance aspirant or
intruder?
Very true.
Suppose, I said, the study of philosophy to take the place of gymnastics and to be
continued diligently and earnestly and exclusively for twice the number of years which
were passed in bodily exercise—will that be enough?
Would you say six or four years? he asked.
Say five years, I replied; at the end of the time they must be sent down again into the
den and compelled to hold any military or other office which young men are qualified to
hold: in this way they will get their experience of life, and there will be an opportunity of
trying whether, when they are drawn all manner of ways by temptation, they will stand
firm or flinch.
And how long is this stage of their lives to last?
Fifteen years, I answered; and when they have reached fifty years of age, then let those
who still survive and have distinguished themselves in every action of their lives, and in
every branch of knowledge, come at last to their consummation: the time has now
arrived at which they must raise the eye of the soul to the universal light which lightens
all things, and behold the absolute good; for that is the pattern according to which they
are to order the State and the lives of individuals, and the remainder of their own lives
also; making philosophy their chief pursuit, but, when their turn comes, toiling also at
politics and ruling for the public good, not as though they were performing some heroic
action, but simply as a matter of duty; and when they have brought up in each
generation others like themselves and left them in their place to be governors of the
State, then they will depart to the Islands of the Blessed and dwell there; and the city will
give them public memorials and sacrifices and honor them, if the Pythian oracle
consent, as demigods, but if not, as in any case blessed and divine.
You are a sculptor, Socrates, and have made statues of our governors faultless in beauty.
Yes, I said, Glaucon, and of our governesses too; for you must not suppose that what I
have been saying applies to men only and not to women as far as their natures can go.
There you are right, he said, since we have made them to share in all things like the
men.
Well, I said, and you would agree (would you not?) that what has been said about the
State and the government is not a mere dream, and although difficult, not impossible,
but only possible in the way which has been supposed; that is to say, when the true
philosopher-kings are born in a State, one or more of them, despising the honors of this
present world which they deem mean and worthless, esteeming above all things right
and the honor that springs from right, and regarding justice as the greatest and most
necessary of all things, whose ministers they are, and whose principles will be exalted by
them when they set in order their own city?
How will they proceed?
They will begin by sending out into the country all the inhabitants of the city who are
more than ten years old, and will take possession of their children, who will be
unaffected by the habits of their parents; these they will train in their own habits and
laws, I mean in the laws which we have given them: and in this way the State and
constitution of which we were speaking will soonest and most easily attain happiness,
and the nation which has such a constitution will gain most.
Yes, that will be the best way. And I think, Socrates, that you have very well described
how, if ever, such a constitution might come into being. Enough, then, of the perfect
State, and of the man who bears its image—there is no difficulty in seeing how we shall
describe him.
There is no difficulty, he replied; and I agree with you in thinking that nothing more
need be said.

BOOK VIII
FOUR FORMS OF
GOVERNMENT
(SOCRATES, GLAUCON.)
AND so, Glaucon, we have arrived at the conclusion that in the perfect State wives and
children are to be in common; and that all education and the pursuits of war and peace
are also to be common, and the best philosophers and the bravest warriors are to be
their kings?
That, replied Glaucon, has been acknowledged.
Yes, I said; and we have further acknowledged that the governors, when appointed
themselves, will take their soldiers and place them in houses such as we were describing,
which are common to all, and contain nothing private, or individual; and about their
property, you remember what we agreed?
Yes, I remember that no one was to have any of the ordinary possessions of mankind;
they were to be warrior athletes and guardians, receiving from the other citizens, in lieu
of annual payment, only their maintenance, and they were to take care of themselves
and of the whole State.
True, I said; and now that this division of our task is concluded, let us find the point at
which we digressed, that we may return into the old path.
There is no difficulty in returning; you implied, then as now, that you had finished the
description of the State: you said that such a State was good, and that the man was
good who answered to it, although, as now appears, you had more excellent things to
relate both of State and man. And you said further, that if this was the true form, then
the others were false; and of the false forms, you said, as I remember, that there were
four principal ones, and that their defects, and the defects of the individuals
corresponding to them, were worth examining. When we had seen all the individuals,
and finally agreed as to who was the best and who was the worst of them, we were to
consider whether the best was not also the happiest, and the worst the most miserable. I
asked you what were the four forms of government of which you spoke, and then
Polemarchus and Adeimantus put in their word; and you began again, and have found
your way to the point at which we have now arrived.
Your recollection, I said, is most exact.
Then, like a wrestler, he replied, you must put yourself again in the same position; and
let me ask the same questions, and do you give me the same answer which you were
about to give me then.
Yes, if I can, I will, I said.
I shall particularly wish to hear what were the four constitutions of which you were
speaking.
That question, I said, is easily answered: the four governments of which I spoke, so far as
they have distinct names, are first, those of Crete and Sparta, which are generally
applauded; what is termed oligarchy comes next; this is not equally approved, and is a
form of government which teems with evils: thirdly, democracy, which naturally follows
oligarchy, although very different: and lastly comes tyranny, great and famous, which
differs from them all, and is the fourth and worst disorder of a State. I do not know, do
you? of any other constitution which can be said to have a distinct character. There are
lordships and principalities which are bought and sold, and some other intermediate
forms of government. But these are nondescripts and may be found equally among
Hellenes and among barbarians.
Yes, he replied, we certainly hear of many curious forms of government which exist
among them.
Do you know, I said, that governments vary as the dispositions of men vary, and that
there must be as many of the one as there are of the other? For we cannot suppose that
States are made of "oak and rock," and not out of the human natures which are in them,
and which in a figure turn the scale and draw other things after them?
Yes, he said, the States are as the men are; they grow out of human characters.
Then if the constitutions of States are five, the dispositions of individual minds will also
be five?
Certainly.
Him who answers to aristocracy, and whom we rightly call just and good, we have
already described.
We have.
Then let us now proceed to describe the inferior sort of natures, being the contentious
and ambitious, who answer to the Spartan polity; also the oligarchical, democratical, and
tyrannical. Let us place the most just by the side of the most unjust, and when we see
them we shall be able to compare the relative happiness or unhappiness of him who
leads a life of pure justice or pure injustice. The inquiry will then be completed. And we
shall know whether we ought to pursue injustice, as Thrasymachus advises, or in
accordance with the conclusions of the argument to prefer justice.
Certainly, he replied, we must do as you say.
Shall we follow our old plan, which we adopted with a view to clearness, of taking the
State first and then proceeding to the individual, and begin with the government of
honor?—I know of no name for such a government other than timocracy or perhaps
timarchy. We will compare with this the like character in the individual; and, after that,
consider oligarchy and the oligarchical man; and then again we will turn our attention to
democracy and the democratical man; and lastly, we will go and view the city of tyranny,
and once more take a look into the tyrant's soul, and try to arrive at a satisfactory
decision.
That way of viewing and judging of the matter will be very suitable.
First, then, I said, let us inquire how timocracy (the government of honor) arises out of
aristocracy (the government of the best). Clearly, all political changes originate in
divisions of the actual governing power; a government which is united, however small,
cannot be moved.
Very true, he said.
In what way, then, will our city be moved, and in what manner will the two classes of
auxiliaries and rulers disagree among themselves or with one another? Shall we, after
the manner of Homer, pray the muses to tell us "how discord first arose"? Shall we
imagine them in solemn mockery, to play and jest with us as if we were children, and to
address us in a lofty tragic vein, making believe to be in earnest?
How would they address us?
After this manner: A city which is thus constituted can hardly be shaken; but, seeing that
everything which has a beginning has also an end, even a constitution such as yours will
not last forever, but will in time be dissolved. And this is the dissolution: In plants that
grow in the earth, as well as in animals that move on the earth's surface, fertility and
sterility of soul and body occur when the circumferences of the circles of each are
completed, which in short-lived existences pass over a short space, and in long-lived
ones over a long space. But to the knowledge of human fecundity and sterility all the
wisdom and education of your rulers will not attain; the laws which regulate them will
not be discovered by an intelligence which is alloyed with sense, but will escape them,
and they will bring children into the world when they ought not. Now that which is of
divine birth has a period which is contained in a perfect number, but the period of
human birth is comprehended in a number in which first increments by involution and
evolution (or squared and cubed) obtaining three intervals and four terms of like and
unlike, waxing and waning numbers, make all the terms commensurable and agreeable
to one another. The base of these (3) with a third added (4), when combined with five
(20) and raised to the third power, furnishes two harmonies; the first a square which is
100 times as great (400 = 4 x 100), and the other a figure having one side equal to the
former, but oblong, consisting of 100 numbers squared upon rational diameters of a
square (i.e., omitting fractions), the side of which is five (7 x 7 = 49 x 100 = 4900), each
of them being less by one (than the perfect square which includes the fractions, sc. 50)
or less by two perfect squares of irrational diameters (of a square the side of which is
five = 50 + 50 = 100); and 100 cubes of three (27 x 100 = 2700 + 4900 + 400 = 8000).
Now this number represents a geometrical figure which has control over the good and
evil of births. For when your guardians are ignorant of the law of births, and unite bride
and bridegroom out of season, the children will not be goodly or fortunate. And though
only the best of them will be appointed by their predecessor, still they will be unworthy
to hold their father's places, and when they come into power as guardians they will soon
be found to fail in taking care of us, the muses, first by undervaluing music; which
neglect will soon extend to gymnastics; and hence the young men of your State will be
less cultivated. In the succeeding generation rulers will be appointed who have lost the
guardian power of testing the metal of your different races, which, like Hesiod's, are of
gold and silver and brass and iron. And so iron will be mingled with silver, and brass
with gold, and hence there will arise dissimilarity and inequality and irregularity, which
always and in all places are causes of hatred and war. This the muses affirm to be the
stock from which discord has sprung, wherever arising; and this is their answer to us.
Yes, and we may assume that they answer truly.
Why, yes, I said, of course they answer truly; how can the muses speak falsely?
And what do the muses say next?
When discord arose, then the two races were drawn different ways: the iron and brass
fell to acquiring money, and land, and houses, and gold, and silver; but the gold and
silver races, not wanting money, but having the true riches in their own nature, inclined
toward virtue and the ancient order of things. There was a battle between them, and at
last they agreed to distribute their land and houses among individual owners; and they
enslaved their friends and maintainers, whom they had formerly protected in the
condition of freemen, and made of them subjects and servants; and they themselves
were engaged in war and in keeping a watch against them.
I believe that you have rightly conceived the origin of the change.
And the new government which thus arises will be of a form intermediate between
oligarchy and aristocracy?
Very true.
Such will be the change, and after the change has been made, how will they proceed?
Clearly, the new State, being in a mean between oligarchy and the perfect State, will
partly follow one and partly the other, and will also have some peculiarities.
True, he said.
In the honor given to rulers, in the abstinence of the warriorclass from agriculture,
handicrafts, and trade in general, in the institution of common meals, and in the
attention paid to gymnastics and military training—in all these respects this State will
resemble the former.
True.
But in the fear of admitting philosophers to power, because they are no longer to be
had simple and earnest, but are made up of mixed elements; and in turning from them
to passionate and less complex characters, who are by nature fitted for war rather than
peace; and in the value set by them upon military stratagems and contrivances, and in
the waging of everlasting wars—this State will be for the most part peculiar.
Yes.
Yes, I said; and men of this stamp will be covetous of money, like those who live in
oligarchies; they will have a fierce secret longing after gold and silver, which they will
hoard in dark places, having magazines and treasuries of their own for the deposit and
concealment of them; also castles which are just nests for their eggs, and in which they
will spend large sums on their wives, or on any others whom they please.
That is most true, he said.
And they are miserly because they have no means of openly acquiring the money which
they prize; they will spend that which is another man's on the gratification of their
desires, stealing their pleasures and running away like children from the law, their father:
they have been schooled not by gentle influences but by force, for they have neglected
her who is the true muse, the companion of reason and philosophy, and have honored
gymnastics more than music.
Undoubtedly, he said, the form of government which you describe is a mixture of good
and evil.
Why, there is a mixture, I said; but one thing, and one thing only, is predominantly
seen—the spirit of contention and ambition; and these are due to the prevalence of the
passionate or spirited element.
Assuredly, he said.
Such is the origin and such the character of this State, which has been described in
outline only; the more perfect execution was not required, for a sketch is enough to
show the type of the most perfectly just and most perfectly unjust; and to go through all
the States and all the characters of men, omitting none of them, would be an
interminable labor.
Very true, he replied.
Now what man answers to this form of government—how did he come into being, and
what is he like?
I think, said Adeimantus, that in the spirit of contention which characterizes him, he is
not unlike our friend Glaucon.
Perhaps, I said, he may be like him in that one point; but there are other respects in
which he is very different.
In what respects?
He should have more of self-assertion and be less cultivated and yet a friend of culture;
and he should be a good listener but no speaker. Such a person is apt to be rough with
slaves, unlike the educated man, who is too proud for that; and he will also be courteous
to freemen, and remarkably obedient to authority; he is a lover of power and a lover of
honor; claiming to be a ruler, not because he is eloquent, or on any ground of that sort,
but because he is a soldier and has performed feats of arms; he is also a lover of
gymnastic exercises and of the chase.
Yes, that is the type of character that answers to timocracy.
Such a one will despise riches only when he is young; but as he gets older he will be
more and more attracted to them, because he has a piece of the avaricious nature in
him, and is not single-minded toward virtue, having lost his best guardian.
Who was that? said Adeimantus.
Philosophy, I said, tempered with music, who comes and takes up her abode in a man,
and is the only saviour of his virtue throughout life.
Good, he said.
Such, I said, is the timocratical youth, and he is like the timocratical State.
Exactly.
His origin is as follows: He is often the young son of a brave father, who dwells in an illgoverned
city, of which he declines the honors and offices, and will not go to law, or
exert himself in any way, but is ready to waive his rights in order that he may escape
trouble.
And how does the son come into being?
The character of the son begins to develop when he hears his mother complaining that
her husband has no place in the government, of which the consequence is that she has
no precedence among other women. Further, when she sees her husband not very
eager about money, and instead of battling and railing in the law courts or assembly,
taking whatever happens to him quietly; and when she observes that his thoughts
always centre in himself, while he treats her with very considerable indifference, she is
annoyed, and says to her son that his father is only half a man and far too easy-going:
adding all the other complaints about her own ill-treatment which women are so fond
of rehearsing.
Yes, said Adeimantus, they give us plenty of them, and their complaints are so like
themselves.
And you know, I said, that the old servants also, who are supposed to be attached to the
family, from time to time talk privately in the same strain to the son; and if they see
anyone who owes money to his father, or is wronging him in any way, and he fails to
prosecute them, they tell the youth that when he grows up he must retaliate upon
people of this sort, and be more of a man than his father. He has only to walk abroad
and he hears and sees the same sort of thing: those who do their own business in the
city are called simpletons, and held in no esteem, while the busy-bodies are honored
and applauded. The result is that the young man, hearing and seeing all these things —
hearing, too, the words of his father, and having a nearer view of his way of life, and
making comparisons of him and others—is drawn opposite ways: while his father is
watering and nourishing the rational principle in his soul, the others are encouraging the
passionate and appetitive; and he being not originally of a bad nature, but having kept
bad company, is at last brought by their joint influence to a middle point, and gives up
the kingdom which is within him to the middle principle of contentiousness and passion,
and becomes arrogant and ambitious.
You seem to me to have described his origin perfectly.
Then we have now, I said, the second form of government and the second type of
character?
We have.
Next, let us look at another man who, as AEschylus says,
"Is set over against another State;"
or rather, as our plan requires, begin with the State.
By all means.
I believe that oligarchy follows next in order.
And what manner of government do you term oligarchy?
A government resting on a valuation of property, in which the rich have power and the
poor man is deprived of it.
I understand, he replied.
Ought I not to begin by describing how the change from timocracy to oligarchy arises?
Yes.
Well, I said, no eyes are required in order to see how the one passes into the other.
How?
The accumulation of gold in the treasury of private individuals is the ruin of timocracy;
they invent illegal modes of expenditure; for what do they or their wives care about the
law?
Yes, indeed.
And then one, seeing another grow rich, seeks to rival him, and thus the great mass of
the citizens become lovers of money.
Likely enough.
And so they grow richer and richer, and the more they think of making a fortune the less
they think of virtue; for when riches and virtue are placed together in the scales of the
balance the one always rises as the other falls.
True.
And in proportion as riches and rich men are honored in the State, virtue and the
virtuous are dishonored.
Clearly.
And what is honored is cultivated, and that which has no honor is neglected.
That is obvious.
And so at last, instead of loving contention and glory, men become lovers of trade and
money; they honor and look up to the rich man, and make a ruler of him, and dishonor
the poor man.
They do so.
They next proceed to make a law which fixes a sum of money as the qualification of
citizenship; the sum is higher in one place and lower in another, as the oligarchy is more
or less exclusive; and they allow no one whose property falls below the amount fixed to
have any share in the government. These changes in the constitution they effect by
force of arms, if intimidation has not already done their work.
Very true.
And this, speaking generally, is the way in which oligarchy is established.
Yes, he said; but what are the characteristics of this form of government, and what are
the defects of which we were speaking?
First of all, I said, consider the nature of the qualification Just think what would happen if
pilots were to be chosen according to their property, and a poor man were refused
permission to steer, even though he were a better pilot?
You mean that they would shipwreck?
Yes; and is not this true of the government of anything?
I should imagine so.
Except a city?—or would you include a city?
Nay, he said, the case of a city is the strongest of all, inasmuch as the rule of a city is the
greatest and most difficult of all.
This, then, will be the first great defect of oligarchy?
Clearly.
And here is another defect which is quite as bad.
What defect?
The inevitable division: such a State is not one, but two States, the one of poor, the
other of rich men; and they are living on the same spot and always conspiring against
one another.
That, surely, is at least as bad.
Another discreditable feature is, that, for a like reason, they are incapable of carrying on
any war. Either they arm the multitude, and then they are more afraid of them than of
the enemy; or, if they do not call them out in the hour of battle, they are oligarchs
indeed, few to fight as they are few to rule. And at the same time their fondness for
money makes them unwilling to pay taxes.
How discreditable!
And, as we said before, under such a constitution the same persons have too many
callings—they are husbandmen, tradesmen, warriors, all in one. Does that look well?
Anything but well.
There is another evil which is, perhaps, the greatest of all, and to which this State first
begins to be liable.
What evil?
A man may sell all that he has, and another may acquire his property; yet after the sale
he may dwell in the city of which he is no longer a part, being neither trader, nor artisan,
nor horseman, nor hoplite, but only a poor, helpless creature.
Yes, that is an evil which also first begins in this State.
The evil is certainly not prevented there; for oligarchies have both the extremes of great
wealth and utter poverty.
True.
But think again: In his wealthy days, while he was spending his money, was a man of this
sort a whit more good to the State for the purposes of citizenship? Or did he only seem
to be a member of the ruling body, although in truth he was neither ruler nor subject,
but just a spendthrift?
As you say, he seemed to be a ruler, but was only a spendthrift.
May we not say that this is the drone in the house who is like the drone in the
honeycomb, and that the one is the plague of the city as the other is of the hive?
Just so, Socrates.
And God has made the flying drones, Adeimantus, all without stings, whereas of the
walking drones he has made some without stings, but others have dreadful stings; of
the stingless class are those who in their old age end as paupers; of the stingers come
all the criminal class, as they are termed.
Most true, he said.
Clearly then, whenever you see paupers in a State, somewhere in that neighborhood
there are hidden away thieves and cut-purses and robbers of temples, and all sorts of
malefactors.
Clearly.
Well, I said, and in oligarchical States do you not find paupers?
Yes, he said; nearly everybody is a pauper who is not a ruler.
And may we be so bold as to affirm that there are also many criminals to be found in
them, rogues who have stings, and whom the authorities are careful to restrain by force?
Certainly, we may be so bold.
The existence of such persons is to be attributed to want of education, ill-training, and
an evil constitution of the State?
True.
Such, then, is the form and such are the evils of oligarchy; and there may be many other
evils.
Very likely.
Then oligarchy, or the form of government in which the rulers are elected for their
wealth, may now be dismissed. Let us next proceed to consider the nature and origin of
the individual who answers to this State.
By all means.
Does not the timocratical man change into the oligarchical on this wise?
How?
A time arrives when the representative of timocracy has a son: at first he begins by
emulating his father and walking in his footsteps, but presently he sees him of a sudden
foundering against the State as upon a sunken reef, and he and all that he has are lost;
he may have been a general or some other high officer who is brought to trial under a
prejudice raised by informers, and either put to death or exiled or deprived of the
privileges of a citizen, and all his property taken from him.
Nothing more likely.
And the son has seen and known all this—he is a ruined man, and his fear has taught
him to knock ambition and passion headforemost from his bosom's throne; humbled by
poverty he takes to money-making, and by mean and miserly savings and hard work
gets a fortune together. Is not such a one likely to seat the concupiscent and covetous
element on the vacant throne and to suffer it to play the great king within him, girt with
tiara and chain and scimitar?
Most true, he replied.
And when he has made reason and spirit sit down on the ground obediently on either
side of their sovereign, and taught them to know their place, he compels the one to
think only of how lesser sums may be turned into larger ones, and will not allow the
other to worship and admire anything but riches and rich men, or to be ambitious of
anything so much as the acquisition of wealth and the means of acquiring it.
Of all changes, he said, there is none so speedy or so sure as the conversion of the
ambitious youth into the avaricious one.
And the avaricious, I said, is the oligarchical youth?
Yes, he said; at any rate the individual out of whom he came is like the State out of
which oligarchy came.
Let us then consider whether there is any likeness between them.
Very good.
First, then, they resemble one another in the value which they set upon wealth?
Certainly.
Also in their penurious, laborious character; the individual only satisfies his necessary
appetites, and confines his expenditure to them; his other desires he subdues, under the
idea that they are unprofitable.
True.
He is a shabby fellow, who saves something out of everything and makes a purse for
himself; and this is the sort of man whom the vulgar applaud. Is he not a true image of
the State which he represents?
He appears to me to be so; at any rate money is highly valued by him as well as by the
State.
You see that he is not a man of cultivation, I said.
I imagine not, he said; had he been educated he would never have made a blind god
director of his chorus, or given him chief honor.
Excellent! I said. Yet consider: Must we not further admit that owing to this want of
cultivation there will be found in him drone-like desires as of pauper and rogue, which
are forcibly kept down by his general habit of life?
True.
Do you know where you will have to look if you want to discover his rogueries?
Where must I look?
You should see him where he has some great opportunity of acting dishonestly, as in
the guardianship of an orphan.
Aye.
It will be clear enough then that in his ordinary dealings which give him a reputation for
honesty, he coerces his bad passions by an enforced virtue; not making them see that
they are wrong, or taming them by reason, but by necessity and fear constraining them,
and because he trembles for his possessions.
To be sure.
Yes, indeed, my dear friend, but you will find that the natural desires of the drone
commonly exist in him all the same whenever he has to spend what is not his own.
Yes, and they will be strong in him, too.
The man, then, will be at war with himself; he will be two men, and not one; but, in
general, his better desires will be found to prevail over his inferior ones.
True.
For these reasons such a one will be more respectable than most people; yet the true
virtue of a unanimous and harmonious soul will flee far away and never come near him.
I should expect so.
And surely the miser individually will be an ignoble competitor in a State for any prize of
victory, or other object of honorable ambition; he will not spend his money in the
contest for glory; so afraid is he of awakening his expensive appetites and inviting them
to help and join in the struggle; in true oligarchical fashion he fights with a small part
only of his resources, and the result commonly is that he loses the prize and saves his
money.
Very true.
Can we any longer doubt, then, that the miser and moneymaker answers to the
oligarchical State?
There can be no doubt.
Next comes democracy; of this the origin and nature have still to be considered by us;
and then we will inquire into the ways of the democratic man, and bring him up for
judgment.
That, he said, is our method.
Well, I said, and how does the change from oligarchy into democracy arise? Is it not on
this wise: the good at which such a State aims is to become as rich as possible, a desire
which is insatiable?
What then?
The rulers being aware that their power rests upon their wealth, refuse to curtail by law
the extravagance of the spendthrift youth because they gain by their ruin; they take
interest from them and buy up their estates and thus increase their own wealth and
importance?
To be sure.
There can be no doubt that the love of wealth and the spirit of moderation cannot exist
together in citizens of the same State to any considerable extent; one or the other will
be disregarded.
That is tolerably clear.
And in oligarchical States, from the general spread of carelessness and extravagance,
men of good family have often been reduced to beggary?
Yes, often.
And still they remain in the city; there they are, ready to sting and fully armed, and some
of them owe money, some have forfeited their citizenship; a third class are in both
predicaments; and they hate and conspire against those who have got their property,
and against everybody else, and are eager for revolution.
That is true.
On the other hand, the men of business, stooping as they walk, and pretending not even
to see those whom they have already ruined, insert their sting—that is, their money—
into someone else who is not on his guard against them, and recover the parent sum
many times over multiplied into a family of children: and so they make drone and
pauper to abound in the State.
Yes, he said, there are plenty of them—that is certain.
The evil blazes up like a fire; and they will not extinguish it either by restricting a man's
use of his own property, or by another remedy.
What other?
One which is the next best, and has the advantage of compelling the citizens to look to
their characters: Let there be a general rule that everyone shall enter into voluntary
contracts at his own risk, and there will be less of this scandalous moneymaking, and the
evils of which we were speaking will be greatly lessened in the State.
Yes, they will be greatly lessened.
At present the governors, induced by the motives which I have named, treat their
subjects badly; while they and their adherents, especially the young men of the
governing class, are habituated to lead a life of luxury and idleness both of body and
mind; they do nothing, and are incapable of resisting either pleasure or pain.
Very true.
They themselves care only for making money, and are as indifferent as the pauper to the
cultivation of virtue.
Yes, quite as indifferent.
Such is the state of affairs which prevails among them. And often rulers and their
subjects may come in one another's way, whether on a journey or on some other
occasion of meeting, on a pilgrimage or a march, as fellow-soldiers or fellowsailors; aye,
and they may observe the behavior of each other in the very moment of danger—for
where danger is, there is no fear that the poor will be despised by the rich—and very
likely the wiry, sunburnt poor man may be placed in battle at the side of a wealthy one
who has never spoilt his complexion and has plenty of superfluous flesh—when he sees
such a one puffing and at his wits'-end, how can he avoid drawing the conclusion that
men like him are only rich because no one has the courage to despoil them? And when
they meet in private will not people be saying to one another, "Our warriors are not
good for much"?
Yes, he said, I am quite aware that this is their way of talking.
And, as in a body which is diseased the addition of a touch from without may bring on
illness, and sometimes even when there is no external provocation, a commotion may
arise within—in the same way wherever there is weakness in the State there is also likely
to be illness, of which the occasion may be very slight, the one party introducing from
without their oligarchical, the other their democratical allies, and then the State falls sick,
and is at war with herself; and may be at times distracted, even when there is no external
cause.
Yes, surely.
And then democracy comes into being after the poor have conquered their opponents,
slaughtering some and banishing some, while to the remainder they give an equal share
of freedom and power; and this is the form of government in which the magistrates are
commonly elected by lot.
Yes, he said, that is the nature of democracy, whether the revolution has been effected
by arms, or whether fear has caused the opposite party to withdraw.
And now what is their manner of life, and what sort of a government have they? for as
the government is, such will be the man.
Clearly, he said.
In the first place, are they not free; and is not the city full of freedom and frankness—a
man may say and do what he likes?
'Tis said so, he replied.
And where freedom is, the individual is clearly able to order for himself his own life as he
pleases?
Clearly.
Then in this kind of State there will be the greatest variety of human natures?
There will.
This, then, seems likely to be the fairest of States, being like an embroidered robe which
is spangled with every sort of flower. And just as women and children think a variety of
colors to be of all things most charming, so there are many men to whom this State,
which is spangled with the manners and characters of mankind, will appear to be the
fairest of States.
Yes.
Yes, my good sir, and there will be no better in which to look for a government.
Why?
Because of the liberty which reigns there—they have a complete assortment of
constitutions; and he who has a mind to establish a State, as we have been doing, must
go to a democracy as he would to a bazaar at which they sell them, and pick out the
one that suits him; then, when he has made his choice, he may found his State.
He will be sure to have patterns enough.
And there being no necessity, I said, for you to govern in this State, even if you have the
capacity, or to be governed, unless you like, or to go to war when the rest go to war, or
to be at peace when others are at peace, unless you are so disposed—there being no
necessity also, because some law forbids you to hold office or be a dicast, that you
should not hold office or be a dicast, if you have a fancy—is not this a way of life which
for the moment is supremely delightful?
For the moment, yes.
And is not their humanity to the condemned in some cases quite charming? Have you
not observed how, in a democracy, many persons, although they have been sentenced
to death or exile, just stay where they are and walk about the world— the gentleman
parades like a hero, and nobody sees or cares?
Yes, he replied, many and many a one. See, too, I said, the forgiving spirit of democracy,
and the "don't care" about trifles, and the disregard which she shows of all the fine
principles which we solemnly laid down at the foundation of the city—as when we said
that, except in the case of some rarely gifted nature, there never will be a good man
who has not from his childhood been used to play amid things of beauty and make of
them a joy and a study—how grandly does she trample all these fine notions of ours
under her feet, never giving a thought to the pursuits which make a statesman, and
promoting to honor anyone who professes to be the people's friend.
Yes, she is of a noble spirit.
These and other kindred characteristics are proper to democracy, which is a charming
form of government, full of variety and disorder, and dispensing a sort of equality to
equals and unequals alike.
We know her well.
Consider now, I said, what manner of man the individual is, or rather consider, as in the
case of the State, how he comes into being.
Very good, he said.
Is not this the way—he is the son of the miserly and oligarchical father who has trained
him in his own habits?
Exactly.
And, like his father, he keeps under by force the pleasures which are of the spending
and not of the getting sort, being those which are called unnecessary?
Obviously.
Would you like, for the sake of clearness, to distinguish which are the necessary and
which are the unnecessary pleasures?
I should.
Are not necessary pleasures those of which we cannot get rid, and of which the
satisfaction is a benefit to us? And they are rightly called so, because we are framed by
nature to desire both what is beneficial and what is necessary, and cannot help it.
True.
We are not wrong therefore in calling them necessary?
We are not.
And the desires of which a man may get rid, if he takes pains from his youth upward—of
which the presence, moreover, does no good, and in some cases the reverse of good—
shall we not be right in saying that all these are unnecessary?
Yes, certainly.
Suppose we select an example of either kind, in order that we may have a general
notion of them?
Very good.
Will not the desire of eating, that is, of simple food and condiments, in so far as they are
required for health and strength, be of the necessary class?
That is what I should suppose.
The pleasure of eating is necessary in two ways; it does us good and it is essential to the
continuance of life?
Yes.
But the condiments are only necessary in so far as they are good for health?
Certainly.
And the desire which goes beyond this, of more delicate food, or other luxuries, which
might generally be got rid of, if controlled and trained in youth, and is hurtful to the
body, and hurtful to the soul in the pursuit of wisdom and virtue, may be rightly called
unnecessary?
Very true.
May we not say that these desires spend, and that the others make money because they
conduce to production?
Certainly.
And of the pleasures of love, and all other pleasures, the same holds good?
True.
And the drone of whom we spoke was he who was surfeited in pleasures and desires of
this sort, and was the slave of the unnecessary desires, whereas he who was subject to
the necessary only was miserly and oligarchical?
Very true.
Again, let us see how the democratical man goes out of the oligarchical: the following,
as I suspect, is commonly the process.
What is the process?
When a young man who has been brought up as we were just now describing, in a
vulgar and miserly way, has tasted drones' honey and has come to associate with fierce
and crafty natures who are able to provide for him all sorts of refinements and varieties
of pleasure—then, as you may imagine, the change will begin of the oligarchical
principle within him into the democratical?
Inevitably.
And as in the city like was helping like, and the change was effected by an alliance from
without assisting one division of the citizens, so too the young man is changed by a
class of desires coming from without to assist the desires within him, that which is akin
and alike again helping that which is akin and alike?
Certainly.
And if there be any ally which aids the oligarchical principle within him, whether the
influence of a father or of kindred, advising or rebuking him, then there arise in his soul
a faction and an opposite faction, and he goes to war with himself.
It must be so.
And there are times when the democratical principle gives way to the oligarchical, and
some of his desires die, and others are banished; a spirit of reverence enters into the
young man's soul, and order is restored.
Yes, he said, that sometimes happens.
And then, again, after the old desires have been driven out, fresh ones spring up, which
are akin to them, and because he their father does not know how to educate them, wax
fierce and numerous.
Yes, he said, that is apt to be the way.
They draw him to his old associates, and holding secret intercourse with them, breed
and multiply in him.
Very true.
At length they seize upon the citadel of the young man's soul, which they perceive to be
void of all accomplishments and fair pursuits and true words, which make their abode in
the minds of men who are dear to the gods, and are their best guardians and sentinels.
None better.
False and boastful conceits and phrases mount upward and take their place.
They are certain to do so.
And so the young man returns into the country of the lotuseaters, and takes up his
dwelling there, in the face of all men; and if any help be sent by his friends to the
oligarchical part of him, the aforesaid vain conceits shut the gate of the King's fastness;
and they will neither allow the embassy itself to enter, nor if private advisers offer the
fatherly counsel of the aged will they listen to them or receive them. There is a battle
and they gain the day, and then modesty, which they call silliness, is ignominiously
thrust into exile by them, and temperance, which they nick-name unmanliness, is
trampled in the mire and cast forth; they persuade men that moderation and orderly
expenditure are vulgarity and meanness, and so, by the help of a rabble of evil
appetites, they drive them beyond the border.
Yes, with a will.
And when they have emptied and swept clean the soul of him who is now in their power
and who is being initiated by them in great mysteries, the next thing is to bring back to
their house insolence and anarchy and waste and impudence in bright array, having
garlands on their heads, and a great company with them, hymning their praises and
calling them by sweet names; insolence they term "breeding," and anarchy "liberty," and
waste "magnificence," and impudence " courage." And so the young man passes out of
his original nature, which was trained in the school of necessity, into the freedom and
libertinism of useless and unnecessary pleasures.
Yes, he said, the change in him is visible enough.
After this he lives on, spending his money and labor and time on unnecessary pleasures
quite as much as on necessary ones; but if he be fortunate, and is not too much
disordered in his wits, when years have elapsed, and the heyday of passion is over—
supposing that he then readmits into the city some part of the exiled virtues, and does
not wholly give himself up to their successors—in that case he balances his pleasures
and lives in a sort of equilibrium, putting the government of himself into the hands of
the one which comes first and wins the turn; and when he has had enough of that, then
into the hands of another; he despises none of them, but encourages them all equally.
Very true, he said.
Neither does he receive or let pass into the fortress any true word of advice; if anyone
says to him that some pleasures are the satisfactions of good and noble desires, and
others of evil desires, and that he ought to use and honor some, and chastise and
master the others—whenever this is repeated to him he shakes his head and says that
they are all alike, and that one is as good as another.
Yes, he said; that is the way with him.
Yes, I said, he lives from day to day indulging the appetite of the hour; and sometimes
he is lapped in drink and strains of the flute; then he becomes a water-drinker, and tries
to get thin; then he takes a turn at gymnastics; sometimes idling and neglecting
everything, then once more living the life of a philosopher; often he is busy with politics,
and starts to his feet and says and does whatever comes into his head; and, if he is
emulous of anyone who is a warrior, off he is in that direction, or of men of business,
once more in that. His life has neither law nor order; and this distracted existence he
terms joy and bliss and freedom; and so he goes on.
Yes, he replied, he is all liberty and equality.
Yes, I said; his life is motley and manifold and an epitome of the lives of many; he
answers to the State which we described as fair and spangled. And many a man and
many a woman will take him for their pattern, and many a constitution and many an
example of manners are contained in him.
Just so.
Let him then be set over against democracy; he may truly be called the democratic man.
Let that be his place, he said.
Last of all comes the most beautiful of all, man and State alike, tyranny and the tyrant;
these we have now to consider.
Quite true, he said.
Say then, my friend, in what manner does tyranny arise? —that it has a democratic
origin is evident.
Clearly.
And does not tyranny spring from democracy in the same manner as democracy from
oligarchy—I mean, after a sort?
How?
The good which oligarchy proposed to itself and the means by which it was maintained
was excess of wealth—am I not right?
Yes.
And the insatiable desire of wealth and the neglect of all other things for the sake of
money-getting were also the ruin of oligarchy?
True.
And democracy has her own good, of which the insatiable desire brings her to
dissolution?
What good?
Freedom, I replied; which, as they tell you in a democracy, is the glory of the State—and
that therefore in a democracy alone will the freeman of nature deign to dwell.
Yes; the saying is in everybody's mouth.
I was going to observe, that the insatiable desire of this and the neglect of other things
introduce the change in democracy, which occasions a demand for tyranny.
How so?
When a democracy which is thirsting for freedom has evil cup-bearers presiding over
the feast, and has drunk too deeply of the strong wine of freedom, then, unless her
rulers are very amenable and give a plentiful draught, she calls them to account and
punishes them, and says that they are cursed oligarchs.
Yes, he replied, a very common occurrence.
Yes, I said; and loyal citizens are insultingly termed by her "slaves" who hug their chains,
and men of naught; she would have subjects who are like rulers, and rulers who are like
subjects: these are men after her own heart, whom she praises and honors both in
private and public. Now, in such a State, can liberty have any limit?
Certainly not.
By degrees the anarchy finds a way into private houses, and ends by getting among the
animals and infecting them.
How do you mean?
I mean that the father grows accustomed to descend to the level of his sons and to fear
them, and the son is on a level with his father, he having no respect or reverence for
either of his parents; and this is his freedom; and the metic is equal with the citizen, and
the citizen with the metic, and the stranger is quite as good as either.
Yes, he said, that is the way.
And these are not the only evils, I said—there are several lesser ones: In such a state of
society the master fears and flatters his scholars, and the scholars despise their masters
and tutors; young and old are all alike; and the young man is on a level with the old, and
is ready to compete with him in word or deed; and old men condescend to the young
and are full of pleasantry and gayety; they are loth to be thought morose and
authoritative, and therefore they adopt the manners of the young.
Quite true, he said.
The last extreme of popular liberty is when the slave bought with money, whether male
or female, is just as free as his or her purchaser; nor must I forget to tell of the liberty
and equality of the two sexes in relation to each other.
Why not, as AEschylus says, utter the word which rises to our lips?
That is what I am doing, I replied; and I must add that no one who does not know would
believe how much greater is the liberty which the animals who are under the dominion
of man have in a democracy than in any other State: for, truly, the she-dogs, as the
proverb says, are as good as their she-mistresses, and the horses and asses have a way
of marching along with all the rights and dignities of freemen; and they will run at
anybody who comes in their way if he does not leave the road clear for them: and all
things are just ready to burst with liberty.
When I take a country walk, he said, I often experience what you describe. You and I
have dreamed the same thing.
And above all, I said, and as the result of all, see how sensitive the citizens become; they
chafe impatiently at the least touch of authority, and at length, as you know, they cease
to care even for the laws, written or unwritten; they will have no one over them.
Yes, he said, I know it too well.
Such, my friend, I said, is the fair and glorious beginning out of which springs tyranny.
Glorious indeed, he said. But what is the next step?
The ruin of oligarchy is the ruin of democracy; the same disease magnified and
intensified by liberty overmasters democracy—the truth being that the excessive
increase of anything often causes a reaction in the opposite direction; and this is the
case not only in the seasons and in vegetable and animal life, but above all in forms of
government.
True.
The excess of liberty, whether in States or individuals, seems only to pass into excess of
slavery.
Yes, the natural order.
And so tyranny naturally arises out of democracy, and the most aggravated form of
tyranny and slavery out of the most extreme form of liberty?
As we might expect.
That, however, was not, as I believe, your question—you rather desired to know what is
that disorder which is generated alike in oligarchy and democracy, and is the ruin of
both?
Just so, he replied.
Well, I said, I meant to refer to the class of idle spendthrifts, of whom the more
courageous are the leaders and the more timid the followers, the same whom we were
comparing to drones, some stingless, and others having stings.
A very just comparison.
These two classes are the plagues of every city in which they are generated, being what
phlegm and bile are to the body. And the good physician and lawgiver of the State
ought, like the wise bee-master, to keep them at a distance and prevent, if possible,
their ever coming in; and if they have anyhow found a way in, then he should have them
and their cells cut out as speedily as possible.
Yes, by all means, he said.
Then, in order that we may see clearly what we are doing, let us imagine democracy to
be divided, as indeed it is, into three classes; for in the first place freedom creates rather
more drones in the democratic than there were in the oligarchical State.
That is true.
And in the democracy they are certainly more intensified.
How so?
Because in the oligarchical State they are disqualified and driven from office, and
therefore they cannot train or gather strength; whereas in a democracy they are almost
the entire ruling power, and while the keener sort speak and act, the rest keep buzzing
about the bema and do not suffer a word to be said on the other side; hence in
democracies almost everything is managed by the drones.
Very true, he said.
Then there is another class which is always being severed from the mass.
What is that?
They are the orderly class, which in a nation of traders is sure to be the richest.
Naturally so.
They are the most squeezable persons and yield the largest amount of honey to the
drones.
Why, he said, there is little to be squeezed out of people who have little.
And this is called the wealthy class, and the drones feed upon them.
That is pretty much the case, he said.
The people are a third class, consisting of those who work with their own hands; they
are not politicians, and have not much to live upon. This, when assembled, is the largest
and most powerful class in a democracy.
True, he said; but then the multitude is seldom willing to congregate unless they get a
little honey.
And do they not share? I said. Do not their leaders deprive the rich of their estates and
distribute them among the people; at the same time taking care to reserve the larger
part for themselves?
Why, yes, he said, to that extent the people do share.
And the persons whose property is taken from them are compelled to defend
themselves before the people as they best can?
What else can they do?
And then, although they may have no desire of change, the others charge them with
plotting against the people and being friends of oligarchy? True.
And the end is that when they see the people, not of their own accord, but through
ignorance, and because they are deceived by informers, seeking to do them wrong, then
at last they are forced to become oligarchs in reality; they do not wish to be, but the
sting of the drones torments them and breeds revolution in them.
That is exactly the truth.
Then come impeachments and judgments and trials of one another.
True.
The people have always some champion whom they set over them and nurse into
greatness.
Yes, that is their way. This, and no other, is the root from which a tyrant springs; when he
first appears above ground he is a protector.
Yes, that is quite clear. How, then, does a protector begin to change into a tyrant?
Clearly when he does what the man is said to do in the tale of the Arcadian temple of
Lycaean Zeus.
What tale?
The tale is that he who has tasted the entrails of a single human victim minced up with
the entrails of other victims is destined to become a wolf. Did you never hear it?
Oh, yes.
And the protector of the people is like him; having a mob entirely at his disposal, he is
not restrained from shedding the blood of kinsmen; by the favorite method of false
accusation he brings them into court and murders them, making the life of man to
disappear, and with unholy tongue and lips tasting the blood of his fellow-citizens;
some he kills and others he banishes, at the same time hinting at the abolition of debts
and partition of lands: and after this, what will be his destiny? Must he not either perish
at the hands of his enemies, or from being a man become a wolf—that is, a tyrant?
Inevitably.
This, I said, is he who begins to make a party against the rich?
The same.
After a while he is driven out, but comes back, in spite of his enemies, a tyrant full
grown.
That is clear.
And if they are unable to expel him, or to get him condemned to death by a public
accusation, they conspire to assassinate him.
Yes, he said, that is their usual way.
Then comes the famous request for a body-guard, which is the device of all those who
have got thus far in their tyrannical career—"Let not the people's friend," as they say,
"be lost to them."
Exactly.
The people readily assent; all their fears are for him—they have none for themselves.
Very true.
And when a man who is wealthy and is also accused of being an enemy of the people
sees this, then, my friend, as the oracle said to Croesus,
"By pebbly Hermus's shore he flees and rests not, and is not ashamed to be a coward."
And quite right too, said he, for if he were, he would never be ashamed again.
But if he is caught he dies.
Of course.
And he, the protector of whom we spoke, is to be seen, not "larding the plain" with his
bulk, but himself the overthrower of many, standing up in the chariot of State with the
reins in his hand, no longer protector, but tyrant absolute.
No doubt, he said.
And now let us consider the happiness of the man, and also of the State in which a
creature like him is generated.
Yes, he said, let us consider that.
At first, in the early days of his power, he is full of smiles, and he salutes everyone whom
he meets; he to be called a tyrant, who is making promises in public and also in private!
liberating debtors, and distributing land to the people and his followers, and wanting to
be so kind and good to everyone!
Of course, he said.
But when he has disposed of foreign enemies by conquest or treaty, and there is
nothing to fear from them, then he is always stirring up some war or other, in order that
the people may require a leader.
To be sure.
Has he not also another object, which is that they may be impoverished by payment of
taxes, and thus compelled to devote themselves to their daily wants and therefore less
likely to conspire against him? Clearly.
And if any of them are suspected by him of having notions of freedom, and of resistance
to his authority, he will have a good pretext for destroying them by placing them at the
mercy of the enemy; and for all these reasons the tyrant must be always getting up a
war.
He must.
Now he begins to grow unpopular.
A necessary result.
Then some of those who joined in setting him up, and who are in power, speak their
minds to him and to one another, and the more courageous of them cast in his teeth
what is being done.
Yes, that may be expected.
And the tyrant, if he means to rule, must get rid of them; he cannot stop while he has a
friend or an enemy who is good for anything.
He cannot.
And therefore he must look about him and see who is valiant, who is high-minded, who
is wise, who is wealthy; happy man, he is the enemy of them all, and must seek occasion
against them whether he will or no, until he has made a purgation of the State.
Yes, he said, and a rare purgation.
Yes, I said, not the sort of purgation which the physicians make of the body; for they
take away the worse and leave the better part, but he does the reverse.
If he is to rule, I suppose that he cannot help himself.
What a blessed alternative, I said: to be compelled to dwell only with the many bad, and
to be by them hated, or not to live at all!
Yes, that is the alternative.
And the more detestable his actions are to the citizens the more satellites and the
greater devotion in them will he require?
Certainly.
And who are the devoted band, and where will he procure them?
They will flock to him, he said, of their own accord, if he pays them.
By the dog! I said, here are more drones, of every sort and from every land.
Yes, he said, there are.
But will he not desire to get them on the spot?
How do you mean?
He will rob the citizens of their slaves; he will then set them free and enrol them in his
body-guard.
To be sure, he said; and he will be able to trust them best of all.
What a blessed creature, I said, must this tyrant be; he has put to death the others and
has these for his trusted friends.
Yes, he said; they are quite of his sort.
Yes, I said, and these are the new citizens whom he has called into existence, who
admire him and are his companions, while the good hate and avoid him.
Of course.
Verily, then, tragedy is a wise thing and Euripides a great tragedian.
Why so?
Why, because he is the author of the pregnant saying,
"Tyrants are wise by living with the wise;"
and he clearly meant to say that they are the wise whom the tyrant makes his
companions.
Yes, he said, and he also praises tyranny as godlike; and many other things of the same
kind are said by him and by the other poets.
And therefore, I said, the tragic poets being wise men will forgive us and any others who
live after our manner, if we do not receive them into our State, because they are the
eulogists of tyranny.
Yes, he said, those who have the wit will doubtless forgive us.
But they will continue to go to other cities and attract mobs, and hire voices fair and
loud and persuasive, and draw the cities over to tyrannies and democracies.
Very true.
Moreover, they are paid for this and receive honor—the greatest honor, as might be
expected, from tyrants, and the next greatest from democracies; but the higher they
ascend our constitution hill, the more their reputation fails, and seems unable from
shortness of breath to proceed farther.
True.
But we are wandering from the subject: Let us therefore return and inquire how the
tyrant will maintain that fair, and numerous, and various, and ever-changing army of his.
If, he said, there are sacred treasures in the city, he will confiscate and spend them; and
in so far as the fortunes of attainted persons may suffice, he will be able to diminish the
taxes which he would otherwise have to impose upon the people.
And when these fail?
Why, clearly, he said, then he and his boon companions, whether male or female, will be
maintained out of his father's estate.
You mean to say that the people, from whom he has derived his being, will maintain him
and his companions?
Yes, he said; they cannot help themselves.
But what if the people fly into a passion, and aver that a grown-up son ought not to be
supported by his father, but that the father should be supported by the son? The father
did not bring him into being, or settle him in life, in order that when his son became a
man he should himself be the servant of his own servants and should support him and
his rabble of slaves and companions; but that his son should protect him, and that by
his help he might be emancipated from the government of the rich and aristocratic, as
they are termed. And so he bids him and his companions depart, just as any other father
might drive out of the house a riotous son and his undesirable associates.
By heaven, he said, then the parent will discover what a monster he has been fostering
in his bosom; and, when he wants to drive him out, he will find that he is weak and his
son strong.
Why, you do not mean to say that the tyrant will use violence? What! beat his father if
he opposes him?
Yes, he will, having first disarmed him.
Then he is a parricide, and a cruel guardian of an aged parent; and this is real tyranny,
about which there can be no longer a mistake: as the saying is, the people who would
escape the smoke which is the slavery of freemen, has fallen into the fire which is the
tyranny of slaves. Thus liberty, getting out of all order and reason, passes into the
harshest and bitterest form of slavery.
True, he said.
Very well; and may we not rightly say that we have sufficiently discussed the nature of
tyranny, and the manner of the transition from democracy to tyranny?
Yes, quite enough, he said.

BOOK IX
ON WRONG OR
RIGHT
GOVERNMENT,
AND THE
PLEASURES OF
EACH
(SOCRATES, ADEIMANTUS.)
LAST of all comes the tyrannical man; about whom we have once more to ask, how is he
formed out of the democratical? and how does he live, in happiness or in misery?
Yes, he said, he is the only one remaining.
There is, however, I said, a previous question which remains unanswered.
What question?
I do not think that we have adequately determined the nature and number of the
appetites, and until this is accomplished the inquiry will always be confused.
Well, he said, it is not too late to supply the omission.
Very true, I said; and observe the point which I want to understand: Certain of the
unnecessary pleasures and appetites I conceive to be unlawful; everyone appears to
have them, but in some persons they are controlled by the laws and by reason, and the
better desires prevail over them— either they are wholly banished or they become few
and weak; while in the case of others they are stronger, and there are more of them.
Which appetites do you mean?
I mean those which are awake when the reasoning and human and ruling power is
asleep; then the wild beast within us, gorged with meat or drink, starts up and, having
shaken off sleep, goes forth to satisfy his desires; and there is no conceivable folly or
crime—not excepting incest or any other unnatural union, or parricide, or the eating of
forbidden food —which at such a time, when he has parted company with all shame and
sense, a man may not be ready to commit.
Most true, he said.
But when a man's pulse is healthy and temperate, and when before going to sleep he
has awakened his rational powers, and fed them on noble thoughts and inquiries,
collecting himself in meditation; after having first indulged his appetites neither too
much nor too little, but just enough to lay them to sleep, and prevent them and their
enjoyments and pains from interfering with the higher principle—which he leaves in the
solitude of pure abstraction, free to contemplate and aspire to the knowledge of the
unknown, whether in past, present, or future: when again he has allayed the passionate
element, if he has a quarrel against anyone—I say, when, after pacifying the two
irrational principles, he rouses up the third, which is reason, before he takes his rest,
then, as you know, he attains truth most nearly, and is least likely to be the sport of
fantastic and lawless visions.
I quite agree.
In saying this I have been running into a digression; but the point which I desire to note
is that in all of us, even in good men, there is a lawless wild-beast nature, which peers
out in sleep. Pray, consider whether I am right, and you agree with me.
Yes, I agree.
And now remember the character which we attributed to the democratic man. He was
supposed from his youth upward to have been trained under a miserly parent, who
encouraged the saving appetites in him, but discountenanced the unnecessary, which
aim only at amusement and ornament?
True.
And then he got into the company of a more refined, licentious sort of people, and
taking to all their wanton ways rushed into the opposite extreme from an abhorrence of
his father's meanness. At last, being a better man than his corruptors, he was drawn in
both directions until he halted midway and led a life, not of vulgar and slavish passion,
but of what he deemed moderate indulgence in various pleasures. After this manner the
democrat was generated out of the oligarch?
Yes, he said; that was our view of him, and is so still.
And now, I said, years will have passed away, and you must conceive this man, such as
he is, to have a son, who is brought up in his father's principles.
I can imagine him.
Then you must further imagine the same thing to happen to the son which has already
happened to the father: he is drawn into a perfectly lawless life, which by his seducers is
termed perfect liberty; and his father and friends take part with his moderate desires,
and the opposite party assist the opposite ones. As soon as these dire magicians and
tyrantmakers find that they are losing their hold on him, they contrive to implant in him
a master-passion, to be lord over his idle and spendthrift lusts—a sort of monstrous
winged drone —that is the only image which will adequately describe him.
Yes, he said, that is the only adequate image of him.
And when his other lusts, amid clouds of incense and perfumes and garlands and wines,
and all the pleasures of a dissolute life, now let loose, come buzzing around him,
nourishing to the utmost the sting of desire which they implant in his drone-like nature,
then at last this lord of the soul, having Madness for the captain of his guard, breaks out
into a frenzy; and if he finds in himself any good opinions or appetites in process of
formation, and there is in him any sense of shame remaining, to these better principles
he puts an end, and casts them forth until he has purged away temperance and brought
in madness to the full.
Yes, he said, that is the way in which the tyrannical man is generated.
And is not this the reason why, of old, love has been called a tyrant?
I should not wonder.
Further, I said, has not a drunken man also the spirit of a tyrant?
He has.
And you know that a man who is deranged, and not right in his mind, will fancy that he
is able to rule, not only over men, but also over the gods?
That he will.
And the tyrannical man in the true sense of the word comes into being when, either
under the influence of nature or habit, or both, he becomes drunken, lustful, passionate?
O my friend, is not that so?
Assuredly.
Such is the man and such is his origin. And next, how does he live?
Suppose, as people facetiously say, you were to tell me.
I imagine, I said, at the next step in his progress, that there will be feasts and carousals
and revellings and courtesans, and all that sort of thing; Love is the lord of the house
within him, and orders all the concerns of his soul.
That is certain.
Yes; and every day and every night desires grow up many and formidable, and their
demands are many.
They are indeed, he said.
His revenues, if he has any, are soon spent.
True.
Then come debt and the cutting down of his property.
Of course.
When he has nothing left, must not his desires, crowding in the nest like young ravens,
be crying aloud for food; and he, goaded on by them, and especially by love himself,
who is in a manner the captain of them, is in a frenzy, and would fain discover whom he
can defraud or despoil of his property, in order that he may gratify them?
Yes, that is sure to be the case.
He must have money, no matter how, if he is to escape horrid pains and pangs.
He must.
And as in himself there was a succession of pleasures, and the new got the better of the
old and took away their rights, so he being younger will claim to have more than his
father and his mother, and if he has spent his own share of the property, he will take a
slice of theirs.
No doubt he will.
And if his parents will not give way, then he will try first of all to cheat and deceive them.
Very true.
And if he fails, then he will use force and plunder them.
Yes, probably.
And if the old man and woman fight for their own, what then, my friend? Will the
creature feel any compunction at tyrannizing over them?
Nay, he said, I should not feel at all comfortable about his parents.
But, O heavens! Adeimantus, on account of some newfangled love of a harlot, who is
anything but a necessary connection, can you believe that he would strike the mother
who is his ancient friend and necessary to his very existence, and would place her under
the authority of the other, when she is brought under the same roof with her; or that,
under like circumstances, he would do the same to his withered old father, first and
most indispensable of friends, for the sake of some newly found blooming youth who is
the reverse of indispensable?
Yes, indeed, he said; I believe that he would.
Truly, then, I said, a tyrannical son is a blessing to his father and mother.
He is indeed, he replied.
He first takes their property, and when that fails, and pleasures are beginning to swarm
in the hive of his soul, then he breaks into a house, or steals the garments of some
nightly wayfarer; next he proceeds to clear a temple. Meanwhile the old opinions which
he had when a child, and which gave judgment about good and evil, are overthrown by
those others which have just been emancipated, and are now the bodyguard of love and
share his empire. These in his democratic days, when he was still subject to the laws and
to his father, were only let loose in the dreams of sleep. But now that he is under the
dominion of Love, he becomes always and in waking reality what he was then very rarely
and in a dream only; he will commit the foulest murder, or eat forbidden food, or be
guilty of any other horrid act. Love is his tyrant, and lives lordly in him and lawlessly, and
being himself a king, leads him on, as a tyrant leads a State, to the performance of any
reckless deed by which he can maintain himself and the rabble of his associates,
whether those whom evil communications have brought in from without, or those
whom he himself has allowed to break loose within him by reason of a similar evil
nature in himself. Have we not here a picture of his way of life?
Yes, indeed, he said.
And if there are only a few of them in the State, and the rest of the people are well
disposed, they go away and become the body-guard of mercenary soldiers of some
other tyrant who may probably want them for a war; and if there is no war, they stay at
home and do many little pieces of mischief in the city.
What sort of mischief?
For example, they are the thieves, burglars, cut-purses, footpads, robbers of temples,
man-stealers of the community; or if they are able to speak, they turn informers and
bear false witness and take bribes.
A small catalogue of evils, even if the perpetrators of them are few in number.
Yes, I said; but small and great are comparative terms, and all these things, in the misery
and evil which they inflict upon a State, do not come within a thousand miles of the
tyrant; when this noxious class and their followers grow numerous and become
conscious of their strength, assisted by the infatuation of the people, they choose from
among themselves the one who has most of the tyrant in his own soul, and him they
create their tyrant.
Yes, he said, and he will be the most fit to be a tyrant.
If the people yield, well and good; but if they resist him, as he began by beating his own
father and mother, so now, if he has the power, he beats them, and will keep his dear
old fatherland or motherland, as the Cretans say, in subjection to his young retainers
whom he has introduced to be their rulers and masters. This is the end of his passions
and desires.
Exactly.
When such men are only private individuals and before they get power, this is their
character; they associate entirely with their own flatterers or ready tools; or if they want
anything from anybody, they in their turn are equally ready to bow down before them:
they profess every sort of affection for them; but when they have gained their point they
know them no more.
Yes, truly.
They are always either the masters or servants and never the friends of anybody; the
tyrant never tastes of true freedom or friendship.
Certainly not.
And may we not rightly call such men treacherous?
No question.
Also they are utterly unjust, if we were right in our notion of justice?
Yes, he said, and we were perfectly right.
Let us, then, sum up in a word, I said, the character of the worst man: he is the waking
reality of what we dreamed.
Most true.
And this is he who being by nature most of a tyrant bears rule, and the longer he lives
the more of a tyrant he becomes.
That is certain, said Glaucon, taking his turn to answer.
And will not he who has been shown to be the wickedest, be also the most miserable?
and he who has tyrannized longest and most, most continually and truly miserable;
although this may not be the opinion of men in general?
Yes, he said, inevitably.
And must not the tyrannical man be like the tyrannical State, and the democratical man
like the democratical State; and the same of the others?
Certainly.
And as State is to State in virtue and happiness, so is man in relation to man?
To be sure.
Then comparing our original city, which was under a king, and the city which is under a
tyrant, how do they stand as to virtue?
They are the opposite extremes, he said, for one is the very best and the other is the
very worst.
There can be no mistake, I said, as to which is which, and therefore I will at once inquire
whether you would arrive at a similar decision about their relative happiness and misery.
And here we must not allow ourselves to be panic-stricken at the apparition of the
tyrant, who is only a unit and may perhaps have a few retainers about him; but let us go
as we ought into every corner of the city and look all about, and then we will give our
opinion.
A fair invitation, he replied; and I see, as everyone must, that a tyranny is the
wretchedest form of government, and the rule of a king the happiest.
And in estimating the men, too, may I not fairly make a like request, that I should have a
judge whose mind can enter into and see through human nature? he must not be like a
child who looks at the outside and is dazzled at the pompous aspect which the
tyrannical nature assumes to the beholder, but let him be one who has a clear insight.
May I suppose that the judgment is given in the hearing of us all by one who is able to
judge, and has dwelt in the same place with him, and been present at his daily life and
known him in his family relations, where he may be seen stripped of his tragedy attire,
and again in the hour of public danger—he shall tell us about the happiness and misery
of the tyrant when compared with other men?
That again, he said, is a very fair proposal.
Shall I assume that we ourselves are able and experienced judges and have before now
met with such a person? We shall then have someone who will answer our inquiries.
By all means.
Let me ask you not to forget the parallel of the individual and the State; bearing this in
mind, and glancing in turn from one to the other of them, will you tell me their
respective conditions?
What do you mean? he asked.
Beginning with the State, I replied, would you say that a city which is governed by a
tyrant is free or enslaved?
No city, he said, can be more completely enslaved.
And yet, as you see, there are freemen as well as masters in such a State?
Yes, he said, I see that there are—a few; but the people, speaking generally, and the best
of them are miserably degraded and enslaved.
Then if the man is like the State, I said, must not the same rule prevail? His soul is full of
meanness and vulgarity— the best elements in him are enslaved; and there is a small
ruling part, which is also the worst and maddest.
Inevitably.
And would you say that the soul of such a one is the soul of a freeman or of a slave?
He has the soul of a slave, in my opinion.
And the State which is enslaved under a tyrant is utterly incapable of acting voluntarily?
Utterly incapable.
And also the soul which is under a tyrant (I am speaking of the soul taken as a whole) is
least capable of doing what she desires; there is a gadfly which goads her, and she is full
of trouble and remorse?
Certainly.
And is the city which is under a tyrant rich or poor?
Poor.
And the tyrannical soul must be always poor and insatiable?
True.
And must not such a State and such a man be always full of fear?
Yes, indeed.
Is there any State in which you will find more of lamentation and sorrow and groaning
and pain?
Certainly not.
And is there any man in whom you will find more of this sort of misery than in the
tyrannical man, who is in a fury of passions and desires?
Impossible.
Reflecting upon these and similar evils, you held the tyrannical State to be the most
miserable of States?
And I was right, he said.
Certainly, I said. And when you see the same evils in the tyrannical man, what do you say
of him?
I say that he is by far the most miserable of all men.
There, I said, I think that you are beginning to go wrong.
What do you mean?
I do not think that he has as yet reached the utmost extreme of misery.
Then who is more miserable?
One of whom I am about to speak.
Who is that?
He who is of a tyrannical nature, and instead of leading a private life has been cursed
with the further misfortune of being a public tyrant.
From what has been said, I gather that you are right.
Yes, I replied, but in this high argument you should be a little more certain, and should
not conjecture only; for of all questions, this respecting good and evil is the greatest.
Very true, he said.
Let me then offer you an illustration, which may, I think, throw a light upon this subject.
What is your illustration?
The case of rich individuals in cities who possess many slaves: from them you may form
an idea of the tyrant's condition, for they both have slaves; the only difference is that he
has more slaves.
Yes, that is the difference.
You know that they live securely and have nothing to apprehend from their servants?
What should they fear?
Nothing. But do you observe the reason of this?
Yes; the reason is, that the whole city is leagued together for the protection of each
individual.
Very true, I said. But imagine one of these owners, the master say of some fifty slaves,
together with his family and property and slaves, carried off by a god into the
wilderness, where there are no freemen to help him—will he not be in an agony of fear
lest he and his wife and children should be put to death by his slaves?
Yes, he said, he will be in the utmost fear.
The time has arrived when he will be compelled to flatter divers of his slaves, and make
many promises to them of freedom and other things, much against his will—he will
have to cajole his own servants.
Yes, he said, that will be the only way of saving himself.
And suppose the same god, who carried him away, to surround him with neighbors who
will not suffer one man to be the master of another, and who, if they could catch the
offender, would take his life?
His case will be still worse, if you suppose him to be everywhere surrounded and
watched by enemies.
And is not this the sort of prison in which the tyrant will be bound—he who being by
nature such as we have described, is full of all sorts of fears and lusts? His soul is dainty
and greedy, and yet alone, of all men in the city, he is never allowed to go on a journey,
or to see the things which other freemen desire to see, but he lives in his hole like a
woman hidden in the house, and is jealous of any other citizen who goes into foreign
parts and sees anything of interest.
Very true, he said.
And amid evils such as these will not he who is ill-governed in his own person—the
tyrannical man, I mean—whom you just now decided to be the most miserable of all—
will not he be yet more miserable when, instead of leading a private life, he is
constrained by fortune to be a public tyrant? He has to be master of others when he is
not master of himself: he is like a diseased or paralytic man who is compelled to pass his
life, not in retirement, but fighting and combating with other men.
Yes, he said, the similitude is most exact.
Is not his case utterly miserable? and does not the actual tyrant lead a worse life than he
whose life you determined to be the worst?
Certainly.
He who is the real tyrant, whatever men may think, is the real slave, and is obliged to
practise the greatest adulation and servility, and to be the flatterer of the vilest of
mankind. He has desires which he is utterly unable to satisfy, and has more wants than
anyone, and is truly poor, if you know how to inspect the whole soul of him: all his life
long he is beset with fear and is full of convulsions and distractions, even as the State
which he resembles: and surely the resemblance holds?
Very true, he said.
Moreover, as we were saying before, he grows worse from having power: he becomes
and is of necessity more jealous, more faithless, more unjust, more friendless, more
impious, than he was at first; he is the purveyor and cherisher of every sort of vice, and
the consequence is that he is supremely miserable, and that he makes everybody else as
miserable as himself.
No man of any sense will dispute your words. Come, then, I said, and as the general
umpire in theatrical contests proclaims the result, do you also decide who in your
opinion is first in the scale of happiness, and who second, and in what order the others
follow: there are five of them in all —they are the royal, timocratical, oligarchical,
democratical, tyrannical.
The decision will be easily given, he replied; they shall be choruses coming on the stage,
and I must judge them in the order in which they enter, by the criterion of virtue and
vice, happiness and misery.
Need we hire a herald, or shall I announce that the son of Ariston (the best) has decided
that the best and justest is also the happiest, and that this is he who is the most royal
man and king over himself; and that the worst and most unjust man is also the most
miserable, and that this is he who being the greatest tyrant of himself is also the
greatest tyrant of his State?
Make the proclamation yourself, he said.
And shall I add, "whether seen or unseen by gods and men"?
Let the words be added.
Then this, I said, will be our first proof; and there is another, which may also have some
weight.
What is that?
The second proof is derived from the nature of the soul: seeing that the individual soul,
like the State, has been divided by us into three principles, the division may, I think,
furnish a new demonstration.
Of what nature?
It seems to me that to these three principles three pleasures correspond; also three
desires and governing powers.
How do you mean? he said.
There is one principle with which, as we were saying, a man learns, another with which
he is angry; the third, having many forms, has no special name, but is denoted by the
general term appetitive, from the extraordinary strength and vehemence of the desires
of eating and drinking and the other sensual appetites which are the main elements of
it; also money-loving, because such desires are generally satisfied by the help of money.
That is true, he said.
If we were to say that the loves and pleasures of this third part were concerned with
gain, we should then be able to fall back on a single notion; and might truly and
intelligibly describe this part of the soul as loving gain or money.
I agree with you.
Again, is not the passionate element wholly set on ruling and conquering and getting
fame?
True.
Suppose we call it the contentious or ambitious—would the term be suitable?
Extremely suitable.
On the other hand, everyone sees that the principle of knowledge is wholly directed to
the truth, and cares less than either of the others for gain or fame.
Far less.
"Lover of wisdom," "lover of knowledge," are titles which we may fitly apply to that part
of the soul?
Certainly.
One principle prevails in the souls of one class of men, another in others, as may
happen?
Yes.
Then we may begin by assuming that there are three classes of men—lovers of wisdom,
lovers of honor, lovers of gain?
Exactly.
And there are three kinds of pleasure, which are their several objects?
Very true.
Now, if you examine the three classes of men, and ask of them in turn which of their
lives is pleasantest, each will be found praising his own and depreciating that of others:
the money-maker will contrast the vanity of honor or of learning if they bring no money
with the solid advantages of gold and silver?
True, he said.
And the lover of honor—what will be his opinion? Will he not think that the pleasure of
riches is vulgar, while the pleasure of learning, if it brings no distinction, is all smoke and
nonsense to him?
Very true.
And are we to suppose, I said, that the philosopher sets any value on other pleasures in
comparison with the pleasure of knowing the truth, and in that pursuit abiding, ever
learning, not so far indeed from the heaven of pleasure? Does he not call the other
pleasures necessary, under the idea that if there were no necessity for them, he would
rather not have them?
There can be no doubt of that, he replied.
Since, then, the pleasures of each class and the life of each are in dispute, and the
question is not which life is more or less honorable, or better or worse, but which is the
more pleasant or painless—how shall we know who speaks truly?
I cannot myself tell, he said.
Well, but what ought to be the criterion? Is any better than experience, and wisdom, and
reason?
There cannot be a better, he said.
Then, I said, reflect. Of the three individuals, which has the greatest experience of all the
pleasures which we enumerated? Has the lover of gain, in learning the nature of
essential truth, greater experience of the pleasure of knowledge than the philosopher
has of the pleasure of gain?
The philosopher, he replied, has greatly the advantage; for he has of necessity always
known the taste of the other pleasures from his childhood upward: but the lover of gain
in all his experience has not of necessity tasted—or, I should rather say, even had he
desired, could hardly have tasted—the sweetness of learning and knowing truth.
Then the lover of wisdom has a great advantage over the lover of gain, for he has a
double experience?
Yes, very great.
Again, has he greater experience of the pleasures of honor, or the lover of honor of the
pleasures of wisdom?
Nay, he said, all three are honored in proportion as they attain their object; for the rich
man and the brave man and the wise man alike have their crowd of admirers, and as
they all receive honor they all have experience of the pleasures of honor; but the delight
which is to be found in the knowledge of true being is known to the philosopher only.
His experience, then, will enable him to judge better than anyone?
Far better.
And he is the only one who has wisdom as well as experience?
Certainly.
Further, the very faculty which is the instrument of judgment is not possessed by the
covetous or ambitious man, but only by the philosopher?
What faculty?
Reason, with whom, as we were saying, the decision ought to rest.
Yes.
And reasoning is peculiarly his instrument?
Certainly.
If wealth and gain were the criterion, then the praise or blame of the lover of gain would
surely be the most trustworthy?
Assuredly.
Or if honor, or victory, or courage, in that case the judgment of the ambitious or
pugnacious would be the truest?
Clearly.
But since experience and wisdom and reason are the judges—
The only inference possible, he replied, is that pleasures which are approved by the lover
of wisdom and reason are the truest.
And so we arrive at the result, that the pleasure of the intelligent part of the soul is the
pleasantest of the three, and that he of us in whom this is the ruling principle has the
pleasantest life.
Unquestionably, he said, the wise man speaks with authority when he approves of his
own life.
And what does the judge affirm to be the life which is next, and the pleasure which is
next?
Clearly that of the soldier and lover of honor; who is nearer to himself than the moneymaker.

Last comes the lover of gain?
Very true, he said.
Twice in succession, then, has the just man overthrown the unjust in this conflict; and
now comes the third trial, which is dedicated to Olympian Zeus the saviour: a sage
whispers in my ear that no pleasure except that of the wise is quite true and pure—all
others are a shadow only; and surely this will prove the greatest and most decisive of
falls?
Yes, the greatest; but will you explain yourself?
I will work out the subject and you shall answer my questions.
Proceed.
Say, then, is not pleasure opposed to pain?
True.
And there is a neutral state which is neither pleasure nor pain?
There is.
A state which is intermediate, and a sort of repose of the soul about either—that is what
you mean?
Yes.
You remember what people say when they are sick?
What do they say?
That after all nothing is pleasanter than health. But then they never knew this to be the
greatest of pleasures until they were ill.
Yes, I know, he said.
And when persons are suffering from acute pain, you must have heard them say that
there is nothing pleasanter than to get rid of their pain?
I have.
And there are many other cases of suffering in which the mere rest and cessation of
pain, and not any positive enjoyment, are extolled by them as the greatest pleasure?
Yes, he said; at the time they are pleased and well content to be at rest.
Again, when pleasure ceases, that sort of rest or cessation will be painful?
Doubtless, he said.
Then the intermediate state of rest will be pleasure and will also be pain?
So it would seem.
But can that which is neither become both?
I should say not.
And both pleasure and pain are motions of the soul, are they not?
Yes.
But that which is neither was just now shown to be rest and not motion, and in a mean
between them?
Yes.
How, then, can we be right in supposing that the absence of pain is pleasure, or that the
absence of pleasure is pain?
Impossible. This, then, is an appearance only, and not a reality; that is to say, the rest is
pleasure at the moment and in comparison of what is painful, and painful in comparison
of what is pleasant; but all these representations, when tried by the test of true pleasure,
are not real, but a sort of imposition?
That is the inference.
Look at the other class of pleasures which have no antecedent pains and you will no
longer suppose, as you perhaps may at present, that pleasure is only the cessation of
pain, or pain of pleasure.
What are they, he said, and where shall I find them?
There are many of them: take as an example, the pleasures of smell, which are very great
and have no antecedent pains; they come in a moment, and when they depart leave no
pain behind them.
Most true, he said.
Let us not, then, be induced to believe that pure pleasure is the cessation of pain, or
pain of pleasure.
No.
Still, the more numerous and violent pleasures which reach the soul through the body
are generally of this sort—they are reliefs of pain.
That is true.
And the anticipations of future pleasures and pains are of a like nature?
Yes.
Shall I give you an illustration of them?
Let me hear.
You would allow, I said, that there is in nature an upper and lower and middle region?
I should.
And if a person were to go from the lower to the middle region, would he not imagine
that he is going up; and he who is standing in the middle and sees whence he has come,
would imagine that he is already in the upper region, if he has never seen the true upper
world?
To be sure, he said; how can he think otherwise?
But if he were taken back again he would imagine, and truly imagine, that he was
descending?
No doubt.
All that would arise out of his ignorance of the true upper and middle and lower
regions?
Yes.
Then can you wonder that persons who are inexperienced in the truth, as they have
wrong ideas about many other things, should also have wrong ideas about pleasure and
pain and the intermediate state; so that when they are only being drawn toward the
painful they feel pain and think the pain which they experience to be real, and in like
manner, when drawn away from pain to the neutral or intermediate state, they firmly
believe that they have reached the goal of satiety and pleasure; they, not knowing
pleasure, err in contrasting pain with the absence of pain, which is like contrasting black
with gray instead of white—can you wonder, I say, at this?
No, indeed; I should be much more disposed to wonder at the opposite.
Look at the matter thus: Hunger, thirst, and the like, are inanitions of the bodily state?
Yes.
And ignorance and folly are inanitions of the soul?
True.
And food and wisdom are the corresponding satisfactions of either?
Certainly.
And is the satisfaction derived from that which has less or from that which has more
existence the truer?
Clearly, from that which has more.
What classes of things have a greater share of pure existence, in your judgment—those
of which food and drink and condiments and all kinds of sustenance are examples, or
the class which contains true opinion and knowledge and mind and all the different
kinds of virtue? Put the question in this way: Which has a more pure being—that which
is concerned with the invariable, the immortal, and the true, and is of such a nature, and
is found in such natures; or that which is concerned with and found in the variable and
mortal, and is itself variable and mortal?
Far purer, he replied, is the being of that which is concerned with the invariable.
And does the essence of the invariable partake of knowledge in the same degree as of
essence?
Yes, of knowledge in the same degree.
And of truth in the same degree?
Yes.
And, conversely, that which has less of truth will also have less of essence?
Necessarily.
Then, in general, those kinds of things which are in the service of the body have less of
truth and essence than those which are in the service of the soul?
Far less.
And has not the body itself less of truth and essence than the soul?
Yes.
What is filled with more real existence, and actually has a more real existence, is more
really filled than that which is filled with less real existence and is less real?
Of course.
And if there be a pleasure in being filled with that which is according to nature, that
which is more really filled with more real being will more really and truly enjoy true
pleasure; whereas that which participates in less real being will be less truly and surely
satisfied, and will participate in an illusory and less real pleasure?
Unquestionably. Those, then, who know not wisdom and virtue, and are always busy
with gluttony and sensuality, go down and up again as far as the mean; and in this
region they move at random throughout life, but they never pass into the true upper
world; thither they neither look, nor do they ever find their way, neither are they truly
filled with true being, nor do they taste of pure and abiding pleasure. Like cattle, with
their eyes always looking down and their heads stooping to the earth, that is, to the
dining-table, they fatten and feed and breed, and, in their excessive love of these
delights, they kick and butt at one another with horns and hoofs which are made of iron;
and they kill one another by reason of their insatiable lust. For they fill themselves with
that which is not substantial, and the part of themselves which they fill is also
unsubstantial and incontinent.
Verily, Socrates, said Glaucon, you describe the life of the many like an oracle.
Their pleasures are mixed with pains—how can they be otherwise? For they are mere
shadows and pictures of the true, and are colored by contrast, which exaggerates both
light and shade, and so they implant in the minds of fools insane desires of themselves;
and they are fought about as Stesichorus says that the Greeks fought about the shadow
of Helen at Troy, in ignorance of the truth.
Something of that sort must inevitably happen.
And must not the like happen with the spirited or passionate element of the soul? Will
not the passionate man who carries his passion into action, be in the like case, whether
he is envious and ambitious, or violent and contentious, or angry and discontented, if he
be seeking to attain honor and victory and the satisfaction of his anger without reason
or sense?
Yes, he said, the same will happen with the spirited element also.
Then may we not confidently assert that the lovers of money and honor, when they seek
their pleasures under the guidance and in the company of reason and knowledge, and
pursue after and win the pleasures which wisdom shows them, will also have the truest
pleasures in the highest degree which is attainable to them, inasmuch as they follow
truth; and they will have the pleasures which are natural to them, if that which is best for
each one is also most natural to him?
Yes, certainly; the best is the most natural.
And when the whole soul follows the philosophical principle, and there is no division,
the several parts are just, and do each of them their own business, and enjoy severally
the best and truest pleasures of which they are capable?
Exactly.
But when either of the two other principles prevails, it fails in attaining its own pleasure,
and compels the rest to pursue after a pleasure which is a shadow only and which is not
their own?
True.
And the greater the interval which separates them from philosophy and reason, the
more strange and illusive will be the pleasure?
Yes.
And is not that farthest from reason which is at the greatest distance from law and
order?
Clearly.
And the lustful and tyrannical desires are, as we saw, at the greatest distance? Yes.
And the royal and orderly desires are nearest?
Yes.
Then the tyrant will live at the greatest distance from true or natural pleasure, and the
king at the least?
Certainly.
But if so, the tyrant will live most unpleasantly, and the king most pleasantly?
Inevitably.
Would you know the measure of the interval which separates them?
Will you tell me?
There appear to be three pleasures, one genuine and two spurious: now the
transgression of the tyrant reaches a point beyond the spurious; he has run away from
the region of law and reason, and taken up his abode with certain slave pleasures which
are his satellites, and the measure of his inferiority can only be expressed in a figure.
How do you mean?
I assume, I said, that the tyrant is in the third place from the oligarch; the democrat was
in the middle?
Yes.
And if there is truth in what has preceded, he will be wedded to an image of pleasure
which is thrice removed as to truth from the pleasure of the oligarch?
He will.
And the oligarch is third from the royal; since we count as one royal and aristocratical?
Yes, he is third.
Then the tyrant is removed from true pleasure by the space of a number which is three
times three?
Manifestly.
The shadow, then, of tyrannical pleasure determined by the number of length will be a
plane figure.
Certainly.
And if you raise the power and make the plane a solid, there is no difficulty in seeing
how vast is the interval by which the tyrant is parted from the king.
Yes; the arithmetician will easily do the sum.
Or if some person begins at the other end and measures the interval by which the king
is parted from the tyrant in truth of pleasure, he will find him, when the multiplication is
completed, living 729 times more pleasantly, and the tyrant more painfully by this same
interval.
What a wonderful calculation! And how enormous is the distance which separates the
just from the unjust in regard to pleasure and pain!
Yet a true calculation, I said, and a number which nearly concerns human life, if human
beings are concerned with days and nights and months and years.
Yes, he said, human life is certainly concerned with them.
Then if the good and just man be thus superior in pleasure to the evil and unjust, his
superiority will be infinitely greater in propriety of life and in beauty and virtue?
Immeasurably greater.
Well, I said, and now having arrived at this stage of the argument, we may revert to the
words which brought us hither: Was not someone saying that injustice was a gain to the
perfectly unjust who was reputed to be just?
Yes, that was said. Now, then, having determined the power and quality of justice and
injustice, let us have a little conversation with him.
What shall we say to him?
Let us make an image of the soul, that he may have his own words presented before his
eyes.
Of what sort?
An ideal image of the soul, like the composite creations of ancient mythology, such as
the Chimera, or Scylla, or Cerberus, and there are many others in which two or more
different natures are said to grow into one.
There are said to have been such unions.
Then do you now model the form of a multitudinous, manyheaded monster, having a
ring of heads of all manner of beasts, tame and wild, which he is able to generate and
metamorphose at will.
You suppose marvellous powers in the artist; but, as language is more pliable than wax
or any similar substance, let there be such a model as you propose.
Suppose now that you make a second form as of a lion, and a third of a man, the
second smaller than the first, and the third smaller than the second.
That, he said, is an easier task; and I have made them as you say.
And now join them, and let the three grow into one.
That has been accomplished.
Next fashion the outside of them into a single image, as of a man, so that he who is not
able to look within, and sees only the outer hull, may believe the beast to be a single
human creature. I have done so, he said.
And now, to him who maintains that it is profitable for the human creature to be unjust,
and unprofitable to be just, let us reply that, if he be right, it is profitable for this
creature to feast the multitudinous monster and strengthen the lion and the lion-like
qualities, but to starve and weaken the man, who is consequently liable to be dragged
about at the mercy of either of the other two; and he is not to attempt to familiarize or
harmonize them with one another—he ought rather to suffer them to fight, and bite
and devour one another.
Certainly, he said; that is what the approver of injustice says.
To him the supporter of justice makes answer that he should ever so speak and act as to
give the man within him in some way or other the most complete mastery over the
entire human creature.
He should watch over the manyheaded monster like a good husbandman, fostering and
cultivating the gentle qualities, and preventing the wild ones from growing; he should
be making the lion-heart his ally, and in common care of them all should be uniting the
several parts with one another and with himself.
Yes, he said, that is quite what the maintainer of justice will say.
And so from every point of view, whether of pleasure, honor, or advantage, the approver
of justice is right and speaks the truth, and the disapprover is wrong and false and
ignorant?
Yes, from every point of view.
Come, now, and let us gently reason with the unjust, who is not intentionally in error.
"Sweet sir," we will say to him, "what think you of things esteemed noble and ignoble? Is
not the noble that which subjects the beast to the man, or rather to the god in man?
and the ignoble that which subjects the man to the beast?" He can hardly avoid saying,
Yes—can he, now? Not if he has any regard for my opinion. But, if he agree so far, we
may ask him to answer another question: "Then how would a man profit if he received
gold and silver on the condition that he was to enslave the noblest part of him to the
worst? Who can imagine that a man who sold his son or daughter into slavery for
money, especially if he sold them into the hands of fierce and evil men, would be the
gainer, however large might be the sum which he received? And will anyone say that he
is not a miserable caitiff who remorselessly sells his own divine being to that which is
most godless and detestable? Eriphyle took the necklace as the price of her husband's
life, but he is taking a bribe in order to compass a worse ruin."
Yes, said Glaucon, far worse—I will answer for him.
Has not the intemperate been censured of old, because in him the huge multiform
monster is allowed to be too much at large?
Clearly.
And men are blamed for pride and bad temper when the lion and serpent element in
them disproportionately grows and gains strength?
Yes.
And luxury and softness are blamed, because they relax and weaken this same creature,
and make a coward of him?
Very true.
And is not a man reproached for flattery and meanness who subordinates the spirited
animal to the unruly monster, and, for the sake of money, of which he can never have
enough, habituates him in the days of his youth to be trampled in the mire, and from
being a lion to become a monkey?
True, he said.
And why are mean employments and manual arts a reproach? Only because they imply
a natural weakness of the higher principle; the individual is unable to control the
creatures within him, but has to court them, and his great study is how to flatter them.
Such appears to be the reason.
And therefore, being desirous of placing him under a rule like that of the best, we say
that he ought to be the servant of the best, in whom the Divine rules; not, as
Thrasymachus supposed, to the injury of the servant, but because everyone had better
be ruled by divine wisdom dwelling within him; or, if this be impossible, then by an
external authority, in order that we may be all, as far as possible, under the same
government, friends and equals.
True, he said.
And this is clearly seen to be the intention of the law, which is the ally of the whole city;
and is seen also in the authority which we exercise over children, and the refusal to let
them be free until we have established in them a principle analogous to the constitution
of a State, and by cultivation of this higher element have set up in their hearts a
guardian and ruler like our own, and when this is done they may go their ways.
Yes, he said, the purpose of the law is manifest.
From what point of view, then, and on what ground can we say that a man is profited by
injustice or intemperance or other baseness, which will make him a worse man, even
though he acquire money or power by his wickedness?
From no point of view at all.
What shall he profit, if his injustice be undetected and unpunished? He who is
undetected only gets worse, whereas he who is detected and punished has the brutal
part of his nature silenced and humanized; the gentler element in him is liberated, and
his whole soul is perfected and ennobled by the acquirement of justice and temperance
and wisdom, more than the body ever is by receiving gifts of beauty, strength, and
health, in proportion as the soul is more honorable than the body.
Certainly, he said.
To this nobler purpose the man of understanding will devote the energies of his life.
And in the first place, he will honor studies which impress these qualities on his soul,
and will disregard others?
Clearly, he said.
In the next place, he will regulate his bodily habit and training, and so far will he be from
yielding to brutal and irrational pleasures, that he will regard even health as quite a
secondary matter; his first object will be not that he may be fair or strong or well, unless
he is likely thereby to gain temperance, but he will always desire so to attemper the
body as to preserve the harmony of the soul?
Certainly he will, if he has true music in him.
And in the acquisition of wealth there is a principle of order and harmony which he will
also observe; he will not allow himself to be dazzled by the foolish applause of the
world, and heap up riches to his own infinite harm?
Certainly not, he said.
He will look at the city which is within him, and take heed that no disorder occur in it,
such as might arise either from superfluity or from want; and upon this principle he will
regulate his property and gain or spend according to his means.
Very true.
And, for the same reason, he will gladly accept and enjoy such honors as he deems likely
to make him a better man; but those, whether private or public, which are likely to
disorder his life, he will avoid?
Then, if that is his motive, he will not be a statesman.
By the dog of Egypt, he will! in the city which is his own he certainly will, though in the
land of his birth perhaps not, unless he have a divine call.
I understand; you mean that he will be a ruler in the city of which we are the founders,
and which exists in idea only; for I do not believe that there is such a one anywhere on
earth?
In heaven, I replied, there is laid up a pattern of it, methinks, which he who desires may
behold, and beholding, may set his own house in order. But whether such a one exists,
or ever will exist in fact, is no matter; for he will live after the manner of that city, having
nothing to do with any other.
I think so, he said.

BOOK X
THE
RECOMPENSE OF
LIFE
(SOCRATES, GLAUCON.)
OF the many excellences which I perceive in the order of our State, there is none which
upon reflection pleases me better than the rule about poetry.
To what do you refer?
To the rejection of imitative poetry, which certainly ought not to be received; as I see far
more clearly now that the parts of the soul have been distinguished.
What do you mean?
Speaking in confidence, for I should not like to have my words repeated to the
tragedians and the rest of the imitative tribe—but I do not mind saying to you, that all
poetical imitations are ruinous to the understanding of the hearers, and that the
knowledge of their true nature is the only antidote to them.
Explain the purport of your remark.
Well, I will tell you, although I have always from my earliest youth had an awe and love
of Homer, which even now makes the words falter on my lips, for he is the great captain
and teacher of the whole of that charming tragic company; but a man is not to be
reverenced more than the truth, and therefore I will speak out.
Very good, he said.
Listen to me, then, or, rather, answer me.
Put your question.
Can you tell me what imitation is? for I really do not know.
A likely thing, then, that I should know.
Why not? for the duller eye may often see a thing sooner than the keener.
Very true, he said; but in your presence, even if I had any faint notion, I could not muster
courage to utter it. Will you inquire yourself? Well, then, shall we begin the inquiry in our
usual manner: Whenever a number of individuals have a common name, we assume
them to have also a corresponding idea or form; do you understand me?
I do.
Let us take any common instance; there are beds and tables in the world—plenty of
them, are there not?
Yes.
But there are only two ideas or forms of them—one the idea of a bed, the other of a
table.
True.
And the maker of either of them makes a bed or he makes a table for our use, in
accordance with the idea—that is our way of speaking in this and similar instances—but
no artificer makes the ideas themselves: how could he?
Impossible.
And there is another artist—I should like to know what you would say of him.
Who is he?
One who is the maker of all the works of all other workmen.
What an extraordinary man!
Wait a little, and there will be more reason for your saying so. For this is he who is able
to make not only vessels of every kind, but plants and animals, himself and all other
things— the earth and heaven, and the things which are in heaven or under the earth;
he makes the gods also.
He must be a wizard and no mistake.
Oh! you are incredulous, are you? Do you mean that there is no such maker or creator,
or that in one sense there might be a maker of all these things, but in another not? Do
you see that there is a way in which you could make them all yourself?
What way?
An easy way enough; or rather, there are many ways in which the feat might be quickly
and easily accomplished, none quicker than that of turning a mirror round and round—
you would soon enough make the sun and the heavens, and the earth and yourself, and
other animals and plants, and all the other things of which we were just now speaking,
in the mirror.
Yes, he said; but they would be appearances only.
Very good, I said, you are coming to the point now. And the painter, too, is, as I
conceive, just such another—a creator of appearances, is he not?
Of course.
But then I suppose you will say that what he creates is untrue. And yet there is a sense in
which the painter also creates a bed?
Yes, he said, but not a real bed.
And what of the maker of the bed? were you not saying that he too makes, not the idea
which, according to our view, is the essence of the bed, but only a particular bed?
Yes, I did.
Then if he does not make that which exists he cannot make true existence, but only
some semblance of existence; and if anyone were to say that the work of the maker of
the bed, or of any other workman, has real existence, he could hardly be supposed to be
speaking the truth.
At any rate, he replied, philosophers would say that he was not speaking the truth.
No wonder, then, that his work, too, is an indistinct expression of truth.
No wonder.
Suppose now that by the light of the examples just offered we inquire who this imitator
is?
If you please. Well, then, here are three beds: one existing in nature, which is made by
God, as I think that we may say—for no one else can be the maker?
No.
There is another which is the work of the carpenter?
Yes.
And the work of the painter is a third?
Yes.
Beds, then, are of three kinds, and there are three artists who superintend them: God,
the maker of the bed, and the painter?
Yes, there are three of them.
God, whether from choice or from necessity, made one bed in nature and one only; two
or more such ideal beds neither ever have been nor ever will be made by God.
Why is that?
Because even if He had made but two, a third would still appear behind them which
both of them would have for their idea, and that would be the ideal bed and not the
two others.
Very true, he said.
God knew this, and he desired to be the real maker of a real bed, not a particular maker
of a particular bed, and therefore he created a bed which is essentially and by nature
one only.
So we believe.
Shall we, then, speak of him as the natural author or maker of the bed?
Yes, he replied; inasmuch as by the natural process of creation he is the author of this
and of all other things.
And what shall we say of the carpenter—is not he also the maker of the bed?
Yes.
But would you call the painter a creator and maker?
Certainly not.
Yet if he is not the maker, what is he in relation to the bed?
I think, he said, that we may fairly designate him as the imitator of that which the others
make.
Good, I said; then you call him who is third in the descent from nature an imitator?
Certainly, he said.
And the tragic poet is an imitator, and, therefore, like all other imitators, he is thrice
removed from the king and from the truth?
That appears to be so.
Then about the imitator we are agreed. And what about the painter? I would like to
know whether he may be thought to imitate that which originally exists in nature, or
only the creations of artists?
The latter.
As they are or as they appear? you have still to determine this.
What do you mean?
I mean, that you may look at a bed from different points of view, obliquely or directly or
from any other point of view, and the bed will appear different, but there is no
difference in reality. And the same of all things.
Yes, he said, the difference is only apparent.
Now let me ask you another question: Which is the art of painting designed to be—an
imitation of things as they are, or as they appear—of appearance or of reality?
Of appearance.
Then the imitator, I said, is a long way off the truth, and can do all things because he
lightly touches on a small part of them, and that part an image. For example: A painter
will paint a cobbler, carpenter, or any other artist, though he knows nothing of their arts;
and, if he is a good artist, he may deceive children or simple persons, when he shows
them his picture of a carpenter from a distance, and they will fancy that they are looking
at a real carpenter.
Certainly.
And whenever anyone informs us that he has found a man who knows all the arts, and
all things else that anybody knows, and every single thing with a higher degree of
accuracy than any other man—whoever tells us this, I think that we can only imagine
him to be a simple creature who is likely to have been deceived by some wizard or actor
whom he met, and whom he thought all-knowing, because he himself was unable to
analyze the nature of knowledge and ignorance and imitation.
Most true.
And so, when we hear persons saying that the tragedians, and Homer, who is at their
head, know all the arts and all things human, virtue as well as vice, and divine things too,
for that the good poet cannot compose well unless he knows his subject, and that he
who has not this knowledge can never be a poet, we ought to consider whether here
also there may not be a similar illusion. Perhaps they may have come across imitators
and been deceived by them; they may not have remembered when they saw their works
that these were but imitations thrice removed from the truth, and could easily be made
without any knowledge of the truth, because they are appearances only and not
realities? Or, after all, they may be in the right, and poets do really know the things
about which they seem to the many to speak so well?
The question, he said, should by all means be considered.
Now do you suppose that if a person were able to make the original as well as the
image, he would seriously devote himself to the image-making branch? Would he allow
imitation to be the ruling principle of his life, as if he had nothing higher in him?
I should say not.
The real artist, who knew what he was imitating, would be interested in realities and not
in imitations; and would desire to leave as memorials of himself works many and fair;
and, instead of being the author of encomiums, he would prefer to be the theme of
them.
Yes, he said, that would be to him a source of much greater honor and profit.
Then, I said, we must put a question to Homer; not about medicine, or any of the arts to
which his poems only incidentally refer: we are not going to ask him, or any other poet,
whether he has cured patients like Asclepius, or left behind him a school of medicine
such as the Asclepiads were, or whether he only talks about medicine and other arts at
second-hand; but we have a right to know respecting military tactics, politics, education,
which are the chiefest and noblest subjects of his poems, and we may fairly ask him
about them. "Friend Homer," then we say to him, "if you are only in the second remove
from truth in what you say of virtue, and not in the third—not an image maker or
imitator—and if you are able to discern what pursuits make men better or worse in
private or public life, tell us what State was ever better governed by your help? The
good order of Lacedaemon is due to Lycurgus, and many other cities, great and small,
have been similarly benefited by others; but who says that you have been a good
legislator to them and have done them any good? Italy and Sicily boast of Charondas,
and there is Solon who is renowned among us; but what city has anything to say about
you?" Is there any city which he might name?
I think not, said Glaucon; not even the Homerids themselves pretend that he was a
legislator.
Well, but is there any war on record which was carried on successfully by him, or aided
by his counsels, when he was alive?
There is not.
Or is there any invention of his, applicable to the arts or to human life, such as Thales
the Milesian or Anacharsis the Scythian, and other ingenious men have conceived, which
is attributed to him?
There is absolutely nothing of the kind.
But, if Homer never did any public service, was he privately a guide or teacher of any?
Had he in his lifetime friends who loved to associate with him, and who handed down to
posterity a Homeric way of life, such as was established by Pythagoras, who was so
greatly beloved for his wisdom, and whose followers are to this day quite celebrated for
the order which was named after him?
Nothing of the kind is recorded of him. For, surely, Socrates, Creophylus, the companion
of Homer, that child of flesh, whose name always makes us laugh, might be more justly
ridiculed for his stupidity, if, as is said, Homer was greatly neglected by him and others
in his own day when he was alive?
Yes, I replied, that is the tradition. But can you imagine, Glaucon, that if Homer had
really been able to educate and improve mankind—if he had possessed knowledge, and
not been a mere imitator—can you imagine, I say, that he would not have had many
followers, and been honored and loved by them? Protagoras of Abdera and Prodicus of
Ceos and a host of others have only to whisper to their contemporaries: "You will never
be able to manage either your own house or your own State until you appoint us to be
your ministers of education"—and this ingenious device of theirs has such an effect in
making men love them that their companions all but carry them about on their
shoulders. And is it conceivable that the contemporaries of Homer, or again of Hesiod,
would have allowed either of them to go about as rhapsodists, if they had really been
able to make mankind virtuous? Would they not have been as unwilling to part with
them as with gold, and have compelled them to stay at home with them? Or, if the
master would not stay, then the disciples would have followed him about everywhere,
until they had got education enough?
Yes, Socrates, that, I think, is quite true.
Then must we not infer that all these poetical individuals, beginning with Homer, are
only imitators; they copy images of virtue and the like, but the truth they never reach?
The poet is like a painter who, as we have already observed, will make a likeness of a
cobbler though he understands nothing of cobbling; and his picture is good enough for
those who know no more than he does, and judge only by colors and figures.
Quite so.
In like manner the poet with his words and phrases may be said to lay on the colors of
the several arts, himself understanding their nature only enough to imitate them; and
other people, who are as ignorant as he is, and judge only from his words, imagine that
if he speaks of cobbling, or of military tactics, or of anything else, in metre and harmony
and rhythm, he speaks very well—such is the sweet influence which melody and rhythm
by nature have. And I think that you must have observed again and again what a poor
appearance the tales of poets make when stripped of the colors which music puts upon
them, and recited in simple prose.
Yes, he said.
They are like faces which were never really beautiful, but only blooming; and now the
bloom of youth has passed away from them?
Exactly.
Here is another point: The imitator or maker of the image knows nothing of true
existence; he knows appearances only. Am I not right?
Yes.
Then let us have a clear understanding, and not be satisfied with half an explanation.
Proceed.
Of the painter we say that he will paint reins, and he will paint a bit?
Yes.
And the worker in leather and brass will make them?
Certainly.
But does the painter know the right form of the bit and reins? Nay, hardly even the
workers in brass and leather who make them; only the horseman who knows how to use
them—he knows their right form.
Most true.
And may we not say the same of all things?
What?
That there are three arts which are concerned with all things: one which uses, another
which makes, a third which imitates them?
Yes.
And the excellence or beauty or truth of every structure, animate or inanimate, and of
every action of man, is relative to the use for which nature or the artist has intended
them.
True.
Then the user of them must have the greatest experience of them, and he must indicate
to the maker the good or bad qualities which develop themselves in use; for example,
the fluteplayer will tell the flute-maker which of his flutes is satisfactory to the
performer; he will tell him how he ought to make them, and the other will attend to his
instructions?
Of course.
The one knows and therefore speaks with authority about the goodness and badness of
flutes, while the other, confiding in him, will do what he is told by him?
True.
The instrument is the same, but about the excellence or badness of it the maker will only
attain to a correct belief; and this he will gain from him who knows, by talking to him
and being compelled to hear what he has to say, whereas the user will have knowledge?
True.
But will the imitator have either? Will he know from use whether or no his drawing is
correct or beautiful? or will he have right opinion from being compelled to associate
with another who knows and gives him instructions about what he should draw?
Neither.
Then he will no more have true opinion than he will have knowledge about the
goodness or badness of his imitations?
I suppose not.
The imitative artist will be in a brilliant state of intelligence about his own creations?
Nay, very much the reverse.
And still he will go on imitating without knowing what makes a thing good or bad, and
may be expected therefore to imitate only that which appears to be good to the
ignorant multitude?
Just so.
Thus far, then, we are pretty well agreed that the imitator has no knowledge worth
mentioning of what he imitates. Imitation is only a kind of play or sport, and the tragic
poets, whether they write in iambic or in heroic verse, are imitators in the highest
degree?
Very true.
And now tell me, I conjure you, has not imitation been shown by us to be concerned
with that which is thrice removed from the truth?
Certainly.
And what is the faculty in man to which imitation is addressed?
What do you mean?
I will explain: The body which is large when seen near, appears small when seen at a
distance?
True.
And the same objects appear straight when looked at out of the water, and crooked
when in the water; and the concave becomes convex, owing to the illusion about colors
to which the sight is liable. Thus every sort of confusion is revealed within us; and this is
that weakness of the human mind on which the art of conjuring and of deceiving by
light and shadow and other ingenious devices imposes, having an effect upon us like
magic.
True.
And the arts of measuring and numbering and weighing come to the rescue of the
human understanding—there is the beauty of them—and the apparent greater or less,
or more or heavier, no longer have the mastery over us, but give way before calculation
and measure and weight?
Most true.
And this, surely, must be the work of the calculating and rational principle in the soul?
To be sure.
And when this principle measures and certifies that some things are equal, or that some
are greater or less than others, there occurs an apparent contradiction?
True.
But were we not saying that such a contradiction is impossible—the same faculty cannot
have contrary opinions at the same time about the same thing?
Very true.
Then that part of the soul which has an opinion contrary to measure is not the same
with that which has an opinion in accordance with measure?
True.
And the better part of the soul is likely to be that which trusts to measure and
calculation?
Certainly.
And that which is opposed to them is one of the inferior principles of the soul?
No doubt.
This was the conclusion at which I was seeking to arrive when I said that painting or
drawing, and imitation in general, when doing their own proper work, are far removed
from truth, and the companions and friends and associates of a principle within us
which is equally removed from reason, and that they have no true or healthy aim.
Exactly.
The imitative art is an inferior who marries an inferior, and has inferior offspring.
Very true.
And is this confined to the sight only, or does it extend to the hearing also, relating in
fact to what we term poetry?
Probably the same would be true of poetry.
Do not rely, I said, on a probability derived from the analogy of painting; but let us
examine further and see whether the faculty with which poetical imitation is concerned
is good or bad.
By all means.
We may state the question thus: Imitation imitates the actions of men, whether
voluntary or involuntary, on which, as they imagine, a good or bad result has ensued,
and they rejoice or sorrow accordingly. Is there anything more?
No, there is nothing else.
But in all this variety of circumstances is the man at unity with himself—or, rather, as in
the instance of sight there were confusion and opposition in his opinions about the
same things, so here also are there not strife and inconsistency in his life? though I need
hardly raise the question again, for I remember that all this has been already admitted;
and the soul has been acknowledged by us to be full of these and ten thousand similar
oppositions occurring at the same moment?
And we were right, he said.
Yes, I said, thus far we were right; but there was an omission which must now be
supplied.
What was the omission?
Were we not saying that a good man, who has the misfortune to lose his son or
anything else which is most dear to him, will bear the loss with more equanimity than
another?
Yes.
But will he have no sorrow, or shall we say that although he cannot help sorrowing, he
will moderate his sorrow?
The latter, he said, is the truer statement.
Tell me: will he be more likely to struggle and hold out against his sorrow when he is
seen by his equals, or when he is alone?
It will make a great difference whether he is seen or not.
When he is by himself he will not mind saying or doing many things which he would be
ashamed of anyone hearing or seeing him do?
True.
There is a principle of law and reason in him which bids him resist, as well as a feeling of
his misfortune which is forcing him to indulge his sorrow?
True.
But when a man is drawn in two opposite directions, to and from the same object, this,
as we affirm, necessarily implies two distinct principles in him?
Certainly.
One of them is ready to follow the guidance of the law?
How do you mean?
The law would say that to be patient under suffering is best, and that we should not give
way to impatience, as there is no knowing whether such things are good or evil; and
nothing is gained by impatience; also, because no human thing is of serious importance,
and grief stands in the way of that which at the moment is most required.
What is most required? he asked.
That we should take counsel about what has happened, and when the dice have been
thrown order our affairs in the way which reason deems best; not, like children who have
had a fall, keeping hold of the part struck and wasting time in setting up a howl, but
always accustoming the soul forthwith to apply a remedy, raising up that which is sickly
and fallen, banishing the cry of sorrow by the healing art.
Yes, he said, that is the true way of meeting the attacks of fortune.
Yes, I said; and the higher principle is ready to follow this suggestion of reason?
Clearly.
And the other principle, which inclines us to recollection of our troubles and to
lamentation, and can never have enough of them, we may call irrational, useless, and
cowardly?
Indeed, we may.
And does not the latter—I mean the rebellious principle— furnish a great variety of
materials for imitation? Whereas the wise and calm temperament, being always nearly
equable, is not easy to imitate or to appreciate when imitated, especially at a public
festival when a promiscuous crowd is assembled in a theatre. For the feeling
represented is one to which they are strangers.
Certainly.
Then the imitative poet who aims at being popular is not by nature made, nor is his art
intended, to please or to affect the rational principle in the soul; but he will prefer the
passionate and fitful temper, which is easily imitated?
Clearly.
And now we may fairly take him and place him by the side of the painter, for he is like
him in two ways: first, inasmuch as his creations have an inferior degree of truth—in this,
I say, he is like him; and he is also like him in being concerned with an inferior part of
the soul; and therefore we shall be right in refusing to admit him into a well-ordered
State, because he awakens and nourishes and strengthens the feelings and impairs the
reason. As in a city when the evil are permitted to have authority and the good are put
out of the way, so in the soul of man, as we maintain, the imitative poet implants an evil
constitution, for he indulges the irrational nature which has no discernment of greater
and less, but thinks the same thing at one time great and at another small—he is a
manufacturer of images and is very far removed from the truth.
Exactly.
But we have not yet brought forward the heaviest count in our accusation: the power
which poetry has of harming even the good (and there are very few who are not
harmed), is surely an awful thing?
Yes, certainly, if the effect is what you say.
Hear and judge: The best of us, as I conceive, when we listen to a passage of Homer or
one of the tragedians, in which he represents some pitiful hero who is drawling out his
sorrows in a long oration, or weeping, and smiting his breast—the best of us, you know,
delight in giving way to sympathy, and are in raptures at the excellence of the poet who
stirs our feelings most.
Yes, of course, I know.
But when any sorrow of our own happens to us, then you may observe that we pride
ourselves on the opposite quality— we would fain be quiet and patient; this is the manly
part, and the other which delighted us in the recitation is now deemed to be the part of
a woman.
Very true, he said.
Now can we be right in praising and admiring another who is doing that which any one
of us would abominate and be ashamed of in his own person?
No, he said, that is certainly not reasonable.
Nay, I said, quite reasonable from one point of view.
What point of view?
If you consider, I said, that when in misfortune we feel a natural hunger and desire to
relieve our sorrow by weeping and lamentation, and that this feeling which is kept under
control in our own calamities is satisfied and delighted by the poets; the better nature in
each of us, not having been sufficiently trained by reason or habit, allows the
sympathetic element to break loose because the sorrow is another's; and the spectator
fancies that there can be no disgrace to himself in praising and pitying anyone who
comes telling him what a good man he is, and making a fuss about his troubles; he
thinks that the pleasure is a gain, and why should he be supercilious and lose this and
the poem too? Few persons ever reflect, as I should imagine, that from the evil of other
men something of evil is communicated to themselves. And so the feeling of sorrow
which has gathered strength at the sight of the misfortunes of others is with difficulty
repressed in our own.
How very true!
And does not the same hold also of the ridiculous? There are jests which you would be
ashamed to make yourself, and yet on the comic stage, or indeed in private, when you
hear them, you are greatly amused by them, and are not at all disgusted at their
unseemliness; the case of pity is repeated; there is a principle in human nature which is
disposed to raise a laugh, and this which you once restrained by reason, because you
were afraid of being thought a buffoon, is now let out again; and having stimulated the
risible faculty at the theatre, you are betrayed unconsciously to yourself into playing the
comic poet at home.
Quite true, he said.
And the same may be said of lust and anger and all the other affections, of desire, and
pain, and pleasure, which are held to be inseparable from every action—in all of them
poetry feeds and waters the passions instead of drying them up; she lets them rule,
although they ought to be controlled, if mankind are ever to increase in happiness and
virtue.
I cannot deny it.
Therefore, Glaucon, I said, whenever you meet with any of the eulogists of Homer
declaring that he has been the educator of Hellas, and that he is profitable for education
and for the ordering of human things, and that you should take him up again and again
and get to know him and regulate your whole life according to him, we may love and
honor those who say these things—they are excellent people, as far as their lights
extend; and we are ready to acknowledge that Homer is the greatest of poets and first
of tragedy writers; but we must remain firm in our conviction that hymns to the gods
and praises of famous men are the only poetry which ought to be admitted into our
State. For if you go beyond this and allow the honeyed muse to enter, either in epic or
lyric verse, not law and the reason of mankind, which by common consent have ever
been deemed best, but pleasure and pain will be the rulers in our State.
That is most true, he said.
And now since we have reverted to the subject of poetry, let this our defence serve to
show the reasonableness of our former judgment in sending away out of our State an
art having the tendencies which we have described; for reason constrained us. But that
she may not impute to us any harshness or want of politeness, let us tell her that there is
an ancient quarrel between philosophy and poetry; of which there are many proofs,
such as the saying of "the yelping hound howling at her lord," or of one "mighty in the
vain talk of fools," and "the mob of sages circumventing Zeus," and the "subtle thinkers
who are beggars after all"; and there are innumerable other signs of ancient enmity
between them. Notwithstanding this, let us assure our sweet friend and the sister art of
imitation, that if she will only prove her title to exist in a well-ordered State we shall be
delighted to receive her—we are very conscious of her charms; but we may not on that
account betray the truth. I dare say, Glaucon, that you are as much charmed by her as I
am, especially when she appears in Homer?
Yes, indeed, I am greatly charmed.
Shall I propose, then, that she be allowed to return from exile, but upon this condition
only—that she make a defence of herself in lyrical or some other metre?
Certainly.
And we may further grant to those of her defenders who are lovers of poetry and yet
not poets the permission to speak in prose on her behalf: let them show not only that
she is pleasant, but also useful to States and to human life, and we will listen in a kindly
spirit; for if this can be proved we shall surely be the gainers—I mean, if there is a use in
poetry as well as a delight?
Certainly, he said, we shall be the gainers.
If her defence fails, then, my dear friend, like other persons who are enamoured of
something, but put a restraint upon themselves when they think their desires are
opposed to their interests, so, too, must we after the manner of lovers give her up,
though not without a struggle. We, too, are inspired by that love of poetry which the
education of noble States has implanted in us, and therefore we would have her appear
at her best and truest; but so long as she is unable to make good her defence, this
argument of ours shall be a charm to us, which we will repeat to ourselves while we
listen to her strains; that we may not fall away into the childish love of her which
captivates the many. At all events we are well aware that poetry being such as we have
described is not to be regarded seriously as attaining to the truth; and he who listens to
her, fearing for the safety of the city which is within him, should be on his guard against
her seductions and make our words his law.
Yes, he said, I quite agree with you.
Yes, I said, my dear Glaucon, for great is the issue at stake, greater than appears,
whether a man is to be good or bad. And what will anyone be profited if under the
influence of honor or money or power, aye, or under the excitement of poetry, he
neglect justice and virtue?
Yes, he said; I have been convinced by the argument, as I believe that anyone else would
have been.
And yet no mention has been made of the greatest prizes and rewards which await
virtue.
What, are there any greater still? If there are, they must be of an inconceivable
greatness.
Why, I said, what was ever great in a short time? The whole period of threescore years
and ten is surely but a little thing in comparison with eternity?
Say rather 'nothing' he replied.
And should an immortal being seriously think of this little space rather than of the
whole?
Of the whole, certainly. But why do you ask?
Are you not aware, I said, that the soul of man is immortal and imperishable?
He looked at me in astonishment, and said: No, by heaven: And are you really prepared
to maintain this?
Yes, I said, I ought to be, and you too—there is no difficulty in proving it.
I see a great difficulty; but I should like to hear you state this argument of which you
make so light. Listen, then.
I am attending.
There is a thing which you call good and another which you call evil?
Yes, he replied.
Would you agree with me in thinking that the corrupting and destroying element is the
evil, and the saving and improving element the good?
Yes.
And you admit that everything has a good and also an evil; as ophthalmia is the evil of
the eyes and disease of the whole body; as mildew is of corn, and rot of timber, or rust
of copper and iron: in everything, or in almost everything, there is an inherent evil and
disease?
Yes, he said.
And anything which is infected by any of these evils is made evil, and at last wholly
dissolves and dies?
True.
The vice and evil which are inherent in each are the destruction of each; and if these do
not destroy them there is nothing else that will; for good certainly will not destroy them,
nor, again, that which is neither good nor evil.
Certainly not.
If, then, we find any nature which having this inherent corruption cannot be dissolved or
destroyed, we may be certain that of such a nature there is no destruction?
That may be assumed.
Well, I said, and is there no evil which corrupts the soul?
Yes, he said, there are all the evils which we were just now passing in review:
unrighteousness, intemperance, cowardice, ignorance.
But does any of these dissolve or destroy her?—and here do not let us fall into the error
of supposing that the unjust and foolish man, when he is detected, perishes through his
own injustice, which is an evil of the soul. Take the analogy of the body: The evil of the
body is a disease which wastes and reduces and annihilates the body; and all the things
of which we were just now speaking come to annihilation through their own corruption
attaching to them and inhering in them and so destroying them. Is not this true?
Yes.
Consider the soul in like manner. Does the injustice or other evil which exists in the soul
waste and consume her? Do they by attaching to the soul and inhering in her at last
bring her to death, and so separate her from the body?
Certainly not.
And yet, I said, it is unreasonable to suppose that anything can perish from without
through affection of external evil which could not be destroyed from within by a
corruption of its own?
It is, he replied.
Consider, I said, Glaucon, that even the badness of food, whether staleness,
decomposition, or any other bad quality, when confined to the actual food, is not
supposed to destroy the body; although, if the badness of food communicates
corruption to the body, then we should say that the body has been destroyed by a
corruption of itself, which is disease, brought on by this; but that the body, being one
thing, can be destroyed by the badness of the food, which is another, and which does
not engender any natural infection—this we shall absolutely deny?
Very true.
And, on the same principle, unless some bodily evil can produce an evil of the soul, we
must not suppose that the soul, which is one thing, can be dissolved by any merely
external evil which belongs to another?
Yes, he said, there is reason in that. Either, then, let us refute this conclusion, or, while it
remains unrefuted, let us never say that fever, or any other disease, or the knife put to
the throat, or even the cutting up of the whole body into the minutest pieces, can
destroy the soul, until she herself is proved to become more unholy or unrighteous in
consequence of these things being done to the body; but that the soul, or anything else
if not destroyed by an internal evil, can be destroyed by an external one, is not to be
affirmed by any man.
And surely, he replied, no one will ever prove that the souls of men become more unjust
in consequence of death.
But if someone who would rather not admit the immortality of the soul boldly denies
this, and says that the dying do really become more evil and unrighteous, then, if the
speaker is right, I suppose that injustice, like disease, must be assumed to be fatal to the
unjust, and that those who take this disorder die by the natural inherent power of
destruction which evil has, and which kills them sooner or later, but in quite another way
from that in which, at present, the wicked receive death at the hands of others as the
penalty of their deeds?
Nay, he said, in that case injustice, if fatal to the unjust, will not be so very terrible to
him, for he will be delivered from evil. But I rather suspect the opposite to be the truth,
and that injustice which, if it have the power, will murder others, keeps the murderer
alive—aye, and well awake, too; so far removed is her dwelling-place from being a
house of death.
True, I said; if the inherent natural vice or evil of the soul is unable to kill or destroy her,
hardly will that which is appointed to be the destruction of some other body, destroy a
soul or anything else except that of which it was appointed to be the destruction.
Yes, that can hardly be.
But the soul which cannot be destroyed by an evil, whether inherent or external, must
exist forever, and, if existing forever, must be immortal?
Certainly.
That is the conclusion, I said; and, if a true conclusion, then the souls must always be the
same, for if none be destroyed they will not diminish in number. Neither will they
increase, for the increase of the immortal natures must come from something mortal,
and all things would thus end in immortality.
Very true.
But this we cannot believe—reason will not allow us—any more than we can believe the
soul, in her truest nature, to be full of variety and difference and dissimilarity.
What do you mean? he said.
The soul, I said, being, as is now proven, immortal, must be the fairest of compositions
and cannot be compounded of many elements?
Certainly not.
Her immortality is demonstrated by the previous argument, and there are many other
proofs; but to see her as she really is, not as we now behold her, marred by communion
with the body and other miseries, you must contemplate her with the eye of reason, in
her original purity; and then her beauty will be revealed, and justice and injustice and all
the things which we have described will be manifested more clearly. Thus far, we have
spoken the truth concerning her as she appears at present, but we must remember also
that we have seen her only in a condition which may be compared to that of the seagod
Glaucus, whose original image can hardly be discerned because his natural
members are broken off and crushed and damaged by the waves in all sorts of ways,
and incrustations have grown over them of sea-weed and shells and stones, so that he is
more like some monster than he is to his own natural form. And the soul which we
behold is in a similar condition, disfigured by ten thousand ills. But not there, Glaucon,
not there must we look. Where, then?
At her love of wisdom. Let us see whom she affects, and what society and converse she
seeks in virtue of her near kindred with the immortal and eternal and divine; also how
different she would become if, wholly following this superior principle, and borne by a
divine impulse out of the ocean in which she now is, and disengaged from the stones
and shells and things of earth and rock which in wild variety spring up around her
because she feeds upon earth, and is overgrown by the good things in this life as they
are termed: then you would see her as she is, and know whether she have one shape
only or many, or what her nature is. Of her affections and of the forms which she takes
in this present life I think that we have now said enough.
True, he replied.
And thus, I said, we have fulfilled the conditions of the argument; we have not
introduced the rewards and glories of justice, which, as you were saying, are to be found
in Homer and Hesiod; but justice in her own nature has been shown to be the best for
the soul in her own nature. Let a man do what is just, whether he have the ring of Gyges
or not, and even if in addition to the ring of Gyges he put on the helmet of Hades.
Very true.
And now, Glaucon, there will be no harm in further enumerating how many and how
great are the rewards which justice and the other virtues procure to the soul from gods
and men, both in life and after death.
Certainly not, he said.
Will you repay me, then, what you borrowed in the argument?
What did I borrow?
The assumption that the just man should appear unjust and the unjust just: for you were
of opinion that even if the true state of the case could not possibly escape the eyes of
gods and men, still this admission ought to be made for the sake of the argument, in
order that pure justice might be weighed against pure injustice. Do you remember?
I should be much to blame if I had forgotten.
Then, as the cause is decided, I demand on behalf of justice that the estimation in which
she is held by gods and men and which we acknowledge to be her due should now be
restored to her by us; since she has been shown to confer reality, and not to deceive
those who truly possess her, let what has been taken from her be given back, that so she
may win that palm of appearance which is hers also, and which she gives to her own.
The demand, he said, is just.
In the first place, I said—and this is the first thing which you will have to give back—the
nature both of the just and unjust is truly known to the gods.
Granted.
And if they are both known to them, one must be the friend and the other the enemy of
the gods, as we admitted from the beginning?
True.
And the friend of the gods may be supposed to receive from them all things at their
best, excepting only such evil as is the necessary consequence of former sins?
Certainly.
Then this must be our notion of the just man, that even when he is in poverty or
sickness, or any other seeming misfortune, all things will in the end work together for
good to him in life and death; for the gods have a care of anyone whose desire is to
become just and to be like God, as far as man can attain the divine likeness, by the
pursuit of virtue?
Yes, he said; if he is like God he will surely not be neglected by him.
And of the unjust may not the opposite be supposed?
Certainly.
Such, then, are the palms of victory which the gods give the just?
That is my conviction.
And what do they receive of men? Look at things as they really are, and you will see that
the clever unjust are in the case of runners, who run well from the starting-place to the
goal, but not back again from the goal: they go off at a great pace, but in the end only
look foolish, slinking away with their ears draggling on their shoulders, and without a
crown; but the true runner comes to the finish and receives the prize and is crowned.
And this is the way with the just; he who endures to the end of every action and
occasion of his entire life has a good report and carries off the prize which men have to
bestow.
True.
And now you must allow me to repeat of the just the blessings which you were
attributing to the fortunate unjust. I shall say of them, what you were saying of the
others, that as they grow older, they become rulers in their own city if they care to be;
they marry whom they like and give in marriage to whom they will; all that you said of
the others I now say of these. And, on the other hand, of the unjust I say that the greater
number, even though they escape in their youth, are found out at last and look foolish
at the end of their course, and when they come to be old and miserable are flouted alike
by stranger and citizen; they are beaten, and then come those things unfit for ears
polite, as you truly term them; they will be racked and have their eyes burned out, as
you were saying. And you may suppose that I have repeated the remainder of your tale
of horrors. But will you let me assume, without reciting them, that these things are true?
Certainly, he said, what you say is true.
These, then, are the prizes and rewards and gifts which are bestowed upon the just by
gods and men in this present life, in addition to the other good things which justice of
herself provides.
Yes, he said; and they are fair and lasting.
And yet, I said, all these are as nothing either in number or greatness in comparison with
those other recompenses which await both just and unjust after death. And you ought
to hear them, and then both just and unjust will have received from us a full payment of
the debt which the argument owes to them.
Speak, he said; there are few things which I would more gladly hear.
Well, I said, I will tell you a tale; not one of the tales which Odysseus tells to the hero
Alcinous, yet this, too, is a tale of a hero, Er the son of Armenius, a Pamphylian by birth.
He was slain in battle, and ten days afterward, when the bodies of the dead were taken
up already in a state of corruption, his body was found unaffected by decay, and carried
away home to be buried. And on the twelfth day, as he was lying on the funeral pyre, he
returned to life and told them what he had seen in the other world. He said that when
his soul left the body he went on a journey with a great company, and that they came to
a mysterious place at which there were two openings in the earth; they were near
together, and over against them were two other openings in the heaven above. In the
intermediate space there were judges seated, who commanded the just, after they had
given judgment on them and had bound their sentences in front of them, to ascend by
the heavenly way on the right hand; and in like manner the unjust were bidden by them
to descend by the lower way on the left hand; these also bore the symbols of their
deeds, but fastened on their backs. He drew near, and they told him that he was to be
the messenger who would carry the report of the other world to them, and they bade
him hear and see all that was to be heard and seen in that place. Then he beheld and
saw on one side the souls departing at either opening of heaven and earth when
sentence had been given on them; and at the two other openings other souls, some
ascending out of the earth dusty and worn with travel, some descending out of heaven
clean and bright. And arriving ever and anon they seemed to have come from a long
journey, and they went forth with gladness into the meadow, where they encamped as
at a festival; and those who knew one another embraced and conversed, the souls which
came from earth curiously inquiring about the things above, and the souls which came
from heaven about the things beneath. And they told one another of what had
happened by the way, those from below weeping and sorrowing at the remembrance of
the things which they had endured and seen in their journey beneath the earth (now the
journey lasted a thousand years), while those from above were describing heavenly
delights and visions of inconceivable beauty. The story, Glaucon, would take too long to
tell; but the sum was this: He said that for every wrong which they had done to anyone
they suffered tenfold; or once in a hundred years—such being reckoned to be the
length of man's life, and the penalty being thus paid ten times in a thousand years. If,
for example, there were any who had been the cause of many deaths, or had betrayed
or enslaved cities or armies, or been guilty of any other evil behavior, for each and all of
their offences they received punishment ten times over, and the rewards of beneficence
and justice and holiness were in the same proportion. I need hardly repeat what he said
concerning young children dying almost as soon as they were born. Of piety and
impiety to gods and parents, and of murderers, there were retributions other and
greater far which he described. He mentioned that he was present when one of the
spirits asked another, "Where is Ardiaeus the Great?" (Now this Ardiaeus lived a
thousand years before the time of Er: he had been the tyrant of some city of Pamphylia,
and had murdered his aged father and his elder brother, and was said to have
committed many other abominable crimes.) The answer of the other spirit was: "He
comes not hither, and will never come." And this, said he, was one of the dreadful sights
which we ourselves witnessed. We were at the mouth of the cavern, and, having
completed all our experiences, were about to reascend, when of a sudden Ardiaeus
appeared and several others, most of whom were tyrants; and there were also, besides
the tyrants, private individuals who had been great criminals: they were just, as they
fancied, about to return into the upper world, but the mouth, instead of admitting them,
gave a roar, whenever any of these incurable sinners or someone who had not been
sufficiently punished tried to ascend; and then wild men of fiery aspect, who were
standing by and heard the sound, seized and carried them off; and Ardiaeus and others
they bound head and foot and hand, and threw them down and flayed them with
scourges, and dragged them along the road at the side, carding them on thorns like
wool, and declaring to the passers-by what were their crimes, and that they were being
taken away to be cast into hell. And of all the many terrors which they had endured, he
said that there was none like the terror which each of them felt at that moment, lest
they should hear the voice; and when there was silence, one by one they ascended with
exceeding joy. These, said Er, were the penalties and retributions, and there were
blessings as great.
Now when the spirits which were in the meadow had tarried seven days, on the eighth
they were obliged to proceed on their journey, and, on the fourth day after, he said that
they came to a place where they could see from above a line of light, straight as a
column, extending right through the whole heaven and through the earth, in color
resembling the rainbow, only brighter and purer; another day's journey brought them to
the place, and there, in the midst of the light, they saw the ends of the chains of heaven
let down from above: for this light is the belt of heaven, and holds together the circle of
the universe, like the under-girders of a trireme. From these ends is extended the
spindle of Necessity, on which all the revolutions turn. The shaft and hook of this spindle
are made of steel, and the whorl is made partly of steel and also partly of other
materials. Now the whorl is in form like the whorl used on earth; and the description of
it implied that there is one large hollow whorl which is quite scooped out, and into this
is fitted another lesser one, and another, and another, and four others, making eight in
all, like vessels which fit into one another; the whorls show their edges on the upper
side, and on their lower side all together form one continuous whorl. This is pierced by
the spindle, which is driven home through the centre of the eighth. The first and
outermost whorl has the rim broadest, and the seven inner whorls are narrower, in the
following proportions —the sixth is next to the first in size, the fourth next to the sixth;
then comes the eighth; the seventh is fifth, the fifth is sixth, the third is seventh, last and
eighth comes the second. The largest (or fixed stars) is spangled, and the seventh (or
sun) is brightest; the eighth (or moon) colored by the reflected light of the seventh; the
second and fifth (Saturn and Mercury) are in color like one another, and yellower than
the preceding; the third (Venus) has the whitest light; the fourth (Mars) is reddish; the
sixth (Jupiter) is in whiteness second. Now the whole spindle has the same motion; but,
as the whole revolves in one direction, the seven inner circles move slowly in the other,
and of these the swiftest is the eighth; next in swiftness are the seventh, sixth, and fifth,
which move together; third in swiftness appeared to move according to the law of this
reversed motion, the fourth; the third appeared fourth, and the second fifth. The spindle
turns on the knees of Necessity; and on the upper surface of each circle is a siren, who
goes round with them, hymning a single tone or note. The eight together form one
harmony; and round about, at equal intervals, there is another band, three in number,
each sitting upon her throne: these are the Fates, daughters of Necessity, who are
clothed in white robes and have chaplets upon their heads, Lachesis and Clotho and
Atropos, who accompany with their voices the harmony of the sirens—Lachesis singing
of the past, Clotho of the present, Atropos of the future; Clotho from time to time
assisting with a touch of her right hand the revolution of the outer circle of the whorl or
spindle, and Atropos with her left hand touching and guiding the inner ones, and
Lachesis laying hold of either in turn, first with one hand and then with the other.
When Er and the spirits arrived, their duty was to go at once to Lachesis; but first of all
there came a prophet who arranged them in order; then he took from the knees of
Lachesis lots and samples of lives, and having mounted a high pulpit, spoke as follows:
"Hear the word of Lachesis, the daughter of Necessity. Mortal souls, behold a new cycle
of life and mortality. Your genius will not be allotted to you, but you will choose your
genius; and let him who draws the first lot have the first choice, and the life which he
chooses shall be his destiny. Virtue is free, and as a man honors or dishonors her he will
have more or less of her; the responsibility is with the chooser—God is justified." When
the Interpreter had thus spoken he scattered lots indifferently among them all, and each
of them took up the lot which fell near him, all but Er himself (he was not allowed), and
each as he took his lot perceived the number which he had obtained. Then the
Interpreter placed on the ground before them the samples of lives; and there were many
more lives than the souls present, and they were of all sorts. There were lives of every
animal and of man in every condition. And there were tyrannies among them, some
lasting out the tyrant's life, others which broke off in the middle and came to an end in
poverty and exile and beggary; and there were lives of famous men, some who were
famous for their form and beauty as well as for their strength and success in games, or,
again, for their birth and the qualities of their ancestors; and some who were the reverse
of famous for the opposite qualities. And of women likewise; there was not, however,
any definite character in them, because the soul, when choosing a new life, must of
necessity become different. But there was every other quality, and they all mingled with
one another, and also with elements of wealth and poverty, and disease and health; and
there were mean states also. And here, my dear Glaucon, is the supreme peril of our
human state; and therefore the utmost care should be taken. Let each one of us leave
every other kind of knowledge and seek and follow one thing only, if peradventure he
may be able to learn and may find someone who will make him able to learn and
discern between good and evil, and so to choose always and everywhere the better life
as he has opportunity. He should consider the bearing of all these things which have
been mentioned severally and collectively upon virtue; he should know what the effect
of beauty is when combined with poverty or wealth in a particular soul, and what are the
good and evil consequences of noble and humble birth, of private and public station, of
strength and weakness, of cleverness and dullness, and of all the natural and acquired
gifts of the soul, and the operation of them when conjoined; he will then look at the
nature of the soul, and from the consideration of all these qualities he will be able to
determine which is the better and which is the worse; and so he will choose, giving the
name of evil to the life which will make his soul more unjust, and good to the life which
will make his soul more just; all else he will disregard. For we have seen and know that
this is the best choice both in life and after death. A man must take with him into the
world below an adamantine faith in truth and right, that there too he may be undazzled
by the desire of wealth or the other allurements of evil, lest, coming upon tyrannies and
similar villanies, he do irremediable wrongs to others and suffer yet worse himself; but
let him know how to choose the mean and avoid the extremes on either side, as far as
possible, not only in this life but in all that which is to come. For this is the way of
happiness.
And according to the report of the messenger from the other world this was what the
prophet said at the time: "Even for the last comer, if he chooses wisely and will live
diligently, there is appointed a happy and not undesirable existence. Let not him who
chooses first be careless, and let not the last despair." And when he had spoken, he who
had the first choice came forward and in a moment chose the greatest tyranny; his mind
having been darkened by folly and sensuality, he had not thought out the whole matter
before he chose, and did not at first sight perceive that he was fated, among other evils,
to devour his own children. But when he had time to reflect, and saw what was in the
lot, he began to beat his breast and lament over his choice, forgetting the proclamation
of the prophet; for, instead of throwing the blame of his misfortune on himself, he
accused chance and the gods, and everything rather than himself. Now he was one of
those who came from heaven, and in a former life had dwelt in a well-ordered State, but
his virtue was a matter of habit only, and he had no philosophy. And it was true of
others who were similarly overtaken, that the greater number of them came from
heaven and therefore they had never been schooled by trial, whereas the pilgrims WhO
came from earth, having themselves suffered and seen others suffer, were not in a hurry
to choose. And owing to this inexperience of theirs, and also because the lot was a
chance, many of the souls exchanged a good destiny for an evil or an evil for a good.
For if a man had always on his arrival in this world dedicated himself from the first to
sound philosophy, and had been moderately fortunate in the number of the lot, he
might, as the messenger reported, be happy here, and also his journey to another life
and return to this, instead of being rough and underground, would be smooth and
heavenly. Most curious, he said, was the spectacle—sad and laughable and strange; for
the choice of the souls was in most cases based on their experience of a previous life.
There he saw the soul which had once been Orpheus choosing the life of a swan out of
enmity to the race of women, hating to be born of a woman because they had been his
murderers; he beheld also the soul of Thamyras choosing the life of a nightingale; birds,
on the other hand, like the swans and other musicians, wanting to be men. The soul
which obtained the twentieth lot chose the life of a lion, and this was the soul of Ajax
the son of Telamon, who would not be a man, remembering the injustice which was
done him in the judgment about the arms. The next was Agamemnon, who took the life
of an eagle, because, like Ajax, he hated human nature by reason of his sufferings.
About the middle came the lot of Atalanta; she, seeing the great fame of an athlete, was
unable to resist the temptation: and after her there followed the soul of Epeus the son
of Panopeus passing into the nature of a woman cunning in the arts; and far away
among the last who chose, the soul of the jester Thersites was putting on the form of a
monkey. There came also the soul of Odysseus having yet to make a choice, and his lot
happened to be the last of them all. Now the recollection of former toils had
disenchanted him of ambition, and he went about for a considerable time in search of
the life of a private man who had no cares; he had some difficulty in finding this, which
was lying about and had been neglected by everybody else; and when he saw it, he said
that he would have done the same had his lot been first instead of last, and that he was
delighted to have it. And not only did men pass into animals, but I must also mention
that there were animals tame and wild who changed into one another and into
corresponding human natures—the good into the gentle and the evil into the savage, in
all sorts of combinations.
All the souls had now chosen their lives, and they went in the order of their choice to
Lachesis, who sent with them the genius whom they had severally chosen, to be the
guardian of their lives and the fulfiller of the choice: this genius led the souls first to
Clotho, and drew them within the revolution of the spindle impelled by her hand, thus
ratifying the destiny of each; and then, when they were fastened to this, carried them to
Atropos, who spun the threads and made them irreversible, whence without turning
round they passed beneath the throne of Necessity; and when they had all passed, they
marched on in a scorching heat to the plain of Forgetfulness, which was a barren waste
destitute of trees and verdure; and then toward evening they encamped by the river of
Unmindfulness, whose water no vessel can hold; of this they were all obliged to drink a
certain quantity, and those who were not saved by wisdom drank more than was
necessary; and each one as he drank forgot all things. Now after they had gone to rest,
about the middle of the night there were a thunderstorm and earthquake, and then in
an instant they were driven upward in all manner of ways to their birth, like stars
shooting. He himself was hindered from drinking the water. But in what manner or by
what means he returned to the body he could not say; only, in the morning, awaking
suddenly, he found himself lying on the pyre.
And thus, Glaucon, the tale has been saved and has not perished, and will save us if we
are obedient to the word spoken; and we shall pass safely over the river of
Forgetfulness, and our soul will not be defiled. Wherefore my counsel is that we hold
fast ever to the heavenly way and follow after justice and virtue always, considering that
the soul is immortal and able to endure every sort of good and every sort of evil. Thus
shall we live dear to one another and to the gods, both while remaining here and when,
like conquerors in the games who go round to gather gifts, we receive our reward. And
it shall be well with us both in this life and in the pilgrimage of a thousand years which
we have been describing.
THE END
THEAETETUS
BY
PLATO
TRANSLATED BY
BENJAMIN
JOWETT
Theaetetus
INTRODUCTION AND ANALYSIS.
Some dialogues of Plato are of so various a character that their relation to the other
dialogues cannot be determined with any degree of certainty. The Theaetetus, like the
Parmenides, has points of similarity both with his earlier and his later writings. The
perfection of style, the humour, the dramatic interest, the complexity of structure, the
fertility of illustration, the shifting of the points of view, are characteristic of his best
period of authorship. The vain search, the negative conclusion, the figure of the
midwives, the constant profession of ignorance on the part of Socrates, also bear the
stamp of the early dialogues, in which the original Socrates is not yet Platonized. Had we
no other indications, we should be disposed to range the Theaetetus with the Apology
and the Phaedrus, and perhaps even with the Protagoras and the Laches.
But when we pass from the style to an examination of the subject, we trace a connection
with the later rather than with the earlier dialogues. In the first place there is the
connexion, indicated by Plato himself at the end of the dialogue, with the Sophist, to
which in many respects the Theaetetus is so little akin. (1) The same persons reappear,
including the younger Socrates, whose name is just mentioned in the Theaetetus; (2) the
theory of rest, which Socrates has declined to consider, is resumed by the Eleatic
Stranger; (3) there is a similar allusion in both dialogues to the meeting of Parmenides
and Socrates (Theaet., Soph.); and (4) the inquiry into not- being in the Sophist
supplements the question of false opinion which is raised in the Theaetetus. (Compare
also Theaet. and Soph. for parallel turns of thought.) Secondly, the later date of the
dialogue is confirmed by the absence of the doctrine of recollection and of any doctrine
of ideas except that which derives them from generalization and from reflection of the
mind upon itself. The general character of the Theaetetus is dialectical, and there are
traces of the same Megarian influences which appear in the Parmenides, and which later
writers, in their matter of fact way, have explained by the residence of Plato at Megara.
Socrates disclaims the character of a professional eristic, and also, with a sort of ironical
admiration, expresses his inability to attain the Megarian precision in the use of terms.
Yet he too employs a similar sophistical skill in overturning every conceivable theory of
knowledge.
The direct indications of a date amount to no more than this: the conversation is said to
have taken place when Theaetetus was a youth, and shortly before the death of
Socrates. At the time of his own death he is supposed to be a full-grown man. Allowing
nine or ten years for the interval between youth and manhood, the dialogue could not
have been written earlier than 390, when Plato was about thirty-nine years of age. No
more definite date is indicated by the engagement in which Theaetetus is said to have
fallen or to have been wounded, and which may have taken place any time during the
Corinthian war, between the years 390-387. The later date which has been suggested,
369, when the Athenians and Lacedaemonians disputed the Isthmus with Epaminondas,
would make the age of Theaetetus at his death forty-five or forty-six. This a little impairs
the beauty of Socrates’ remark, that ‘he would be a great man if he lived.’
In this uncertainty about the place of the Theaetetus, it seemed better, as in the case of
the Republic, Timaeus, Critias, to retain the order in which Plato himself has arranged
this and the two companion dialogues. We cannot exclude the possibility which has
been already noticed in reference to other works of Plato, that the Theaetetus may not
have been all written continuously; or the probability that the Sophist and Politicus,
which differ greatly in style, were only appended after a long interval of time. The
allusion to Parmenides compared with the Sophist, would probably imply that the
dialogue which is called by his name was already in existence; unless, indeed, we
suppose the passage in which the allusion occurs to have been inserted afterwards.
Again, the Theaetetus may be connected with the Gorgias, either dialogue from
different points of view containing an analysis of the real and apparent (Schleiermacher);
and both may be brought into relation with the Apology as illustrating the personal life
of Socrates. The Philebus, too, may with equal reason be placed either after or before
what, in the language of Thrasyllus, may be called the Second Platonic Trilogy. Both the
Parmenides and the Sophist, and still more the Theaetetus, have points of affinity with
the Cratylus, in which the principles of rest and motion are again contrasted, and the
Sophistical or Protagorean theory of language is opposed to that which is attributed to
the disciple of Heracleitus, not to speak of lesser resemblances in thought and language.
The Parmenides, again, has been thought by some to hold an intermediate position
between the Theaetetus and the Sophist; upon this view, the Sophist may be regarded
as the answer to the problems about One and Being which have been raised in the
Parmenides. Any of these arrangements may suggest new views to the student of Plato;
none of them can lay claim to an exclusive probability in its favour.
The Theaetetus is one of the narrated dialogues of Plato, and is the only one which is
supposed to have been written down. In a short introductory scene, Euclides and
Terpsion are described as meeting before the door of Euclides’ house in Megara. This
may have been a spot familiar to Plato (for Megara was within a walk of Athens), but no
importance can be attached to the accidental introduction of the founder of the
Megarian philosophy. The real intention of the preface is to create an interest about the
person of Theaetetus, who has just been carried up from the army at Corinth in a dying
state. The expectation of his death recalls the promise of his youth, and especially the
famous conversation which Socrates had with him when he was quite young, a few days
before his own trial and death, as we are once more reminded at the end of the
dialogue. Yet we may observe that Plato has himself forgotten this, when he represents
Euclides as from time to time coming to Athens and correcting the copy from Socrates’
own mouth. The narrative, having introduced Theaetetus, and having guaranteed the
authenticity of the dialogue (compare Symposium, Phaedo, Parmenides), is then
dropped. No further use is made of the device. As Plato himself remarks, who in this as
in some other minute points is imitated by Cicero (De Amicitia), the interlocutory words
are omitted.
Theaetetus, the hero of the battle of Corinth and of the dialogue, is a disciple of
Theodorus, the great geometrician, whose science is thus indicated to be the
propaedeutic to philosophy. An interest has been already excited about him by his
approaching death, and now he is introduced to us anew by the praises of his master
Theodorus. He is a youthful Socrates, and exhibits the same contrast of the fair soul and
the ungainly face and frame, the Silenus mask and the god within, which are described
in the Symposium. The picture which Theodorus gives of his courage and patience and
intelligence and modesty is verified in the course of the dialogue. His courage is shown
by his behaviour in the battle, and his other qualities shine forth as the argument
proceeds. Socrates takes an evident delight in ‘the wise Theaetetus,’ who has more in
him than ‘many bearded men’; he is quite inspired by his answers. At first the youth is
lost in wonder, and is almost too modest to speak, but, encouraged by Socrates, he rises
to the occasion, and grows full of interest and enthusiasm about the great question. Like
a youth, he has not finally made up his mind, and is very ready to follow the lead of
Socrates, and to enter into each successive phase of the discussion which turns up. His
great dialectical talent is shown in his power of drawing distinctions, and of foreseeing
the consequences of his own answers. The enquiry about the nature of knowledge is not
new to him; long ago he has felt the ‘pang of philosophy,’ and has experienced the
youthful intoxication which is depicted in the Philebus. But he has hitherto been unable
to make the transition from mathematics to metaphysics. He can form a general
conception of square and oblong numbers, but he is unable to attain a similar
expression of knowledge in the abstract. Yet at length he begins to recognize that there
are universal conceptions of being, likeness, sameness, number, which the mind
contemplates in herself, and with the help of Socrates is conducted from a theory of
sense to a theory of ideas.
There is no reason to doubt that Theaetetus was a real person, whose name survived in
the next generation. But neither can any importance be attached to the notices of him in
Suidas and Proclus, which are probably based on the mention of him in Plato. According
to a confused statement in Suidas, who mentions him twice over, first, as a pupil of
Socrates, and then of Plato, he is said to have written the first work on the Five Solids.
But no early authority cites the work, the invention of which may have been easily
suggested by the division of roots, which Plato attributes to him, and the allusion to the
backward state of solid geometry in the Republic. At any rate, there is no occasion to
recall him to life again after the battle of Corinth, in order that we may allow time for the
completion of such a work (Muller). We may also remark that such a supposition entirely
destroys the pathetic interest of the introduction.
Theodorus, the geometrician, had once been the friend and disciple of Protagoras, but
he is very reluctant to leave his retirement and defend his old master. He is too old to
learn Socrates’ game of question and answer, and prefers the digressions to the main
argument, because he finds them easier to follow. The mathematician, as Socrates says
in the Republic, is not capable of giving a reason in the same manner as the dialectician,
and Theodorus could not therefore have been appropriately introduced as the chief
respondent. But he may be fairly appealed to, when the honour of his master is at stake.
He is the ‘guardian of his orphans,’ although this is a responsibility which he wishes to
throw upon Callias, the friend and patron of all Sophists, declaring that he himself had
early ‘run away’ from philosophy, and was absorbed in mathematics. His extreme dislike
to the Heraclitean fanatics, which may be compared with the dislike of Theaetetus to the
materialists, and his ready acceptance of the noble words of Socrates, are noticeable
traits of character.
The Socrates of the Theaetetus is the same as the Socrates of the earlier dialogues. He is
the invincible disputant, now advanced in years, of the Protagoras and Symposium; he is
still pursuing his divine mission, his ‘Herculean labours,’ of which he has described the
origin in the Apology; and he still hears the voice of his oracle, bidding him receive or
not receive the truant souls. There he is supposed to have a mission to convict men of
self-conceit; in the Theaetetus he has assigned to him by God the functions of a manmidwife,
who delivers men of their thoughts, and under this character he is present
throughout the dialogue. He is the true prophet who has an insight into the natures of
men, and can divine their future; and he knows that sympathy is the secret power which
unlocks their thoughts. The hit at Aristides, the son of Lysimachus, who was specially
committed to his charge in the Laches, may be remarked by the way. The attempt to
discover the definition of knowledge is in accordance with the character of Socrates as
he is described in the Memorabilia, asking What is justice? what is temperance? and the
like. But there is no reason to suppose that he would have analyzed the nature of
perception, or traced the connexion of Protagoras and Heracleitus, or have raised the
difficulty respecting false opinion. The humorous illustrations, as well as the serious
thoughts, run through the dialogue. The snubnosedness of Theaetetus, a characteristic
which he shares with Socrates, and the man- midwifery of Socrates, are not forgotten in
the closing words. At the end of the dialogue, as in the Euthyphro, he is expecting to
meet Meletus at the porch of the king Archon; but with the same indifference to the
result which is everywhere displayed by him, he proposes that they shall reassemble on
the following day at the same spot. The day comes, and in the Sophist the three friends
again meet, but no further allusion is made to the trial, and the principal share in the
argument is assigned, not to Socrates, but to an Eleatic stranger; the youthful
Theaetetus also plays a different and less independent part. And there is no allusion in
the Introduction to the second and third dialogues, which are afterwards appended.
There seems, therefore, reason to think that there is a real change, both in the
characters and in the design.
The dialogue is an enquiry into the nature of knowledge, which is interrupted by two
digressions. The first is the digression about the midwives, which is also a leading
thought or continuous image, like the wave in the Republic, appearing and reappearing
at intervals. Again and again we are reminded that the successive conceptions of
knowledge are extracted from Theaetetus, who in his turn truly declares that Socrates
has got a great deal more out of him than ever was in him. Socrates is never weary of
working out the image in humorous details,—discerning the symptoms of labour,
carrying the child round the hearth, fearing that Theaetetus will bite him, comparing his
conceptions to wind-eggs, asserting an hereditary right to the occupation. There is also
a serious side to the image, which is an apt similitude of the Socratic theory of
education (compare Republic, Sophist), and accords with the ironical spirit in which the
wisest of men delights to speak of himself.
The other digression is the famous contrast of the lawyer and philosopher. This is a sort
of landing-place or break in the middle of the dialogue. At the commencement of a
great discussion, the reflection naturally arises, How happy are they who, like the
philosopher, have time for such discussions (compare Republic)! There is no reason for
the introduction of such a digression; nor is a reason always needed, any more than for
the introduction of an episode in a poem, or of a topic in conversation. That which is
given by Socrates is quite sufficient, viz. that the philosopher may talk and write as he
pleases. But though not very closely connected, neither is the digression out of keeping
with the rest of the dialogue. The philosopher naturally desires to pour forth the
thoughts which are always present to him, and to discourse of the higher life. The idea
of knowledge, although hard to be defined, is realised in the life of philosophy. And the
contrast is the favourite antithesis between the world, in the various characters of
sophist, lawyer, statesman, speaker, and the philosopher,—between opinion and
knowledge,—between the conventional and the true.
The greater part of the dialogue is devoted to setting up and throwing down definitions
of science and knowledge. Proceeding from the lower to the higher by three stages, in
which perception, opinion, reasoning are successively examined, we first get rid of the
confusion of the idea of knowledge and specific kinds of knowledge,—a confusion
which has been already noticed in the Lysis, Laches, Meno, and other dialogues. In the
infancy of logic, a form of thought has to be invented before the content can be filled
up. We cannot define knowledge until the nature of definition has been ascertained.
Having succeeded in making his meaning plain, Socrates proceeds to analyze (1) the
first definition which Theaetetus proposes: ‘Knowledge is sensible perception.’ This is
speedily identified with the Protagorean saying, ‘Man is the measure of all things;’ and
of this again the foundation is discovered in the perpetual flux of Heracleitus. The
relativeness of sensation is then developed at length, and for a moment the definition
appears to be accepted. But soon the Protagorean thesis is pronounced to be suicidal;
for the adversaries of Protagoras are as good a measure as he is, and they deny his
doctrine. He is then supposed to reply that the perception may be true at any given
instant. But the reply is in the end shown to be inconsistent with the Heraclitean
foundation, on which the doctrine has been affirmed to rest. For if the Heraclitean flux is
extended to every sort of change in every instant of time, how can any thought or word
be detained even for an instant? Sensible perception, like everything else, is tumbling to
pieces. Nor can Protagoras himself maintain that one man is as good as another in his
knowledge of the future; and ‘the expedient,’ if not ‘the just and true,’ belongs to the
sphere of the future.
And so we must ask again, What is knowledge? The comparison of sensations with one
another implies a principle which is above sensation, and which resides in the mind
itself. We are thus led to look for knowledge in a higher sphere, and accordingly
Theaetetus, when again interrogated, replies (2) that ‘knowledge is true opinion.’ But
how is false opinion possible? The Megarian or Eristic spirit within us revives the
question, which has been already asked and indirectly answered in the Meno: ‘How can
a man be ignorant of that which he knows?’ No answer is given to this not
unanswerable question. The comparison of the mind to a block of wax, or to a decoy of
birds, is found wanting.
But are we not inverting the natural order in looking for opinion before we have found
knowledge? And knowledge is not true opinion; for the Athenian dicasts have true
opinion but not knowledge. What then is knowledge? We answer (3), ‘True opinion, with
definition or explanation.’ But all the different ways in which this statement may be
understood are set aside, like the definitions of courage in the Laches, or of friendship in
the Lysis, or of temperance in the Charmides. At length we arrive at the conclusion, in
which nothing is concluded.
There are two special difficulties which beset the student of the Theaetetus: (1) he is
uncertain how far he can trust Plato’s account of the theory of Protagoras; and he is also
uncertain (2) how far, and in what parts of the dialogue, Plato is expressing his own
opinion. The dramatic character of the work renders the answer to both these questions
difficult.
1. In reply to the first, we have only probabilities to offer. Three main points have to be
decided: (a) Would Protagoras have identified his own thesis, ‘Man is the measure of all
things,’ with the other, ‘All knowledge is sensible perception’? (b) Would he have based
the relativity of knowledge on the Heraclitean flux? (c) Would he have asserted the
absoluteness of sensation at each instant? Of the work of Protagoras on ‘Truth’ we know
nothing, with the exception of the two famous fragments, which are cited in this
dialogue, ‘Man is the measure of all things,’ and, ‘Whether there are gods or not, I
cannot tell.’ Nor have we any other trustworthy evidence of the tenets of Protagoras, or
of the sense in which his words are used. For later writers, including Aristotle in his
Metaphysics, have mixed up the Protagoras of Plato, as they have the Socrates of Plato,
with the real person.
Returning then to the Theaetetus, as the only possible source from which an answer to
these questions can be obtained, we may remark, that Plato had ‘The Truth’ of
Protagoras before him, and frequently refers to the book. He seems to say expressly,
that in this work the doctrine of the Heraclitean flux was not to be found; ‘he told the
real truth’ (not in the book, which is so entitled, but) ‘privately to his disciples,’—words
which imply that the connexion between the doctrines of Protagoras and Heracleitus
was not generally recognized in Greece, but was really discovered or invented by Plato.
On the other hand, the doctrine that ‘Man is the measure of all things,’ is expressly
identified by Socrates with the other statement, that ‘What appears to each man is to
him;’ and a reference is made to the books in which the statement occurs;—this
Theaetetus, who has ‘often read the books,’ is supposed to acknowledge (so Cratylus).
And Protagoras, in the speech attributed to him, never says that he has been
misunderstood: he rather seems to imply that the absoluteness of sensation at each
instant was to be found in his words. He is only indignant at the ‘reductio ad absurdum’
devised by Socrates for his ‘homo mensura,’ which Theodorus also considers to be
‘really too bad.’
The question may be raised, how far Plato in the Theaetetus could have misrepresented
Protagoras without violating the laws of dramatic probability. Could he have pretended
to cite from a well-known writing what was not to be found there? But such a shadowy
enquiry is not worth pursuing further. We need only remember that in the criticism
which follows of the thesis of Protagoras, we are criticizing the Protagoras of Plato, and
not attempting to draw a precise line between his real sentiments and those which Plato
has attributed to him.
2. The other difficulty is a more subtle, and also a more important one, because bearing
on the general character of the Platonic dialogues. On a first reading of them, we are apt
to imagine that the truth is only spoken by Socrates, who is never guilty of a fallacy
himself, and is the great detector of the errors and fallacies of others. But this natural
presumption is disturbed by the discovery that the Sophists are sometimes in the right
and Socrates in the wrong. Like the hero of a novel, he is not to be supposed always to
represent the sentiments of the author. There are few modern readers who do not side
with Protagoras, rather than with Socrates, in the dialogue which is called by his name.
The Cratylus presents a similar difficulty: in his etymologies, as in the number of the
State, we cannot tell how far Socrates is serious; for the Socratic irony will not allow him
to distinguish between his real and his assumed wisdom. No one is the superior of the
invincible Socrates in argument (except in the first part of the Parmenides, where he is
introduced as a youth); but he is by no means supposed to be in possession of the
whole truth. Arguments are often put into his mouth (compare Introduction to the
Gorgias) which must have seemed quite as untenable to Plato as to a modern writer. In
this dialogue a great part of the answer of Protagoras is just and sound; remarks are
made by him on verbal criticism, and on the importance of understanding an
opponent’s meaning, which are conceived in the true spirit of philosophy. And the
distinction which he is supposed to draw between Eristic and Dialectic, is really a
criticism of Plato on himself and his own criticism of Protagoras.
The difficulty seems to arise from not attending to the dramatic character of the writings
of Plato. There are two, or more, sides to questions; and these are parted among the
different speakers. Sometimes one view or aspect of a question is made to predominate
over the rest, as in the Gorgias or Sophist; but in other dialogues truth is divided, as in
the Laches and Protagoras, and the interest of the piece consists in the contrast of
opinions. The confusion caused by the irony of Socrates, who, if he is true to his
character, cannot say anything of his own knowledge, is increased by the circumstance
that in the Theaetetus and some other dialogues he is occasionally playing both parts
himself, and even charging his own arguments with unfairness. In the Theaetetus he is
designedly held back from arriving at a conclusion. For we cannot suppose that Plato
conceived a definition of knowledge to be impossible. But this is his manner of
approaching and surrounding a question. The lights which he throws on his subject are
indirect, but they are not the less real for that. He has no intention of proving a thesis by
a cut-and-dried argument; nor does he imagine that a great philosophical problem can
be tied up within the limits of a definition. If he has analyzed a proposition or notion,
even with the severity of an impossible logic, if half-truths have been compared by him
with other half-truths, if he has cleared up or advanced popular ideas, or illustrated a
new method, his aim has been sufficiently accomplished.
The writings of Plato belong to an age in which the power of analysis had outrun the
means of knowledge; and through a spurious use of dialectic, the distinctions which had
been already ‘won from the void and formless infinite,’ seemed to be rapidly returning
to their original chaos. The two great speculative philosophies, which a century earlier
had so deeply impressed the mind of Hellas, were now degenerating into Eristic. The
contemporaries of Plato and Socrates were vainly trying to find new combinations of
them, or to transfer them from the object to the subject. The Megarians, in their first
attempts to attain a severer logic, were making knowledge impossible (compare
Theaet.). They were asserting ‘the one good under many names,’ and, like the Cynics,
seem to have denied predication, while the Cynics themselves were depriving virtue of
all which made virtue desirable in the eyes of Socrates and Plato. And besides these, we
find mention in the later writings of Plato, especially in the Theaetetus, Sophist, and
Laws, of certain impenetrable godless persons, who will not believe what they ‘cannot
hold in their hands’; and cannot be approached in argument, because they cannot argue
(Theat; Soph.). No school of Greek philosophers exactly answers to these persons, in
whom Plato may perhaps have blended some features of the Atomists with the vulgar
materialistic tendencies of mankind in general (compare Introduction to the Sophist).
And not only was there a conflict of opinions, but the stage which the mind had reached
presented other difficulties hardly intelligible to us, who live in a different cycle of
human thought. All times of mental progress are times of confusion; we only see, or
rather seem to see things clearly, when they have been long fixed and defined. In the
age of Plato, the limits of the world of imagination and of pure abstraction, of the old
world and the new, were not yet fixed. The Greeks, in the fourth century before Christ,
had no words for ‘subject’ and ‘object,’ and no distinct conception of them; yet they
were always hovering about the question involved in them. The analysis of sense, and
the analysis of thought, were equally difficult to them; and hopelessly confused by the
attempt to solve them, not through an appeal to facts, but by the help of general
theories respecting the nature of the universe.
Plato, in his Theaetetus, gathers up the sceptical tendencies of his age, and compares
them. But he does not seek to reconstruct out of them a theory of knowledge. The time
at which such a theory could be framed had not yet arrived. For there was no measure
of experience with which the ideas swarming in men’s minds could be compared; the
meaning of the word ‘science’ could scarcely be explained to them, except from the
mathematical sciences, which alone offered the type of universality and certainty.
Philosophy was becoming more and more vacant and abstract, and not only the
Platonic Ideas and the Eleatic Being, but all abstractions seemed to be at variance with
sense and at war with one another.
The want of the Greek mind in the fourth century before Christ was not another theory
of rest or motion, or Being or atoms, but rather a philosophy which could free the mind
from the power of abstractions and alternatives, and show how far rest and how far
motion, how far the universal principle of Being and the multitudinous principle of
atoms, entered into the composition of the world; which could distinguish between the
true and false analogy, and allow the negative as well as the positive a place in human
thought. To such a philosophy Plato, in the Theaetetus, offers many contributions. He
has followed philosophy into the region of mythology, and pointed out the similarities
of opposing phases of thought. He has also shown that extreme abstractions are selfdestructive,
and, indeed, hardly distinguishable from one another. But his intention is
not to unravel the whole subject of knowledge, if this had been possible; and several
times in the course of the dialogue he rejects explanations of knowledge which have
germs of truth in them; as, for example, ‘the resolution of the compound into the
simple;’ or ‘right opinion with a mark of difference.’
...
Terpsion, who has come to Megara from the country, is described as having looked in
vain for Euclides in the Agora; the latter explains that he has been down to the harbour,
and on his way thither had met Theaetetus, who was being carried up from the army to
Athens. He was scarcely alive, for he had been badly wounded at the battle of Corinth,
and had taken the dysentery which prevailed in the camp. The mention of his condition
suggests the reflection, ‘What a loss he will be!’ ‘Yes, indeed,’ replies Euclid; ‘only just
now I was hearing of his noble conduct in the battle.’ ‘That I should expect; but why did
he not remain at Megara?’ ‘I wanted him to remain, but he would not; so I went with
him as far as Erineum; and as I parted from him, I remembered that Socrates had seen
him when he was a youth, and had a remarkable conversation with him, not long before
his own death; and he then prophesied of him that he would be a great man if he lived.’
‘How true that has been; how like all that Socrates said! And could you repeat the
conversation?’ ‘Not from memory; but I took notes when I returned home, which I
afterwards filled up at leisure, and got Socrates to correct them from time to time, when
I came to Athens’...Terpsion had long intended to ask for a sight of this writing, of which
he had already heard. They are both tired, and agree to rest and have the conversation
read to them by a servant...‘Here is the roll, Terpsion; I need only observe that I have
omitted, for the sake of convenience, the interlocutory words, “said I,” “said he”; and that
Theaetetus, and Theodorus, the geometrician of Cyrene, are the persons with whom
Socrates is conversing.’
Socrates begins by asking Theodorus whether, in his visit to Athens, he has found any
Athenian youth likely to attain distinction in science. ‘Yes, Socrates, there is one very
remarkable youth, with whom I have become acquainted. He is no beauty, and therefore
you need not imagine that I am in love with him; and, to say the truth, he is very like
you, for he has a snub nose, and projecting eyes, although these features are not so
marked in him as in you. He combines the most various qualities, quickness, patience,
courage; and he is gentle as well as wise, always silently flowing on, like a river of oil.
Look! he is the middle one of those who are entering the palaestra.’
Socrates, who does not know his name, recognizes him as the son of Euphronius, who
was himself a good man and a rich. He is informed by Theodorus that the youth is
named Theaetetus, but the property of his father has disappeared in the hands of
trustees; this does not, however, prevent him from adding liberality to his other virtues.
At the desire of Socrates he invites Theaetetus to sit by them.
‘Yes,’ says Socrates, ‘that I may see in you, Theaetetus, the image of my ugly self, as
Theodorus declares. Not that his remark is of any importance; for though he is a
philosopher, he is not a painter, and therefore he is no judge of our faces; but, as he is a
man of science, he may be a judge of our intellects. And if he were to praise the mental
endowments of either of us, in that case the hearer of the eulogy ought to examine into
what he says, and the subject should not refuse to be examined.’ Theaetetus consents,
and is caught in a trap (compare the similar trap which is laid for Theodorus). ‘Then,
Theaetetus, you will have to be examined, for Theodorus has been praising you in a style
of which I never heard the like.’ ‘He was only jesting.’ ‘Nay, that is not his way; and I
cannot allow you, on that pretence, to retract the assent which you have already given,
or I shall make Theodorus repeat your praises, and swear to them.’ Theaetetus, in reply,
professes that he is willing to be examined, and Socrates begins by asking him what he
learns of Theodorus. He is himself anxious to learn anything of anybody; and now he has
a little question to which he wants Theaetetus or Theodorus (or whichever of the
company would not be ‘donkey’ to the rest) to find an answer. Without further preface,
but at the same time apologizing for his eagerness, he asks, ‘What is knowledge?’
Theodorus is too old to answer questions, and begs him to interrogate Theaetetus, who
has the advantage of youth.
Theaetetus replies, that knowledge is what he learns of Theodorus, i.e. geometry and
arithmetic; and that there are other kinds of knowledge— shoemaking, carpentering,
and the like. But Socrates rejoins, that this answer contains too much and also too little.
For although Theaetetus has enumerated several kinds of knowledge, he has not
explained the common nature of them; as if he had been asked, ‘What is clay?’ and
instead of saying ‘Clay is moistened earth,’ he had answered, ‘There is one clay of
image-makers, another of potters, another of oven-makers.’ Theaetetus at once divines
that Socrates means him to extend to all kinds of knowledge the same process of
generalization which he has already learned to apply to arithmetic. For he has
discovered a division of numbers into square numbers, 4, 9, 16, etc., which are
composed of equal factors, and represent figures which have equal sides, and oblong
numbers, 3, 5, 6, 7, etc., which are composed of unequal factors, and represent figures
which have unequal sides. But he has never succeeded in attaining a similar conception
of knowledge, though he has often tried; and, when this and similar questions were
brought to him from Socrates, has been sorely distressed by them. Socrates explains to
him that he is in labour. For men as well as women have pangs of labour; and both at
times require the assistance of midwives. And he, Socrates, is a midwife, although this is
a secret; he has inherited the art from his mother bold and bluff, and he ushers into
light, not children, but the thoughts of men. Like the midwives, who are ‘past bearing
children,’ he too can have no offspring—the God will not allow him to bring anything
into the world of his own. He also reminds Theaetetus that the midwives are or ought to
be the only matchmakers (this is the preparation for a biting jest); for those who reap
the fruit are most likely to know on what soil the plants will grow. But respectable
midwives avoid this department of practice—they do not want to be called procuresses.
There are some other differences between the two sorts of pregnancy. For women do
not bring into the world at one time real children and at another time idols which are
with difficulty distinguished from them. ‘At first,’ says Socrates in his character of the
man-midwife, ‘my patients are barren and stolid, but after a while they “round apace,” if
the gods are propitious to them; and this is due not to me but to themselves; I and the
god only assist in bringing their ideas to the birth. Many of them have left me too soon,
and the result has been that they have produced abortions; or when I have delivered
them of children they have lost them by an ill bringing up, and have ended by seeing
themselves, as others see them, to be great fools. Aristides, the son of Lysimachus, is
one of these, and there have been others. The truants often return to me and beg to be
taken back; and then, if my familiar allows me, which is not always the case, I receive
them, and they begin to grow again. There come to me also those who have nothing in
them, and have no need of my art; and I am their matchmaker (see above), and marry
them to Prodicus or some other inspired sage who is likely to suit them. I tell you this
long story because I suspect that you are in labour. Come then to me, who am a
midwife, and the son of a midwife, and I will deliver you. And do not bite me, as the
women do, if I abstract your first-born; for I am acting out of good-will towards you; the
God who is within me is the friend of man, though he will not allow me to dissemble the
truth. Once more then, Theaetetus, I repeat my old question—“What is knowledge?”
Take courage, and by the help of God you will discover an answer.’ ‘My answer is, that
knowledge is perception.’ ‘That is the theory of Protagoras, who has another way of
expressing the same thing when he says, “Man is the measure of all things.” He was a
very wise man, and we should try to understand him. In order to illustrate his meaning
let me suppose that there is the same wind blowing in our faces, and one of us may be
hot and the other cold. How is this? Protagoras will reply that the wind is hot to him
who is cold, cold to him who is hot. And “is” means “appears,” and when you say
“appears to him,” that means “he feels.” Thus feeling, appearance, perception, coincide
with being. I suspect, however, that this was only a “facon de parler,” by which he
imposed on the common herd like you and me; he told “the truth” (in allusion to the
title of his book, which was called “The Truth”) in secret to his disciples. For he was really
a votary of that famous philosophy in which all things are said to be relative; nothing is
great or small, or heavy or light, or one, but all is in motion and mixture and transition
and flux and generation, not “being,” as we ignorantly affirm, but “becoming.” This has
been the doctrine, not of Protagoras only, but of all philosophers, with the single
exception of Parmenides; Empedocles, Heracleitus, and others, and all the poets, with
Epicharmus, the king of Comedy, and Homer, the king of Tragedy, at their head, have
said the same; the latter has these words—
“Ocean, whence the gods sprang, and mother Tethys.”
And many arguments are used to show, that motion is the source of life, and rest of
death: fire and warmth are produced by friction, and living creatures owe their origin to
a similar cause; the bodily frame is preserved by exercise and destroyed by indolence;
and if the sun ceased to move, “chaos would come again.” Now apply this doctrine of
“All is motion” to the senses, and first of all to the sense of sight. The colour of white, or
any other colour, is neither in the eyes nor out of them, but ever in motion between the
object and the eye, and varying in the case of every percipient. All is relative, and, as the
followers of Protagoras remark, endless contradictions arise when we deny this; e.g. here
are six dice; they are more than four and less than twelve; “more and also less,” would
you not say?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘But Protagoras will retort: “Can anything be more or less without
addition or subtraction?”’
‘I should say “No” if I were not afraid of contradicting my former answer.’
‘And if you say “Yes,” the tongue will escape conviction but not the mind, as Euripides
would say?’ ‘True.’ ‘The thoroughbred Sophists, who know all that can be known, would
have a sparring match over this, but you and I, who have no professional pride, want
only to discover whether our ideas are clear and consistent. And we cannot be wrong in
saying, first, that nothing can be greater or less while remaining equal; secondly, that
there can be no becoming greater or less without addition or subtraction; thirdly, that
what is and was not, cannot be without having become. But then how is this
reconcilable with the case of the dice, and with similar examples?—that is the question.’
‘I am often perplexed and amazed, Socrates, by these difficulties.’ ‘That is because you
are a philosopher, for philosophy begins in wonder, and Iris is the child of Thaumas. Do
you know the original principle on which the doctrine of Protagoras is based?’ ‘No.’
‘Then I will tell you; but we must not let the uninitiated hear, and by the uninitiated I
mean the obstinate people who believe in nothing which they cannot hold in their
hands. The brethren whose mysteries I am about to unfold to you are far more
ingenious. They maintain that all is motion; and that motion has two forms, action and
passion, out of which endless phenomena are created, also in two forms—sense and the
object of sense— which come to the birth together. There are two kinds of motions, a
slow and a fast; the motions of the agent and the patient are slower, because they move
and create in and about themselves, but the things which are born of them have a
swifter motion, and pass rapidly from place to place. The eye and the appropriate object
come together, and give birth to whiteness and the sensation of whiteness; the eye is
filled with seeing, and becomes not sight but a seeing eye, and the object is filled with
whiteness, and becomes not whiteness but white; and no other compound of either with
another would have produced the same effect. All sensation is to be resolved into a
similar combination of an agent and patient. Of either, taken separately, no idea can be
formed; and the agent may become a patient, and the patient an agent. Hence there
arises a general reflection that nothing is, but all things become; no name can detain or
fix them. Are not these speculations charming, Theaetetus, and very good for a person
in your interesting situation? I am offering you specimens of other men’s wisdom,
because I have no wisdom of my own, and I want to deliver you of something; and
presently we will see whether you have brought forth wind or not. Tell me, then, what
do you think of the notion that “All things are becoming”?’
‘When I hear your arguments, I am marvellously ready to assent.’
‘But I ought not to conceal from you that there is a serious objection which may be
urged against this doctrine of Protagoras. For there are states, such as madness and
dreaming, in which perception is false; and half our life is spent in dreaming; and who
can say that at this instant we are not dreaming? Even the fancies of madmen are real at
the time. But if knowledge is perception, how can we distinguish between the true and
the false in such cases? Having stated the objection, I will now state the answer.
Protagoras would deny the continuity of phenomena; he would say that what is different
is entirely different, and whether active or passive has a different power. There are
infinite agents and patients in the world, and these produce in every combination of
them a different perception. Take myself as an instance:—Socrates may be ill or he may
be well,—and remember that Socrates, with all his accidents, is spoken of. The wine
which I drink when I am well is pleasant to me, but the same wine is unpleasant to me
when I am ill. And there is nothing else from which I can receive the same impression,
nor can another receive the same impression from the wine. Neither can I and the object
of sense become separately what we become together. For the one in becoming is
relative to the other, but they have no other relation; and the combination of them is
absolute at each moment. (In modern language, the act of sensation is really indivisible,
though capable of a mental analysis into subject and object.) My sensation alone is true,
and true to me only. And therefore, as Protagoras says, “To myself I am the judge of
what is and what is not.” Thus the flux of Homer and Heracleitus, the great Protagorean
saying that “Man is the measure of all things,” the doctrine of Theaetetus that
“Knowledge is perception,” have all the same meaning. And this is thy new- born child,
which by my art I have brought to light; and you must not be angry if instead of rearing
your infant we expose him.’
‘Theaetetus will not be angry,’ says Theodorus; ‘he is very good-natured. But I should
like to know, Socrates, whether you mean to say that all this is untrue?’
‘First reminding you that I am not the bag which contains the arguments, but that I
extract them from Theaetetus, shall I tell you what amazes me in your friend
Protagoras?’
‘What may that be?’
‘I like his doctrine that what appears is; but I wonder that he did not begin his great
work on Truth with a declaration that a pig, or a dog-faced baboon, or any other
monster which has sensation, is a measure of all things; then, while we were reverencing
him as a god, he might have produced a magnificent effect by expounding to us that he
was no wiser than a tadpole. For if sensations are always true, and one man’s
discernment is as good as another’s, and every man is his own judge, and everything
that he judges is right and true, then what need of Protagoras to be our instructor at a
high figure; and why should we be less knowing than he is, or have to go to him, if every
man is the measure of all things? My own art of midwifery, and all dialectic, is an
enormous folly, if Protagoras’ “Truth” be indeed truth, and the philosopher is not merely
amusing himself by giving oracles out of his book.’
Theodorus thinks that Socrates is unjust to his master, Protagoras; but he is too old and
stiff to try a fall with him, and therefore refers him to Theaetetus, who is already driven
out of his former opinion by the arguments of Socrates.
Socrates then takes up the defence of Protagoras, who is supposed to reply in his own
person—‘Good people, you sit and declaim about the gods, of whose existence or nonexistence
I have nothing to say, or you discourse about man being reduced to the level
of the brutes; but what proof have you of your statements? And yet surely you and
Theodorus had better reflect whether probability is a safe guide. Theodorus would be a
bad geometrician if he had nothing better to offer.’...Theaetetus is affected by the
appeal to geometry, and Socrates is induced by him to put the question in a new form.
He proceeds as follows:—‘Should we say that we know what we see and hear,—e.g. the
sound of words or the sight of letters in a foreign tongue?’
‘We should say that the figures of the letters, and the pitch of the voice in uttering them,
were known to us, but not the meaning of them.’
‘Excellent; I want you to grow, and therefore I will leave that answer and ask another
question: Is not seeing perceiving?’ ‘Very true.’ ‘And he who sees knows?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And he
who remembers, remembers that which he sees and knows?’ ‘Very true.’ ‘But if he closes
his eyes, does he not remember?’ ‘He does.’ ‘Then he may remember and not see; and if
seeing is knowing, he may remember and not know. Is not this a “reductio ad
absurdum” of the hypothesis that knowledge is sensible perception? Yet perhaps we are
crowing too soon; and if Protagoras, “the father of the myth,” had been alive, the result
might have been very different. But he is dead, and Theodorus, whom he left guardian
of his “orphan,” has not been very zealous in defending him.’
Theodorus objects that Callias is the true guardian, but he hopes that Socrates will come
to the rescue. Socrates prefaces his defence by resuming the attack. He asks whether a
man can know and not know at the same time? ‘Impossible.’ Quite possible, if you
maintain that seeing is knowing. The confident adversary, suiting the action to the word,
shuts one of your eyes; and now, says he, you see and do not see, but do you know and
not know? And a fresh opponent darts from his ambush, and transfers to knowledge the
terms which are commonly applied to sight. He asks whether you can know near and
not at a distance; whether you can have a sharp and also a dull knowledge. While you
are wondering at his incomparable wisdom, he gets you into his power, and you will not
escape until you have come to an understanding with him about the money which is to
be paid for your release.
But Protagoras has not yet made his defence; and already he may be heard
contemptuously replying that he is not responsible for the admissions which were made
by a boy, who could not foresee the coming move, and therefore had answered in a
manner which enabled Socrates to raise a laugh against himself. ‘But I cannot be fairly
charged,’ he will say, ‘with an answer which I should not have given; for I never
maintained that the memory of a feeling is the same as a feeling, or denied that a man
might know and not know the same thing at the same time. Or, if you will have extreme
precision, I say that man in different relations is many or rather infinite in number. And I
challenge you, either to show that his perceptions are not individual, or that if they are,
what appears to him is not what is. As to your pigs and baboons, you are yourself a pig,
and you make my writings a sport of other swine. But I still affirm that man is the
measure of all things, although I admit that one man may be a thousand times better
than another, in proportion as he has better impressions. Neither do I deny the
existence of wisdom or of the wise man. But I maintain that wisdom is a practical
remedial power of turning evil into good, the bitterness of disease into the sweetness of
health, and does not consist in any greater truth or superior knowledge. For the
impressions of the sick are as true as the impressions of the healthy; and the sick are as
wise as the healthy. Nor can any man be cured of a false opinion, for there is no such
thing; but he may be cured of the evil habit which generates in him an evil opinion. This
is effected in the body by the drugs of the physician, and in the soul by the words of the
Sophist; and the new state or opinion is not truer, but only better than the old. And
philosophers are not tadpoles, but physicians and husbandmen, who till the soil and
infuse health into animals and plants, and make the good take the place of the evil, both
in individuals and states. Wise and good rhetoricians make the good to appear just in
states (for that is just which appears just to a state), and in return, they deserve to be
well paid. And you, Socrates, whether you please or not, must continue to be a measure.
This is my defence, and I must request you to meet me fairly. We are professing to
reason, and not merely to dispute; and there is a great difference between reasoning
and disputation. For the disputer is always seeking to trip up his opponent; and this is a
mode of argument which disgusts men with philosophy as they grow older. But the
reasoner is trying to understand him and to point out his errors to him, whether arising
from his own or from his companion’s fault; he does not argue from the customary use
of names, which the vulgar pervert in all manner of ways. If you are gentle to an
adversary he will follow and love you; and if defeated he will lay the blame on himself,
and seek to escape from his own prejudices into philosophy. I would recommend you,
Socrates, to adopt this humaner method, and to avoid captious and verbal criticisms.’
Such, Theodorus, is the very slight help which I am able to afford to your friend; had he
been alive, he would have helped himself in far better style.
‘You have made a most valorous defence.’
Yes; but did you observe that Protagoras bade me be serious, and complained of our
getting up a laugh against him with the aid of a boy? He meant to intimate that you
must take the place of Theaetetus, who may be wiser than many bearded men, but not
wiser than you, Theodorus.
‘The rule of the Spartan Palaestra is, Strip or depart; but you are like the giant Antaeus,
and will not let me depart unless I try a fall with you.’
Yes, that is the nature of my complaint. And many a Hercules, many a Theseus mighty in
deeds and words has broken my head; but I am always at this rough game. Please, then,
to favour me.
‘On the condition of not exceeding a single fall, I consent.’
Socrates now resumes the argument. As he is very desirous of doing justice to
Protagoras, he insists on citing his own words,—‘What appears to each man is to him.’
And how, asks Socrates, are these words reconcileable with the fact that all mankind are
agreed in thinking themselves wiser than others in some respects, and inferior to them
in others? In the hour of danger they are ready to fall down and worship any one who is
their superior in wisdom as if he were a god. And the world is full of men who are asking
to be taught and willing to be ruled, and of other men who are willing to rule and teach
them. All which implies that men do judge of one another’s impressions, and think some
wise and others foolish. How will Protagoras answer this argument? For he cannot say
that no one deems another ignorant or mistaken. If you form a judgment, thousands
and tens of thousands are ready to maintain the opposite. The multitude may not and
do not agree in Protagoras’ own thesis that ‘Man is the measure of all things;’ and then
who is to decide? Upon his own showing must not his ‘truth’ depend on the number of
suffrages, and be more or less true in proportion as he has more or fewer of them? And
he must acknowledge further, that they speak truly who deny him to speak truly, which
is a famous jest. And if he admits that they speak truly who deny him to speak truly, he
must admit that he himself does not speak truly. But his opponents will refuse to admit
this of themselves, and he must allow that they are right in their refusal. The conclusion
is, that all mankind, including Protagoras himself, will deny that he speaks truly; and his
truth will be true neither to himself nor to anybody else.
Theodorus is inclined to think that this is going too far. Socrates ironically replies, that
he is not going beyond the truth. But if the old Protagoras could only pop his head out
of the world below, he would doubtless give them both a sound castigation and be off
to the shades in an instant. Seeing that he is not within call, we must examine the
question for ourselves. It is clear that there are great differences in the understandings
of men. Admitting, with Protagoras, that immediate sensations of hot, cold, and the like,
are to each one such as they appear, yet this hypothesis cannot be extended to
judgments or opinions. And even if we were to admit further,—and this is the view of
some who are not thorough-going followers of Protagoras,—that right and wrong, holy
and unholy, are to each state or individual such as they appear, still Protagoras will not
venture to maintain that every man is equally the measure of expediency, or that the
thing which seems is expedient to every one. But this begins a new question. ‘Well,
Socrates, we have plenty of leisure. Yes, we have, and, after the manner of philosophers,
we are digressing; I have often observed how ridiculous this habit of theirs makes them
when they appear in court. ‘What do you mean?’ I mean to say that a philosopher is a
gentleman, but a lawyer is a servant. The one can have his talk out, and wander at will
from one subject to another, as the fancy takes him; like ourselves, he may be long or
short, as he pleases. But the lawyer is always in a hurry; there is the clepsydra limiting his
time, and the brief limiting his topics, and his adversary is standing over him and
exacting his rights. He is a servant disputing about a fellow-servant before his master,
who holds the cause in his hands; the path never diverges, and often the race is for his
life. Such experiences render him keen and shrewd; he learns the arts of flattery, and is
perfect in the practice of crooked ways; dangers have come upon him too soon, when
the tenderness of youth was unable to meet them with truth and honesty, and he has
resorted to counter-acts of dishonesty and falsehood, and become warped and
distorted; without any health or freedom or sincerity in him he has grown up to
manhood, and is or esteems himself to be a master of cunning. Such are the lawyers; will
you have the companion picture of philosophers? or will this be too much of a
digression?
‘Nay, Socrates, the argument is our servant, and not our master. Who is the judge or
where is the spectator, having a right to control us?’
I will describe the leaders, then: for the inferior sort are not worth the trouble. The lords
of philosophy have not learned the way to the dicastery or ecclesia; they neither see nor
hear the laws and votes of the state, written or recited; societies, whether political or
festive, clubs, and singing maidens do not enter even into their dreams. And the
scandals of persons or their ancestors, male and female, they know no more than they
can tell the number of pints in the ocean. Neither are they conscious of their own
ignorance; for they do not practise singularity in order to gain reputation, but the truth
is, that the outer form of them only is residing in the city; the inner man, as Pindar says,
is going on a voyage of discovery, measuring as with line and rule the things which are
under and in the earth, interrogating the whole of nature, only not condescending to
notice what is near them.
‘What do you mean, Socrates?’
I will illustrate my meaning by the jest of the witty maid-servant, who saw Thales
tumbling into a well, and said of him, that he was so eager to know what was going on
in heaven, that he could not see what was before his feet. This is applicable to all
philosophers. The philosopher is unacquainted with the world; he hardly knows whether
his neighbour is a man or an animal. For he is always searching into the essence of man,
and enquiring what such a nature ought to do or suffer different from any other. Hence,
on every occasion in private life and public, as I was saying, when he appears in a lawcourt
or anywhere, he is the joke, not only of maid-servants, but of the general herd,
falling into wells and every sort of disaster; he looks such an awkward, inexperienced
creature, unable to say anything personal, when he is abused, in answer to his
adversaries (for he knows no evil of any one); and when he hears the praises of others,
he cannot help laughing from the bottom of his soul at their pretensions; and this also
gives him a ridiculous appearance. A king or tyrant appears to him to be a kind of
swine-herd or cow-herd, milking away at an animal who is much more troublesome and
dangerous than cows or sheep; like the cow-herd, he has no time to be educated, and
the pen in which he keeps his flock in the mountains is surrounded by a wall. When he
hears of large landed properties of ten thousand acres or more, he thinks of the whole
earth; or if he is told of the antiquity of a family, he remembers that every one has had
myriads of progenitors, rich and poor, Greeks and barbarians, kings and slaves. And he
who boasts of his descent from Amphitryon in the twenty-fifth generation, may, if he
pleases, add as many more, and double that again, and our philosopher only laughs at
his inability to do a larger sum. Such is the man at whom the vulgar scoff; he seems to
them as if he could not mind his feet. ‘That is very true, Socrates.’ But when he tries to
draw the quick-witted lawyer out of his pleas and rejoinders to the contemplation of
absolute justice or injustice in their own nature, or from the popular praises of wealthy
kings to the view of happiness and misery in themselves, or to the reasons why a man
should seek after the one and avoid the other, then the situation is reversed; the little
wretch turns giddy, and is ready to fall over the precipice; his utterance becomes thick,
and he makes himself ridiculous, not to servant-maids, but to every man of liberal
education. Such are the two pictures: the one of the philosopher and gentleman, who
may be excused for not having learned how to make a bed, or cook up flatteries; the
other, a serviceable knave, who hardly knows how to wear his cloak,—still less can he
awaken harmonious thoughts or hymn virtue’s praises.
‘If the world, Socrates, were as ready to receive your words as I am, there would be
greater peace and less evil among mankind.’
Evil, Theodorus, must ever remain in this world to be the antagonist of good, out of the
way of the gods in heaven. Wherefore also we should fly away from ourselves to them;
and to fly to them is to become like them; and to become like them is to become holy,
just and true. But many live in the old wives’ fable of appearances; they think that you
should follow virtue in order that you may seem to be good. And yet the truth is, that
God is righteous; and of men, he is most like him who is most righteous. To know this is
wisdom; and in comparison of this the wisdom of the arts or the seeming wisdom of
politicians is mean and common. The unrighteous man is apt to pride himself on his
cunning; when others call him rogue, he says to himself: ‘They only mean that I am one
who deserves to live, and not a mere burden of the earth.’ But he should reflect that his
ignorance makes his condition worse than if he knew. For the penalty of injustice is not
death or stripes, but the fatal necessity of becoming more and more unjust. Two
patterns of life are set before him; the one blessed and divine, the other godless and
wretched; and he is growing more and more like the one and unlike the other. He does
not see that if he continues in his cunning, the place of innocence will not receive him
after death. And yet if such a man has the courage to hear the argument out, he often
becomes dissatisfied with himself, and has no more strength in him than a child.—But
we have digressed enough.
‘For my part, Socrates, I like the digressions better than the argument, because I
understand them better.’
To return. When we left off, the Protagoreans and Heracliteans were maintaining that
the ordinances of the State were just, while they lasted. But no one would maintain that
the laws of the State were always good or expedient, although this may be the intention
of them. For the expedient has to do with the future, about which we are liable to
mistake. Now, would Protagoras maintain that man is the measure not only of the
present and past, but of the future; and that there is no difference in the judgments of
men about the future? Would an untrained man, for example, be as likely to know when
he is going to have a fever, as the physician who attended him? And if they differ in
opinion, which of them is likely to be right; or are they both right? Is not a vine-grower a
better judge of a vintage which is not yet gathered, or a cook of a dinner which is in
preparation, or Protagoras of the probable effect of a speech than an ordinary person?
The last example speaks ‘ad hominen.’ For Protagoras would never have amassed a
fortune if every man could judge of the future for himself. He is, therefore, compelled to
admit that he is a measure; but I, who know nothing, am not equally convinced that I
am. This is one way of refuting him; and he is refuted also by the authority which he
attributes to the opinions of others, who deny his opinions. I am not equally sure that
we can disprove the truth of immediate states of feeling. But this leads us to the
doctrine of the universal flux, about which a battle-royal is always going on in the cities
of Ionia. ‘Yes; the Ephesians are downright mad about the flux; they cannot stop to
argue with you, but are in perpetual motion, obedient to their text-books. Their
restlessness is beyond expression, and if you ask any of them a question, they will not
answer, but dart at you some unintelligible saying, and another and another, making no
way either with themselves or with others; for nothing is fixed in them or their ideas,—
they are at war with fixed principles.’ I suppose, Theodorus, that you have never seen
them in time of peace, when they discourse at leisure to their disciples? ‘Disciples! they
have none; they are a set of uneducated fanatics, and each of them says of the other
that they have no knowledge. We must trust to ourselves, and not to them for the
solution of the problem.’ Well, the doctrine is old, being derived from the poets, who
speak in a figure of Oceanus and Tethys; the truth was once concealed, but is now
revealed by the superior wisdom of a later generation, and made intelligible to the
cobbler, who, on hearing that all is in motion, and not some things only, as he
ignorantly fancied, may be expected to fall down and worship his teachers. And the
opposite doctrine must not be forgotten:—
‘Alone being remains unmoved which is the name for all,’
as Parmenides affirms. Thus we are in the midst of the fray; both parties are dragging us
to their side; and we are not certain which of them are in the right; and if neither, then
we shall be in a ridiculous position, having to set up our own opinion against ancient
and famous men.
Let us first approach the river-gods, or patrons of the flux.
When they speak of motion, must they not include two kinds of motion, change of place
and change of nature?—And all things must be supposed to have both kinds of motion;
for if not, the same things would be at rest and in motion, which is contrary to their
theory. And did we not say, that all sensations arise thus: they move about between the
agent and patient together with a perception, and the patient ceases to be a perceiving
power and becomes a percipient, and the agent a quale instead of a quality; but neither
has any absolute existence? But now we make the further discovery, that neither white
or whiteness, nor any sense or sensation, can be predicated of anything, for they are in a
perpetual flux. And therefore we must modify the doctrine of Theaetetus and
Protagoras, by asserting further that knowledge is and is not sensation; and of
everything we must say equally, that this is and is not, or becomes or becomes not. And
still the word ‘this’ is not quite correct, for language fails in the attempt to express their
meaning.
At the close of the discussion, Theodorus claims to be released from the argument,
according to his agreement. But Theaetetus insists that they shall proceed to consider
the doctrine of rest. This is declined by Socrates, who has too much reverence for the
great Parmenides lightly to attack him. (We shall find that he returns to the doctrine of
rest in the Sophist; but at present he does not wish to be diverted from his main
purpose, which is, to deliver Theaetetus of his conception of knowledge.) He proceeds
to interrogate him further. When he says that ‘knowledge is in perception,’ with what
does he perceive? The first answer is, that he perceives sights with the eye, and sounds
with the ear. This leads Socrates to make the reflection that nice distinctions of words
are sometimes pedantic, but sometimes necessary; and he proposes in this case to
substitute the word ‘through’ for ‘with.’ For the senses are not like the Trojan warriors in
the horse, but have a common centre of perception, in which they all meet. This
common principle is able to compare them with one another, and must therefore be
distinct from them (compare Republic). And as there are facts of sense which are
perceived through the organs of the body, there are also mathematical and other
abstractions, such as sameness and difference, likeness and unlikeness, which the soul
perceives by herself. Being is the most universal of these abstractions. The good and the
beautiful are abstractions of another kind, which exist in relation and which above all
others the mind perceives in herself, comparing within her past, present, and future. For
example; we know a thing to be hard or soft by the touch, of which the perception is
given at birth to men and animals. But the essence of hardness or softness, or the fact
that this hardness is, and is the opposite of softness, is slowly learned by reflection and
experience. Mere perception does not reach being, and therefore fails of truth; and
therefore has no share in knowledge. But if so, knowledge is not perception. What then
is knowledge? The mind, when occupied by herself with being, is said to have opinion—
shall we say that ‘Knowledge is true opinion’? But still an old difficulty recurs; we ask
ourselves, ‘How is false opinion possible?’ This difficulty may be stated as follows:—
Either we know or do not know a thing (for the intermediate processes of learning and
forgetting need not at present be considered); and in thinking or having an opinion, we
must either know or not know that which we think, and we cannot know and be
ignorant at the same time; we cannot confuse one thing which we do not know, with
another thing which we do not know; nor can we think that which we do not know to be
that which we know, or that which we know to be that which we do not know. And what
other case is conceivable, upon the supposition that we either know or do not know all
things? Let us try another answer in the sphere of being: ‘When a man thinks, and thinks
that which is not.’ But would this hold in any parallel case? Can a man see and see
nothing? or hear and hear nothing? or touch and touch nothing? Must he not see, hear,
or touch some one existing thing? For if he thinks about nothing he does not think, and
not thinking he cannot think falsely. And so the path of being is closed against us, as
well as the path of knowledge. But may there not be ‘heterodoxy,’ or transference of
opinion;—I mean, may not one thing be supposed to be another? Theaetetus is
confident that this must be ‘the true falsehood,’ when a man puts good for evil or evil
for good. Socrates will not discourage him by attacking the paradoxical expression ‘true
falsehood,’ but passes on. The new notion involves a process of thinking about two
things, either together or alternately. And thinking is the conversing of the mind with
herself, which is carried on in question and answer, until she no longer doubts, but
determines and forms an opinion. And false opinion consists in saying to yourself, that
one thing is another. But did you ever say to yourself, that good is evil, or evil good?
Even in sleep, did you ever imagine that odd was even? Or did any man in his senses
ever fancy that an ox was a horse, or that two are one? So that we can never think one
thing to be another; for you must not meet me with the verbal quibble that one—
eteron—is other—eteron (both ‘one’ and ‘other’ in Greek are called ‘other’—eteron). He
who has both the two things in his mind, cannot misplace them; and he who has only
one of them in his mind, cannot misplace them—on either supposition transplacement
is inconceivable.
But perhaps there may still be a sense in which we can think that which we do not know
to be that which we know: e.g. Theaetetus may know Socrates, but at a distance he may
mistake another person for him. This process may be conceived by the help of an image.
Let us suppose that every man has in his mind a block of wax of various qualities, the
gift of Memory, the mother of the Muses; and on this he receives the seal or stamp of
those sensations and perceptions which he wishes to remember. That which he
succeeds in stamping is remembered and known by him as long as the impression lasts;
but that, of which the impression is rubbed out or imperfectly made, is forgotten, and
not known. No one can think one thing to be another, when he has the memorial or seal
of both of these in his soul, and a sensible impression of neither; or when he knows one
and does not know the other, and has no memorial or seal of the other; or when he
knows neither; or when he perceives both, or one and not the other, or neither; or when
he perceives and knows both, and identifies what he perceives with what he knows (this
is still more impossible); or when he does not know one, and does not know and does
not perceive the other; or does not perceive one, and does not know and does not
perceive the other; or has no perception or knowledge of either—all these cases must
be excluded. But he may err when he confuses what he knows or perceives, or what he
perceives and does not know, with what he knows, or what he knows and perceives with
what he knows and perceives.
Theaetetus is unable to follow these distinctions; which Socrates proceeds to illustrate
by examples, first of all remarking, that knowledge may exist without perception, and
perception without knowledge. I may know Theodorus and Theaetetus and not see
them; I may see them, and not know them. ‘That I understand.’ But I could not mistake
one for the other if I knew you both, and had no perception of either; or if I knew one
only, and perceived neither; or if I knew and perceived neither, or in any other of the
excluded cases. The only possibility of error is: 1st, when knowing you and Theodorus,
and having the impression of both of you on the waxen block, I, seeing you both
imperfectly and at a distance, put the foot in the wrong shoe—that is to say, put the seal
or stamp on the wrong object: or 2ndly, when knowing both of you I only see one; or
when, seeing and knowing you both, I fail to identify the impression and the object. But
there could be no error when perception and knowledge correspond.
The waxen block in the heart of a man’s soul, as I may say in the words of Homer, who
played upon the words ker and keros, may be smooth and deep, and large enough, and
then the signs are clearly marked and lasting, and do not get confused. But in the ‘hairy
heart,’ as the all-wise poet sings, when the wax is muddy or hard or moist, there is a
corresponding confusion and want of retentiveness; in the muddy and impure there is
indistinctness, and still more in the hard, for there the impressions have no depth of
wax, and in the moist they are too soon effaced. Yet greater is the indistinctness when
they are all jolted together in a little soul, which is narrow and has no room. These are
the sort of natures which have false opinion; from stupidity they see and hear and think
amiss; and this is falsehood and ignorance. Error, then, is a confusion of thought and
sense.
Theaetetus is delighted with this explanation. But Socrates has no sooner found the new
solution than he sinks into a fit of despondency. For an objection occurs to him:—May
there not be errors where there is no confusion of mind and sense? e.g. in numbers. No
one can confuse the man whom he has in his thoughts with the horse which he has in
his thoughts, but he may err in the addition of five and seven. And observe that these
are purely mental conceptions. Thus we are involved once more in the dilemma of
saying, either that there is no such thing as false opinion, or that a man knows what he
does not know.
We are at our wit’s end, and may therefore be excused for making a bold diversion. All
this time we have been repeating the words ‘know,’ ‘understand,’ yet we do not know
what knowledge is. ‘Why, Socrates, how can you argue at all without using them?’ Nay,
but the true hero of dialectic would have forbidden me to use them until I had explained
them. And I must explain them now. The verb ‘to know’ has two senses, to have and to
possess knowledge, and I distinguish ‘having’ from ‘possessing.’ A man may possess a
garment which he does not wear; or he may have wild birds in an aviary; these in one
sense he possesses, and in another he has none of them. Let this aviary be an image of
the mind, as the waxen block was; when we are young, the aviary is empty; after a time
the birds are put in; for under this figure we may describe different forms of
knowledge;—there are some of them in groups, and some single, which are flying about
everywhere; and let us suppose a hunt after the science of odd and even, or some other
science. The possession of the birds is clearly not the same as the having them in the
hand. And the original chase of them is not the same as taking them in the hand when
they are already caged.
This distinction between use and possession saves us from the absurdity of supposing
that we do not know what we know, because we may know in one sense, i.e. possess,
what we do not know in another, i.e. use. But have we not escaped one difficulty only to
encounter a greater? For how can the exchange of two kinds of knowledge ever become
false opinion? As well might we suppose that ignorance could make a man know, or that
blindness could make him see. Theaetetus suggests that in the aviary there may be
flying about mock birds, or forms of ignorance, and we put forth our hands and grasp
ignorance, when we are intending to grasp knowledge. But how can he who knows the
forms of knowledge and the forms of ignorance imagine one to be the other? Is there
some other form of knowledge which distinguishes them? and another, and another?
Thus we go round and round in a circle and make no progress.
All this confusion arises out of our attempt to explain false opinion without having
explained knowledge. What then is knowledge? Theaetetus repeats that knowledge is
true opinion. But this seems to be refuted by the instance of orators and judges. For
surely the orator cannot convey a true knowledge of crimes at which the judges were
not present; he can only persuade them, and the judge may form a true opinion and
truly judge. But if true opinion were knowledge they could not have judged without
knowledge.
Once more. Theaetetus offers a definition which he has heard: Knowledge is true
opinion accompanied by definition or explanation. Socrates has had a similar dream,
and has further heard that the first elements are names only, and that definition or
explanation begins when they are combined; the letters are unknown, the syllables or
combinations are known. But this new hypothesis when tested by the letters of the
alphabet is found to break down. The first syllable of Socrates’ name is SO. But what is
SO? Two letters, S and O, a sibilant and a vowel, of which no further explanation can be
given. And how can any one be ignorant of either of them, and yet know both of them?
There is, however, another alternative:—We may suppose that the syllable has a
separate form or idea distinct from the letters or parts. The all of the parts may not be
the whole. Theaetetus is very much inclined to adopt this suggestion, but when
interrogated by Socrates he is unable to draw any distinction between the whole and all
the parts. And if the syllables have no parts, then they are those original elements of
which there is no explanation. But how can the syllable be known if the letter remains
unknown? In learning to read as children, we are first taught the letters and then the
syllables. And in music, the notes, which are the letters, have a much more distinct
meaning to us than the combination of them.
Once more, then, we must ask the meaning of the statement, that ‘Knowledge is right
opinion, accompanied by explanation or definition.’ Explanation may mean, (1) the
reflection or expression of a man’s thoughts—but every man who is not deaf and dumb
is able to express his thoughts—or (2) the enumeration of the elements of which
anything is composed. A man may have a true opinion about a waggon, but then, and
then only, has he knowledge of a waggon when he is able to enumerate the hundred
planks of Hesiod. Or he may know the syllables of the name Theaetetus, but not the
letters; yet not until he knows both can he be said to have knowledge as well as opinion.
But on the other hand he may know the syllable ‘The’ in the name Theaetetus, yet he
may be mistaken about the same syllable in the name Theodorus, and in learning to
read we often make such mistakes. And even if he could write out all the letters and
syllables of your name in order, still he would only have right opinion. Yet there may be
a third meaning of the definition, besides the image or expression of the mind, and the
enumeration of the elements, viz. (3) perception of difference.
For example, I may see a man who has eyes, nose, and mouth;—that will not distinguish
him from any other man. Or he may have a snub-nose and prominent eyes;—that will
not distinguish him from myself and you and others who are like me. But when I see a
certain kind of snub-nosedness, then I recognize Theaetetus. And having this sign of
difference, I have knowledge. But have I knowledge or opinion of this difference; if I
have only opinion I have not knowledge; if I have knowledge we assume a disputed
term; for knowledge will have to be defined as right opinion with knowledge of
difference.
And so, Theaetetus, knowledge is neither perception nor true opinion, nor yet definition
accompanying true opinion. And I have shown that the children of your brain are not
worth rearing. Are you still in labour, or have you brought all you have to say about
knowledge to the birth? If you have any more thoughts, you will be the better for having
got rid of these; or if you have none, you will be the better for not fancying that you
know what you do not know. Observe the limits of my art, which, like my mother’s, is an
art of midwifery; I do not pretend to compare with the good and wise of this and other
ages.
And now I go to meet Meletus at the porch of the King Archon; but to-morrow I shall
hope to see you again, Theodorus, at this place.
...
I. The saying of Theaetetus, that ‘Knowledge is sensible perception,’ may be assumed to
be a current philosophical opinion of the age. ‘The ancients,’ as Aristotle (De Anim.) says,
citing a verse of Empedocles, ‘affirmed knowledge to be the same as perception.’ We
may now examine these words, first, with reference to their place in the history of
philosophy, and secondly, in relation to modern speculations.
(a) In the age of Socrates the mind was passing from the object to the subject. The same
impulse which a century before had led men to form conceptions of the world, now led
them to frame general notions of the human faculties and feelings, such as memory,
opinion, and the like. The simplest of these is sensation, or sensible perception, by which
Plato seems to mean the generalized notion of feelings and impressions of sense,
without determining whether they are conscious or not.
The theory that ‘Knowledge is sensible perception’ is the antithesis of that which derives
knowledge from the mind (Theaet.), or which assumes the existence of ideas
independent of the mind (Parm.). Yet from their extreme abstraction these theories do
not represent the opposite poles of thought in the same way that the corresponding
differences would in modern philosophy. The most ideal and the most sensational have
a tendency to pass into one another; Heracleitus, like his great successor Hegel, has
both aspects. The Eleatic isolation of Being and the Megarian or Cynic isolation of
individuals are placed in the same class by Plato (Soph.); and the same principle which is
the symbol of motion to one mind is the symbol of rest to another. The Atomists, who
are sometimes regarded as the Materialists of Plato, denied the reality of sensation. And
in the ancient as well as the modern world there were reactions from theory to
experience, from ideas to sense. This is a point of view from which the philosophy of
sensation presented great attraction to the ancient thinker. Amid the conflict of ideas
and the variety of opinions, the impression of sense remained certain and uniform.
Hardness, softness, cold, heat, etc. are not absolutely the same to different persons, but
the art of measuring could at any rate reduce them all to definite natures (Republic).
Thus the doctrine that knowledge is perception supplies or seems to supply a firm
standing ground. Like the other notions of the earlier Greek philosophy, it was held in a
very simple way, without much basis of reasoning, and without suggesting the questions
which naturally arise in our own minds on the same subject.
(b) The fixedness of impressions of sense furnishes a link of connexion between ancient
and modern philosophy. The modern thinker often repeats the parallel axiom, ‘All
knowledge is experience.’ He means to say that the outward and not the inward is both
the original source and the final criterion of truth, because the outward can be observed
and analyzed; the inward is only known by external results, and is dimly perceived by
each man for himself. In what does this differ from the saying of Theaetetus? Chiefly in
this—that the modern term ‘experience,’ while implying a point of departure in sense
and a return to sense, also includes all the processes of reasoning and imagination
which have intervened. The necessary connexion between them by no means affords a
measure of the relative degree of importance which is to be ascribed to either element.
For the inductive portion of any science may be small, as in mathematics or ethics,
compared with that which the mind has attained by reasoning and reflection on a very
few facts.
II. The saying that ‘All knowledge is sensation’ is identified by Plato with the Protagorean
thesis that ‘Man is the measure of all things.’ The interpretation which Protagoras
himself is supposed to give of these latter words is: ‘Things are to me as they appear to
me, and to you as they appear to you.’ But there remains still an ambiguity both in the
text and in the explanation, which has to be cleared up. Did Protagoras merely mean to
assert the relativity of knowledge to the human mind? Or did he mean to deny that
there is an objective standard of truth?
These two questions have not been always clearly distinguished; the relativity of
knowledge has been sometimes confounded with uncertainty. The untutored mind is
apt to suppose that objects exist independently of the human faculties, because they
really exist independently of the faculties of any individual. In the same way, knowledge
appears to be a body of truths stored up in books, which when once ascertained are
independent of the discoverer. Further consideration shows us that these truths are not
really independent of the mind; there is an adaptation of one to the other, of the eye to
the object of sense, of the mind to the conception. There would be no world, if there
neither were nor ever had been any one to perceive the world. A slight effort of
reflection enables us to understand this; but no effort of reflection will enable us to pass
beyond the limits of our own faculties, or to imagine the relation or adaptation of
objects to the mind to be different from that of which we have experience. There are
certain laws of language and logic to which we are compelled to conform, and to which
our ideas naturally adapt themselves; and we can no more get rid of them than we can
cease to be ourselves. The absolute and infinite, whether explained as self-existence, or
as the totality of human thought, or as the Divine nature, if known to us at all, cannot
escape from the category of relation.
But because knowledge is subjective or relative to the mind, we are not to suppose that
we are therefore deprived of any of the tests or criteria of truth. One man still remains
wiser than another, a more accurate observer and relater of facts, a truer measure of the
proportions of knowledge. The nature of testimony is not altered, nor the verification of
causes by prescribed methods less certain. Again, the truth must often come to a man
through others, according to the measure of his capacity and education. But neither
does this affect the testimony, whether written or oral, which he knows by experience to
be trustworthy. He cannot escape from the laws of his own mind; and he cannot escape
from the further accident of being dependent for his knowledge on others. But still this
is no reason why he should always be in doubt; of many personal, of many historical and
scientific facts he may be absolutely assured. And having such a mass of acknowledged
truth in the mathematical and physical, not to speak of the moral sciences, the moderns
have certainly no reason to acquiesce in the statement that truth is appearance only, or
that there is no difference between appearance and truth.
The relativity of knowledge is a truism to us, but was a great psychological discovery in
the fifth century before Christ. Of this discovery, the first distinct assertion is contained
in the thesis of Protagoras. Probably he had no intention either of denying or affirming
an objective standard of truth. He did not consider whether man in the higher or man in
the lower sense was a ‘measure of all things.’ Like other great thinkers, he was absorbed
with one idea, and that idea was the absoluteness of perception. Like Socrates, he
seemed to see that philosophy must be brought back from ‘nature’ to ‘truth,’ from the
world to man. But he did not stop to analyze whether he meant ‘man’ in the concrete or
man in the abstract, any man or some men, ‘quod semper quod ubique’ or individual
private judgment. Such an analysis lay beyond his sphere of thought; the age before
Socrates had not arrived at these distinctions. Like the Cynics, again, he discarded
knowledge in any higher sense than perception. For ‘truer’ or ‘wiser’ he substituted the
word ‘better,’ and is not unwilling to admit that both states and individuals are capable
of practical improvement. But this improvement does not arise from intellectual
enlightenment, nor yet from the exertion of the will, but from a change of circumstances
and impressions; and he who can effect this change in himself or others may be deemed
a philosopher. In the mode of effecting it, while agreeing with Socrates and the Cynics in
the importance which he attaches to practical life, he is at variance with both of them.
To suppose that practice can be divorced from speculation, or that we may do good
without caring about truth, is by no means singular, either in philosophy or life. The
singularity of this, as of some other (so-called) sophistical doctrines, is the frankness
with which they are avowed, instead of being veiled, as in modern times, under
ambiguous and convenient phrases.
Plato appears to treat Protagoras much as he himself is treated by Aristotle; that is to
say, he does not attempt to understand him from his own point of view. But he
entangles him in the meshes of a more advanced logic. To which Protagoras is
supposed to reply by Megarian quibbles, which destroy logic, ‘Not only man, but each
man, and each man at each moment.’ In the arguments about sight and memory there
is a palpable unfairness which is worthy of the great ‘brainless brothers,’ Euthydemus
and Dionysodorus, and may be compared with the egkekalummenos (‘obvelatus’) of
Eubulides. For he who sees with one eye only cannot be truly said both to see and not
to see; nor is memory, which is liable to forget, the immediate knowledge to which
Protagoras applies the term. Theodorus justly charges Socrates with going beyond the
truth; and Protagoras has equally right on his side when he protests against Socrates
arguing from the common use of words, which ‘the vulgar pervert in all manner of
ways.’
III. The theory of Protagoras is connected by Aristotle as well as Plato with the flux of
Heracleitus. But Aristotle is only following Plato, and Plato, as we have already seen, did
not mean to imply that such a connexion was admitted by Protagoras himself. His
metaphysical genius saw or seemed to see a common tendency in them, just as the
modern historian of ancient philosophy might perceive a parallelism between two
thinkers of which they were probably unconscious themselves. We must remember
throughout that Plato is not speaking of Heracleitus, but of the Heracliteans, who
succeeded him; nor of the great original ideas of the master, but of the Eristic into which
they had degenerated a hundred years later. There is nothing in the fragments of
Heracleitus which at all justifies Plato’s account of him. His philosophy may be resolved
into two elements—first, change, secondly, law or measure pervading the change: these
he saw everywhere, and often expressed in strange mythological symbols. But he has no
analysis of sensible perception such as Plato attributes to him; nor is there any reason to
suppose that he pushed his philosophy into that absolute negation in which
Heracliteanism was sunk in the age of Plato. He never said that ‘change means every
sort of change;’ and he expressly distinguished between ‘the general and particular
understanding.’ Like a poet, he surveyed the elements of mythology, nature, thought,
which lay before him, and sometimes by the light of genius he saw or seemed to see a
mysterious principle working behind them. But as has been the case with other great
philosophers, and with Plato and Aristotle themselves, what was really permanent and
original could not be understood by the next generation, while a perverted logic carried
out his chance expressions with an illogical consistency. His simple and noble thoughts,
like those of the great Eleatic, soon degenerated into a mere strife of words. And when
thus reduced to mere words, they seem to have exercised a far wider influence in the
cities of Ionia (where the people ‘were mad about them’) than in the life-time of
Heracleitus—a phenomenon which, though at first sight singular, is not without a
parallel in the history of philosophy and theology.
It is this perverted form of the Heraclitean philosophy which is supposed to effect the
final overthrow of Protagorean sensationalism. For if all things are changing at every
moment, in all sorts of ways, then there is nothing fixed or defined at all, and therefore
no sensible perception, nor any true word by which that or anything else can be
described. Of course Protagoras would not have admitted the justice of this argument
any more than Heracleitus would have acknowledged the ‘uneducated fanatics’ who
appealed to his writings. He might have said, ‘The excellent Socrates has first confused
me with Heracleitus, and Heracleitus with his Ephesian successors, and has then
disproved the existence both of knowledge and sensation. But I am not responsible for
what I never said, nor will I admit that my common-sense account of knowledge can be
overthrown by unintelligible Heraclitean paradoxes.’
IV. Still at the bottom of the arguments there remains a truth, that knowledge is
something more than sensible perception;—this alone would not distinguish man from
a tadpole. The absoluteness of sensations at each moment destroys the very
consciousness of sensations (compare Phileb.), or the power of comparing them. The
senses are not mere holes in a ‘Trojan horse,’ but the organs of a presiding nature, in
which they meet. A great advance has been made in psychology when the senses are
recognized as organs of sense, and we are admitted to see or feel ‘through them’ and
not ‘by them,’ a distinction of words which, as Socrates observes, is by no means
pedantic. A still further step has been made when the most abstract notions, such as
Being and Not-being, sameness and difference, unity and plurality, are acknowledged to
be the creations of the mind herself, working upon the feelings or impressions of sense.
In this manner Plato describes the process of acquiring them, in the words ‘Knowledge
consists not in the feelings or affections (pathemasi), but in the process of reasoning
about them (sullogismo).’ Here, is in the Parmenides, he means something not really
different from generalization. As in the Sophist, he is laying the foundation of a rational
psychology, which is to supersede the Platonic reminiscence of Ideas as well as the
Eleatic Being and the individualism of Megarians and Cynics.
V. Having rejected the doctrine that ‘Knowledge is perception,’ we now proceed to look
for a definition of knowledge in the sphere of opinion. But here we are met by a singular
difficulty: How is false opinion possible? For we must either know or not know that
which is presented to the mind or to sense. We of course should answer at once: ‘No;
the alternative is not necessary, for there may be degrees of knowledge; and we may
know and have forgotten, or we may be learning, or we may have a general but not a
particular knowledge, or we may know but not be able to explain;’ and many other ways
may be imagined in which we know and do not know at the same time. But these
answers belong to a later stage of metaphysical discussion; whereas the difficulty in
question naturally arises owing to the childhood of the human mind, like the parallel
difficulty respecting Not-being. Men had only recently arrived at the notion of opinion;
they could not at once define the true and pass beyond into the false. The very word
doxa was full of ambiguity, being sometimes, as in the Eleatic philosophy, applied to the
sensible world, and again used in the more ordinary sense of opinion. There is no
connexion between sensible appearance and probability, and yet both of them met in
the word doxa, and could hardly be disengaged from one another in the mind of the
Greek living in the fifth or fourth century B.C. To this was often added, as at the end of
the fifth book of the Republic, the idea of relation, which is equally distinct from either
of them; also a fourth notion, the conclusion of the dialectical process, the making up of
the mind after she has been ‘talking to herself’ (Theat.).
We are not then surprised that the sphere of opinion and of Not-being should be a
dusky, half-lighted place (Republic), belonging neither to the old world of sense and
imagination, nor to the new world of reflection and reason. Plato attempts to clear up
this darkness. In his accustomed manner he passes from the lower to the higher, without
omitting the intermediate stages. This appears to be the reason why he seeks for the
definition of knowledge first in the sphere of opinion. Hereafter we shall find that
something more than opinion is required.
False opinion is explained by Plato at first as a confusion of mind and sense, which arises
when the impression on the mind does not correspond to the impression made on the
senses. It is obvious that this explanation (supposing the distinction between
impressions on the mind and impressions on the senses to be admitted) does not
account for all forms of error; and Plato has excluded himself from the consideration of
the greater number, by designedly omitting the intermediate processes of learning and
forgetting; nor does he include fallacies in the use of language or erroneous inferences.
But he is struck by one possibility of error, which is not covered by his theory, viz. errors
in arithmetic. For in numbers and calculation there is no combination of thought and
sense, and yet errors may often happen. Hence he is led to discard the explanation
which might nevertheless have been supposed to hold good (for anything which he says
to the contrary) as a rationale of error, in the case of facts derived from sense.
Another attempt is made to explain false opinion by assigning to error a sort of positive
existence. But error or ignorance is essentially negative—a not-knowing; if we knew an
error, we should be no longer in error. We may veil our difficulty under figures of
speech, but these, although telling arguments with the multitude, can never be the real
foundation of a system of psychology. Only they lead us to dwell upon mental
phenomena which if expressed in an abstract form would not be realized by us at all.
The figure of the mind receiving impressions is one of those images which have rooted
themselves for ever in language. It may or may not be a ‘gracious aid’ to thought; but it
cannot be got rid of. The other figure of the enclosure is also remarkable as affording
the first hint of universal all-pervading ideas,—a notion further carried out in the
Sophist. This is implied in the birds, some in flocks, some solitary, which fly about
anywhere and everywhere. Plato discards both figures, as not really solving the question
which to us appears so simple: ‘How do we make mistakes?’ The failure of the enquiry
seems to show that we should return to knowledge, and begin with that; and we may
afterwards proceed, with a better hope of success, to the examination of opinion.
But is true opinion really distinct from knowledge? The difference between these he
seeks to establish by an argument, which to us appears singular and unsatisfactory. The
existence of true opinion is proved by the rhetoric of the law courts, which cannot give
knowledge, but may give true opinion. The rhetorician cannot put the judge or juror in
possession of all the facts which prove an act of violence, but he may truly persuade
them of the commission of such an act. Here the idea of true opinion seems to be a
right conclusion from imperfect knowledge. But the correctness of such an opinion will
be purely accidental; and is really the effect of one man, who has the means of knowing,
persuading another who has not. Plato would have done better if he had said that true
opinion was a contradiction in terms.
Assuming the distinction between knowledge and opinion, Theaetetus, in answer to
Socrates, proceeds to define knowledge as true opinion, with definite or rational
explanation. This Socrates identifies with another and different theory, of those who
assert that knowledge first begins with a proposition.
The elements may be perceived by sense, but they are names, and cannot be defined.
When we assign to them some predicate, they first begin to have a meaning (onomaton
sumploke logou ousia). This seems equivalent to saying, that the individuals of sense
become the subject of knowledge when they are regarded as they are in nature in
relation to other individuals.
Yet we feel a difficulty in following this new hypothesis. For must not opinion be equally
expressed in a proposition? The difference between true and false opinion is not the
difference between the particular and the universal, but between the true universal and
the false. Thought may be as much at fault as sight. When we place individuals under a
class, or assign to them attributes, this is not knowledge, but a very rudimentary process
of thought; the first generalization of all, without which language would be impossible.
And has Plato kept altogether clear of a confusion, which the analogous word logos
tends to create, of a proposition and a definition? And is not the confusion increased by
the use of the analogous term ‘elements,’ or ‘letters’? For there is no real resemblance
between the relation of letters to a syllable, and of the terms to a proposition.
Plato, in the spirit of the Megarian philosophy, soon discovers a flaw in the explanation.
For how can we know a compound of which the simple elements are unknown to us?
Can two unknowns make a known? Can a whole be something different from the parts?
The answer of experience is that they can; for we may know a compound, which we are
unable to analyze into its elements; and all the parts, when united, may be more than all
the parts separated: e.g. the number four, or any other number, is more than the units
which are contained in it; any chemical compound is more than and different from the
simple elements. But ancient philosophy in this, as in many other instances, proceeding
by the path of mental analysis, was perplexed by doubts which warred against the
plainest facts.
Three attempts to explain the new definition of knowledge still remain to be considered.
They all of them turn on the explanation of logos. The first account of the meaning of
the word is the reflection of thought in speech—a sort of nominalism ‘La science est une
langue bien faite.’ But anybody who is not dumb can say what he thinks; therefore mere
speech cannot be knowledge. And yet we may observe, that there is in this explanation
an element of truth which is not recognized by Plato; viz. that truth and thought are
inseparable from language, although mere expression in words is not truth. The second
explanation of logos is the enumeration of the elementary parts of the complex whole.
But this is only definition accompanied with right opinion, and does not yet attain to the
certainty of knowledge. Plato does not mention the greater objection, which is, that the
enumeration of particulars is endless; such a definition would be based on no principle,
and would not help us at all in gaining a common idea. The third is the best
explanation,—the possession of a characteristic mark, which seems to answer to the
logical definition by genus and difference. But this, again, is equally necessary for right
opinion; and we have already determined, although not on very satisfactory grounds,
that knowledge must be distinguished from opinion. A better distinction is drawn
between them in the Timaeus. They might be opposed as philosophy and rhetoric, and
as conversant respectively with necessary and contingent matter. But no true idea of the
nature of either of them, or of their relation to one another, could be framed until
science obtained a content. The ancient philosophers in the age of Plato thought of
science only as pure abstraction, and to this opinion stood in no relation.
Like Theaetetus, we have attained to no definite result. But an interesting phase of
ancient philosophy has passed before us. And the negative result is not to be despised.
For on certain subjects, and in certain states of knowledge, the work of negation or
clearing the ground must go on, perhaps for a generation, before the new structure can
begin to rise. Plato saw the necessity of combating the illogical logic of the Megarians
and Eristics. For the completion of the edifice, he makes preparation in the Theaetetus,
and crowns the work in the Sophist.
Many (1) fine expressions, and (2) remarks full of wisdom, (3) also germs of a metaphysic
of the future, are scattered up and down in the dialogue. Such, for example, as (1) the
comparison of Theaetetus’ progress in learning to the ‘noiseless flow of a river of oil’;
the satirical touch, ‘flavouring a sauce or fawning speech’; or the remarkable expression,
‘full of impure dialectic’; or the lively images under which the argument is described,—
‘the flood of arguments pouring in,’ the fresh discussions ‘bursting in like a band of
revellers.’ (2) As illustrations of the second head, may be cited the remark of Socrates,
that ‘distinctions of words, although sometimes pedantic, are also necessary’; or the fine
touch in the character of the lawyer, that ‘dangers came upon him when the tenderness
of youth was unequal to them’; or the description of the manner in which the spirit is
broken in a wicked man who listens to reproof until he becomes like a child; or the
punishment of the wicked, which is not physical suffering, but the perpetual
companionship of evil (compare Gorgias); or the saying, often repeated by Aristotle and
others, that ‘philosophy begins in wonder, for Iris is the child of Thaumas’; or the superb
contempt with which the philosopher takes down the pride of wealthy landed
proprietors by comparison of the whole earth. (3) Important metaphysical ideas are: a.
the conception of thought, as the mind talking to herself; b. the notion of a common
sense, developed further by Aristotle, and the explicit declaration, that the mind gains
her conceptions of Being, sameness, number, and the like, from reflection on herself; c.
the excellent distinction of Theaetetus (which Socrates, speaking with emphasis, ‘leaves
to grow’) between seeing the forms or hearing the sounds of words in a foreign
language, and understanding the meaning of them; and d. the distinction of Socrates
himself between ‘having’ and ‘possessing’ knowledge, in which the answer to the whole
discussion appears to be contained.
...
There is a difference between ancient and modern psychology, and we have a difficulty
in explaining one in the terms of the other. To us the inward and outward sense and the
inward and outward worlds of which they are the organs are parted by a wall, and
appear as if they could never be confounded. The mind is endued with faculties, habits,
instincts, and a personality or consciousness in which they are bound together. Over
against these are placed forms, colours, external bodies coming into contact with our
own body. We speak of a subject which is ourselves, of an object which is all the rest.
These are separable in thought, but united in any act of sensation, reflection, or volition.
As there are various degrees in which the mind may enter into or be abstracted from the
operations of sense, so there are various points at which this separation or union may
be supposed to occur. And within the sphere of mind the analogy of sense reappears;
and we distinguish not only external objects, but objects of will and of knowledge which
we contrast with them. These again are comprehended in a higher object, which
reunites with the subject. A multitude of abstractions are created by the efforts of
successive thinkers which become logical determinations; and they have to be arranged
in order, before the scheme of thought is complete. The framework of the human
intellect is not the peculium of an individual, but the joint work of many who are of all
ages and countries. What we are in mind is due, not merely to our physical, but to our
mental antecedents which we trace in history, and more especially in the history of
philosophy. Nor can mental phenomena be truly explained either by physiology or by
the observation of consciousness apart from their history. They have a growth of their
own, like the growth of a flower, a tree, a human being. They may be conceived as of
themselves constituting a common mind, and having a sort of personal identity in which
they coexist.
So comprehensive is modern psychology, seeming to aim at constructing anew the
entire world of thought. And prior to or simultaneously with this construction a negative
process has to be carried on, a clearing away of useless abstractions which we have
inherited from the past. Many erroneous conceptions of the mind derived from former
philosophies have found their way into language, and we with difficulty disengage
ourselves from them. Mere figures of speech have unconsciously influenced the minds
of great thinkers. Also there are some distinctions, as, for example, that of the will and of
the reason, and of the moral and intellectual faculties, which are carried further than is
justified by experience. Any separation of things which we cannot see or exactly define,
though it may be necessary, is a fertile source of error. The division of the mind into
faculties or powers or virtues is too deeply rooted in language to be got rid of, but it
gives a false impression. For if we reflect on ourselves we see that all our faculties easily
pass into one another, and are bound together in a single mind or consciousness; but
this mental unity is apt to be concealed from us by the distinctions of language.
A profusion of words and ideas has obscured rather than enlightened mental science. It
is hard to say how many fallacies have arisen from the representation of the mind as a
box, as a ‘tabula rasa,’ a book, a mirror, and the like. It is remarkable how Plato in the
Theaetetus, after having indulged in the figure of the waxen tablet and the decoy,
afterwards discards them. The mind is also represented by another class of images, as
the spring of a watch, a motive power, a breath, a stream, a succession of points or
moments. As Plato remarks in the Cratylus, words expressive of motion as well as of rest
are employed to describe the faculties and operations of the mind; and in these there is
contained another store of fallacies. Some shadow or reflection of the body seems
always to adhere to our thoughts about ourselves, and mental processes are hardly
distinguished in language from bodily ones. To see or perceive are used indifferently of
both; the words intuition, moral sense, common sense, the mind’s eye, are figures of
speech transferred from one to the other. And many other words used in early poetry or
in sacred writings to express the works of mind have a materialistic sound; for old
mythology was allied to sense, and the distinction of matter and mind had not as yet
arisen. Thus materialism receives an illusive aid from language; and both in philosophy
and religion the imaginary figure or association easily takes the place of real knowledge.
Again, there is the illusion of looking into our own minds as if our thoughts or feelings
were written down in a book. This is another figure of speech, which might be
appropriately termed ‘the fallacy of the looking- glass.’ We cannot look at the mind
unless we have the eye which sees, and we can only look, not into, but out of the mind
at the thoughts, words, actions of ourselves and others. What we dimly recognize within
us is not experience, but rather the suggestion of an experience, which we may gather, if
we will, from the observation of the world. The memory has but a feeble recollection of
what we were saying or doing a few weeks or a few months ago, and still less of what
we were thinking or feeling. This is one among many reasons why there is so little selfknowledge
among mankind; they do not carry with them the thought of what they are
or have been. The so-called ‘facts of consciousness’ are equally evanescent; they are
facts which nobody ever saw, and which can neither be defined nor described. Of the
three laws of thought the first (All A = A) is an identical proposition—that is to say, a
mere word or symbol claiming to be a proposition: the two others (Nothing can be A
and not A, and Everything is either A or not A) are untrue, because they exclude degrees
and also the mixed modes and double aspects under which truth is so often presented
to us. To assert that man is man is unmeaning; to say that he is free or necessary and
cannot be both is a half truth only. These are a few of the entanglements which impede
the natural course of human thought. Lastly, there is the fallacy which lies still deeper, of
regarding the individual mind apart from the universal, or either, as a self-existent entity
apart from the ideas which are contained in them.
In ancient philosophies the analysis of the mind is still rudimentary and imperfect. It
naturally began with an effort to disengage the universal from sense—this was the first
lifting up of the mist. It wavered between object and subject, passing imperceptibly from
one or Being to mind and thought. Appearance in the outward object was for a time
indistinguishable from opinion in the subject. At length mankind spoke of knowing as
well as of opining or perceiving. But when the word ‘knowledge’ was found how was it
to be explained or defined? It was not an error, it was a step in the right direction, when
Protagoras said that ‘Man is the measure of all things,’ and that ‘All knowledge is
perception.’ This was the subjective which corresponded to the objective ‘All is flux.’ But
the thoughts of men deepened, and soon they began to be aware that knowledge was
neither sense, nor yet opinion—with or without explanation; nor the expression of
thought, nor the enumeration of parts, nor the addition of characteristic marks. Motion
and rest were equally ill adapted to express its nature, although both must in some
sense be attributed to it; it might be described more truly as the mind conversing with
herself; the discourse of reason; the hymn of dialectic, the science of relations, of ideas,
of the so-called arts and sciences, of the one, of the good, of the all:—this is the way
along which Plato is leading us in his later dialogues. In its higher signification it was the
knowledge, not of men, but of gods, perfect and all sufficing:—like other ideals always
passing out of sight, and nevertheless present to the mind of Aristotle as well as Plato,
and the reality to which they were both tending. For Aristotle as well as Plato would in
modern phraseology have been termed a mystic; and like him would have defined the
higher philosophy to be ‘Knowledge of being or essence,’— words to which in our own
day we have a difficulty in attaching a meaning.
Yet, in spite of Plato and his followers, mankind have again and again returned to a
sensational philosophy. As to some of the early thinkers, amid the fleetings of sensible
objects, ideas alone seemed to be fixed, so to a later generation amid the fluctuation of
philosophical opinions the only fixed points appeared to be outward objects. Any
pretence of knowledge which went beyond them implied logical processes, of the
correctness of which they had no assurance and which at best were only probable. The
mind, tired of wandering, sought to rest on firm ground; when the idols of philosophy
and language were stripped off, the perception of outward objects alone remained. The
ancient Epicureans never asked whether the comparison of these with one another did
not involve principles of another kind which were above and beyond them. In like
manner the modern inductive philosophy forgot to enquire into the meaning of
experience, and did not attempt to form a conception of outward objects apart from the
mind, or of the mind apart from them. Soon objects of sense were merged in sensations
and feelings, but feelings and sensations were still unanalyzed. At last we return to the
doctrine attributed by Plato to Protagoras, that the mind is only a succession of
momentary perceptions. At this point the modern philosophy of experience forms an
alliance with ancient scepticism.
The higher truths of philosophy and religion are very far removed from sense. Admitting
that, like all other knowledge, they are derived from experience, and that experience is
ultimately resolvable into facts which come to us through the eye and ear, still their
origin is a mere accident which has nothing to do with their true nature. They are
universal and unseen; they belong to all times—past, present, and future. Any worthy
notion of mind or reason includes them. The proof of them is, 1st, their
comprehensiveness and consistency with one another; 2ndly, their agreement with
history and experience. But sensation is of the present only, is isolated, is and is not in
successive moments. It takes the passing hour as it comes, following the lead of the eye
or ear instead of the command of reason. It is a faculty which man has in common with
the animals, and in which he is inferior to many of them. The importance of the senses
in us is that they are the apertures of the mind, doors and windows through which we
take in and make our own the materials of knowledge. Regarded in any other point of
view sensation is of all mental acts the most trivial and superficial. Hence the term
‘sensational’ is rightly used to express what is shallow in thought and feeling.
We propose in what follows, first of all, like Plato in the Theaetetus, to analyse sensation,
and secondly to trace the connexion between theories of sensation and a sensational or
Epicurean philosophy.
Paragraph I. We, as well as the ancients, speak of the five senses, and of a sense, or
common sense, which is the abstraction of them. The term ‘sense’ is also used
metaphorically, both in ancient and modern philosophy, to express the operations of
the mind which are immediate or intuitive. Of the five senses, two—the sight and the
hearing—are of a more subtle and complex nature, while two others—the smell and the
taste—seem to be only more refined varieties of touch. All of them are passive, and by
this are distinguished from the active faculty of speech: they receive impressions, but do
not produce them, except in so far as they are objects of sense themselves.
Physiology speaks to us of the wonderful apparatus of nerves, muscles, tissues, by which
the senses are enabled to fulfil their functions. It traces the connexion, though
imperfectly, of the bodily organs with the operations of the mind. Of these latter, it
seems rather to know the conditions than the causes. It can prove to us that without the
brain we cannot think, and that without the eye we cannot see: and yet there is far more
in thinking and seeing than is given by the brain and the eye. It observes the
‘concomitant variations’ of body and mind. Psychology, on the other hand, treats of the
same subject regarded from another point of view. It speaks of the relation of the senses
to one another; it shows how they meet the mind; it analyzes the transition from sense
to thought. The one describes their nature as apparent to the outward eye; by the other
they are regarded only as the instruments of the mind. It is in this latter point of view
that we propose to consider them.
The simplest sensation involves an unconscious or nascent operation of the mind; it
implies objects of sense, and objects of sense have differences of form, number, colour.
But the conception of an object without us, or the power of discriminating numbers,
forms, colours, is not given by the sense, but by the mind. A mere sensation does not
attain to distinctness: it is a confused impression, sugkechumenon ti, as Plato says
(Republic), until number introduces light and order into the confusion. At what point
confusion becomes distinctness is a question of degree which cannot be precisely
determined. The distant object, the undefined notion, come out into relief as we
approach them or attend to them. Or we may assist the analysis by attempting to
imagine the world first dawning upon the eye of the infant or of a person newly restored
to sight. Yet even with them the mind as well as the eye opens or enlarges. For all three
are inseparably bound together—the object would be nowhere and nothing, if not
perceived by the sense, and the sense would have no power of distinguishing without
the mind.
But prior to objects of sense there is a third nature in which they are contained—that is
to say, space, which may be explained in various ways. It is the element which surrounds
them; it is the vacuum or void which they leave or occupy when passing from one
portion of space to another. It might be described in the language of ancient
philosophy, as ‘the Not- being’ of objects. It is a negative idea which in the course of
ages has become positive. It is originally derived from the contemplation of the world
without us—the boundless earth or sea, the vacant heaven, and is therefore acquired
chiefly through the sense of sight: to the blind the conception of space is feeble and
inadequate, derived for the most part from touch or from the descriptions of others. At
first it appears to be continuous; afterwards we perceive it to be capable of division by
lines or points, real or imaginary. By the help of mathematics we form another idea of
space, which is altogether independent of experience. Geometry teaches us that the
innumerable lines and figures by which space is or may be intersected are absolutely
true in all their combinations and consequences. New and unchangeable properties of
space are thus developed, which are proved to us in a thousand ways by mathematical
reasoning as well as by common experience. Through quantity and measure we are
conducted to our simplest and purest notion of matter, which is to the cube or solid
what space is to the square or surface. And all our applications of mathematics are
applications of our ideas of space to matter. No wonder then that they seem to have a
necessary existence to us. Being the simplest of our ideas, space is also the one of which
we have the most difficulty in ridding ourselves. Neither can we set a limit to it, for
wherever we fix a limit, space is springing up beyond. Neither can we conceive a
smallest or indivisible portion of it; for within the smallest there is a smaller still; and
even these inconceivable qualities of space, whether the infinite or the infinitesimal, may
be made the subject of reasoning and have a certain truth to us.
Whether space exists in the mind or out of it, is a question which has no meaning. We
should rather say that without it the mind is incapable of conceiving the body, and
therefore of conceiving itself. The mind may be indeed imagined to contain the body, in
the same way that Aristotle (partly following Plato) supposes God to be the outer
heaven or circle of the universe. But how can the individual mind carry about the
universe of space packed up within, or how can separate minds have either a universe of
their own or a common universe? In such conceptions there seems to be a confusion of
the individual and the universal. To say that we can only have a true idea of ourselves
when we deny the reality of that by which we have any idea of ourselves is an absurdity.
The earth which is our habitation and ‘the starry heaven above’ and we ourselves are
equally an illusion, if space is only a quality or condition of our minds.
Again, we may compare the truths of space with other truths derived from experience,
which seem to have a necessity to us in proportion to the frequency of their recurrence
or the truth of the consequences which may be inferred from them. We are thus led to
remark that the necessity in our ideas of space on which much stress has been laid,
differs in a slight degree only from the necessity which appears to belong to other of
our ideas, e.g. weight, motion, and the like. And there is another way in which this
necessity may be explained. We have been taught it, and the truth which we were
taught or which we inherited has never been contradicted in all our experience and is
therefore confirmed by it. Who can resist an idea which is presented to him in a general
form in every moment of his life and of which he finds no instance to the contrary? The
greater part of what is sometimes regarded as the a priori intuition of space is really the
conception of the various geometrical figures of which the properties have been
revealed by mathematical analysis. And the certainty of these properties is
immeasurably increased to us by our finding that they hold good not only in every
instance, but in all the consequences which are supposed to flow from them.
Neither must we forget that our idea of space, like our other ideas, has a history. The
Homeric poems contain no word for it; even the later Greek philosophy has not the
Kantian notion of space, but only the definite ‘place’ or ‘the infinite.’ To Plato, in the
Timaeus, it is known only as the ‘nurse of generation.’ When therefore we speak of the
necessity of our ideas of space we must remember that this is a necessity which has
grown up with the growth of the human mind, and has been made by ourselves. We can
free ourselves from the perplexities which are involved in it by ascending to a time in
which they did not as yet exist. And when space or time are described as ‘a priori forms
or intuitions added to the matter given in sensation,’ we should consider that such
expressions belong really to the ‘pre-historic study’ of philosophy, i.e. to the eighteenth
century, when men sought to explain the human mind without regard to history or
language or the social nature of man.
In every act of sense there is a latent perception of space, of which we only become
conscious when objects are withdrawn from it. There are various ways in which we may
trace the connexion between them. We may think of space as unresisting matter, and of
matter as divided into objects; or of objects again as formed by abstraction into a
collective notion of matter, and of matter as rarefied into space. And motion may be
conceived as the union of there and not there in space, and force as the materializing or
solidification of motion. Space again is the individual and universal in one; or, in other
words, a perception and also a conception. So easily do what are sometimes called our
simple ideas pass into one another, and differences of kind resolve themselves into
differences of degree.
Within or behind space there is another abstraction in many respects similar to it—time,
the form of the inward, as space is the form of the outward. As we cannot think of
outward objects of sense or of outward sensations without space, so neither can we
think of a succession of sensations without time. It is the vacancy of thoughts or
sensations, as space is the void of outward objects, and we can no more imagine the
mind without the one than the world without the other. It is to arithmetic what space is
to geometry; or, more strictly, arithmetic may be said to be equally applicable to both. It
is defined in our minds, partly by the analogy of space and partly by the recollection of
events which have happened to us, or the consciousness of feelings which we are
experiencing. Like space, it is without limit, for whatever beginning or end of time we fix,
there is a beginning and end before them, and so on without end. We speak of a past,
present, and future, and again the analogy of space assists us in conceiving of them as
coexistent. When the limit of time is removed there arises in our minds the idea of
eternity, which at first, like time itself, is only negative, but gradually, when connected
with the world and the divine nature, like the other negative infinity of space, becomes
positive. Whether time is prior to the mind and to experience, or coeval with them, is
(like the parallel question about space) unmeaning. Like space it has been realized
gradually: in the Homeric poems, or even in the Hesiodic cosmogony, there is no more
notion of time than of space. The conception of being is more general than either, and
might therefore with greater plausibility be affirmed to be a condition or quality of the
mind. The a priori intuitions of Kant would have been as unintelligible to Plato as his a
priori synthetical propositions to Aristotle. The philosopher of Konigsberg supposed
himself to be analyzing a necessary mode of thought: he was not aware that he was
dealing with a mere abstraction. But now that we are able to trace the gradual
developement of ideas through religion, through language, through abstractions, why
should we interpose the fiction of time between ourselves and realities? Why should we
single out one of these abstractions to be the a priori condition of all the others? It
comes last and not first in the order of our thoughts, and is not the condition precedent
of them, but the last generalization of them. Nor can any principle be imagined more
suicidal to philosophy than to assume that all the truth which we are capable of
attaining is seen only through an unreal medium. If all that exists in time is illusion, we
may well ask with Plato, ‘What becomes of the mind?’
Leaving the a priori conditions of sensation we may proceed to consider acts of sense.
These admit of various degrees of duration or intensity; they admit also of a greater or
less extension from one object, which is perceived directly, to many which are perceived
indirectly or in a less degree, and to the various associations of the object which are
latent in the mind. In general the greater the intension the less the extension of them.
The simplest sensation implies some relation of objects to one another, some position in
space, some relation to a previous or subsequent sensation. The acts of seeing and
hearing may be almost unconscious and may pass away unnoted; they may also leave
an impression behind them or power of recalling them. If, after seeing an object we shut
our eyes, the object remains dimly seen in the same or about the same place, but with
form and lineaments half filled up. This is the simplest act of memory. And as we cannot
see one thing without at the same time seeing another, different objects hang together
in recollection, and when we call for one the other quickly follows. To think of the place
in which we have last seen a thing is often the best way of recalling it to the mind.
Hence memory is dependent on association. The act of recollection may be compared
to the sight of an object at a great distance which we have previously seen near and
seek to bring near to us in thought. Memory is to sense as dreaming is to waking; and
like dreaming has a wayward and uncertain power of recalling impressions from the
past.
Thus begins the passage from the outward to the inward sense. But as yet there is no
conception of a universal—the mind only remembers the individual object or objects,
and is always attaching to them some colour or association of sense. The power of
recollection seems to depend on the intensity or largeness of the perception, or on the
strength of some emotion with which it is inseparably connected. This is the natural
memory which is allied to sense, such as children appear to have and barbarians and
animals. It is necessarily limited in range, and its limitation is its strength. In later life,
when the mind has become crowded with names, acts, feelings, images innumerable, we
acquire by education another memory of system and arrangement which is both
stronger and weaker than the first —weaker in the recollection of sensible impressions
as they are represented to us by eye or ear—stronger by the natural connexion of ideas
with objects or with one another. And many of the notions which form a part of the train
of our thoughts are hardly realized by us at the time, but, like numbers or algebraical
symbols, are used as signs only, thus lightening the labour of recollection.
And now we may suppose that numerous images present themselves to the mind, which
begins to act upon them and to arrange them in various ways. Besides the impression of
external objects present with us or just absent from us, we have a dimmer conception of
other objects which have disappeared from our immediate recollection and yet continue
to exist in us. The mind is full of fancies which are passing to and fro before it. Some
feeling or association calls them up, and they are uttered by the lips. This is the first
rudimentary imagination, which may be truly described in the language of Hobbes, as
‘decaying sense,’ an expression which may be applied with equal truth to memory as
well. For memory and imagination, though we sometimes oppose them, are nearly
allied; the difference between them seems chiefly to lie in the activity of the one
compared with the passivity of the other. The sense decaying in memory receives a flash
of light or life from imagination. Dreaming is a link of connexion between them; for in
dreaming we feebly recollect and also feebly imagine at one and the same time. When
reason is asleep the lower part of the mind wanders at will amid the images which have
been received from without, the intelligent element retires, and the sensual or sensuous
takes its place. And so in the first efforts of imagination reason is latent or set aside; and
images, in part disorderly, but also having a unity (however imperfect) of their own, pour
like a flood over the mind. And if we could penetrate into the heads of animals we
should probably find that their intelligence, or the state of what in them is analogous to
our intelligence, is of this nature.
Thus far we have been speaking of men, rather in the points in which they resemble
animals than in the points in which they differ from them. The animal too has memory in
various degrees, and the elements of imagination, if, as appears to be the case, he
dreams. How far their powers or instincts are educated by the circumstances of their
lives or by intercourse with one another or with mankind, we cannot precisely tell. They,
like ourselves, have the physical inheritance of form, scent, hearing, sight, and other
qualities or instincts. But they have not the mental inheritance of thoughts and ideas
handed down by tradition, ‘the slow additions that build up the mind’ of the human
race. And language, which is the great educator of mankind, is wanting in them; whereas
in us language is ever present—even in the infant the latent power of naming is almost
immediately observable. And therefore the description which has been already given of
the nascent power of the faculties is in reality an anticipation. For simultaneous with
their growth in man a growth of language must be supposed. The child of two years old
sees the fire once and again, and the feeble observation of the same recurring object is
associated with the feeble utterance of the name by which he is taught to call it. Soon
he learns to utter the name when the object is no longer there, but the desire or
imagination of it is present to him. At first in every use of the word there is a colour of
sense, an indistinct picture of the object which accompanies it. But in later years he sees
in the name only the universal or class word, and the more abstract the notion becomes,
the more vacant is the image which is presented to him. Henceforward all the
operations of his mind, including the perceptions of sense, are a synthesis of sensations,
words, conceptions. In seeing or hearing or looking or listening the sensible impression
prevails over the conception and the word. In reflection the process is reversed—the
outward object fades away into nothingness, the name or the conception or both
together are everything. Language, like number, is intermediate between the two,
partaking of the definiteness of the outer and of the universality of the inner world. For
logic teaches us that every word is really a universal, and only condescends by the help
of position or circumlocution to become the expression of individuals or particulars. And
sometimes by using words as symbols we are able to give a ‘local habitation and a
name’ to the infinite and inconceivable.
Thus we see that no line can be drawn between the powers of sense and of reflection—
they pass imperceptibly into one another. We may indeed distinguish between the
seeing and the closed eye—between the sensation and the recollection of it. But this
distinction carries us a very little way, for recollection is present in sight as well as sight
in recollection. There is no impression of sense which does not simultaneously recall
differences of form, number, colour, and the like. Neither is such a distinction applicable
at all to our internal bodily sensations, which give no sign of themselves when
unaccompanied with pain, and even when we are most conscious of them, have often
no assignable place in the human frame. Who can divide the nerves or great nervous
centres from the mind which uses them? Who can separate the pains and pleasures of
the mind from the pains and pleasures of the body? The words ‘inward and outward,’
‘active and passive,’ ‘mind and body,’ are best conceived by us as differences of degree
passing into differences of kind, and at one time and under one aspect acting in
harmony and then again opposed. They introduce a system and order into the
knowledge of our being; and yet, like many other general terms, are often in advance of
our actual analysis or observation.
According to some writers the inward sense is only the fading away or imperfect
realization of the outward. But this leaves out of sight one half of the phenomenon. For
the mind is not only withdrawn from the world of sense but introduced to a higher
world of thought and reflection, in which, like the outward sense, she is trained and
educated. By use the outward sense becomes keener and more intense, especially when
confined within narrow limits. The savage with little or no thought has a quicker
discernment of the track than the civilised man; in like manner the dog, having the help
of scent as well as of sight, is superior to the savage. By use again the inward thought
becomes more defined and distinct; what was at first an effort is made easy by the
natural instrumentality of language, and the mind learns to grasp universals with no
more exertion than is required for the sight of an outward object. There is a natural
connexion and arrangement of them, like the association of objects in a landscape. Just
as a note or two of music suffices to recall a whole piece to the musician’s or composer’s
mind, so a great principle or leading thought suggests and arranges a world of
particulars. The power of reflection is not feebler than the faculty of sense, but of a
higher and more comprehensive nature. It not only receives the universals of sense, but
gives them a new content by comparing and combining them with one another. It
withdraws from the seen that it may dwell in the unseen. The sense only presents us
with a flat and impenetrable surface: the mind takes the world to pieces and puts it
together on a new pattern. The universals which are detached from sense are
reconstructed in science. They and not the mere impressions of sense are the truth of
the world in which we live; and (as an argument to those who will only believe ‘what
they can hold in their hands’) we may further observe that they are the source of our
power over it. To say that the outward sense is stronger than the inward is like saying
that the arm of the workman is stronger than the constructing or directing mind.
Returning to the senses we may briefly consider two questions—first their relation to
the mind, secondly, their relation to outward objects:—
1. The senses are not merely ‘holes set in a wooden horse’ (Theaet.), but instruments of
the mind with which they are organically connected. There is no use of them without
some use of words—some natural or latent logic— some previous experience or
observation. Sensation, like all other mental processes, is complex and relative, though
apparently simple. The senses mutually confirm and support one another; it is hard to
say how much our impressions of hearing may be affected by those of sight, or how far
our impressions of sight may be corrected by the touch, especially in infancy. The
confirmation of them by one another cannot of course be given by any one of them.
Many intuitions which are inseparable from the act of sense are really the result of
complicated reasonings. The most cursory glance at objects enables the experienced
eye to judge approximately of their relations and distance, although nothing is
impressed upon the retina except colour, including gradations of light and shade. From
these delicate and almost imperceptible differences we seem chiefly to derive our ideas
of distance and position. By comparison of what is near with what is distant we learn
that the tree, house, river, etc. which are a long way off are objects of a like nature with
those which are seen by us in our immediate neighbourhood, although the actual
impression made on the eye is very different in one case and in the other. This is a
language of ‘large and small letters’ (Republic), slightly differing in form and exquisitely
graduated by distance, which we are learning all our life long, and which we attain in
various degrees according to our powers of sight or observation. There is nor the
consideration. The greater or less strain upon the nerves of the eye or ear is
communicated to the mind and silently informs the judgment. We have also the use not
of one eye only, but of two, which give us a wider range, and help us to discern, by the
greater or less acuteness of the angle which the rays of sight form, the distance of an
object and its relation to other objects. But we are already passing beyond the limits of
our actual knowledge on a subject which has given rise to many conjectures. More
important than the addition of another conjecture is the observation, whether in the
case of sight or of any other sense, of the great complexity of the causes and the great
simplicity of the effect.
The sympathy of the mind and the ear is no less striking than the sympathy of the mind
and the eye. Do we not seem to perceive instinctively and as an act of sense the
differences of articulate speech and of musical notes? Yet how small a part of speech or
of music is produced by the impression of the ear compared with that which is furnished
by the mind!
Again: the more refined faculty of sense, as in animals so also in man, seems often to be
transmitted by inheritance. Neither must we forget that in the use of the senses, as in his
whole nature, man is a social being, who is always being educated by language, habit,
and the teaching of other men as well as by his own observation. He knows distance
because he is taught it by a more experienced judgment than his own; he distinguishes
sounds because he is told to remark them by a person of a more discerning ear. And as
we inherit from our parents or other ancestors peculiar powers of sense or feeling, so we
improve and strengthen them, not only by regular teaching, but also by sympathy and
communion with other persons.
2. The second question, namely, that concerning the relation of the mind to external
objects, is really a trifling one, though it has been made the subject of a famous
philosophy. We may if we like, with Berkeley, resolve objects of sense into sensations;
but the change is one of name only, and nothing is gained and something is lost by
such a resolution or confusion of them. For we have not really made a single step
towards idealism, and any arbitrary inversion of our ordinary modes of speech is
disturbing to the mind. The youthful metaphysician is delighted at his marvellous
discovery that nothing is, and that what we see or feel is our sensation only: for a day or
two the world has a new interest to him; he alone knows the secret which has been
communicated to him by the philosopher, that mind is all—when in fact he is going out
of his mind in the first intoxication of a great thought. But he soon finds that all things
remain as they were —the laws of motion, the properties of matter, the qualities of
substances. After having inflicted his theories on any one who is willing to receive them
‘first on his father and mother, secondly on some other patient listener, thirdly on his
dog,’ he finds that he only differs from the rest of mankind in the use of a word. He had
once hoped that by getting rid of the solidity of matter he might open a passage to
worlds beyond. He liked to think of the world as the representation of the divine nature,
and delighted to imagine angels and spirits wandering through space, present in the
room in which he is sitting without coming through the door, nowhere and everywhere
at the same instant. At length he finds that he has been the victim of his own fancies; he
has neither more nor less evidence of the supernatural than he had before. He himself
has become unsettled, but the laws of the world remain fixed as at the beginning. He
has discovered that his appeal to the fallibility of sense was really an illusion. For
whatever uncertainty there may be in the appearances of nature, arises only out of the
imperfection or variation of the human senses, or possibly from the deficiency of certain
branches of knowledge; when science is able to apply her tests, the uncertainty is at an
end. We are apt sometimes to think that moral and metaphysical philosophy are
lowered by the influence which is exercised over them by physical science. But any
interpretation of nature by physical science is far in advance of such idealism. The
philosophy of Berkeley, while giving unbounded license to the imagination, is still
grovelling on the level of sense.
We may, if we please, carry this scepticism a step further, and deny, not only objects of
sense, but the continuity of our sensations themselves. We may say with Protagoras and
Hume that what is appears, and that what appears appears only to individuals, and to
the same individual only at one instant. But then, as Plato asks,—and we must repeat
the question,—What becomes of the mind? Experience tells us by a thousand proofs
that our sensations of colour, taste, and the like, are the same as they were an instant
ago—that the act which we are performing one minute is continued by us in the next—
and also supplies abundant proof that the perceptions of other men are, speaking
generally, the same or nearly the same with our own. After having slowly and laboriously
in the course of ages gained a conception of a whole and parts, of the constitution of
the mind, of the relation of man to God and nature, imperfect indeed, but the best we
can, we are asked to return again to the ‘beggarly elements’ of ancient scepticism, and
acknowledge only atoms and sensations devoid of life or unity. Why should we not go a
step further still and doubt the existence of the senses of all things? We are but ‘such
stuff as dreams are made of;’ for we have left ourselves no instruments of thought by
which we can distinguish man from the animals, or conceive of the existence even of a
mollusc. And observe, this extreme scepticism has been allowed to spring up among us,
not, like the ancient scepticism, in an age when nature and language really seemed to
be full of illusions, but in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, when men walk in the
daylight of inductive science.
The attractiveness of such speculations arises out of their true nature not being
perceived. They are veiled in graceful language; they are not pushed to extremes; they
stop where the human mind is disposed also to stop—short of a manifest absurdity.
Their inconsistency is not observed by their authors or by mankind in general, who are
equally inconsistent themselves. They leave on the mind a pleasing sense of wonder and
novelty: in youth they seem to have a natural affinity to one class of persons as poetry
has to another; but in later life either we drift back into common sense, or we make
them the starting-points of a higher philosophy.
We are often told that we should enquire into all things before we accept them;—with
what limitations is this true? For we cannot use our senses without admitting that we
have them, or think without presupposing that there is in us a power of thought, or
affirm that all knowledge is derived from experience without implying that this first
principle of knowledge is prior to experience. The truth seems to be that we begin with
the natural use of the mind as of the body, and we seek to describe this as well as we
can. We eat before we know the nature of digestion; we think before we know the
nature of reflection. As our knowledge increases, our perception of the mind enlarges
also. We cannot indeed get beyond facts, but neither can we draw any line which
separates facts from ideas. And the mind is not something separate from them but
included in them, and they in the mind, both having a distinctness and individuality of
their own. To reduce our conception of mind to a succession of feelings and sensations
is like the attempt to view a wide prospect by inches through a microscope, or to
calculate a period of chronology by minutes. The mind ceases to exist when it loses its
continuity, which though far from being its highest determination, is yet necessary to
any conception of it. Even an inanimate nature cannot be adequately represented as an
endless succession of states or conditions.
Paragraph II. Another division of the subject has yet to be considered: Why should the
doctrine that knowledge is sensation, in ancient times, or of sensationalism or
materialism in modern times, be allied to the lower rather than to the higher view of
ethical philosophy? At first sight the nature and origin of knowledge appear to be
wholly disconnected from ethics and religion, nor can we deny that the ancient Stoics
were materialists, or that the materialist doctrines prevalent in modern times have been
associated with great virtues, or that both religious and philosophical idealism have not
unfrequently parted company with practice. Still upon the whole it must be admitted
that the higher standard of duty has gone hand in hand with the higher conception of
knowledge. It is Protagoras who is seeking to adapt himself to the opinions of the world;
it is Plato who rises above them: the one maintaining that all knowledge is sensation;
the other basing the virtues on the idea of good. The reason of this phenomenon has
now to be examined.
By those who rest knowledge immediately upon sense, that explanation of human
action is deemed to be the truest which is nearest to sense. As knowledge is reduced to
sensation, so virtue is reduced to feeling, happiness or good to pleasure. The different
virtues—the various characters which exist in the world—are the disguises of selfinterest.
Human nature is dried up; there is no place left for imagination, or in any higher
sense for religion. Ideals of a whole, or of a state, or of a law of duty, or of a divine
perfection, are out of place in an Epicurean philosophy. The very terms in which they are
expressed are suspected of having no meaning. Man is to bring himself back as far as he
is able to the condition of a rational beast. He is to limit himself to the pursuit of
pleasure, but of this he is to make a far-sighted calculation;—he is to be rationalized,
secularized, animalized: or he is to be an amiable sceptic, better than his own
philosophy, and not falling below the opinions of the world.
Imagination has been called that ‘busy faculty’ which is always intruding upon us in the
search after truth. But imagination is also that higher power by which we rise above
ourselves and the commonplaces of thought and life. The philosophical imagination is
another name for reason finding an expression of herself in the outward world. To
deprive life of ideals is to deprive it of all higher and comprehensive aims and of the
power of imparting and communicating them to others. For men are taught, not by
those who are on a level with them, but by those who rise above them, who see the
distant hills, who soar into the empyrean. Like a bird in a cage, the mind confined to
sense is always being brought back from the higher to the lower, from the wider to the
narrower view of human knowledge. It seeks to fly but cannot: instead of aspiring
towards perfection, ‘it hovers about this lower world and the earthly nature.’ It loses the
religious sense which more than any other seems to take a man out of himself. Weary of
asking ‘What is truth?’ it accepts the ‘blind witness of eyes and ears;’ it draws around
itself the curtain of the physical world and is satisfied. The strength of a sensational
philosophy lies in the ready accommodation of it to the minds of men; many who have
been metaphysicians in their youth, as they advance in years are prone to acquiesce in
things as they are, or rather appear to be. They are spectators, not thinkers, and the best
philosophy is that which requires of them the least amount of mental effort.
As a lower philosophy is easier to apprehend than a higher, so a lower way of life is
easier to follow; and therefore such a philosophy seems to derive a support from the
general practice of mankind. It appeals to principles which they all know and recognize:
it gives back to them in a generalized form the results of their own experience. To the
man of the world they are the quintessence of his own reflections upon life. To follow
custom, to have no new ideas or opinions, not to be straining after impossibilities, to
enjoy to-day with just so much forethought as is necessary to provide for the morrow,
this is regarded by the greater part of the world as the natural way of passing through
existence. And many who have lived thus have attained to a lower kind of happiness or
equanimity. They have possessed their souls in peace without ever allowing them to
wander into the region of religious or political controversy, and without any care for the
higher interests of man. But nearly all the good (as well as some of the evil) which has
ever been done in this world has been the work of another spirit, the work of
enthusiasts and idealists, of apostles and martyrs. The leaders of mankind have not been
of the gentle Epicurean type; they have personified ideas; they have sometimes also
been the victims of them. But they have always been seeking after a truth or ideal of
which they fell short; and have died in a manner disappointed of their hopes that they
might lift the human race out of the slough in which they found them. They have done
little compared with their own visions and aspirations; but they have done that little,
only because they sought to do, and once perhaps thought that they were doing, a
great deal more.
The philosophies of Epicurus or Hume give no adequate or dignified conception of the
mind. There is no organic unity in a succession of feeling or sensations; no
comprehensiveness in an infinity of separate actions. The individual never reflects upon
himself as a whole; he can hardly regard one act or part of his life as the cause or effect
of any other act or part. Whether in practice or speculation, he is to himself only in
successive instants. To such thinkers, whether in ancient or in modern times, the mind is
only the poor recipient of impressions—not the heir of all the ages, or connected with
all other minds. It begins again with its own modicum of experience having only such
vague conceptions of the wisdom of the past as are inseparable from language and
popular opinion. It seeks to explain from the experience of the individual what can only
be learned from the history of the world. It has no conception of obligation, duty,
conscience—these are to the Epicurean or Utilitarian philosopher only names which
interfere with our natural perceptions of pleasure and pain.
There seem then to be several answers to the question, Why the theory that all
knowledge is sensation is allied to the lower rather than to the higher view of ethical
philosophy:—1st, Because it is easier to understand and practise; 2ndly, Because it is
fatal to the pursuit of ideals, moral, political, or religious; 3rdly, Because it deprives us of
the means and instruments of higher thought, of any adequate conception of the mind,
of knowledge, of conscience, of moral obligation.
...
ON THE NATURE AND LIMITS Of PSYCHOLOGY.
O gar arche men o me oide, teleute de kai ta metaxu ex ou me oide sumpeplektai, tis
mechane ten toiauten omologian pote epistemen genesthai; Plato Republic.
Monon gar auto legeiv, osper gumnon kai aperemomenon apo ton onton apanton,
adunaton. Soph.
Since the above essay first appeared, many books on Psychology have been given to the
world, partly based upon the views of Herbart and other German philosophers, partly
independent of them. The subject has gained in bulk and extent; whether it has had any
true growth is more doubtful. It begins to assume the language and claim the authority
of a science; but it is only an hypothesis or outline, which may be filled up in many ways
according to the fancy of individual thinkers. The basis of it is a precarious one,—
consciousness of ourselves and a somewhat uncertain observation of the rest of
mankind. Its relations to other sciences are not yet determined: they seem to be almost
too complicated to be ascertained. It may be compared to an irregular building, run up
hastily and not likely to last, because its foundations are weak, and in many places rest
only on the surface of the ground. It has sought rather to put together scattered
observations and to make them into a system than to describe or prove them. It has
never severely drawn the line between facts and opinions. It has substituted a technical
phraseology for the common use of language, being neither able to win acceptance for
the one nor to get rid of the other.
The system which has thus arisen appears to be a kind of metaphysic narrowed to the
point of view of the individual mind, through which, as through some new optical
instrument limiting the sphere of vision, the interior of thought and sensation is
examined. But the individual mind in the abstract, as distinct from the mind of a
particular individual and separated from the environment of circumstances, is a fiction
only. Yet facts which are partly true gather around this fiction and are naturally
described by the help of it. There is also a common type of the mind which is derived
from the comparison of many minds with one another and with our own. The
phenomena of which Psychology treats are familiar to us, but they are for the most part
indefinite; they relate to a something inside the body, which seems also to overleap the
limits of space. The operations of this something, when isolated, cannot be analyzed by
us or subjected to observation and experiment. And there is another point to be
considered. The mind, when thinking, cannot survey that part of itself which is used in
thought. It can only be contemplated in the past, that is to say, in the history of the
individual or of the world. This is the scientific method of studying the mind. But
Psychology has also some other supports, specious rather than real. It is partly sustained
by the false analogy of Physical Science and has great expectations from its near
relationship to Physiology. We truly remark that there is an infinite complexity of the
body corresponding to the infinite subtlety of the mind; we are conscious that they are
very nearly connected. But in endeavouring to trace the nature of the connexion we are
baffled and disappointed. In our knowledge of them the gulf remains the same: no
microscope has ever seen into thought; no reflection on ourselves has supplied the
missing link between mind and matter...These are the conditions of this very inexact
science, and we shall only know less of it by pretending to know more, or by assigning
to it a form or style to which it has not yet attained and is not really entitled.
Experience shows that any system, however baseless and ineffectual, in our own or in
any other age, may be accepted and continue to be studied, if it seeks to satisfy some
unanswered question or is based upon some ancient tradition, especially if it takes the
form and uses the language of inductive philosophy. The fact therefore that such a
science exists and is popular, affords no evidence of its truth or value. Many who have
pursued it far into detail have never examined the foundations on which it rests. The
have been many imaginary subjects of knowledge of which enthusiastic persons have
made a lifelong study, without ever asking themselves what is the evidence for them,
what is the use of them, how long they will last? They may pass away, like the authors of
them, and ‘leave not a wrack behind;’ or they may survive in fragments. Nor is it only in
the Middle Ages, or in the literary desert of China or of India, that such systems have
arisen; in our own enlightened age, growing up by the side of Physics, Ethics, and other
really progressive sciences, there is a weary waste of knowledge, falsely so-called. There
are sham sciences which no logic has ever put to the test, in which the desire for
knowledge invents the materials of it.
And therefore it is expedient once more to review the bases of Psychology, lest we
should be imposed upon by its pretensions. The study of it may have done good service
by awakening us to the sense of inveterate errors familiarized by language, yet it may
have fallen into still greater ones; under the pretence of new investigations it may be
wasting the lives of those who are engaged in it. It may also be found that the
discussion of it will throw light upon some points in the Theaetetus of Plato,—the oldest
work on Psychology which has come down to us. The imaginary science may be called,
in the language of ancient philosophy, ‘a shadow of a part of Dialectic or Metaphysic’
(Gorg.).
In this postscript or appendix we propose to treat, first, of the true bases of Psychology;
secondly, of the errors into which the students of it are most likely to fall; thirdly, of the
principal subjects which are usually comprehended under it; fourthly, of the form which
facts relating to the mind most naturally assume.
We may preface the enquiry by two or three remarks:—
(1) We do not claim for the popular Psychology the position of a science at all; it cannot,
like the Physical Sciences, proceed by the Inductive Method: it has not the necessity of
Mathematics: it does not, like Metaphysic, argue from abstract notions or from internal
coherence. It is made up of scattered observations. A few of these, though they may
sometimes appear to be truisms, are of the greatest value, and free from all doubt. We
are conscious of them in ourselves; we observe them working in others; we are assured
of them at all times. For example, we are absolutely certain, (a) of the influence exerted
by the mind over the body or by the body over the mind: (b) of the power of
association, by which the appearance of some person or the occurrence of some event
recalls to mind, not always but often, other persons and events: (c) of the effect of habit,
which is strongest when least disturbed by reflection, and is to the mind what the bones
are to the body: (d) of the real, though not unlimited, freedom of the human will: (e) of
the reference, more or less distinct, of our sensations, feelings, thoughts, actions, to
ourselves, which is called consciousness, or, when in excess, self-consciousness: (f) of the
distinction of the ‘I’ and ‘Not I,’ of ourselves and outward objects. But when we attempt
to gather up these elements in a single system, we discover that the links by which we
combine them are apt to be mere words. We are in a country which has never been
cleared or surveyed; here and there only does a gleam of light come through the
darkness of the forest.
(2) These fragments, although they can never become science in the ordinary sense of
the word, are a real part of knowledge and may be of great value in education. We may
be able to add a good deal to them from our own experience, and we may verify them
by it. Self-examination is one of those studies which a man can pursue alone, by
attention to himself and the processes of his individual mind. He may learn much about
his own character and about the character of others, if he will ‘make his mind sit down’
and look at itself in the glass. The great, if not the only use of such a study is a practical
one,—to know, first, human nature, and, secondly, our own nature, as it truly is.
(3) Hence it is important that we should conceive of the mind in the noblest and
simplest manner. While acknowledging that language has been the greatest factor in
the formation of human thought, we must endeavour to get rid of the disguises,
oppositions, contradictions, which arise out of it. We must disengage ourselves from the
ideas which the customary use of words has implanted in us. To avoid error as much as
possible when we are speaking of things unseen, the principal terms which we use
should be few, and we should not allow ourselves to be enslaved by them. Instead of
seeking to frame a technical language, we should vary our forms of speech, lest they
should degenerate into formulas. A difficult philosophical problem is better understood
when translated into the vernacular.
I.a. Psychology is inseparable from language, and early language contains the first
impressions or the oldest experience of man respecting himself. These impressions are
not accurate representations of the truth; they are the reflections of a rudimentary age
of philosophy. The first and simplest forms of thought are rooted so deep in human
nature that they can never be got rid of; but they have been perpetually enlarged and
elevated, and the use of many words has been transferred from the body to the mind.
The spiritual and intellectual have thus become separated from the material— there is a
cleft between them; and the heart and the conscience of man rise above the dominion
of the appetites and create a new language in which they too find expression. As the
differences of actions begin to be perceived, more and more names are needed. This is
the first analysis of the human mind; having a general foundation in popular experience,
it is moulded to a certain extent by hierophants and philosophers. (See Introd. to
Cratylus.)
b. This primitive psychology is continually receiving additions from the first thinkers,
who in return take a colour from the popular language of the time. The mind is
regarded from new points of view, and becomes adapted to new conditions of
knowledge. It seeks to isolate itself from matter and sense, and to assert its
independence in thought. It recognizes that it is independent of the external world. It
has five or six natural states or stages:—(1) sensation, in which it is almost latent or
quiescent: (2) feeling, or inner sense, when the mind is just awakening: (3) memory,
which is decaying sense, and from time to time, as with a spark or flash, has the power
of recollecting or reanimating the buried past: (4) thought, in which images pass into
abstract notions or are intermingled with them: (5) action, in which the mind moves
forward, of itself, or under the impulse of want or desire or pain, to attain or avoid some
end or consequence: and (6) there is the composition of these or the admixture or
assimilation of them in various degrees. We never see these processes of the mind, nor
can we tell the causes of them. But we know them by their results, and learn from other
men that so far as we can describe to them or they to us the workings of the mind, their
experience is the same or nearly the same with our own.
c. But the knowledge of the mind is not to any great extent derived from the
observation of the individual by himself. It is the growing consciousness of the human
race, embodied in language, acknowledged by experience, and corrected from time to
time by the influence of literature and philosophy. A great, perhaps the most important,
part of it is to be found in early Greek thought. In the Theaetetus of Plato it has not yet
become fixed: we are still stumbling on the threshold. In Aristotle the process is more
nearly completed, and has gained innumerable abstractions, of which many have had to
be thrown away because relative only to the controversies of the time. In the interval
between Thales and Aristotle were realized the distinctions of mind and body, of
universal and particular, of infinite and infinitesimal, of idea and phenomenon; the class
conceptions of faculties and virtues, the antagonism of the appetites and the reason;
and connected with this, at a higher stage of development, the opposition of moral and
intellectual virtue; also the primitive conceptions of unity, being, rest, motion, and the
like. These divisions were not really scientific, but rather based on popular experience.
They were not held with the precision of modern thinkers, but taken all together they
gave a new existence to the mind in thought, and greatly enlarged and more accurately
defined man’s knowledge of himself and of the world. The majority of them have been
accepted by Christian and Western nations. Yet in modern times we have also drifted so
far away from Aristotle, that if we were to frame a system on his lines we should be at
war with ordinary language and untrue to our own consciousness. And there have been
a few both in mediaeval times and since the Reformation who have rebelled against the
Aristotelian point of view. Of these eccentric thinkers there have been various types, but
they have all a family likeness. According to them, there has been too much analysis and
too little synthesis, too much division of the mind into parts and too little conception of
it as a whole or in its relation to God and the laws of the universe. They have thought
that the elements of plurality and unity have not been duly adjusted. The tendency of
such writers has been to allow the personality of man to be absorbed in the universal, or
in the divine nature, and to deny the distinction between matter and mind, or to
substitute one for the other. They have broken some of the idols of Psychology: they
have challenged the received meaning of words: they have regarded the mind under
many points of view. But though they may have shaken the old, they have not
established the new; their views of philosophy, which seem like the echo of some voice
from the East, have been alien to the mind of Europe.
d. The Psychology which is found in common language is in some degree verified by
experience, but not in such a manner as to give it the character of an exact science. We
cannot say that words always correspond to facts. Common language represents the
mind from different and even opposite points of view, which cannot be all of them
equally true (compare Cratylus). Yet from diversity of statements and opinions may be
obtained a nearer approach to the truth than is to be gained from any one of them. It
also tends to correct itself, because it is gradually brought nearer to the common sense
of mankind. There are some leading categories or classifications of thought, which,
though unverified, must always remain the elements from which the science or study of
the mind proceeds. For example, we must assume ideas before we can analyze them,
and also a continuing mind to which they belong; the resolution of it into successive
moments, which would say, with Protagoras, that the man is not the same person which
he was a minute ago, is, as Plato implies in the Theaetetus, an absurdity.
e. The growth of the mind, which may be traced in the histories of religions and
philosophies and in the thoughts of nations, is one of the deepest and noblest modes of
studying it. Here we are dealing with the reality, with the greater and, as it may be
termed, the most sacred part of history. We study the mind of man as it begins to be
inspired by a human or divine reason, as it is modified by circumstances, as it is
distributed in nations, as it is renovated by great movements, which go beyond the
limits of nations and affect human society on a scale still greater, as it is created or
renewed by great minds, who, looking down from above, have a wider and more
comprehensive vision. This is an ambitious study, of which most of us rather ‘entertain
conjecture’ than arrive at any detailed or accurate knowledge. Later arises the reflection
how these great ideas or movements of the world have been appropriated by the
multitude and found a way to the minds of individuals. The real Psychology is that which
shows how the increasing knowledge of nature and the increasing experience of life
have always been slowly transforming the mind, how religions too have been modified
in the course of ages ‘that God may be all and in all.’ E pollaplasion, eoe, to ergon e os
nun zeteitai prostatteis.
f. Lastly, though we speak of the study of mind in a special sense, it may also be said
that there is no science which does not contribute to our knowledge of it. The methods
of science and their analogies are new faculties, discovered by the few and imparted to
the many. They are to the mind, what the senses are to the body; or better, they may be
compared to instruments such as the telescope or microscope by which the
discriminating power of the senses, or to other mechanical inventions, by which the
strength and skill of the human body is so immeasurably increased.
II. The new Psychology, whatever may be its claim to the authority of a science, has
called attention to many facts and corrected many errors, which without it would have
been unexamined. Yet it is also itself very liable to illusion. The evidence on which it
rests is vague and indefinite. The field of consciousness is never seen by us as a whole,
but only at particular points, which are always changing. The veil of language intercepts
facts. Hence it is desirable that in making an approach to the study we should consider
at the outset what are the kinds of error which most easily affect it, and note the
differences which separate it from other branches of knowledge.
a. First, we observe the mind by the mind. It would seem therefore that we are always in
danger of leaving out the half of that which is the subject of our enquiry. We come at
once upon the difficulty of what is the meaning of the word. Does it differ as subject and
object in the same manner? Can we suppose one set of feelings or one part of the mind
to interpret another? Is the introspecting thought the same with the thought which is
introspected? Has the mind the power of surveying its whole domain at one and the
same time?—No more than the eye can take in the whole human body at a glance. Yet
there may be a glimpse round the corner, or a thought transferred in a moment from
one point of view to another, which enables us to see nearly the whole, if not at once, at
any rate in succession. Such glimpses will hardly enable us to contemplate from within
the mind in its true proportions. Hence the firmer ground of Psychology is not the
consciousness of inward feelings but the observation of external actions, being the
actions not only of ourselves, but of the innumerable persons whom we come across in
life.
b. The error of supposing partial or occasional explanation of mental phenomena to be
the only or complete ones. For example, we are disinclined to admit of the spontaneity
or discontinuity of the mind—it seems to us like an effect without a cause, and therefore
we suppose the train of our thoughts to be always called up by association. Yet it is
probable, or indeed certain, that of many mental phenomena there are no mental
antecedents, but only bodily ones.
c. The false influence of language. We are apt to suppose that when there are two or
more words describing faculties or processes of the mind, there are real differences
corresponding to them. But this is not the case. Nor can we determine how far they do
or do not exist, or by what degree or kind of difference they are distinguished. The same
remark may be made about figures of speech. They fill up the vacancy of knowledge;
they are to the mind what too much colour is to the eye; but the truth is rather
concealed than revealed by them.
d. The uncertain meaning of terms, such as Consciousness, Conscience, Will, Law,
Knowledge, Internal and External Sense; these, in the language of Plato, ‘we shamelessly
use, without ever having taken the pains to analyze them.’
e. A science such as Psychology is not merely an hypothesis, but an hypothesis which,
unlike the hypotheses of Physics, can never be verified. It rests only on the general
impressions of mankind, and there is little or no hope of adding in any considerable
degree to our stock of mental facts.
f. The parallelism of the Physical Sciences, which leads us to analyze the mind on the
analogy of the body, and so to reduce mental operations to the level of bodily ones, or
to confound one with the other.
g. That the progress of Physiology may throw a new light on Psychology is a dream in
which scientific men are always tempted to indulge. But however certain we may be of
the connexion between mind and body, the explanation of the one by the other is a
hidden place of nature which has hitherto been investigated with little or no success.
h. The impossibility of distinguishing between mind and body. Neither in thought nor in
experience can we separate them. They seem to act together; yet we feel that we are
sometimes under the dominion of the one, sometimes of the other, and sometimes,
both in the common use of language and in fact, they transform themselves, the one
into the good principle, the other into the evil principle; and then again the ‘I’ comes in
and mediates between them. It is also difficult to distinguish outward facts from the
ideas of them in the mind, or to separate the external stimulus to a sensation from the
activity of the organ, or this from the invisible agencies by which it reaches the mind, or
any process of sense from its mental antecedent, or any mental energy from its nervous
expression.
i. The fact that mental divisions tend to run into one another, and that in speaking of the
mind we cannot always distinguish differences of kind from differences of degree; nor
have we any measure of the strength and intensity of our ideas or feelings.
j. Although heredity has been always known to the ancients as well as ourselves to
exercise a considerable influence on human character, yet we are unable to calculate
what proportion this birth-influence bears to nurture and education. But this is the real
question. We cannot pursue the mind into embryology: we can only trace how, after
birth, it begins to grow. But how much is due to the soil, how much to the original latent
seed, it is impossible to distinguish. And because we are certain that heredity exercises a
considerable, but undefined influence, we must not increase the wonder by
exaggerating it.
k. The love of system is always tending to prevail over the historical investigation of the
mind, which is our chief means of knowing it. It equally tends to hinder the other great
source of our knowledge of the mind, the observation of its workings and processes
which we can make for ourselves.
l. The mind, when studied through the individual, is apt to be isolated— this is due to
the very form of the enquiry; whereas, in truth, it is indistinguishable from
circumstances, the very language which it uses being the result of the instincts of longforgotten
generations, and every word which a man utters being the answer to some
other word spoken or suggested by somebody else.
III. The tendency of the preceding remarks has been to show that Psychology is
necessarily a fragment, and is not and cannot be a connected system. We cannot define
or limit the mind, but we can describe it. We can collect information about it; we can
enumerate the principal subjects which are included in the study of it. Thus we are able
to rehabilitate Psychology to some extent, not as a branch of science, but as a collection
of facts bearing on human life, as a part of the history of philosophy, as an aspect of
Metaphysic. It is a fragment of a science only, which in all probability can never make
any great progress or attain to much clearness or exactness. It is however a kind of
knowledge which has a great interest for us and is always present to us, and of which we
carry about the materials in our own bosoms. We can observe our minds and we can
experiment upon them, and the knowledge thus acquired is not easily forgotten, and is
a help to us in study as well as in conduct.
The principal subjects of Psychology may be summed up as follows:—
a. The relation of man to the world around him,—in what sense and within what limits
can he withdraw from its laws or assert himself against them (Freedom and Necessity),
and what is that which we suppose to be thus independent and which we call ourselves?
How does the inward differ from the outward and what is the relation between them,
and where do we draw the line by which we separate mind from matter, the soul from
the body? Is the mind active or passive, or partly both? Are its movements identical with
those of the body, or only preconcerted and coincident with them, or is one simply an
aspect of the other?
b. What are we to think of time and space? Time seems to have a nearer connexion with
the mind, space with the body; yet time, as well as space, is necessary to our idea of
either. We see also that they have an analogy with one another, and that in Mathematics
they often interpenetrate. Space or place has been said by Kant to be the form of the
outward, time of the inward sense. He regards them as parts or forms of the mind. But
this is an unfortunate and inexpressive way of describing their relation to us. For of all
the phenomena present to the human mind they seem to have most the character of
objective existence. There is no use in asking what is beyond or behind them; we cannot
get rid of them. And to throw the laws of external nature which to us are the type of the
immutable into the subjective side of the antithesis seems to be equally inappropriate.
c. When in imagination we enter into the closet of the mind and withdraw ourselves
from the external world, we seem to find there more or less distinct processes which
may be described by the words, ‘I perceive,’ ‘I feel,’ ‘I think,’ ‘I want,’ ‘I wish,’ ‘I like,’ ‘I
dislike,’ ‘I fear,’ ‘I know,’ ‘I remember,’ ‘I imagine,’ ‘I dream,’ ‘I act,’ ‘I endeavour,’ ‘I hope.’
These processes would seem to have the same notions attached to them in the minds of
all educated persons. They are distinguished from one another in thought, but they
intermingle. It is possible to reflect upon them or to become conscious of them in a
greater or less degree, or with a greater or less continuity or attention, and thus arise
the intermittent phenomena of consciousness or self-consciousness. The use of all of
them is possible to us at all times; and therefore in any operation of the mind the whole
are latent. But we are able to characterise them sufficiently by that part of the complex
action which is the most prominent. We have no difficulty in distinguishing an act of
sight or an act of will from an act of thought, although thought is present in both of
them. Hence the conception of different faculties or different virtues is precarious,
because each of them is passing into the other, and they are all one in the mind itself;
they appear and reappear, and may all be regarded as the ever- varying phases or
aspects or differences of the same mind or person.
d. Nearest the sense in the scale of the intellectual faculties is memory, which is a mode
rather than a faculty of the mind, and accompanies all mental operations. There are two
principal kinds of it, recollection and recognition,—recollection in which forgotten things
are recalled or return to the mind, recognition in which the mind finds itself again
among things once familiar. The simplest way in which we can represent the former to
ourselves is by shutting our eyes and trying to recall in what we term the mind’s eye the
picture of the surrounding scene, or by laying down the book which we are reading and
recapitulating what we can remember of it. But many times more powerful than
recollection is recognition, perhaps because it is more assisted by association. We have
known and forgotten, and after a long interval the thing which we have seen once is
seen again by us, but with a different feeling, and comes back to us, not as new
knowledge, but as a thing to which we ourselves impart a notion already present to us;
in Plato’s words, we set the stamp upon the wax. Every one is aware of the difference
between the first and second sight of a place, between a scene clothed with associations
or bare and divested of them. We say to ourselves on revisiting a spot after a long
interval: How many things have happened since I last saw this! There is probably no
impression ever received by us of which we can venture to say that the vestiges are
altogether lost, or that we might not, under some circumstances, recover it. A longforgotten
knowledge may be easily renewed and therefore is very different from
ignorance. Of the language learnt in childhood not a word may be remembered, and
yet, when a new beginning is made, the old habit soon returns, the neglected organs
come back into use, and the river of speech finds out the dried-up channel.
e. ‘Consciousness’ is the most treacherous word which is employed in the study of the
mind, for it is used in many senses, and has rarely, if ever, been minutely analyzed. Like
memory, it accompanies all mental operations, but not always continuously, and it exists
in various degrees. It may be imperceptible or hardly perceptible: it may be the living
sense that our thoughts, actions, sufferings, are our own. It is a kind of attention which
we pay to ourselves, and is intermittent rather than continuous. Its sphere has been
exaggerated. It is sometimes said to assure us of our freedom; but this is an illusion: as
there may be a real freedom without consciousness of it, so there may be a
consciousness of freedom without the reality. It may be regarded as a higher degree of
knowledge when we not only know but know that we know. Consciousness is opposed
to habit, inattention, sleep, death. It may be illustrated by its derivative conscience,
which speaks to men, not only of right and wrong in the abstract, but of right and
wrong actions in reference to themselves and their circumstances.
f. Association is another of the ever-present phenomena of the human mind. We speak
of the laws of association, but this is an expression which is confusing, for the
phenomenon itself is of the most capricious and uncertain sort. It may be briefly
described as follows. The simplest case of association is that of sense. When we see or
hear separately one of two things, which we have previously seen or heard together, the
occurrence of the one has a tendency to suggest the other. So the sight or name of a
house may recall to our minds the memory of those who once lived there. Like may
recall like and everything its opposite. The parts of a whole, the terms of a series, objects
lying near, words having a customary order stick together in the mind. A word may
bring back a passage of poetry or a whole system of philosophy; from one end of the
world or from one pole of knowledge we may travel to the other in an indivisible instant.
The long train of association by which we pass from one point to the other, involving
every sort of complex relation, so sudden, so accidental, is one of the greatest wonders
of mind...This process however is not always continuous, but often intermittent: we can
think of things in isolation as well as in association; we do not mean that they must all
hang from one another. We can begin again after an interval of rest or vacancy, as a new
train of thought suddenly arises, as, for example, when we wake of a morning or after
violent exercise. Time, place, the same colour or sound or smell or taste, will often call
up some thought or recollection either accidentally or naturally associated with them.
But it is equally noticeable that the new thought may occur to us, we cannot tell how or
why, by the spontaneous action of the mind itself or by the latent influence of the body.
Both science and poetry are made up of associations or recollections, but we must
observe also that the mind is not wholly dependent on them, having also the power of
origination.
There are other processes of the mind which it is good for us to study when we are at
home and by ourselves,—the manner in which thought passes into act, the conflict of
passion and reason in many stages, the transition from sensuality to love or sentiment
and from earthly love to heavenly, the slow and silent influence of habit, which little by
little changes the nature of men, the sudden change of the old nature of man into a new
one, wrought by shame or by some other overwhelming impulse. These are the greater
phenomena of mind, and he who has thought of them for himself will live and move in a
better-ordered world, and will himself be a better-ordered man.
At the other end of the ‘globus intellectualis,’ nearest, not to earth and sense, but to
heaven and God, is the personality of man, by which he holds communion with the
unseen world. Somehow, he knows not how, somewhere, he knows not where, under
this higher aspect of his being he grasps the ideas of God, freedom and immortality; he
sees the forms of truth, holiness and love, and is satisfied with them. No account of the
mind can be complete which does not admit the reality or the possibility of another life.
Whether regarded as an ideal or as a fact, the highest part of man’s nature and that in
which it seems most nearly to approach the divine, is a phenomenon which exists, and
must therefore be included within the domain of Psychology.
IV. We admit that there is no perfect or ideal Psychology. It is not a whole in the same
sense in which Chemistry, Physiology, or Mathematics are wholes: that is to say, it is not
a connected unity of knowledge. Compared with the wealth of other sciences, it rests
upon a small number of facts; and when we go beyond these, we fall into conjectures
and verbal discussions. The facts themselves are disjointed; the causes of them run up
into other sciences, and we have no means of tracing them from one to the other. Yet it
may be true of this, as of other beginnings of knowledge, that the attempt to put them
together has tested the truth of them, and given a stimulus to the enquiry into them.
Psychology should be natural, not technical. It should take the form which is the most
intelligible to the common understanding, because it has to do with common things,
which are familiar to us all. It should aim at no more than every reflecting man knows or
can easily verify for himself. When simple and unpretentious, it is least obscured by
words, least liable to fall under the influence of Physiology or Metaphysic. It should
argue, not from exceptional, but from ordinary phenomena. It should be careful to
distinguish the higher and the lower elements of human nature, and not allow one to be
veiled in the disguise of the other, lest through the slippery nature of language we
should pass imperceptibly from good to evil, from nature in the higher to nature in the
neutral or lower sense. It should assert consistently the unity of the human faculties, the
unity of knowledge, the unity of God and law. The difference between the will and the
affections and between the reason and the passions should also be recognized by it.
Its sphere is supposed to be narrowed to the individual soul; but it cannot be thus
separated in fact. It goes back to the beginnings of things, to the first growth of
language and philosophy, and to the whole science of man. There can be no truth or
completeness in any study of the mind which is confined to the individual. The nature of
language, though not the whole, is perhaps at present the most important element in
our knowledge of it. It is not impossible that some numerical laws may be found to have
a place in the relations of mind and matter, as in the rest of nature. The old Pythagorean
fancy that the soul ‘is or has in it harmony’ may in some degree be realized. But the
indications of such numerical harmonies are faint; either the secret of them lies deeper
than we can discover, or nature may have rebelled against the use of them in the
composition of men and animals. It is with qualitative rather than with quantitative
differences that we are concerned in Psychology. The facts relating to the mind which
we obtain from Physiology are negative rather than positive. They show us, not the
processes of mental action, but the conditions of which when deprived the mind ceases
to act. It would seem as if the time had not yet arrived when we can hope to add
anything of much importance to our knowledge of the mind from the investigations of
the microscope. The elements of Psychology can still only be learnt from reflections on
ourselves, which interpret and are also interpreted by our experience of others. The
history of language, of philosophy, and religion, the great thoughts or inventions or
discoveries which move mankind, furnish the larger moulds or outlines in which the
human mind has been cast. From these the individual derives so much as he is able to
comprehend or has the opportunity of learning.
THEAETETUS
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, Theodorus, Theaetetus.
Euclid and Terpsion meet in front of Euclid’s house in Megara; they enter the house, and
the dialogue is read to them by a servant.
EUCLID: Have you only just arrived from the country, Terpsion?
TERPSION: No, I came some time ago: and I have been in the Agora looking for you, and
wondering that I could not find you.
EUCLID: But I was not in the city.
TERPSION: Where then?
EUCLID: As I was going down to the harbour, I met Theaetetus—he was being carried up
to Athens from the army at Corinth.
TERPSION: Was he alive or dead?
EUCLID: He was scarcely alive, for he has been badly wounded; but he was suffering
even more from the sickness which has broken out in the army.
TERPSION: The dysentery, you mean?
EUCLID: Yes.
TERPSION: Alas! what a loss he will be!
EUCLID: Yes, Terpsion, he is a noble fellow; only to-day I heard some people highly
praising his behaviour in this very battle.
TERPSION: No wonder; I should rather be surprised at hearing anything else of him. But
why did he go on, instead of stopping at Megara?
EUCLID: He wanted to get home: although I entreated and advised him to remain, he
would not listen to me; so I set him on his way, and turned back, and then I
remembered what Socrates had said of him, and thought how remarkably this, like all
his predictions, had been fulfilled. I believe that he had seen him a little before his own
death, when Theaetetus was a youth, and he had a memorable conversation with him,
which he repeated to me when I came to Athens; he was full of admiration of his genius,
and said that he would most certainly be a great man, if he lived.
TERPSION: The prophecy has certainly been fulfilled; but what was the conversation? can
you tell me?
EUCLID: No, indeed, not offhand; but I took notes of it as soon as I got home; these I
filled up from memory, writing them out at leisure; and whenever I went to Athens, I
asked Socrates about any point which I had forgotten, and on my return I made
corrections; thus I have nearly the whole conversation written down.
TERPSION: I remember—you told me; and I have always been intending to ask you to
show me the writing, but have put off doing so; and now, why should we not read it
through?—having just come from the country, I should greatly like to rest.
EUCLID: I too shall be very glad of a rest, for I went with Theaetetus as far as Erineum.
Let us go in, then, and, while we are reposing, the servant shall read to us.
TERPSION: Very good.
EUCLID: Here is the roll, Terpsion; I may observe that I have introduced Socrates, not as
narrating to me, but as actually conversing with the persons whom he mentioned—
these were, Theodorus the geometrician (of Cyrene), and Theaetetus. I have omitted, for
the sake of convenience, the interlocutory words ‘I said,’ ‘I remarked,’ which he used
when he spoke of himself, and again, ‘he agreed,’ or ‘disagreed,’ in the answer, lest the
repetition of them should be troublesome.
TERPSION: Quite right, Euclid.
EUCLID: And now, boy, you may take the roll and read.
EUCLID’S SERVANT READS.
SOCRATES: If I cared enough about the Cyrenians, Theodorus, I would ask you whether
there are any rising geometricians or philosophers in that part of the world. But I am
more interested in our own Athenian youth, and I would rather know who among them
are likely to do well. I observe them as far as I can myself, and I enquire of any one
whom they follow, and I see that a great many of them follow you, in which they are
quite right, considering your eminence in geometry and in other ways. Tell me then, if
you have met with any one who is good for anything.
THEODORUS: Yes, Socrates, I have become acquainted with one very remarkable
Athenian youth, whom I commend to you as well worthy of your attention. If he had
been a beauty I should have been afraid to praise him, lest you should suppose that I
was in love with him; but he is no beauty, and you must not be offended if I say that he
is very like you; for he has a snub nose and projecting eyes, although these features are
less marked in him than in you. Seeing, then, that he has no personal attractions, I may
freely say, that in all my acquaintance, which is very large, I never knew any one who was
his equal in natural gifts: for he has a quickness of apprehension which is almost
unrivalled, and he is exceedingly gentle, and also the most courageous of men; there is
a union of qualities in him such as I have never seen in any other, and should scarcely
have thought possible; for those who, like him, have quick and ready and retentive wits,
have generally also quick tempers; they are ships without ballast, and go darting about,
and are mad rather than courageous; and the steadier sort, when they have to face
study, prove stupid and cannot remember. Whereas he moves surely and smoothly and
successfully in the path of knowledge and enquiry; and he is full of gentleness, flowing
on silently like a river of oil; at his age, it is wonderful.
SOCRATES: That is good news; whose son is he?
THEODORUS: The name of his father I have forgotten, but the youth himself is the
middle one of those who are approaching us; he and his companions have been
anointing themselves in the outer court, and now they seem to have finished, and are
coming towards us. Look and see whether you know him.
SOCRATES: I know the youth, but I do not know his name; he is the son of Euphronius
the Sunian, who was himself an eminent man, and such another as his son is, according
to your account of him; I believe that he left a considerable fortune.
THEODORUS: Theaetetus, Socrates, is his name; but I rather think that the property
disappeared in the hands of trustees; notwithstanding which he is wonderfully liberal.
SOCRATES: He must be a fine fellow; tell him to come and sit by me.
THEODORUS: I will. Come hither, Theaetetus, and sit by Socrates.
SOCRATES: By all means, Theaetetus, in order that I may see the reflection of myself in
your face, for Theodorus says that we are alike; and yet if each of us held in his hands a
lyre, and he said that they were tuned alike, should we at once take his word, or should
we ask whether he who said so was or was not a musician?
THEAETETUS: We should ask.
SOCRATES: And if we found that he was, we should take his word; and if not, not?
THEAETETUS: True.
SOCRATES: And if this supposed likeness of our faces is a matter of any interest to us,
we should enquire whether he who says that we are alike is a painter or not?
THEAETETUS: Certainly we should.
SOCRATES: And is Theodorus a painter?
THEAETETUS: I never heard that he was.
SOCRATES: Is he a geometrician?
THEAETETUS: Of course he is, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And is he an astronomer and calculator and musician, and in general an
educated man?
THEAETETUS: I think so.
SOCRATES: If, then, he remarks on a similarity in our persons, either by way of praise or
blame, there is no particular reason why we should attend to him.
THEAETETUS: I should say not.
SOCRATES: But if he praises the virtue or wisdom which are the mental endowments of
either of us, then he who hears the praises will naturally desire to examine him who is
praised: and he again should be willing to exhibit himself.
THEAETETUS: Very true, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Then now is the time, my dear Theaetetus, for me to examine, and for you to
exhibit; since although Theodorus has praised many a citizen and stranger in my
hearing, never did I hear him praise any one as he has been praising you.
THEAETETUS: I am glad to hear it, Socrates; but what if he was only in jest?
SOCRATES: Nay, Theodorus is not given to jesting; and I cannot allow you to retract your
consent on any such pretence as that. If you do, he will have to swear to his words; and
we are perfectly sure that no one will be found to impugn him. Do not be shy then, but
stand to your word.
THEAETETUS: I suppose I must, if you wish it.
SOCRATES: In the first place, I should like to ask what you learn of Theodorus:
something of geometry, perhaps?
THEAETETUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And astronomy and harmony and calculation?
THEAETETUS: I do my best.
SOCRATES: Yes, my boy, and so do I; and my desire is to learn of him, or of anybody
who seems to understand these things. And I get on pretty well in general; but there is a
little difficulty which I want you and the company to aid me in investigating. Will you
answer me a question: ‘Is not learning growing wiser about that which you learn?’
THEAETETUS: Of course.
SOCRATES: And by wisdom the wise are wise?
THEAETETUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And is that different in any way from knowledge?
THEAETETUS: What?
SOCRATES: Wisdom; are not men wise in that which they know?
THEAETETUS: Certainly they are.
SOCRATES: Then wisdom and knowledge are the same?
THEAETETUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Herein lies the difficulty which I can never solve to my satisfaction—What is
knowledge? Can we answer that question? What say you? which of us will speak first?
whoever misses shall sit down, as at a game of ball, and shall be donkey, as the boys
say; he who lasts out his competitors in the game without missing, shall be our king, and
shall have the right of putting to us any questions which he pleases...Why is there no
reply? I hope, Theodorus, that I am not betrayed into rudeness by my love of
conversation? I only want to make us talk and be friendly and sociable.
THEODORUS: The reverse of rudeness, Socrates: but I would rather that you would ask
one of the young fellows; for the truth is, that I am unused to your game of question
and answer, and I am too old to learn; the young will be more suitable, and they will
improve more than I shall, for youth is always able to improve. And so having made a
beginning with Theaetetus, I would advise you to go on with him and not let him off.
SOCRATES: Do you hear, Theaetetus, what Theodorus says? The philosopher, whom you
would not like to disobey, and whose word ought to be a command to a young man,
bids me interrogate you. Take courage, then, and nobly say what you think that
knowledge is.
THEAETETUS: Well, Socrates, I will answer as you and he bid me; and if I make a mistake,
you will doubtless correct me.
SOCRATES: We will, if we can.
THEAETETUS: Then, I think that the sciences which I learn from Theodorus— geometry,
and those which you just now mentioned—are knowledge; and I would include the art
of the cobbler and other craftsmen; these, each and all of, them, are knowledge.
SOCRATES: Too much, Theaetetus, too much; the nobility and liberality of your nature
make you give many and diverse things, when I am asking for one simple thing.
THEAETETUS: What do you mean, Socrates?
SOCRATES: Perhaps nothing. I will endeavour, however, to explain what I believe to be
my meaning: When you speak of cobbling, you mean the art or science of making
shoes?
THEAETETUS: Just so.
SOCRATES: And when you speak of carpentering, you mean the art of making wooden
implements?
THEAETETUS: I do.
SOCRATES: In both cases you define the subject matter of each of the two arts?
THEAETETUS: True.
SOCRATES: But that, Theaetetus, was not the point of my question: we wanted to know
not the subjects, nor yet the number of the arts or sciences, for we were not going to
count them, but we wanted to know the nature of knowledge in the abstract. Am I not
right?
THEAETETUS: Perfectly right.
SOCRATES: Let me offer an illustration: Suppose that a person were to ask about some
very trivial and obvious thing—for example, What is clay? and we were to reply, that
there is a clay of potters, there is a clay of oven- makers, there is a clay of brick-makers;
would not the answer be ridiculous?
THEAETETUS: Truly.
SOCRATES: In the first place, there would be an absurdity in assuming that he who
asked the question would understand from our answer the nature of ‘clay,’ merely
because we added ‘of the image-makers,’ or of any other workers. How can a man
understand the name of anything, when he does not know the nature of it?
THEAETETUS: He cannot.
SOCRATES: Then he who does not know what science or knowledge is, has no
knowledge of the art or science of making shoes?
THEAETETUS: None.
SOCRATES: Nor of any other science?
THEAETETUS: No.
SOCRATES: And when a man is asked what science or knowledge is, to give in answer
the name of some art or science is ridiculous; for the question is, ‘What is knowledge?’
and he replies, ‘A knowledge of this or that.’
THEAETETUS: True.
SOCRATES: Moreover, he might answer shortly and simply, but he makes an enormous
circuit. For example, when asked about the clay, he might have said simply, that clay is
moistened earth—what sort of clay is not to the point.
THEAETETUS: Yes, Socrates, there is no difficulty as you put the question. You mean, if I
am not mistaken, something like what occurred to me and to my friend here, your
namesake Socrates, in a recent discussion.
SOCRATES: What was that, Theaetetus?
THEAETETUS: Theodorus was writing out for us something about roots, such as the
roots of three or five, showing that they are incommensurable by the unit: he selected
other examples up to seventeen —there he stopped. Now as there are innumerable
roots, the notion occurred to us of attempting to include them all under one name or
class.
SOCRATES: And did you find such a class?
THEAETETUS: I think that we did; but I should like to have your opinion.
SOCRATES: Let me hear.
THEAETETUS: We divided all numbers into two classes: those which are made up of
equal factors multiplying into one another, which we compared to square figures and
called square or equilateral numbers;—that was one class.
SOCRATES: Very good.
THEAETETUS: The intermediate numbers, such as three and five, and every other number
which is made up of unequal factors, either of a greater multiplied by a less, or of a less
multiplied by a greater, and when regarded as a figure, is contained in unequal sides;—
all these we compared to oblong figures, and called them oblong numbers.
SOCRATES: Capital; and what followed?
THEAETETUS: The lines, or sides, which have for their squares the equilateral plane
numbers, were called by us lengths or magnitudes; and the lines which are the roots of
(or whose squares are equal to) the oblong numbers, were called powers or roots; the
reason of this latter name being, that they are commensurable with the former [i.e., with
the so-called lengths or magnitudes] not in linear measurement, but in the value of the
superficial content of their squares; and the same about solids.
SOCRATES: Excellent, my boys; I think that you fully justify the praises of Theodorus, and
that he will not be found guilty of false witness.
THEAETETUS: But I am unable, Socrates, to give you a similar answer about knowledge,
which is what you appear to want; and therefore Theodorus is a deceiver after all.
SOCRATES: Well, but if some one were to praise you for running, and to say that he
never met your equal among boys, and afterwards you were beaten in a race by a
grown-up man, who was a great runner—would the praise be any the less true?
THEAETETUS: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: And is the discovery of the nature of knowledge so small a matter, as just
now said? Is it not one which would task the powers of men perfect in every way?
THEAETETUS: By heaven, they should be the top of all perfection! SOCRATES: Well, then,
be of good cheer; do not say that Theodorus was mistaken about you, but do your best
to ascertain the true nature of knowledge, as well as of other things.
THEAETETUS: I am eager enough, Socrates, if that would bring to light the truth.
SOCRATES: Come, you made a good beginning just now; let your own answer about
roots be your model, and as you comprehended them all in one class, try and bring the
many sorts of knowledge under one definition.
THEAETETUS: I can assure you, Socrates, that I have tried very often, when the report of
questions asked by you was brought to me; but I can neither persuade myself that I
have a satisfactory answer to give, nor hear of any one who answers as you would have
him; and I cannot shake off a feeling of anxiety.
SOCRATES: These are the pangs of labour, my dear Theaetetus; you have something
within you which you are bringing to the birth.
THEAETETUS: I do not know, Socrates; I only say what I feel.
SOCRATES: And have you never heard, simpleton, that I am the son of a midwife, brave
and burly, whose name was Phaenarete?
THEAETETUS: Yes, I have.
SOCRATES: And that I myself practise midwifery?
THEAETETUS: No, never.
SOCRATES: Let me tell you that I do though, my friend: but you must not reveal the
secret, as the world in general have not found me out; and therefore they only say of
me, that I am the strangest of mortals and drive men to their wits’ end. Did you ever
hear that too?
THEAETETUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Shall I tell you the reason?
THEAETETUS: By all means.
SOCRATES: Bear in mind the whole business of the midwives, and then you will see my
meaning better:—No woman, as you are probably aware, who is still able to conceive
and bear, attends other women, but only those who are past bearing.
THEAETETUS: Yes, I know.
SOCRATES: The reason of this is said to be that Artemis—the goddess of childbirth—is
not a mother, and she honours those who are like herself; but she could not allow the
barren to be midwives, because human nature cannot know the mystery of an art
without experience; and therefore she assigned this office to those who are too old to
bear.
THEAETETUS: I dare say.
SOCRATES: And I dare say too, or rather I am absolutely certain, that the midwives know
better than others who is pregnant and who is not?
THEAETETUS: Very true.
SOCRATES: And by the use of potions and incantations they are able to arouse the
pangs and to soothe them at will; they can make those bear who have a difficulty in
bearing, and if they think fit they can smother the embryo in the womb.
THEAETETUS: They can.
SOCRATES: Did you ever remark that they are also most cunning matchmakers, and
have a thorough knowledge of what unions are likely to produce a brave brood?
THEAETETUS: No, never.
SOCRATES: Then let me tell you that this is their greatest pride, more than cutting the
umbilical cord. And if you reflect, you will see that the same art which cultivates and
gathers in the fruits of the earth, will be most likely to know in what soils the several
plants or seeds should be deposited.
THEAETETUS: Yes, the same art.
SOCRATES: And do you suppose that with women the case is otherwise?
THEAETETUS: I should think not.
SOCRATES: Certainly not; but midwives are respectable women who have a character to
lose, and they avoid this department of their profession, because they are afraid of
being called procuresses, which is a name given to those who join together man and
woman in an unlawful and unscientific way; and yet the true midwife is also the true and
only matchmaker.
THEAETETUS: Clearly.
SOCRATES: Such are the midwives, whose task is a very important one, but not so
important as mine; for women do not bring into the world at one time real children, and
at another time counterfeits which are with difficulty distinguished from them; if they
did, then the discernment of the true and false birth would be the crowning
achievement of the art of midwifery—you would think so?
THEAETETUS: Indeed I should.
SOCRATES: Well, my art of midwifery is in most respects like theirs; but differs, in that I
attend men and not women; and look after their souls when they are in labour, and not
after their bodies: and the triumph of my art is in thoroughly examining whether the
thought which the mind of the young man brings forth is a false idol or a noble and true
birth. And like the midwives, I am barren, and the reproach which is often made against
me, that I ask questions of others and have not the wit to answer them myself, is very
just—the reason is, that the god compels me to be a midwife, but does not allow me to
bring forth. And therefore I am not myself at all wise, nor have I anything to show which
is the invention or birth of my own soul, but those who converse with me profit. Some
of them appear dull enough at first, but afterwards, as our acquaintance ripens, if the
god is gracious to them, they all make astonishing progress; and this in the opinion of
others as well as in their own. It is quite dear that they never learned anything from me;
the many fine discoveries to which they cling are of their own making. But to me and
the god they owe their delivery. And the proof of my words is, that many of them in
their ignorance, either in their self-conceit despising me, or falling under the influence of
others, have gone away too soon; and have not only lost the children of whom I had
previously delivered them by an ill bringing up, but have stifled whatever else they had
in them by evil communications, being fonder of lies and shams than of the truth; and
they have at last ended by seeing themselves, as others see them, to be great fools.
Aristeides, the son of Lysimachus, is one of them, and there are many others. The truants
often return to me, and beg that I would consort with them again—they are ready to go
to me on their knees—and then, if my familiar allows, which is not always the case, I
receive them, and they begin to grow again. Dire are the pangs which my art is able to
arouse and to allay in those who consort with me, just like the pangs of women in
childbirth; night and day they are full of perplexity and travail which is even worse than
that of the women. So much for them. And there are others, Theaetetus, who come to
me apparently having nothing in them; and as I know that they have no need of my art, I
coax them into marrying some one, and by the grace of God I can generally tell who is
likely to do them good. Many of them I have given away to Prodicus, and many to other
inspired sages. I tell you this long story, friend Theaetetus, because I suspect, as indeed
you seem to think yourself, that you are in labour—great with some conception. Come
then to me, who am a midwife’s son and myself a midwife, and do your best to answer
the questions which I will ask you. And if I abstract and expose your first-born, because I
discover upon inspection that the conception which you have formed is a vain shadow,
do not quarrel with me on that account, as the manner of women is when their first
children are taken from them. For I have actually known some who were ready to bite
me when I deprived them of a darling folly; they did not perceive that I acted from
goodwill, not knowing that no god is the enemy of man—that was not within the range
of their ideas; neither am I their enemy in all this, but it would be wrong for me to admit
falsehood, or to stifle the truth. Once more, then, Theaetetus, I repeat my old question,
‘What is knowledge?’—and do not say that you cannot tell; but quit yourself like a man,
and by the help of God you will be able to tell.
THEAETETUS: At any rate, Socrates, after such an exhortation I should be ashamed of
not trying to do my best. Now he who knows perceives what he knows, and, as far as I
can see at present, knowledge is perception.
SOCRATES: Bravely said, boy; that is the way in which you should express your opinion.
And now, let us examine together this conception of yours, and see whether it is a true
birth or a mere wind-egg:—You say that knowledge is perception?
THEAETETUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Well, you have delivered yourself of a very important doctrine about
knowledge; it is indeed the opinion of Protagoras, who has another way of expressing it.
Man, he says, is the measure of all things, of the existence of things that are, and of the
non-existence of things that are not:—You have read him?
THEAETETUS: O yes, again and again.
SOCRATES: Does he not say that things are to you such as they appear to you, and to
me such as they appear to me, and that you and I are men?
THEAETETUS: Yes, he says so.
SOCRATES: A wise man is not likely to talk nonsense. Let us try to understand him: the
same wind is blowing, and yet one of us may be cold and the other not, or one may be
slightly and the other very cold?
THEAETETUS: Quite true.
SOCRATES: Now is the wind, regarded not in relation to us but absolutely, cold or not;
or are we to say, with Protagoras, that the wind is cold to him who is cold, and not to
him who is not?
THEAETETUS: I suppose the last.
SOCRATES: Then it must appear so to each of them?
THEAETETUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And ‘appears to him’ means the same as ‘he perceives.’
THEAETETUS: True.
SOCRATES: Then appearing and perceiving coincide in the case of hot and cold, and in
similar instances; for things appear, or may be supposed to be, to each one such as he
perceives them?
THEAETETUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then perception is always of existence, and being the same as knowledge is
unerring?
THEAETETUS: Clearly.
SOCRATES: In the name of the Graces, what an almighty wise man Protagoras must have
been! He spoke these things in a parable to the common herd, like you and me, but told
the truth, ‘his Truth,’ (In allusion to a book of Protagoras’ which bore this title.) in secret
to his own disciples.
THEAETETUS: What do you mean, Socrates?
SOCRATES: I am about to speak of a high argument, in which all things are said to be
relative; you cannot rightly call anything by any name, such as great or small, heavy or
light, for the great will be small and the heavy light—there is no single thing or quality,
but out of motion and change and admixture all things are becoming relatively to one
another, which ‘becoming’ is by us incorrectly called being, but is really becoming, for
nothing ever is, but all things are becoming. Summon all philosophers— Protagoras,
Heracleitus, Empedocles, and the rest of them, one after another, and with the exception
of Parmenides they will agree with you in this. Summon the great masters of either kind
of poetry—Epicharmus, the prince of Comedy, and Homer of Tragedy; when the latter
sings of
‘Ocean whence sprang the gods, and mother Tethys,’
does he not mean that all things are the offspring, of flux and motion?
THEAETETUS: I think so.
SOCRATES: And who could take up arms against such a great army having Homer for its
general, and not appear ridiculous? (Compare Cratylus.)
THEAETETUS: Who indeed, Socrates?
SOCRATES: Yes, Theaetetus; and there are plenty of other proofs which will show that
motion is the source of what is called being and becoming, and inactivity of not-being
and destruction; for fire and warmth, which are supposed to be the parent and guardian
of all other things, are born of movement and of friction, which is a kind of motion;—is
not this the origin of fire?
THEAETETUS: It is.
SOCRATES: And the race of animals is generated in the same way?
THEAETETUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And is not the bodily habit spoiled by rest and idleness, but preserved for a
long time by motion and exercise?
THEAETETUS: True.
SOCRATES: And what of the mental habit? Is not the soul informed, and improved, and
preserved by study and attention, which are motions; but when at rest, which in the soul
only means want of attention and study, is uninformed, and speedily forgets whatever
she has learned?
THEAETETUS: True.
SOCRATES: Then motion is a good, and rest an evil, to the soul as well as to the body?
THEAETETUS: Clearly.
SOCRATES: I may add, that breathless calm, stillness and the like waste and impair, while
wind and storm preserve; and the palmary argument of all, which I strongly urge, is the
golden chain in Homer, by which he means the sun, thereby indicating that so long as
the sun and the heavens go round in their orbits, all things human and divine are and
are preserved, but if they were chained up and their motions ceased, then all things
would be destroyed, and, as the saying is, turned upside down.
THEAETETUS: I believe, Socrates, that you have truly explained his meaning.
SOCRATES: Then now apply his doctrine to perception, my good friend, and first of all to
vision; that which you call white colour is not in your eyes, and is not a distinct thing
which exists out of them. And you must not assign any place to it: for if it had position it
would be, and be at rest, and there would be no process of becoming.
THEAETETUS: Then what is colour?
SOCRATES: Let us carry the principle which has just been affirmed, that nothing is selfexistent,
and then we shall see that white, black, and every other colour, arises out of the
eye meeting the appropriate motion, and that what we call a colour is in each case
neither the active nor the passive element, but something which passes between them,
and is peculiar to each percipient; are you quite certain that the several colours appear
to a dog or to any animal whatever as they appear to you?
THEAETETUS: Far from it.
SOCRATES: Or that anything appears the same to you as to another man? Are you so
profoundly convinced of this? Rather would it not be true that it never appears exactly
the same to you, because you are never exactly the same?
THEAETETUS: The latter.
SOCRATES: And if that with which I compare myself in size, or which I apprehend by
touch, were great or white or hot, it could not become different by mere contact with
another unless it actually changed; nor again, if the comparing or apprehending subject
were great or white or hot, could this, when unchanged from within, become changed
by any approximation or affection of any other thing. The fact is that in our ordinary way
of speaking we allow ourselves to be driven into most ridiculous and wonderful
contradictions, as Protagoras and all who take his line of argument would remark.
THEAETETUS: How? and of what sort do you mean?
SOCRATES: A little instance will sufficiently explain my meaning: Here are six dice, which
are more by a half when compared with four, and fewer by a half than twelve—they are
more and also fewer. How can you or any one maintain the contrary?
THEAETETUS: Very true.
SOCRATES: Well, then, suppose that Protagoras or some one asks whether anything can
become greater or more if not by increasing, how would you answer him, Theaetetus?
THEAETETUS: I should say ‘No,’ Socrates, if I were to speak my mind in reference to this
last question, and if I were not afraid of contradicting my former answer.
SOCRATES: Capital! excellent! spoken like an oracle, my boy! And if you reply ‘Yes,’ there
will be a case for Euripides; for our tongue will be unconvinced, but not our mind. (In
allusion to the well-known line of Euripides, Hippol.: e gloss omomoch e de thren
anomotos.)
THEAETETUS: Very true.
SOCRATES: The thoroughbred Sophists, who know all that can be known about the
mind, and argue only out of the superfluity of their wits, would have had a regular
sparring-match over this, and would have knocked their arguments together finely. But
you and I, who have no professional aims, only desire to see what is the mutual relation
of these principles,— whether they are consistent with each or not.
THEAETETUS: Yes, that would be my desire.
SOCRATES: And mine too. But since this is our feeling, and there is plenty of time, why
should we not calmly and patiently review our own thoughts, and thoroughly examine
and see what these appearances in us really are? If I am not mistaken, they will be
described by us as follows:—first, that nothing can become greater or less, either in
number or magnitude, while remaining equal to itself—you would agree?
THEAETETUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Secondly, that without addition or subtraction there is no increase or
diminution of anything, but only equality.
THEAETETUS: Quite true.
SOCRATES: Thirdly, that what was not before cannot be afterwards, without becoming
and having become.
THEAETETUS: Yes, truly.
SOCRATES: These three axioms, if I am not mistaken, are fighting with one another in
our minds in the case of the dice, or, again, in such a case as this—if I were to say that I,
who am of a certain height and taller than you, may within a year, without gaining or
losing in height, be not so tall—not that I should have lost, but that you would have
increased. In such a case, I am afterwards what I once was not, and yet I have not
become; for I could not have become without becoming, neither could I have become
less without losing somewhat of my height; and I could give you ten thousand examples
of similar contradictions, if we admit them at all. I believe that you follow me,
Theaetetus; for I suspect that you have thought of these questions before now.
THEAETETUS: Yes, Socrates, and I am amazed when I think of them; by the Gods I am!
and I want to know what on earth they mean; and there are times when my head quite
swims with the contemplation of them.
SOCRATES: I see, my dear Theaetetus, that Theodorus had a true insight into your
nature when he said that you were a philosopher, for wonder is the feeling of a
philosopher, and philosophy begins in wonder. He was not a bad genealogist who said
that Iris (the messenger of heaven) is the child of Thaumas (wonder). But do you begin
to see what is the explanation of this perplexity on the hypothesis which we attribute to
Protagoras?
THEAETETUS: Not as yet.
SOCRATES: Then you will be obliged to me if I help you to unearth the hidden ‘truth’ of
a famous man or school.
THEAETETUS: To be sure, I shall be very much obliged.
SOCRATES: Take a look round, then, and see that none of the uninitiated are listening.
Now by the uninitiated I mean the people who believe in nothing but what they can
grasp in their hands, and who will not allow that action or generation or anything
invisible can have real existence.
THEAETETUS: Yes, indeed, Socrates, they are very hard and impenetrable mortals.
SOCRATES: Yes, my boy, outer barbarians. Far more ingenious are the brethren whose
mysteries I am about to reveal to you. Their first principle is, that all is motion, and upon
this all the affections of which we were just now speaking are supposed to depend:
there is nothing but motion, which has two forms, one active and the other passive,
both in endless number; and out of the union and friction of them there is generated a
progeny endless in number, having two forms, sense and the object of sense, which are
ever breaking forth and coming to the birth at the same moment. The senses are
variously named hearing, seeing, smelling; there is the sense of heat, cold, pleasure,
pain, desire, fear, and many more which have names, as well as innumerable others
which are without them; each has its kindred object,—each variety of colour has a
corresponding variety of sight, and so with sound and hearing, and with the rest of the
senses and the objects akin to them. Do you see, Theaetetus, the bearings of this tale on
the preceding argument?
THEAETETUS: Indeed I do not.
SOCRATES: Then attend, and I will try to finish the story. The purport is that all these
things are in motion, as I was saying, and that this motion is of two kinds, a slower and a
quicker; and the slower elements have their motions in the same place and with
reference to things near them, and so they beget; but what is begotten is swifter, for it is
carried to fro, and moves from place to place. Apply this to sense:—When the eye and
the appropriate object meet together and give birth to whiteness and the sensation
connatural with it, which could not have been given by either of them going elsewhere,
then, while the sight is flowing from the eye, whiteness proceeds from the object which
combines in producing the colour; and so the eye is fulfilled with sight, and really sees,
and becomes, not sight, but a seeing eye; and the object which combined to form the
colour is fulfilled with whiteness, and becomes not whiteness but a white thing, whether
wood or stone or whatever the object may be which happens to be coloured white. And
this is true of all sensible objects, hard, warm, and the like, which are similarly to be
regarded, as I was saying before, not as having any absolute existence, but as being all
of them of whatever kind generated by motion in their intercourse with one another; for
of the agent and patient, as existing in separation, no trustworthy conception, as they
say, can be formed, for the agent has no existence until united with the patient, and the
patient has no existence until united with the agent; and that which by uniting with
something becomes an agent, by meeting with some other thing is converted into a
patient. And from all these considerations, as I said at first, there arises a general
reflection, that there is no one self-existent thing, but everything is becoming and in
relation; and being must be altogether abolished, although from habit and ignorance we
are compelled even in this discussion to retain the use of the term. But great
philosophers tell us that we are not to allow either the word ‘something,’ or ‘belonging
to something,’ or ‘to me,’ or ‘this,’ or ‘that,’ or any other detaining name to be used, in
the language of nature all things are being created and destroyed, coming into being
and passing into new forms; nor can any name fix or detain them; he who attempts to
fix them is easily refuted. And this should be the way of speaking, not only of particulars
but of aggregates; such aggregates as are expressed in the word ‘man,’ or ‘stone,’ or any
name of an animal or of a class. O Theaetetus, are not these speculations sweet as
honey? And do you not like the taste of them in the mouth?
THEAETETUS: I do not know what to say, Socrates; for, indeed, I cannot make out
whether you are giving your own opinion or only wanting to draw me out.
SOCRATES: You forget, my friend, that I neither know, nor profess to know, anything of
these matters; you are the person who is in labour, I am the barren midwife; and this is
why I soothe you, and offer you one good thing after another, that you may taste them.
And I hope that I may at last help to bring your own opinion into the light of day: when
this has been accomplished, then we will determine whether what you have brought
forth is only a wind-egg or a real and genuine birth. Therefore, keep up your spirits, and
answer like a man what you think.
THEAETETUS: Ask me.
SOCRATES: Then once more: Is it your opinion that nothing is but what becomes?—the
good and the noble, as well as all the other things which we were just now mentioning?
THEAETETUS: When I hear you discoursing in this style, I think that there is a great deal
in what you say, and I am very ready to assent.
SOCRATES: Let us not leave the argument unfinished, then; for there still remains to be
considered an objection which may be raised about dreams and diseases, in particular
about madness, and the various illusions of hearing and sight, or of other senses. For
you know that in all these cases the esse-percipi theory appears to be unmistakably
refuted, since in dreams and illusions we certainly have false perceptions; and far from
saying that everything is which appears, we should rather say that nothing is which
appears.
THEAETETUS: Very true, Socrates.
SOCRATES: But then, my boy, how can any one contend that knowledge is perception,
or that to every man what appears is?
THEAETETUS: I am afraid to say, Socrates, that I have nothing to answer, because you
rebuked me just now for making this excuse; but I certainly cannot undertake to argue
that madmen or dreamers think truly, when they imagine, some of them that they are
gods, and others that they can fly, and are flying in their sleep.
SOCRATES: Do you see another question which can be raised about these phenomena,
notably about dreaming and waking?
THEAETETUS: What question?
SOCRATES: A question which I think that you must often have heard persons ask:—How
can you determine whether at this moment we are sleeping, and all our thoughts are a
dream; or whether we are awake, and talking to one another in the waking state?
THEAETETUS: Indeed, Socrates, I do not know how to prove the one any more than the
other, for in both cases the facts precisely correspond;—and there is no difficulty in
supposing that during all this discussion we have been talking to one another in a
dream; and when in a dream we seem to be narrating dreams, the resemblance of the
two states is quite astonishing.
SOCRATES: You see, then, that a doubt about the reality of sense is easily raised, since
there may even be a doubt whether we are awake or in a dream. And as our time is
equally divided between sleeping and waking, in either sphere of existence the soul
contends that the thoughts which are present to our minds at the time are true; and
during one half of our lives we affirm the truth of the one, and, during the other half, of
the other; and are equally confident of both.
THEAETETUS: Most true.
SOCRATES: And may not the same be said of madness and other disorders? the
difference is only that the times are not equal.
THEAETETUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And is truth or falsehood to be determined by duration of time?
THEAETETUS: That would be in many ways ridiculous.
SOCRATES: But can you certainly determine by any other means which of these opinions
is true?
THEAETETUS: I do not think that I can.
SOCRATES: Listen, then, to a statement of the other side of the argument, which is made
by the champions of appearance. They would say, as I imagine—Can that which is
wholly other than something, have the same quality as that from which it differs? and
observe, Theaetetus, that the word ‘other’ means not ‘partially,’ but ‘wholly other.’
THEAETETUS: Certainly, putting the question as you do, that which is wholly other
cannot either potentially or in any other way be the same.
SOCRATES: And must therefore be admitted to be unlike?
THEAETETUS: True.
SOCRATES: If, then, anything happens to become like or unlike itself or another, when it
becomes like we call it the same—when unlike, other?
THEAETETUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Were we not saying that there are agents many and infinite, and patients
many and infinite?
THEAETETUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And also that different combinations will produce results which are not the
same, but different?
THEAETETUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Let us take you and me, or anything as an example:—There is Socrates in
health, and Socrates sick—Are they like or unlike?
THEAETETUS: You mean to compare Socrates in health as a whole, and Socrates in
sickness as a whole?
SOCRATES: Exactly; that is my meaning.
THEAETETUS: I answer, they are unlike.
SOCRATES: And if unlike, they are other?
THEAETETUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And would you not say the same of Socrates sleeping and waking, or in any
of the states which we were mentioning?
THEAETETUS: I should.
SOCRATES: All agents have a different patient in Socrates, accordingly as he is well or ill.
THEAETETUS: Of course.
SOCRATES: And I who am the patient, and that which is the agent, will produce
something different in each of the two cases?
THEAETETUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: The wine which I drink when I am in health, appears sweet and pleasant to
me?
THEAETETUS: True.
SOCRATES: For, as has been already acknowledged, the patient and agent meet
together and produce sweetness and a perception of sweetness, which are in
simultaneous motion, and the perception which comes from the patient makes the
tongue percipient, and the quality of sweetness which arises out of and is moving about
the wine, makes the wine both to be and to appear sweet to the healthy tongue.
THEAETETUS: Certainly; that has been already acknowledged.
SOCRATES: But when I am sick, the wine really acts upon another and a different
person?
THEAETETUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: The combination of the draught of wine, and the Socrates who is sick,
produces quite another result; which is the sensation of bitterness in the tongue, and
the motion and creation of bitterness in and about the wine, which becomes not
bitterness but something bitter; as I myself become not perception but percipient?
THEAETETUS: True.
SOCRATES: There is no other object of which I shall ever have the same perception, for
another object would give another perception, and would make the percipient other
and different; nor can that object which affects me, meeting another subject, produce
the same, or become similar, for that too would produce another result from another
subject, and become different.
THEAETETUS: True.
SOCRATES: Neither can I by myself, have this sensation, nor the object by itself, this
quality.
THEAETETUS: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: When I perceive I must become percipient of something—there can be no
such thing as perceiving and perceiving nothing; the object, whether it become sweet,
bitter, or of any other quality, must have relation to a percipient; nothing can become
sweet which is sweet to no one.
THEAETETUS: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: Then the inference is, that we (the agent and patient) are or become in
relation to one another; there is a law which binds us one to the other, but not to any
other existence, nor each of us to himself; and therefore we can only be bound to one
another; so that whether a person says that a thing is or becomes, he must say that it is
or becomes to or of or in relation to something else; but he must not say or allow any
one else to say that anything is or becomes absolutely:—such is our conclusion.
THEAETETUS: Very true, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Then, if that which acts upon me has relation to me and to no other, I and
no other am the percipient of it?
THEAETETUS: Of course.
SOCRATES: Then my perception is true to me, being inseparable from my own being;
and, as Protagoras says, to myself I am judge of what is and what is not to me.
THEAETETUS: I suppose so.
SOCRATES: How then, if I never err, and if my mind never trips in the conception of
being or becoming, can I fail of knowing that which I perceive?
THEAETETUS: You cannot.
SOCRATES: Then you were quite right in affirming that knowledge is only perception;
and the meaning turns out to be the same, whether with Homer and Heracleitus, and all
that company, you say that all is motion and flux, or with the great sage Protagoras, that
man is the measure of all things; or with Theaetetus, that, given these premises,
perception is knowledge. Am I not right, Theaetetus, and is not this your new-born child,
of which I have delivered you? What say you?
THEAETETUS: I cannot but agree, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Then this is the child, however he may turn out, which you and I have with
difficulty brought into the world. And now that he is born, we must run round the hearth
with him, and see whether he is worth rearing, or is only a wind-egg and a sham. Is he to
be reared in any case, and not exposed? or will you bear to see him rejected, and not
get into a passion if I take away your first-born?
THEODORUS: Theaetetus will not be angry, for he is very good-natured. But tell me,
Socrates, in heaven’s name, is this, after all, not the truth?
SOCRATES: You, Theodorus, are a lover of theories, and now you innocently fancy that I
am a bag full of them, and can easily pull one out which will overthrow its predecessor.
But you do not see that in reality none of these theories come from me; they all come
from him who talks with me. I only know just enough to extract them from the wisdom
of another, and to receive them in a spirit of fairness. And now I shall say nothing
myself, but shall endeavour to elicit something from our young friend.
THEODORUS: Do as you say, Socrates; you are quite right.
SOCRATES: Shall I tell you, Theodorus, what amazes me in your acquaintance
Protagoras?
THEODORUS: What is it?
SOCRATES: I am charmed with his doctrine, that what appears is to each one, but I
wonder that he did not begin his book on Truth with a declaration that a pig or a dogfaced
baboon, or some other yet stranger monster which has sensation, is the measure
of all things; then he might have shown a magnificent contempt for our opinion of him
by informing us at the outset that while we were reverencing him like a God for his
wisdom he was no better than a tadpole, not to speak of his fellow-men—would not
this have produced an overpowering effect? For if truth is only sensation, and no man
can discern another’s feelings better than he, or has any superior right to determine
whether his opinion is true or false, but each, as we have several times repeated, is to
himself the sole judge, and everything that he judges is true and right, why, my friend,
should Protagoras be preferred to the place of wisdom and instruction, and deserve to
be well paid, and we poor ignoramuses have to go to him, if each one is the measure of
his own wisdom? Must he not be talking ‘ad captandum’ in all this? I say nothing of the
ridiculous predicament in which my own midwifery and the whole art of dialectic is
placed; for the attempt to supervise or refute the notions or opinions of others would be
a tedious and enormous piece of folly, if to each man his own are right; and this must be
the case if Protagoras’ Truth is the real truth, and the philosopher is not merely amusing
himself by giving oracles out of the shrine of his book.
THEODORUS: He was a friend of mine, Socrates, as you were saying, and therefore I
cannot have him refuted by my lips, nor can I oppose you when I agree with you; please,
then, to take Theaetetus again; he seemed to answer very nicely.
SOCRATES: If you were to go into a Lacedaemonian palestra, Theodorus, would you
have a right to look on at the naked wrestlers, some of them making a poor figure, if
you did not strip and give them an opportunity of judging of your own person?
THEODORUS: Why not, Socrates, if they would allow me, as I think you will, in
consideration of my age and stiffness; let some more supple youth try a fall with you,
and do not drag me into the gymnasium.
SOCRATES: Your will is my will, Theodorus, as the proverbial philosophers say, and
therefore I will return to the sage Theaetetus: Tell me, Theaetetus, in reference to what I
was saying, are you not lost in wonder, like myself, when you find that all of a sudden
you are raised to the level of the wisest of men, or indeed of the gods?—for you would
assume the measure of Protagoras to apply to the gods as well as men?
THEAETETUS: Certainly I should, and I confess to you that I am lost in wonder. At first
hearing, I was quite satisfied with the doctrine, that whatever appears is to each one, but
now the face of things has changed.
SOCRATES: Why, my dear boy, you are young, and therefore your ear is quickly caught
and your mind influenced by popular arguments. Protagoras, or some one speaking on
his behalf, will doubtless say in reply,—Good people, young and old, you meet and
harangue, and bring in the gods, whose existence or non-existence I banish from writing
and speech, or you talk about the reason of man being degraded to the level of the
brutes, which is a telling argument with the multitude, but not one word of proof or
demonstration do you offer. All is probability with you, and yet surely you and
Theodorus had better reflect whether you are disposed to admit of probability and
figures of speech in matters of such importance. He or any other mathematician who
argued from probabilities and likelihoods in geometry, would not be worth an ace.
THEAETETUS: But neither you nor we, Socrates, would be satisfied with such arguments.
SOCRATES: Then you and Theodorus mean to say that we must look at the matter in
some other way?
THEAETETUS: Yes, in quite another way.
SOCRATES: And the way will be to ask whether perception is or is not the same as
knowledge; for this was the real point of our argument, and with a view to this we raised
(did we not?) those many strange questions.
THEAETETUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Shall we say that we know every thing which we see and hear? for example,
shall we say that not having learned, we do not hear the language of foreigners when
they speak to us? or shall we say that we not only hear, but know what they are saying?
Or again, if we see letters which we do not understand, shall we say that we do not see
them? or shall we aver that, seeing them, we must know them?
THEAETETUS: We shall say, Socrates, that we know what we actually see and hear of
them—that is to say, we see and know the figure and colour of the letters, and we hear
and know the elevation or depression of the sound of them; but we do not perceive by
sight and hearing, or know, that which grammarians and interpreters teach about them.
SOCRATES: Capital, Theaetetus; and about this there shall be no dispute, because I want
you to grow; but there is another difficulty coming, which you will also have to repulse.
THEAETETUS: What is it?
SOCRATES: Some one will say, Can a man who has ever known anything, and still has
and preserves a memory of that which he knows, not know that which he remembers at
the time when he remembers? I have, I fear, a tedious way of putting a simple question,
which is only, whether a man who has learned, and remembers, can fail to know?
THEAETETUS: Impossible, Socrates; the supposition is monstrous.
SOCRATES: Am I talking nonsense, then? Think: is not seeing perceiving, and is not sight
perception?
THEAETETUS: True.
SOCRATES: And if our recent definition holds, every man knows that which he has seen?
THEAETETUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And you would admit that there is such a thing as memory?
THEAETETUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And is memory of something or of nothing?
THEAETETUS: Of something, surely.
SOCRATES: Of things learned and perceived, that is?
THEAETETUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Often a man remembers that which he has seen?
THEAETETUS: True.
SOCRATES: And if he closed his eyes, would he forget?
THEAETETUS: Who, Socrates, would dare to say so?
SOCRATES: But we must say so, if the previous argument is to be maintained.
THEAETETUS: What do you mean? I am not quite sure that I understand you, though I
have a strong suspicion that you are right.
SOCRATES: As thus: he who sees knows, as we say, that which he sees; for perception
and sight and knowledge are admitted to be the same.
THEAETETUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: But he who saw, and has knowledge of that which he saw, remembers, when
he closes his eyes, that which he no longer sees.
THEAETETUS: True.
SOCRATES: And seeing is knowing, and therefore not-seeing is not-knowing?
THEAETETUS: Very true.
SOCRATES: Then the inference is, that a man may have attained the knowledge of
something, which he may remember and yet not know, because he does not see; and
this has been affirmed by us to be a monstrous supposition.
THEAETETUS: Most true.
SOCRATES: Thus, then, the assertion that knowledge and perception are one, involves a
manifest impossibility?
THEAETETUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then they must be distinguished?
THEAETETUS: I suppose that they must.
SOCRATES: Once more we shall have to begin, and ask ‘What is knowledge?’ and yet,
Theaetetus, what are we going to do?
THEAETETUS: About what?
SOCRATES: Like a good-for-nothing cock, without having won the victory, we walk away
from the argument and crow.
THEAETETUS: How do you mean?
SOCRATES: After the manner of disputers (Lys.; Phaedo; Republic), we were satisfied with
mere verbal consistency, and were well pleased if in this way we could gain an
advantage. Although professing not to be mere Eristics, but philosophers, I suspect that
we have unconsciously fallen into the error of that ingenious class of persons.
THEAETETUS: I do not as yet understand you.
SOCRATES: Then I will try to explain myself: just now we asked the question, whether a
man who had learned and remembered could fail to know, and we showed that a
person who had seen might remember when he had his eyes shut and could not see,
and then he would at the same time remember and not know. But this was an
impossibility. And so the Protagorean fable came to nought, and yours also, who
maintained that knowledge is the same as perception.
THEAETETUS: True.
SOCRATES: And yet, my friend, I rather suspect that the result would have been different
if Protagoras, who was the father of the first of the two brats, had been alive; he would
have had a great deal to say on their behalf. But he is dead, and we insult over his
orphan child; and even the guardians whom he left, and of whom our friend Theodorus
is one, are unwilling to give any help, and therefore I suppose that I must take up his
cause myself, and see justice done?
THEODORUS: Not I, Socrates, but rather Callias, the son of Hipponicus, is guardian of his
orphans. I was too soon diverted from the abstractions of dialectic to geometry.
Nevertheless, I shall be grateful to you if you assist him.
SOCRATES: Very good, Theodorus; you shall see how I will come to the rescue. If a
person does not attend to the meaning of terms as they are commonly used in
argument, he may be involved even in greater paradoxes than these. Shall I explain this
matter to you or to Theaetetus?
THEODORUS: To both of us, and let the younger answer; he will incur less disgrace if he
is discomfited.
SOCRATES: Then now let me ask the awful question, which is this:—Can a man know
and also not know that which he knows?
THEODORUS: How shall we answer, Theaetetus?
THEAETETUS: He cannot, I should say.
SOCRATES: He can, if you maintain that seeing is knowing. When you are imprisoned in
a well, as the saying is, and the self-assured adversary closes one of your eyes with his
hand, and asks whether you can see his cloak with the eye which he has closed, how will
you answer the inevitable man?
THEAETETUS: I should answer, ‘Not with that eye but with the other.’
SOCRATES: Then you see and do not see the same thing at the same time.
THEAETETUS: Yes, in a certain sense.
SOCRATES: None of that, he will reply; I do not ask or bid you answer in what sense you
know, but only whether you know that which you do not know. You have been proved
to see that which you do not see; and you have already admitted that seeing is knowing,
and that not-seeing is not-knowing: I leave you to draw the inference.
THEAETETUS: Yes; the inference is the contradictory of my assertion.
SOCRATES: Yes, my marvel, and there might have been yet worse things in store for you,
if an opponent had gone on to ask whether you can have a sharp and also a dull
knowledge, and whether you can know near, but not at a distance, or know the same
thing with more or less intensity, and so on without end. Such questions might have
been put to you by a light-armed mercenary, who argued for pay. He would have lain in
wait for you, and when you took up the position, that sense is knowledge, he would
have made an assault upon hearing, smelling, and the other senses;—he would have
shown you no mercy; and while you were lost in envy and admiration of his wisdom, he
would have got you into his net, out of which you would not have escaped until you had
come to an understanding about the sum to be paid for your release. Well, you ask, and
how will Protagoras reinforce his position? Shall I answer for him?
THEAETETUS: By all means.
SOCRATES: He will repeat all those things which we have been urging on his behalf, and
then he will close with us in disdain, and say:—The worthy Socrates asked a little boy,
whether the same man could remember and not know the same thing, and the boy said
No, because he was frightened, and could not see what was coming, and then Socrates
made fun of poor me. The truth is, O slatternly Socrates, that when you ask questions
about any assertion of mine, and the person asked is found tripping, if he has answered
as I should have answered, then I am refuted, but if he answers something else, then he
is refuted and not I. For do you really suppose that any one would admit the memory
which a man has of an impression which has passed away to be the same with that
which he experienced at the time? Assuredly not. Or would he hesitate to acknowledge
that the same man may know and not know the same thing? Or, if he is afraid of making
this admission, would he ever grant that one who has become unlike is the same as
before he became unlike? Or would he admit that a man is one at all, and not rather
many and infinite as the changes which take place in him? I speak by the card in order
to avoid entanglements of words. But, O my good sir, he will say, come to the argument
in a more generous spirit; and either show, if you can, that our sensations are not
relative and individual, or, if you admit them to be so, prove that this does not involve
the consequence that the appearance becomes, or, if you will have the word, is, to the
individual only. As to your talk about pigs and baboons, you are yourself behaving like a
pig, and you teach your hearers to make sport of my writings in the same ignorant
manner; but this is not to your credit. For I declare that the truth is as I have written, and
that each of us is a measure of existence and of non-existence. Yet one man may be a
thousand times better than another in proportion as different things are and appear to
him. And I am far from saying that wisdom and the wise man have no existence; but I
say that the wise man is he who makes the evils which appear and are to a man, into
goods which are and appear to him. And I would beg you not to press my words in the
letter, but to take the meaning of them as I will explain them. Remember what has been
already said,—that to the sick man his food appears to be and is bitter, and to the man
in health the opposite of bitter. Now I cannot conceive that one of these men can be or
ought to be made wiser than the other: nor can you assert that the sick man because he
has one impression is foolish, and the healthy man because he has another is wise; but
the one state requires to be changed into the other, the worse into the better. As in
education, a change of state has to be effected, and the sophist accomplishes by words
the change which the physician works by the aid of drugs. Not that any one ever made
another think truly, who previously thought falsely. For no one can think what is not, or,
think anything different from that which he feels; and this is always true. But as the
inferior habit of mind has thoughts of kindred nature, so I conceive that a good mind
causes men to have good thoughts; and these which the inexperienced call true, I
maintain to be only better, and not truer than others. And, O my dear Socrates, I do not
call wise men tadpoles: far from it; I say that they are the physicians of the human body,
and the husbandmen of plants—for the husbandmen also take away the evil and
disordered sensations of plants, and infuse into them good and healthy sensations—aye
and true ones; and the wise and good rhetoricians make the good instead of the evil to
seem just to states; for whatever appears to a state to be just and fair, so long as it is
regarded as such, is just and fair to it; but the teacher of wisdom causes the good to
take the place of the evil, both in appearance and in reality. And in like manner the
Sophist who is able to train his pupils in this spirit is a wise man, and deserves to be well
paid by them. And so one man is wiser than another; and no one thinks falsely, and you,
whether you will or not, must endure to be a measure. On these foundations the
argument stands firm, which you, Socrates, may, if you please, overthrow by an opposite
argument, or if you like you may put questions to me—a method to which no intelligent
person will object, quite the reverse. But I must beg you to put fair questions: for there is
great inconsistency in saying that you have a zeal for virtue, and then always behaving
unfairly in argument. The unfairness of which I complain is that you do not distinguish
between mere disputation and dialectic: the disputer may trip up his opponent as often
as he likes, and make fun; but the dialectician will be in earnest, and only correct his
adversary when necessary, telling him the errors into which he has fallen through his
own fault, or that of the company which he has previously kept. If you do so, your
adversary will lay the blame of his own confusion and perplexity on himself, and not on
you. He will follow and love you, and will hate himself, and escape from himself into
philosophy, in order that he may become different from what he was. But the other
mode of arguing, which is practised by the many, will have just the opposite effect upon
him; and as he grows older, instead of turning philosopher, he will come to hate
philosophy. I would recommend you, therefore, as I said before, not to encourage
yourself in this polemical and controversial temper, but to find out, in a friendly and
congenial spirit, what we really mean when we say that all things are in motion, and that
to every individual and state what appears, is. In this manner you will consider whether
knowledge and sensation are the same or different, but you will not argue, as you were
just now doing, from the customary use of names and words, which the vulgar pervert in
all sorts of ways, causing infinite perplexity to one another. Such, Theodorus, is the very
slight help which I am able to offer to your old friend; had he been living, he would have
helped himself in a far more gloriose style.
THEODORUS: You are jesting, Socrates; indeed, your defence of him has been most
valorous.
SOCRATES: Thank you, friend; and I hope that you observed Protagoras bidding us be
serious, as the text, ‘Man is the measure of all things,’ was a solemn one; and he
reproached us with making a boy the medium of discourse, and said that the boy’s
timidity was made to tell against his argument; he also declared that we made a joke of
him.
THEODORUS: How could I fail to observe all that, Socrates?
SOCRATES: Well, and shall we do as he says?
THEODORUS: By all means.
SOCRATES: But if his wishes are to be regarded, you and I must take up the argument,
and in all seriousness, and ask and answer one another, for you see that the rest of us
are nothing but boys. In no other way can we escape the imputation, that in our fresh
analysis of his thesis we are making fun with boys.
THEODORUS: Well, but is not Theaetetus better able to follow a philosophical enquiry
than a great many men who have long beards?
SOCRATES: Yes, Theodorus, but not better than you; and therefore please not to
imagine that I am to defend by every means in my power your departed friend; and that
you are to defend nothing and nobody. At any rate, my good man, do not sheer off until
we know whether you are a true measure of diagrams, or whether all men are equally
measures and sufficient for themselves in astronomy and geometry, and the other
branches of knowledge in which you are supposed to excel them.
THEODORUS: He who is sitting by you, Socrates, will not easily avoid being drawn into
an argument; and when I said just now that you would excuse me, and not, like the
Lacedaemonians, compel me to strip and fight, I was talking nonsense—I should rather
compare you to Scirrhon, who threw travellers from the rocks; for the Lacedaemonian
rule is ‘strip or depart,’ but you seem to go about your work more after the fashion of
Antaeus: you will not allow any one who approaches you to depart until you have
stripped him, and he has been compelled to try a fall with you in argument.
SOCRATES: There, Theodorus, you have hit off precisely the nature of my complaint; but
I am even more pugnacious than the giants of old, for I have met with no end of heroes;
many a Heracles, many a Theseus, mighty in words, has broken my head; nevertheless I
am always at this rough exercise, which inspires me like a passion. Please, then, to try a
fall with me, whereby you will do yourself good as well as me.
THEODORUS: I consent; lead me whither you will, for I know that you are like destiny; no
man can escape from any argument which you may weave for him. But I am not
disposed to go further than you suggest.
SOCRATES: Once will be enough; and now take particular care that we do not again
unwittingly expose ourselves to the reproach of talking childishly.
THEODORUS: I will do my best to avoid that error.
SOCRATES: In the first place, let us return to our old objection, and see whether we were
right in blaming and taking offence at Protagoras on the ground that he assumed all to
be equal and sufficient in wisdom; although he admitted that there was a better and
worse, and that in respect of this, some who as he said were the wise excelled others.
THEODORUS: Very true.
SOCRATES: Had Protagoras been living and answered for himself, instead of our
answering for him, there would have been no need of our reviewing or reinforcing the
argument. But as he is not here, and some one may accuse us of speaking without
authority on his behalf, had we not better come to a clearer agreement about his
meaning, for a great deal may be at stake?
THEODORUS: True.
SOCRATES: Then let us obtain, not through any third person, but from his own
statement and in the fewest words possible, the basis of agreement.
THEODORUS: In what way?
SOCRATES: In this way:—His words are, ‘What seems to a man, is to him.’
THEODORUS: Yes, so he says.
SOCRATES: And are not we, Protagoras, uttering the opinion of man, or rather of all
mankind, when we say that every one thinks himself wiser than other men in some
things, and their inferior in others? In the hour of danger, when they are in perils of war,
or of the sea, or of sickness, do they not look up to their commanders as if they were
gods, and expect salvation from them, only because they excel them in knowledge? Is
not the world full of men in their several employments, who are looking for teachers and
rulers of themselves and of the animals? and there are plenty who think that they are
able to teach and able to rule. Now, in all this is implied that ignorance and wisdom
exist among them, at least in their own opinion.
THEODORUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And wisdom is assumed by them to be true thought, and ignorance to be
false opinion.
THEODORUS: Exactly.
SOCRATES: How then, Protagoras, would you have us treat the argument? Shall we say
that the opinions of men are always true, or sometimes true and sometimes false? In
either case, the result is the same, and their opinions are not always true, but sometimes
true and sometimes false. For tell me, Theodorus, do you suppose that you yourself, or
any other follower of Protagoras, would contend that no one deems another ignorant or
mistaken in his opinion?
THEODORUS: The thing is incredible, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And yet that absurdity is necessarily involved in the thesis which declares
man to be the measure of all things.
THEODORUS: How so?
SOCRATES: Why, suppose that you determine in your own mind something to be true,
and declare your opinion to me; let us assume, as he argues, that this is true to you.
Now, if so, you must either say that the rest of us are not the judges of this opinion or
judgment of yours, or that we judge you always to have a true opinion? But are there
not thousands upon thousands who, whenever you form a judgment, take up arms
against you and are of an opposite judgment and opinion, deeming that you judge
falsely?
THEODORUS: Yes, indeed, Socrates, thousands and tens of thousands, as Homer says,
who give me a world of trouble.
SOCRATES: Well, but are we to assert that what you think is true to you and false to the
ten thousand others?
THEODORUS: No other inference seems to be possible.
SOCRATES: And how about Protagoras himself? If neither he nor the multitude thought,
as indeed they do not think, that man is the measure of all things, must it not follow that
the truth of which Protagoras wrote would be true to no one? But if you suppose that
he himself thought this, and that the multitude does not agree with him, you must
begin by allowing that in whatever proportion the many are more than one, in that
proportion his truth is more untrue than true.
THEODORUS: That would follow if the truth is supposed to vary with individual opinion.
SOCRATES: And the best of the joke is, that he acknowledges the truth of their opinion
who believe his own opinion to be false; for he admits that the opinions of all men are
true.
THEODORUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And does he not allow that his own opinion is false, if he admits that the
opinion of those who think him false is true?
THEODORUS: Of course.
SOCRATES: Whereas the other side do not admit that they speak falsely?
THEODORUS: They do not.
SOCRATES: And he, as may be inferred from his writings, agrees that this opinion is also
true.
THEODORUS: Clearly.
SOCRATES: Then all mankind, beginning with Protagoras, will contend, or rather, I
should say that he will allow, when he concedes that his adversary has a true opinion—
Protagoras, I say, will himself allow that neither a dog nor any ordinary man is the
measure of anything which he has not learned—am I not right?
THEODORUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And the truth of Protagoras being doubted by all, will be true neither to
himself to any one else?
THEODORUS: I think, Socrates, that we are running my old friend too hard.
SOCRATES: But I do not know that we are going beyond the truth. Doubtless, as he is
older, he may be expected to be wiser than we are. And if he could only just get his
head out of the world below, he would have overthrown both of us again and again, me
for talking nonsense and you for assenting to me, and have been off and underground
in a trice. But as he is not within call, we must make the best use of our own faculties,
such as they are, and speak out what appears to us to be true. And one thing which no
one will deny is, that there are great differences in the understandings of men.
THEODORUS: In that opinion I quite agree.
SOCRATES: And is there not most likely to be firm ground in the distinction which we
were indicating on behalf of Protagoras, viz. that most things, and all immediate
sensations, such as hot, dry, sweet, are only such as they appear; if however difference of
opinion is to be allowed at all, surely we must allow it in respect of health or disease? for
every woman, child, or living creature has not such a knowledge of what conduces to
health as to enable them to cure themselves.
THEODORUS: I quite agree.
SOCRATES: Or again, in politics, while affirming that just and unjust, honourable and
disgraceful, holy and unholy, are in reality to each state such as the state thinks and
makes lawful, and that in determining these matters no individual or state is wiser than
another, still the followers of Protagoras will not deny that in determining what is or is
not expedient for the community one state is wiser and one counsellor better than
another—they will scarcely venture to maintain, that what a city enacts in the belief that
it is expedient will always be really expedient. But in the other case, I mean when they
speak of justice and injustice, piety and impiety, they are confident that in nature these
have no existence or essence of their own—the truth is that which is agreed on at the
time of the agreement, and as long as the agreement lasts; and this is the philosophy of
many who do not altogether go along with Protagoras. Here arises a new question,
Theodorus, which threatens to be more serious than the last.
THEODORUS: Well, Socrates, we have plenty of leisure.
SOCRATES: That is true, and your remark recalls to my mind an observation which I have
often made, that those who have passed their days in the pursuit of philosophy are
ridiculously at fault when they have to appear and speak in court. How natural is this!
THEODORUS: What do you mean?
SOCRATES: I mean to say, that those who have been trained in philosophy and liberal
pursuits are as unlike those who from their youth upwards have been knocking about in
the courts and such places, as a freeman is in breeding unlike a slave.
THEODORUS: In what is the difference seen?
SOCRATES: In the leisure spoken of by you, which a freeman can always command: he
has his talk out in peace, and, like ourselves, he wanders at will from one subject to
another, and from a second to a third,—if the fancy takes him, he begins again, as we
are doing now, caring not whether his words are many or few; his only aim is to attain
the truth. But the lawyer is always in a hurry; there is the water of the clepsydra driving
him on, and not allowing him to expatiate at will: and there is his adversary standing
over him, enforcing his rights; the indictment, which in their phraseology is termed the
affidavit, is recited at the time: and from this he must not deviate. He is a servant, and is
continually disputing about a fellow-servant before his master, who is seated, and has
the cause in his hands; the trial is never about some indifferent matter, but always
concerns himself; and often the race is for his life. The consequence has been, that he
has become keen and shrewd; he has learned how to flatter his master in word and
indulge him in deed; but his soul is small and unrighteous. His condition, which has
been that of a slave from his youth upwards, has deprived him of growth and
uprightness and independence; dangers and fears, which were too much for his truth
and honesty, came upon him in early years, when the tenderness of youth was unequal
to them, and he has been driven into crooked ways; from the first he has practised
deception and retaliation, and has become stunted and warped. And so he has passed
out of youth into manhood, having no soundness in him; and is now, as he thinks, a
master in wisdom. Such is the lawyer, Theodorus. Will you have the companion picture
of the philosopher, who is of our brotherhood; or shall we return to the argument? Do
not let us abuse the freedom of digression which we claim.
THEODORUS: Nay, Socrates, not until we have finished what we are about; for you truly
said that we belong to a brotherhood which is free, and are not the servants of the
argument; but the argument is our servant, and must wait our leisure. Who is our judge?
Or where is the spectator having any right to censure or control us, as he might the
poets?
SOCRATES: Then, as this is your wish, I will describe the leaders; for there is no use in
talking about the inferior sort. In the first place, the lords of philosophy have never, from
their youth upwards, known their way to the Agora, or the dicastery, or the council, or
any other political assembly; they neither see nor hear the laws or decrees, as they are
called, of the state written or recited; the eagerness of political societies in the
attainment of offices—clubs, and banquets, and revels, and singing-maidens,—do not
enter even into their dreams. Whether any event has turned out well or ill in the city,
what disgrace may have descended to any one from his ancestors, male or female, are
matters of which the philosopher no more knows than he can tell, as they say, how
many pints are contained in the ocean. Neither is he conscious of his ignorance. For he
does not hold aloof in order that he may gain a reputation; but the truth is, that the
outer form of him only is in the city: his mind, disdaining the littlenesses and
nothingnesses of human things, is ‘flying all abroad’ as Pindar says, measuring earth and
heaven and the things which are under and on the earth and above the heaven,
interrogating the whole nature of each and all in their entirety, but not condescending
to anything which is within reach.
THEODORUS: What do you mean, Socrates?
SOCRATES: I will illustrate my meaning, Theodorus, by the jest which the clever witty
Thracian handmaid is said to have made about Thales, when he fell into a well as he was
looking up at the stars. She said, that he was so eager to know what was going on in
heaven, that he could not see what was before his feet. This is a jest which is equally
applicable to all philosophers. For the philosopher is wholly unacquainted with his next-
door neighbour; he is ignorant, not only of what he is doing, but he hardly knows
whether he is a man or an animal; he is searching into the essence of man, and busy in
enquiring what belongs to such a nature to do or suffer different from any other;—I
think that you understand me, Theodorus?
THEODORUS: I do, and what you say is true.
SOCRATES: And thus, my friend, on every occasion, private as well as public, as I said at
first, when he appears in a law-court, or in any place in which he has to speak of things
which are at his feet and before his eyes, he is the jest, not only of Thracian handmaids
but of the general herd, tumbling into wells and every sort of disaster through his
inexperience. His awkwardness is fearful, and gives the impression of imbecility. When
he is reviled, he has nothing personal to say in answer to the civilities of his adversaries,
for he knows no scandals of any one, and they do not interest him; and therefore he is
laughed at for his sheepishness; and when others are being praised and glorified, in the
simplicity of his heart he cannot help going into fits of laughter, so that he seems to be
a downright idiot. When he hears a tyrant or king eulogized, he fancies that he is
listening to the praises of some keeper of cattle—a swineherd, or shepherd, or perhaps
a cowherd, who is congratulated on the quantity of milk which he squeezes from them;
and he remarks that the creature whom they tend, and out of whom they squeeze the
wealth, is of a less tractable and more insidious nature. Then, again, he observes that the
great man is of necessity as ill-mannered and uneducated as any shepherd—for he has
no leisure, and he is surrounded by a wall, which is his mountain-pen. Hearing of
enormous landed proprietors of ten thousand acres and more, our philosopher deems
this to be a trifle, because he has been accustomed to think of the whole earth; and
when they sing the praises of family, and say that some one is a gentleman because he
can show seven generations of wealthy ancestors, he thinks that their sentiments only
betray a dull and narrow vision in those who utter them, and who are not educated
enough to look at the whole, nor to consider that every man has had thousands and ten
thousands of progenitors, and among them have been rich and poor, kings and slaves,
Hellenes and barbarians, innumerable. And when people pride themselves on having a
pedigree of twenty-five ancestors, which goes back to Heracles, the son of Amphitryon,
he cannot understand their poverty of ideas. Why are they unable to calculate that
Amphitryon had a twenty-fifth ancestor, who might have been anybody, and was such
as fortune made him, and he had a fiftieth, and so on? He amuses himself with the
notion that they cannot count, and thinks that a little arithmetic would have got rid of
their senseless vanity. Now, in all these cases our philosopher is derided by the vulgar,
partly because he is thought to despise them, and also because he is ignorant of what is
before him, and always at a loss.
THEODORUS: That is very true, Socrates.
SOCRATES: But, O my friend, when he draws the other into upper air, and gets him out
of his pleas and rejoinders into the contemplation of justice and injustice in their own
nature and in their difference from one another and from all other things; or from the
commonplaces about the happiness of a king or of a rich man to the consideration of
government, and of human happiness and misery in general—what they are, and how a
man is to attain the one and avoid the other—when that narrow, keen, little legal mind
is called to account about all this, he gives the philosopher his revenge; for dizzied by
the height at which he is hanging, whence he looks down into space, which is a strange
experience to him, he being dismayed, and lost, and stammering broken words, is
laughed at, not by Thracian handmaidens or any other uneducated persons, for they
have no eye for the situation, but by every man who has not been brought up a slave.
Such are the two characters, Theodorus: the one of the freeman, who has been trained
in liberty and leisure, whom you call the philosopher,—him we cannot blame because he
appears simple and of no account when he has to perform some menial task, such as
packing up bed-clothes, or flavouring a sauce or fawning speech; the other character is
that of the man who is able to do all this kind of service smartly and neatly, but knows
not how to wear his cloak like a gentleman; still less with the music of discourse can he
hymn the true life aright which is lived by immortals or men blessed of heaven.
THEODORUS: If you could only persuade everybody, Socrates, as you do me, of the
truth of your words, there would be more peace and fewer evils among men.
SOCRATES: Evils, Theodorus, can never pass away; for there must always remain
something which is antagonistic to good. Having no place among the gods in heaven,
of necessity they hover around the mortal nature, and this earthly sphere. Wherefore we
ought to fly away from earth to heaven as quickly as we can; and to fly away is to
become like God, as far as this is possible; and to become like him, is to become holy,
just, and wise. But, O my friend, you cannot easily convince mankind that they should
pursue virtue or avoid vice, not merely in order that a man may seem to be good, which
is the reason given by the world, and in my judgment is only a repetition of an old
wives’ fable. Whereas, the truth is that God is never in any way unrighteous—he is
perfect righteousness; and he of us who is the most righteous is most like him. Herein is
seen the true cleverness of a man, and also his nothingness and want of manhood. For
to know this is true wisdom and virtue, and ignorance of this is manifest folly and vice.
All other kinds of wisdom or cleverness, which seem only, such as the wisdom of
politicians, or the wisdom of the arts, are coarse and vulgar. The unrighteous man, or
the sayer and doer of unholy things, had far better not be encouraged in the illusion
that his roguery is clever; for men glory in their shame—they fancy that they hear others
saying of them, ‘These are not mere good-for-nothing persons, mere burdens of the
earth, but such as men should be who mean to dwell safely in a state.’ Let us tell them
that they are all the more truly what they do not think they are because they do not
know it; for they do not know the penalty of injustice, which above all things they ought
to know—not stripes and death, as they suppose, which evil-doers often escape, but a
penalty which cannot be escaped.
THEODORUS: What is that?
SOCRATES: There are two patterns eternally set before them; the one blessed and
divine, the other godless and wretched: but they do not see them, or perceive that in
their utter folly and infatuation they are growing like the one and unlike the other, by
reason of their evil deeds; and the penalty is, that they lead a life answering to the
pattern which they are growing like. And if we tell them, that unless they depart from
their cunning, the place of innocence will not receive them after death; and that here on
earth, they will live ever in the likeness of their own evil selves, and with evil friends—
when they hear this they in their superior cunning will seem to be listening to the talk of
idiots.
THEODORUS: Very true, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Too true, my friend, as I well know; there is, however, one peculiarity in their
case: when they begin to reason in private about their dislike of philosophy, if they have
the courage to hear the argument out, and do not run away, they grow at last strangely
discontented with themselves; their rhetoric fades away, and they become helpless as
children. These however are digressions from which we must now desist, or they will
overflow, and drown the original argument; to which, if you please, we will now return.
THEODORUS: For my part, Socrates, I would rather have the digressions, for at my age I
find them easier to follow; but if you wish, let us go back to the argument.
SOCRATES: Had we not reached the point at which the partisans of the perpetual flux,
who say that things are as they seem to each one, were confidently maintaining that the
ordinances which the state commanded and thought just, were just to the state which
imposed them, while they were in force; this was especially asserted of justice; but as to
the good, no one had any longer the hardihood to contend of any ordinances which the
state thought and enacted to be good that these, while they were in force, were really
good;—he who said so would be playing with the name ‘good,’ and would not touch
the real question—it would be a mockery, would it not?
THEODORUS: Certainly it would.
SOCRATES: He ought not to speak of the name, but of the thing which is contemplated
under the name.
THEODORUS: Right.
SOCRATES: Whatever be the term used, the good or expedient is the aim of legislation,
and as far as she has an opinion, the state imposes all laws with a view to the greatest
expediency; can legislation have any other aim?
THEODORUS: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: But is the aim attained always? do not mistakes often happen?
THEODORUS: Yes, I think that there are mistakes.
SOCRATES: The possibility of error will be more distinctly recognised, if we put the
question in reference to the whole class under which the good or expedient falls. That
whole class has to do with the future, and laws are passed under the idea that they will
be useful in after-time; which, in other words, is the future.
THEODORUS: Very true.
SOCRATES: Suppose now, that we ask Protagoras, or one of his disciples, a question:—
O, Protagoras, we will say to him, Man is, as you declare, the measure of all things—
white, heavy, light: of all such things he is the judge; for he has the criterion of them in
himself, and when he thinks that things are such as he experiences them to be, he thinks
what is and is true to himself. Is it not so?
THEODORUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And do you extend your doctrine, Protagoras (as we shall further say), to the
future as well as to the present; and has he the criterion not only of what in his opinion
is but of what will be, and do things always happen to him as he expected? For example,
take the case of heat:—When an ordinary man thinks that he is going to have a fever,
and that this kind of heat is coming on, and another person, who is a physician, thinks
the contrary, whose opinion is likely to prove right? Or are they both right? —he will
have a heat and fever in his own judgment, and not have a fever in the physician’s
judgment?
THEODORUS: How ludicrous!
SOCRATES: And the vinegrower, if I am not mistaken, is a better judge of the sweetness
or dryness of the vintage which is not yet gathered than the harp-player?
THEODORUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And in musical composition the musician will know better than the training
master what the training master himself will hereafter think harmonious or the reverse?
THEODORUS: Of course.
SOCRATES: And the cook will be a better judge than the guest, who is not a cook, of the
pleasure to be derived from the dinner which is in preparation; for of present or past
pleasure we are not as yet arguing; but can we say that every one will be to himself the
best judge of the pleasure which will seem to be and will be to him in the future?—nay,
would not you, Protagoras, better guess which arguments in a court would convince any
one of us than the ordinary man?
THEODORUS: Certainly, Socrates, he used to profess in the strongest manner that he
was the superior of all men in this respect.
SOCRATES: To be sure, friend: who would have paid a large sum for the privilege of
talking to him, if he had really persuaded his visitors that neither a prophet nor any
other man was better able to judge what will be and seem to be in the future than every
one could for himself?
THEODORUS: Who indeed?
SOCRATES: And legislation and expediency are all concerned with the future; and every
one will admit that states, in passing laws, must often fail of their highest interests?
THEODORUS: Quite true.
SOCRATES: Then we may fairly argue against your master, that he must admit one man
to be wiser than another, and that the wiser is a measure: but I, who know nothing, am
not at all obliged to accept the honour which the advocate of Protagoras was just now
forcing upon me, whether I would or not, of being a measure of anything.
THEODORUS: That is the best refutation of him, Socrates; although he is also caught
when he ascribes truth to the opinions of others, who give the lie direct to his own
opinion.
SOCRATES: There are many ways, Theodorus, in which the doctrine that every opinion of
every man is true may be refuted; but there is more difficulty in proving that states of
feeling, which are present to a man, and out of which arise sensations and opinions in
accordance with them, are also untrue. And very likely I have been talking nonsense
about them; for they may be unassailable, and those who say that there is clear evidence
of them, and that they are matters of knowledge, may probably be right; in which case
our friend Theaetetus was not so far from the mark when he identified perception and
knowledge. And therefore let us draw nearer, as the advocate of Protagoras desires; and
give the truth of the universal flux a ring: is the theory sound or not? at any rate, no
small war is raging about it, and there are combination not a few.
THEODORUS: No small, war, indeed, for in Ionia the sect makes rapid strides; the
disciples of Heracleitus are most energetic upholders of the doctrine.
SOCRATES: Then we are the more bound, my dear Theodorus, to examine the question
from the foundation as it is set forth by themselves.
THEODORUS: Certainly we are. About these speculations of Heracleitus, which, as you
say, are as old as Homer, or even older still, the Ephesians themselves, who profess to
know them, are downright mad, and you cannot talk with them on the subject. For, in
accordance with their text-books, they are always in motion; but as for dwelling upon an
argument or a question, and quietly asking and answering in turn, they can no more do
so than they can fly; or rather, the determination of these fellows not to have a particle
of rest in them is more than the utmost powers of negation can express. If you ask any
of them a question, he will produce, as from a quiver, sayings brief and dark, and shoot
them at you; and if you inquire the reason of what he has said, you will be hit by some
other new-fangled word, and will make no way with any of them, nor they with one
another; their great care is, not to allow of any settled principle either in their arguments
or in their minds, conceiving, as I imagine, that any such principle would be stationary;
for they are at war with the stationary, and do what they can to drive it out everywhere.
SOCRATES: I suppose, Theodorus, that you have only seen them when they were
fighting, and have never stayed with them in time of peace, for they are no friends of
yours; and their peace doctrines are only communicated by them at leisure, as I imagine,
to those disciples of theirs whom they want to make like themselves.
THEODORUS: Disciples! my good sir, they have none; men of their sort are not one
another’s disciples, but they grow up at their own sweet will, and get their inspiration
anywhere, each of them saying of his neighbour that he knows nothing. From these
men, then, as I was going to remark, you will never get a reason, whether with their will
or without their will; we must take the question out of their hands, and make the
analysis ourselves, as if we were doing geometrical problem.
SOCRATES: Quite right too; but as touching the aforesaid problem, have we not heard
from the ancients, who concealed their wisdom from the many in poetical figures, that
Oceanus and Tethys, the origin of all things, are streams, and that nothing is at rest?
And now the moderns, in their superior wisdom, have declared the same openly, that
the cobbler too may hear and learn of them, and no longer foolishly imagine that some
things are at rest and others in motion—having learned that all is motion, he will duly
honour his teachers. I had almost forgotten the opposite doctrine, Theodorus,
‘Alone Being remains unmoved, which is the name for the all.’
This is the language of Parmenides, Melissus, and their followers, who stoutly maintain
that all being is one and self-contained, and has no place in which to move. What shall
we do, friend, with all these people; for, advancing step by step, we have imperceptibly
got between the combatants, and, unless we can protect our retreat, we shall pay the
penalty of our rashness—like the players in the palaestra who are caught upon the line,
and are dragged different ways by the two parties. Therefore I think that we had better
begin by considering those whom we first accosted, ‘the river-gods,’ and, if we find any
truth in them, we will help them to pull us over, and try to get away from the others. But
if the partisans of ‘the whole’ appear to speak more truly, we will fly off from the party
which would move the immovable, to them. And if I find that neither of them have
anything reasonable to say, we shall be in a ridiculous position, having so great a
conceit of our own poor opinion and rejecting that of ancient and famous men. O
Theodorus, do you think that there is any use in proceeding when the danger is so
great?
THEODORUS: Nay, Socrates, not to examine thoroughly what the two parties have to
say would be quite intolerable.
SOCRATES: Then examine we must, since you, who were so reluctant to begin, are so
eager to proceed. The nature of motion appears to be the question with which we
begin. What do they mean when they say that all things are in motion? Is there only one
kind of motion, or, as I rather incline to think, two? I should like to have your opinion
upon this point in addition to my own, that I may err, if I must err, in your company; tell
me, then, when a thing changes from one place to another, or goes round in the same
place, is not that what is called motion?
THEODORUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Here then we have one kind of motion. But when a thing, remaining on the
same spot, grows old, or becomes black from being white, or hard from being soft, or
undergoes any other change, may not this be properly called motion of another kind?
THEODORUS: I think so.
SOCRATES: Say rather that it must be so. Of motion then there are these two kinds,
‘change,’ and ‘motion in place.’
THEODORUS: You are right.
SOCRATES: And now, having made this distinction, let us address ourselves to those
who say that all is motion, and ask them whether all things according to them have the
two kinds of motion, and are changed as well as move in place, or is one thing moved in
both ways, and another in one only?
THEODORUS: Indeed, I do not know what to answer; but I think they would say that all
things are moved in both ways.
SOCRATES: Yes, comrade; for, if not, they would have to say that the same things are in
motion and at rest, and there would be no more truth in saying that all things are in
motion, than that all things are at rest.
THEODORUS: To be sure.
SOCRATES: And if they are to be in motion, and nothing is to be devoid of motion, all
things must always have every sort of motion?
THEODORUS: Most true.
SOCRATES: Consider a further point: did we not understand them to explain the
generation of heat, whiteness, or anything else, in some such manner as the following:—
were they not saying that each of them is moving between the agent and the patient,
together with a perception, and that the patient ceases to be a perceiving power and
becomes a percipient, and the agent a quale instead of a quality? I suspect that quality
may appear a strange and uncouth term to you, and that you do not understand the
abstract expression. Then I will take concrete instances: I mean to say that the producing
power or agent becomes neither heat nor whiteness but hot and white, and the like of
other things. For I must repeat what I said before, that neither the agent nor patient
have any absolute existence, but when they come together and generate sensations and
their objects, the one becomes a thing of a certain quality, and the other a percipient.
You remember?
THEODORUS: Of course.
SOCRATES: We may leave the details of their theory unexamined, but we must not
forget to ask them the only question with which we are concerned: Are all things in
motion and flux?
THEODORUS: Yes, they will reply.
SOCRATES: And they are moved in both those ways which we distinguished, that is to
say, they move in place and are also changed?
THEODORUS: Of course, if the motion is to be perfect.
SOCRATES: If they only moved in place and were not changed, we should be able to say
what is the nature of the things which are in motion and flux?
THEODORUS: Exactly.
SOCRATES: But now, since not even white continues to flow white, and whiteness itself is
a flux or change which is passing into another colour, and is never to be caught
standing still, can the name of any colour be rightly used at all?
THEODORUS: How is that possible, Socrates, either in the case of this or of any other
quality—if while we are using the word the object is escaping in the flux?
SOCRATES: And what would you say of perceptions, such as sight and hearing, or any
other kind of perception? Is there any stopping in the act of seeing and hearing?
THEODORUS: Certainly not, if all things are in motion.
SOCRATES: Then we must not speak of seeing any more than of not-seeing, nor of any
other perception more than of any non-perception, if all things partake of every kind of
motion?
THEODORUS: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: Yet perception is knowledge: so at least Theaetetus and I were saying.
THEODORUS: Very true.
SOCRATES: Then when we were asked what is knowledge, we no more answered what is
knowledge than what is not knowledge?
THEODORUS: I suppose not.
SOCRATES: Here, then, is a fine result: we corrected our first answer in our eagerness to
prove that nothing is at rest. But if nothing is at rest, every answer upon whatever
subject is equally right: you may say that a thing is or is not thus; or, if you prefer,
‘becomes’ thus; and if we say ‘becomes,’ we shall not then hamper them with words
expressive of rest.
THEODORUS: Quite true.
SOCRATES: Yes, Theodorus, except in saying ‘thus’ and ‘not thus.’ But you ought not to
use the word ‘thus,’ for there is no motion in ‘thus’ or in ‘not thus.’ The maintainers of
the doctrine have as yet no words in which to express themselves, and must get a new
language. I know of no word that will suit them, except perhaps ‘no how,’ which is
perfectly indefinite.
THEODORUS: Yes, that is a manner of speaking in which they will be quite at home.
SOCRATES: And so, Theodorus, we have got rid of your friend without assenting to his
doctrine, that every man is the measure of all things—a wise man only is a measure;
neither can we allow that knowledge is perception, certainly not on the hypothesis of a
perpetual flux, unless perchance our friend Theaetetus is able to convince us that it is.
THEODORUS: Very good, Socrates; and now that the argument about the doctrine of
Protagoras has been completed, I am absolved from answering; for this was the
agreement.
THEAETETUS: Not, Theodorus, until you and Socrates have discussed the doctrine of
those who say that all things are at rest, as you were proposing.
THEODORUS: You, Theaetetus, who are a young rogue, must not instigate your elders to
a breach of faith, but should prepare to answer Socrates in the remainder of the
argument.
THEAETETUS: Yes, if he wishes; but I would rather have heard about the doctrine of rest.
THEODORUS: Invite Socrates to an argument—invite horsemen to the open plain; do
but ask him, and he will answer.
SOCRATES: Nevertheless, Theodorus, I am afraid that I shall not be able to comply with
the request of Theaetetus.
THEODORUS: Not comply! for what reason?
SOCRATES: My reason is that I have a kind of reverence; not so much for Melissus and
the others, who say that ‘All is one and at rest,’ as for the great leader himself,
Parmenides, venerable and awful, as in Homeric language he may be called;—him I
should be ashamed to approach in a spirit unworthy of him. I met him when he was an
old man, and I was a mere youth, and he appeared to me to have a glorious depth of
mind. And I am afraid that we may not understand his words, and may be still further
from understanding his meaning; above all I fear that the nature of knowledge, which is
the main subject of our discussion, may be thrust out of sight by the unbidden guests
who will come pouring in upon our feast of discourse, if we let them in—besides, the
question which is now stirring is of immense extent, and will be treated unfairly if only
considered by the way; or if treated adequately and at length, will put into the shade the
other question of knowledge. Neither the one nor the other can be allowed; but I must
try by my art of midwifery to deliver Theaetetus of his conceptions about knowledge.
THEAETETUS: Very well; do so if you will.
SOCRATES: Then now, Theaetetus, take another view of the subject: you answered that
knowledge is perception?
THEAETETUS: I did.
SOCRATES: And if any one were to ask you: With what does a man see black and white
colours? and with what does he hear high and low sounds?—you would say, if I am not
mistaken, ‘With the eyes and with the ears.’
THEAETETUS: I should.
SOCRATES: The free use of words and phrases, rather than minute precision, is generally
characteristic of a liberal education, and the opposite is pedantic; but sometimes
precision is necessary, and I believe that the answer which you have just given is open to
the charge of incorrectness; for which is more correct, to say that we see or hear with
the eyes and with the ears, or through the eyes and through the ears.
THEAETETUS: I should say ‘through,’ Socrates, rather than ‘with.’
SOCRATES: Yes, my boy, for no one can suppose that in each of us, as in a sort of Trojan
horse, there are perched a number of unconnected senses, which do not all meet in
some one nature, the mind, or whatever we please to call it, of which they are the
instruments, and with which through them we perceive objects of sense.
THEAETETUS: I agree with you in that opinion.
SOCRATES: The reason why I am thus precise is, because I want to know whether, when
we perceive black and white through the eyes, and again, other qualities through other
organs, we do not perceive them with one and the same part of ourselves, and, if you
were asked, you might refer all such perceptions to the body. Perhaps, however, I had
better allow you to answer for yourself and not interfere. Tell me, then, are not the
organs through which you perceive warm and hard and light and sweet, organs of the
body?
THEAETETUS: Of the body, certainly.
SOCRATES: And you would admit that what you perceive through one faculty you
cannot perceive through another; the objects of hearing, for example, cannot be
perceived through sight, or the objects of sight through hearing?
THEAETETUS: Of course not.
SOCRATES: If you have any thought about both of them, this common perception
cannot come to you, either through the one or the other organ?
THEAETETUS: It cannot.
SOCRATES: How about sounds and colours: in the first place you would admit that they
both exist?
THEAETETUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And that either of them is different from the other, and the same with itself?
THEAETETUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And that both are two and each of them one?
THEAETETUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: You can further observe whether they are like or unlike one another?
THEAETETUS: I dare say.
SOCRATES: But through what do you perceive all this about them? for neither through
hearing nor yet through seeing can you apprehend that which they have in common. Let
me give you an illustration of the point at issue:—If there were any meaning in asking
whether sounds and colours are saline or not, you would be able to tell me what faculty
would consider the question. It would not be sight or hearing, but some other.
THEAETETUS: Certainly; the faculty of taste.
SOCRATES: Very good; and now tell me what is the power which discerns, not only in
sensible objects, but in all things, universal notions, such as those which are called being
and not-being, and those others about which we were just asking—what organs will you
assign for the perception of these notions?
THEAETETUS: You are thinking of being and not being, likeness and unlikeness,
sameness and difference, and also of unity and other numbers which are applied to
objects of sense; and you mean to ask, through what bodily organ the soul perceives
odd and even numbers and other arithmetical conceptions.
SOCRATES: You follow me excellently, Theaetetus; that is precisely what I am asking.
THEAETETUS: Indeed, Socrates, I cannot answer; my only notion is, that these, unlike
objects of sense, have no separate organ, but that the mind, by a power of her own,
contemplates the universals in all things.
SOCRATES: You are a beauty, Theaetetus, and not ugly, as Theodorus was saying; for he
who utters the beautiful is himself beautiful and good. And besides being beautiful, you
have done me a kindness in releasing me from a very long discussion, if you are clear
that the soul views some things by herself and others through the bodily organs. For
that was my own opinion, and I wanted you to agree with me.
THEAETETUS: I am quite clear.
SOCRATES: And to which class would you refer being or essence; for this, of all our
notions, is the most universal?
THEAETETUS: I should say, to that class which the soul aspires to know of herself.
SOCRATES: And would you say this also of like and unlike, same and other?
THEAETETUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And would you say the same of the noble and base, and of good and evil?
THEAETETUS: These I conceive to be notions which are essentially relative, and which the
soul also perceives by comparing in herself things past and present with the future.
SOCRATES: And does she not perceive the hardness of that which is hard by the touch,
and the softness of that which is soft equally by the touch?
THEAETETUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: But their essence and what they are, and their opposition to one another,
and the essential nature of this opposition, the soul herself endeavours to decide for us
by the review and comparison of them?
THEAETETUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: The simple sensations which reach the soul through the body are given at
birth to men and animals by nature, but their reflections on the being and use of them
are slowly and hardly gained, if they are ever gained, by education and long experience.
THEAETETUS: Assuredly.
SOCRATES: And can a man attain truth who fails of attaining being?
THEAETETUS: Impossible.
SOCRATES: And can he who misses the truth of anything, have a knowledge of that
thing?
THEAETETUS: He cannot.
SOCRATES: Then knowledge does not consist in impressions of sense, but in reasoning
about them; in that only, and not in the mere impression, truth and being can be
attained?
THEAETETUS: Clearly.
SOCRATES: And would you call the two processes by the same name, when there is so
great a difference between them?
THEAETETUS: That would certainly not be right.
SOCRATES: And what name would you give to seeing, hearing, smelling, being cold and
being hot?
THEAETETUS: I should call all of them perceiving—what other name could be given to
them?
SOCRATES: Perception would be the collective name of them?
THEAETETUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Which, as we say, has no part in the attainment of truth any more than of
being?
THEAETETUS: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: And therefore not in science or knowledge?
THEAETETUS: No.
SOCRATES: Then perception, Theaetetus, can never be the same as knowledge or
science?
THEAETETUS: Clearly not, Socrates; and knowledge has now been most distinctly proved
to be different from perception.
SOCRATES: But the original aim of our discussion was to find out rather what knowledge
is than what it is not; at the same time we have made some progress, for we no longer
seek for knowledge in perception at all, but in that other process, however called, in
which the mind is alone and engaged with being.
THEAETETUS: You mean, Socrates, if I am not mistaken, what is called thinking or
opining.
SOCRATES: You conceive truly. And now, my friend, please to begin again at this point;
and having wiped out of your memory all that has preceded, see if you have arrived at
any clearer view, and once more say what is knowledge.
THEAETETUS: I cannot say, Socrates, that all opinion is knowledge, because there may
be a false opinion; but I will venture to assert, that knowledge is true opinion: let this
then be my reply; and if this is hereafter disproved, I must try to find another.
SOCRATES: That is the way in which you ought to answer, Theaetetus, and not in your
former hesitating strain, for if we are bold we shall gain one of two advantages; either
we shall find what we seek, or we shall be less likely to think that we know what we do
not know—in either case we shall be richly rewarded. And now, what are you saying?—
Are there two sorts of opinion, one true and the other false; and do you define
knowledge to be the true?
THEAETETUS: Yes, according to my present view.
SOCRATES: Is it still worth our while to resume the discussion touching opinion?
THEAETETUS: To what are you alluding?
SOCRATES: There is a point which often troubles me, and is a great perplexity to me,
both in regard to myself and others. I cannot make out the nature or origin of the
mental experience to which I refer.
THEAETETUS: Pray what is it?
SOCRATES: How there can be false opinion—that difficulty still troubles the eye of my
mind; and I am uncertain whether I shall leave the question, or begin over again in a
new way.
THEAETETUS: Begin again, Socrates,—at least if you think that there is the slightest
necessity for doing so. Were not you and Theodorus just now remarking very truly, that
in discussions of this kind we may take our own time?
SOCRATES: You are quite right, and perhaps there will be no harm in retracing our steps
and beginning again. Better a little which is well done, than a great deal imperfectly.
THEAETETUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Well, and what is the difficulty? Do we not speak of false opinion, and say
that one man holds a false and another a true opinion, as though there were some
natural distinction between them?
THEAETETUS: We certainly say so.
SOCRATES: All things and everything are either known or not known. I leave out of view
the intermediate conceptions of learning and forgetting, because they have nothing to
do with our present question.
THEAETETUS: There can be no doubt, Socrates, if you exclude these, that there is no
other alternative but knowing or not knowing a thing.
SOCRATES: That point being now determined, must we not say that he who has an
opinion, must have an opinion about something which he knows or does not know?
THEAETETUS: He must.
SOCRATES: He who knows, cannot but know; and he who does not know, cannot know?
THEAETETUS: Of course.
SOCRATES: What shall we say then? When a man has a false opinion does he think that
which he knows to be some other thing which he knows, and knowing both, is he at the
same time ignorant of both?
THEAETETUS: That, Socrates, is impossible.
SOCRATES: But perhaps he thinks of something which he does not know as some other
thing which he does not know; for example, he knows neither Theaetetus nor Socrates,
and yet he fancies that Theaetetus is Socrates, or Socrates Theaetetus?
THEAETETUS: How can he?
SOCRATES: But surely he cannot suppose what he knows to be what he does not know,
or what he does not know to be what he knows?
THEAETETUS: That would be monstrous.
SOCRATES: Where, then, is false opinion? For if all things are either known or unknown,
there can be no opinion which is not comprehended under this alternative, and so false
opinion is excluded.
THEAETETUS: Most true.
SOCRATES: Suppose that we remove the question out of the sphere of knowing or not
knowing, into that of being and not-being.
THEAETETUS: What do you mean?
SOCRATES: May we not suspect the simple truth to be that he who thinks about
anything, that which is not, will necessarily think what is false, whatever in other respects
may be the state of his mind?
THEAETETUS: That, again, is not unlikely, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Then suppose some one to say to us, Theaetetus:—Is it possible for any man
to think that which is not, either as a self-existent substance or as a predicate of
something else? And suppose that we answer, ‘Yes, he can, when he thinks what is not
true.’—That will be our answer?
THEAETETUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: But is there any parallel to this?
THEAETETUS: What do you mean?
SOCRATES: Can a man see something and yet see nothing?
THEAETETUS: Impossible.
SOCRATES: But if he sees any one thing, he sees something that exists. Do you suppose
that what is one is ever to be found among non-existing things?
THEAETETUS: I do not.
SOCRATES: He then who sees some one thing, sees something which is?
THEAETETUS: Clearly.
SOCRATES: And he who hears anything, hears some one thing, and hears that which is?
THEAETETUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And he who touches anything, touches something which is one and
therefore is?
THEAETETUS: That again is true.
SOCRATES: And does not he who thinks, think some one thing?
THEAETETUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And does not he who thinks some one thing, think something which is?
THEAETETUS: I agree.
SOCRATES: Then he who thinks of that which is not, thinks of nothing?
THEAETETUS: Clearly.
SOCRATES: And he who thinks of nothing, does not think at all?
THEAETETUS: Obviously.
SOCRATES: Then no one can think that which is not, either as a self- existent substance
or as a predicate of something else?
THEAETETUS: Clearly not.
SOCRATES: Then to think falsely is different from thinking that which is not?
THEAETETUS: It would seem so.
SOCRATES: Then false opinion has no existence in us, either in the sphere of being or of
knowledge?
THEAETETUS: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: But may not the following be the description of what we express by this
name?
THEAETETUS: What?
SOCRATES: May we not suppose that false opinion or thought is a sort of heterodoxy; a
person may make an exchange in his mind, and say that one real object is another real
object. For thus he always thinks that which is, but he puts one thing in place of another;
and missing the aim of his thoughts, he may be truly said to have false opinion.
THEAETETUS: Now you appear to me to have spoken the exact truth: when a man puts
the base in the place of the noble, or the noble in the place of the base, then he has
truly false opinion.
SOCRATES: I see, Theaetetus, that your fear has disappeared, and that you are beginning
to despise me.
THEAETETUS: What makes you say so?
SOCRATES: You think, if I am not mistaken, that your ‘truly false’ is safe from censure,
and that I shall never ask whether there can be a swift which is slow, or a heavy which is
light, or any other self-contradictory thing, which works, not according to its own nature,
but according to that of its opposite. But I will not insist upon this, for I do not wish
needlessly to discourage you. And so you are satisfied that false opinion is heterodoxy,
or the thought of something else?
THEAETETUS: I am.
SOCRATES: It is possible then upon your view for the mind to conceive of one thing as
another?
THEAETETUS: True.
SOCRATES: But must not the mind, or thinking power, which misplaces them, have a
conception either of both objects or of one of them?
THEAETETUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Either together or in succession?
THEAETETUS: Very good.
SOCRATES: And do you mean by conceiving, the same which I mean?
THEAETETUS: What is that?
SOCRATES: I mean the conversation which the soul holds with herself in considering of
anything. I speak of what I scarcely understand; but the soul when thinking appears to
me to be just talking—asking questions of herself and answering them, affirming and
denying. And when she has arrived at a decision, either gradually or by a sudden
impulse, and has at last agreed, and does not doubt, this is called her opinion. I say,
then, that to form an opinion is to speak, and opinion is a word spoken,—I mean, to
oneself and in silence, not aloud or to another: What think you?
THEAETETUS: I agree.
SOCRATES: Then when any one thinks of one thing as another, he is saying to himself
that one thing is another?
THEAETETUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: But do you ever remember saying to yourself that the noble is certainly
base, or the unjust just; or, best of all—have you ever attempted to convince yourself
that one thing is another? Nay, not even in sleep, did you ever venture to say to yourself
that odd is even, or anything of the kind?
THEAETETUS: Never.
SOCRATES: And do you suppose that any other man, either in his senses or out of them,
ever seriously tried to persuade himself that an ox is a horse, or that two are one?
THEAETETUS: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: But if thinking is talking to oneself, no one speaking and thinking of two
objects, and apprehending them both in his soul, will say and think that the one is the
other of them, and I must add, that even you, lover of dispute as you are, had better let
the word ‘other’ alone (i.e. not insist that ‘one’ and ‘other’ are the same (Both words in
Greek are called eteron: compare Parmen.; Euthyd.)). I mean to say, that no one thinks
the noble to be base, or anything of the kind.
THEAETETUS: I will give up the word ‘other,’ Socrates; and I agree to what you say.
SOCRATES: If a man has both of them in his thoughts, he cannot think that the one of
them is the other?
THEAETETUS: True.
SOCRATES: Neither, if he has one of them only in his mind and not the other, can he
think that one is the other?
THEAETETUS: True; for we should have to suppose that he apprehends that which is not
in his thoughts at all.
SOCRATES: Then no one who has either both or only one of the two objects in his mind
can think that the one is the other. And therefore, he who maintains that false opinion is
heterodoxy is talking nonsense; for neither in this, any more than in the previous way,
can false opinion exist in us.
THEAETETUS: No.
SOCRATES: But if, Theaetetus, this is not admitted, we shall be driven into many
absurdities.
THEAETETUS: What are they?
SOCRATES: I will not tell you until I have endeavoured to consider the matter from every
point of view. For I should be ashamed of us if we were driven in our perplexity to admit
the absurd consequences of which I speak. But if we find the solution, and get away
from them, we may regard them only as the difficulties of others, and the ridicule will
not attach to us. On the other hand, if we utterly fail, I suppose that we must be humble,
and allow the argument to trample us under foot, as the sea-sick passenger is trampled
upon by the sailor, and to do anything to us. Listen, then, while I tell you how I hope to
find a way out of our difficulty.
THEAETETUS: Let me hear.
SOCRATES: I think that we were wrong in denying that a man could think what he knew
to be what he did not know; and that there is a way in which such a deception is
possible.
THEAETETUS: You mean to say, as I suspected at the time, that I may know Socrates, and
at a distance see some one who is unknown to me, and whom I mistake for him—then
the deception will occur?
SOCRATES: But has not that position been relinquished by us, because involving the
absurdity that we should know and not know the things which we know?
THEAETETUS: True.
SOCRATES: Let us make the assertion in another form, which may or may not have a
favourable issue; but as we are in a great strait, every argument should be turned over
and tested. Tell me, then, whether I am right in saying that you may learn a thing which
at one time you did not know?
THEAETETUS: Certainly you may.
SOCRATES: And another and another?
THEAETETUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: I would have you imagine, then, that there exists in the mind of man a block
of wax, which is of different sizes in different men; harder, moister, and having more or
less of purity in one than another, and in some of an intermediate quality.
THEAETETUS: I see.
SOCRATES: Let us say that this tablet is a gift of Memory, the mother of the Muses; and
that when we wish to remember anything which we have seen, or heard, or thought in
our own minds, we hold the wax to the perceptions and thoughts, and in that material
receive the impression of them as from the seal of a ring; and that we remember and
know what is imprinted as long as the image lasts; but when the image is effaced, or
cannot be taken, then we forget and do not know.
THEAETETUS: Very good.
SOCRATES: Now, when a person has this knowledge, and is considering something
which he sees or hears, may not false opinion arise in the following manner?
THEAETETUS: In what manner?
SOCRATES: When he thinks what he knows, sometimes to be what he knows, and
sometimes to be what he does not know. We were wrong before in denying the
possibility of this.
THEAETETUS: And how would you amend the former statement?
SOCRATES: I should begin by making a list of the impossible cases which must be
excluded. (1) No one can think one thing to be another when he does not perceive
either of them, but has the memorial or seal of both of them in his mind; nor can any
mistaking of one thing for another occur, when he only knows one, and does not know,
and has no impression of the other; nor can he think that one thing which he does not
know is another thing which he does not know, or that what he does not know is what
he knows; nor (2) that one thing which he perceives is another thing which he perceives,
or that something which he perceives is something which he does not perceive; or that
something which he does not perceive is something else which he does not perceive; or
that something which he does not perceive is something which he perceives; nor again
(3) can he think that something which he knows and perceives, and of which he has the
impression coinciding with sense, is something else which he knows and perceives, and
of which he has the impression coinciding with sense;—this last case, if possible, is still
more inconceivable than the others; nor (4) can he think that something which he knows
and perceives, and of which he has the memorial coinciding with sense, is something
else which he knows; nor so long as these agree, can he think that a thing which he
knows and perceives is another thing which he perceives; or that a thing which he does
not know and does not perceive, is the same as another thing which he does not know
and does not perceive;—nor again, can he suppose that a thing which he does not know
and does not perceive is the same as another thing which he does not know; or that a
thing which he does not know and does not perceive is another thing which he does not
perceive:—All these utterly and absolutely exclude the possibility of false opinion. The
only cases, if any, which remain, are the following.
THEAETETUS: What are they? If you tell me, I may perhaps understand you better; but at
present I am unable to follow you.
SOCRATES: A person may think that some things which he knows, or which he perceives
and does not know, are some other things which he knows and perceives; or that some
things which he knows and perceives, are other things which he knows and perceives.
THEAETETUS: I understand you less than ever now.
SOCRATES: Hear me once more, then:—I, knowing Theodorus, and remembering in my
own mind what sort of person he is, and also what sort of person Theaetetus is, at one
time see them, and at another time do not see them, and sometimes I touch them, and
at another time not, or at one time I may hear them or perceive them in some other
way, and at another time not perceive them, but still I remember them, and know them
in my own mind.
THEAETETUS: Very true.
SOCRATES: Then, first of all, I want you to understand that a man may or may not
perceive sensibly that which he knows.
THEAETETUS: True.
SOCRATES: And that which he does not know will sometimes not be perceived by him
and sometimes will be perceived and only perceived?
THEAETETUS: That is also true.
SOCRATES: See whether you can follow me better now: Socrates can recognize
Theodorus and Theaetetus, but he sees neither of them, nor does he perceive them in
any other way; he cannot then by any possibility imagine in his own mind that
Theaetetus is Theodorus. Am I not right?
THEAETETUS: You are quite right.
SOCRATES: Then that was the first case of which I spoke.
THEAETETUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: The second case was, that I, knowing one of you and not knowing the other,
and perceiving neither, can never think him whom I know to be him whom I do not
know.
THEAETETUS: True.
SOCRATES: In the third case, not knowing and not perceiving either of you, I cannot
think that one of you whom I do not know is the other whom I do not know. I need not
again go over the catalogue of excluded cases, in which I cannot form a false opinion
about you and Theodorus, either when I know both or when I am in ignorance of both,
or when I know one and not the other. And the same of perceiving: do you understand
me?
THEAETETUS: I do.
SOCRATES: The only possibility of erroneous opinion is, when knowing you and
Theodorus, and having on the waxen block the impression of both of you given as by a
seal, but seeing you imperfectly and at a distance, I try to assign the right impression of
memory to the right visual impression, and to fit this into its own print: if I succeed,
recognition will take place; but if I fail and transpose them, putting the foot into the
wrong shoe— that is to say, putting the vision of either of you on to the wrong
impression, or if my mind, like the sight in a mirror, which is transferred from right to
left, err by reason of some similar affection, then ‘heterodoxy’ and false opinion ensues.
THEAETETUS: Yes, Socrates, you have described the nature of opinion with wonderful
exactness.
SOCRATES: Or again, when I know both of you, and perceive as well as know one of you,
but not the other, and my knowledge of him does not accord with perception—that was
the case put by me just now which you did not understand.

The Complete Works of Plato - Part 4