Dialogues

by Plato

~~399–347 BC~~ 2026

This is an AI modernization of Dialogues into contemporary English. Also available as an epub.

Editor's Introduction

Socrates was executed by Athens in 399 BC, at about seventy, on charges of impiety and of corrupting the young. He wrote nothing. Everything we have of him comes from people who heard him talk, and chiefly from Plato, who was in his late twenties when his teacher was killed and who spent the next fifty years writing him down. Plato founded a school outside the city, the Academy, and died around 348 BC. How much of the Socrates in these pages is the man and how much is Plato arguing under a borrowed name has never been settled.

The dialogues are scripts. They have casts, settings and stage business: a porch outside a courtroom, a wrestling school, a walk along a river on a hot day, a drinking party that goes on till dawn. People arrive late, interrupt, get angry, walk out. Socrates asks questions because the question is the method. He says he knows nothing, finds a man who claims to know something, and asks him to define it — piety, courage, justice, self-control, love — then follows the answer until it comes apart. Often nothing replaces it. Several of these end with everybody agreeing they have got nowhere, and that is not a defect in the text. They were written to be read aloud and argued with, and a summary of the conclusions would leave out the entire book.

This selection is twenty-four works: Euthyphro, the Apology, Crito, Phaedo, Meno, Protagoras, Gorgias, the Symposium, Phaedrus, the Republic complete in ten books, Ion, Laches, Lysis, Charmides, Euthydemus, Cratylus, Theaetetus, Parmenides, the Sophist, the Statesman, Philebus, Timaeus, Critias, and the Laws complete in twelve books. The Apology is not a dialogue at all but a speech — Socrates defending himself to a jury of several hundred Athenians, and losing.

The first four make one continuous story and can be read straight through as such. Euthyphro is set on the porch of the court where the charge has just been filed. The Apology is the trial. Crito is the cell, some weeks later, with a friend who has bribed the guard and wants him to run. Phaedo is the last afternoon, the conversation with his friends, and the hemlock. It is four acts, and nobody wrote anything like it again.

Plato taught Aristotle, who came to the Academy at seventeen and stayed twenty years; Aristotle taught Theophrastus, who took over his school. Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics and Theophrastus' Characters are both in this collection, as is Xenophon's Memorabilia, which is another man's Socrates and a useful check on this one. The text here is modernized from Benjamin Jowett's Victorian English rather than from the Greek.

The Republic

The Laws

Laws — Book VI (Part 1)

Laws — Book VI (Part 2)

Laws — Book VII (Part 1)

Laws — Book VII (Part 2)

Euthyphro

Persons of the dialogue:
  Socrates
  Euthyphro

Scene: The porch of the King Archon's court.

Euthyphro: Why have you left the Lyceum, Socrates? What are you doing here at the King Archon's court? Surely you don't have a case before the King, like I do?

Socrates: Not a case, Euthyphro. "Impeachment" is the word the Athenians are using.

Euthyphro: What! Someone is prosecuting you? I can't believe that you'd be the one prosecuting someone else.

Socrates: Certainly not.

Euthyphro: So someone else is prosecuting you?

Socrates: Yes.

Euthyphro: And who is he?

Socrates: A young man, not well known. I barely know him myself. His name is Meletus, from the deme of Pitthis. Maybe you can picture him — he's got a beak of a nose, long straight hair, and a thin, scraggly beard.

Euthyphro: No, I don't know him, Socrates. But what's the charge he's bringing against you?

Socrates: The charge? Well, it's quite a serious one, and it shows real ambition in the young man — you have to give him credit for that. He claims to know exactly how the youth are being corrupted and who's doing the corrupting. He must be some kind of genius. He's seen that I'm the opposite of wise, caught me red-handed corrupting his generation, and now he's running to the state to report me. Of all our politicians, he's the only one who seems to be starting in the right place — cultivating virtue in the young. Like a good farmer, he's tending the young shoots first and clearing out the weeds — that's us, apparently, the corrupters. This is just the beginning. After he's dealt with us, he'll turn to the older generation. If he keeps this up, he'll be a tremendous public benefactor.

Euthyphro: I hope he will be. But I'm afraid, Socrates, that the opposite may turn out to be true. In my opinion, by attacking you he's striking at the very foundation of the state. But tell me — in what way does he say you corrupt the young?

Socrates: He brings an astonishing accusation against me — it sounds incredible at first. He says I'm a maker of gods, that I invent new gods and deny the old ones. That's the basis of his indictment.

Euthyphro: I see, Socrates. He's going after you about that divine sign — the inner voice you say comes to you from time to time. He thinks you're inventing new religious ideas, and he's hauling you into court for it. He knows that kind of charge goes over well with the public. I know that all too well myself — whenever I speak in the assembly about divine matters and predict the future, they laugh at me and call me crazy. But every word I say turns out to be true. They're jealous of all of us, that's what it is. We just have to be brave and stand up to them.

Socrates: Their laughter, friend Euthyphro, isn't really such a big deal. A man can be considered wise, and the Athenians won't much care — until he starts trying to teach his wisdom to others. Then, for some reason — jealousy, perhaps, as you say — they get angry.

Euthyphro: Well, I'm not likely to test their patience that way.

Socrates: I'd guess not — you keep to yourself and don't go around sharing your wisdom. But I have this generous habit of pouring myself out to everyone. I'd practically pay someone to listen to me. And I'm afraid the Athenians think I'm too talkative. Now, if they'd only laugh at me — the way you say they laugh at you — we could have a perfectly pleasant time in court. But they might be serious about this. And then how it ends — well, only you fortune-tellers can predict that.

Euthyphro: I expect it will all come to nothing, Socrates. You'll win your case. And I think I'll win mine too.

Socrates: And what is your case, Euthyphro? Are you the one bringing charges, or defending against them?

Euthyphro: I'm the one bringing charges.

Socrates: Against whom?

Euthyphro: You'll think I'm insane when I tell you.

Socrates: Why — can the defendant fly?

Euthyphro: Ha, no. He's hardly the flying type. Not at his age.

Socrates: Who is he?

Euthyphro: My father.

Socrates: Your father! Good heavens!

Euthyphro: Yes.

Socrates: And what's the charge?

Euthyphro: Murder, Socrates.

Socrates: By the powers! Euthyphro, how little ordinary people understand about what's truly right and wrong. It would take a remarkably wise man — someone who's made extraordinary progress in wisdom — to see his way clear to bringing a charge like that.

Euthyphro: It certainly would, Socrates. Extraordinary progress indeed.

Socrates: I assume the man your father killed was a relative of yours? Obviously he must have been — you'd never prosecute your own father over a stranger.

Euthyphro: It amuses me, Socrates, that you'd make a distinction between a relative and a stranger. Surely the moral pollution is the same either way, if you knowingly live with a killer when you should be clearing both yourself and him by taking him to court. The real question is whether the dead man was killed justly or unjustly. If justly, leave it alone. If unjustly, you have to prosecute — even if the killer lives under your own roof and eats at your own table. Here's what happened: the dead man was a dependent of mine, a hired laborer who worked on our farm in Naxos. One day, in a drunken rage, he got into a fight with one of our household servants and killed him. My father had the man bound hand and foot and thrown into a ditch, then sent a messenger to Athens to consult a religious authority about what to do. In the meantime, he completely neglected the prisoner — didn't look after him at all, figured he was just a murderer, and thought it wouldn't matter much if he died. And that's exactly what happened. By the time the messenger got back from Athens, the man was dead — from cold, hunger, and being chained up. Now my father and the rest of my family are furious with me for siding with the killer and prosecuting my own father. They say my father didn't really kill the man, and even if he did, the dead man was a murderer himself, so I shouldn't worry about it. They say a son who prosecutes his own father is committing an act of impiety. Which just shows you, Socrates, how little they understand about what the gods actually think about piety and impiety.

Socrates: Good heavens, Euthyphro! And is your knowledge of religion — of what's pious and what's impious — really so precise that, given the circumstances you've described, you're not at all afraid that by prosecuting your father, you yourself might be doing something impious?

Euthyphro: The thing that sets Euthyphro apart from other men, Socrates — the best thing about me — is my exact knowledge of all these matters. What would I be worth without it?

Socrates: You remarkable man! I think the best thing I can do is become your student. Before my trial with Meletus comes up, I'll challenge him. I'll say: "Meletus, I've always had a deep interest in religious questions, and now that you're charging me with reckless innovations in religion, I've become a student of Euthyphro's. Surely you, Meletus, acknowledge that Euthyphro is a great authority on religion and perfectly sound in his beliefs? Well, if you approve of him, you should approve of me too, and drop the case. But if you disapprove, you should start by indicting him — my teacher — who will be the ruin not of the young but of the old: namely me, his student, and his elderly father, whom he corrects and punishes." And if Meletus won't listen to me and insists on going ahead with his case, I'll make the same argument in court.

Euthyphro: Oh yes, Socrates — and if he tries to indict me, I'm very much mistaken if I don't find his weak spot. The court would have far more to say to him than to me.

Socrates: And it's precisely because I know this, my dear friend, that I'm so eager to become your student. I notice that nobody else seems to pay you any attention — not even this Meletus. But his sharp eyes spotted me right away, and he's indicted me for impiety. So please, I'm begging you — tell me: what is piety, and what is impiety? You said you know these things perfectly well. What about murder, and the other offenses against the gods — what are they? Isn't piety always the same thing in every action? And impiety — isn't it always the opposite of piety, and always consistent with itself — having one essential nature that covers everything that's impious?

Euthyphro: Absolutely, Socrates.

Socrates: Then what is piety, and what is impiety?

Euthyphro: Piety is doing what I'm doing right now — prosecuting anyone who's guilty of murder, sacrilege, or any similar crime, whether that person is your father, your mother, or anyone else. Not prosecuting them — that's impiety. And let me give you a compelling proof, Socrates, one I've already shared with others: the principle that the impious must not go unpunished, whoever they may be. Consider this — don't people regard Zeus as the best and most just of the gods? And yet they agree that he chained up his own father Cronos for wickedly devouring his children, and that Cronos himself had punished his father Uranus for similar reasons, in ways too awful to name. But when I proceed against my father, these same people get angry at me. See how inconsistent they are? One standard for the gods, another for me.

Socrates: Could this be the reason I'm charged with impiety, Euthyphro — that I can't stomach these stories about the gods? I suppose that's why people think there's something wrong with me. But since you, who are so well informed about these things, accept these stories, I can only bow to your superior wisdom. What else can I say? I freely admit I know nothing about them. But tell me, for the love of Zeus — do you honestly believe these stories are true?

Euthyphro: Yes, Socrates — and even more astonishing things than these, things the rest of the world doesn't know about.

Socrates: So you really believe that the gods fought with each other — that they had terrible feuds and battles and all the rest, like the poets describe and like the artists depict? The temples are full of these scenes. The sacred robe of Athena, the one carried up to the Acropolis at the great Panathenaea, is embroidered with them. Are all these stories of the gods true, Euthyphro?

Euthyphro: Yes, Socrates. And as I was saying, I could tell you many other things about the gods that would absolutely amaze you, if you'd like to hear them.

Socrates: I'm sure you could. You can tell me those some other time, when I have more leisure. But right now, I'd rather hear a more precise answer to the question I asked — which you haven't actually given me yet, my friend. When I asked "What is piety?" you simply replied: "Doing what you do — prosecuting your father for murder."

Euthyphro: And what I said was true, Socrates.

Socrates: Maybe so, Euthyphro. But you'd agree that there are many other pious acts besides that?

Euthyphro: There are.

Socrates: Remember, I didn't ask you for two or three examples of piety. I asked you to explain the general idea — the essential quality that makes all pious things pious. You do recall saying there was one single idea that makes impious things impious and pious things pious?

Euthyphro: I remember.

Socrates: Then tell me what that idea is, so I'll have a standard to measure by. Then I'll be able to look at any action — yours or anyone else's — and say "that's pious" or "that's impious."

Euthyphro: I'll tell you, if you like.

Socrates: I'd like that very much.

Euthyphro: Well then — piety is what the gods love, and impiety is what they don't love.

Socrates: Excellent, Euthyphro. That's exactly the kind of answer I was looking for. Whether it's actually true, I can't say yet — but I'm sure you'll prove it.

Euthyphro: Of course.

Socrates: All right, let's examine what we're saying. Whatever the gods love is pious, and whatever they hate is impious — these are the exact opposites. Isn't that what we said?

Euthyphro: It is.

Socrates: And well said?

Euthyphro: Yes, Socrates, I think so. It was certainly said.

Socrates: Now, we also agreed that the gods have feuds and disagreements and conflicts with each other?

Euthyphro: Yes, we said that too.

Socrates: But what kind of disagreement creates feuds and anger? Think about it this way: if you and I disagree about a number — about which of two groups is larger — does that make us enemies? Don't we just do the math and settle it?

Euthyphro: True.

Socrates: And if we disagree about sizes, we settle it by measuring?

Euthyphro: Very true.

Socrates: And a disagreement about weight — we settle it by putting things on a scale?

Euthyphro: Of course.

Socrates: But what kind of disagreements can't be settled that way — the kind that make us angry and turn us into enemies? I'd guess the answer doesn't come to mind right away, so let me suggest it: these feuds arise when the disagreement is about what's just and unjust, good and evil, honorable and dishonorable. Aren't these the things we fight about — you and I and everyone — precisely because we can't measure them and settle the question?

Euthyphro: Yes, Socrates, that's exactly the kind of thing we fight about.

Socrates: And the quarrels of the gods, noble Euthyphro — when they happen, they're the same kind?

Euthyphro: They must be.

Socrates: So the gods, according to you, have disagreements about good and evil, just and unjust, honorable and dishonorable. There'd be no quarrels among them if they didn't disagree about these things — right?

Euthyphro: You're quite right.

Socrates: And doesn't everyone — god or human — love what they consider noble and just and good, and hate the opposite?

Euthyphro: Very true.

Socrates: But as you say, different people — and different gods — regard the same things differently. Some call a thing just, others call it unjust. That's what the disputes and wars are about.

Euthyphro: Very true.

Socrates: Then the same things are hated by some gods and loved by others — both hateful and dear to the gods at the same time?

Euthyphro: True.

Socrates: And on your definition, Euthyphro, those same things would be both pious and impious?

Euthyphro: I suppose so.

Socrates: Then, my friend, I'm afraid you haven't answered my question after all. I certainly didn't ask you to tell me what action is both pious and impious at the same time. But that's where we've ended up: what the gods love, they apparently also hate. So when you punish your father, Euthyphro, it's entirely possible that what you're doing is pleasing to Zeus but offensive to Cronos or Uranus — acceptable to Hephaestus but unacceptable to Hera — and so on for every god who disagrees with another about it.

Euthyphro: But I believe, Socrates, that on this particular point all the gods would agree: anyone who kills someone unjustly should be punished. There'd be no disagreement about that.

Socrates: Really? When it comes to actual human beings, Euthyphro, have you ever heard anyone argue that a murderer or any kind of criminal should just be let off?

Euthyphro: Hardly — that's what they argue about all the time, especially in court. People commit every sort of crime, and then they'll say and do anything to avoid punishment.

Socrates: But do they admit their guilt and then argue they shouldn't be punished?

Euthyphro: No, they don't go that far.

Socrates: So there is something they won't dare to say: nobody argues that a guilty person should go unpunished. What they argue is that they're not guilty. Right?

Euthyphro: Yes.

Socrates: So nobody — god or human — disputes the principle that wrongdoers should be punished. What they dispute is the facts: who actually did the wrong, what they did, and when they did it.

Euthyphro: True.

Socrates: And wouldn't the same apply to the gods, if they quarrel about justice as you claim? Some say an injustice was committed; others deny it. Because surely no god or human would ever dare say that someone who's genuinely done wrong shouldn't be punished?

Euthyphro: That's true, Socrates, in the main.

Socrates: So the disagreement — for gods and humans alike — is always about the specifics. They argue about a particular act: one side says it was just, the other says it was unjust. Isn't that right?

Euthyphro: Quite right.

Socrates: Well then, my dear friend Euthyphro, tell me this — for my instruction, please: what proof do you have that all the gods agree that what happened was unjust? That a laborer who committed murder, who was chained up by the dead man's master and died in chains before the master could even consult the religious authorities about what to do — that this man died unjustly? And that it's right for a son to prosecute his own father on behalf of such a man? Come on. Show me that all the gods, without exception, approve of what you're doing. Prove that to me, and I'll sing your praises as long as I live.

Euthyphro: It would be a difficult task, but I could certainly make it very clear to you.

Socrates: I see — you mean I'm too slow to follow. You'd have no trouble with the judges; I'm sure you could prove to them that the act was unjust and hateful to the gods.

Euthyphro: Absolutely, Socrates. If they'll listen to me, at least.

Socrates: Oh, they'll listen, if you make a good case. But here's what occurred to me while you were talking. I thought: "Even if Euthyphro proves to me that every single god considers this laborer's death unjust, what have I really learned about the nature of piety and impiety? This particular act might be hateful to the gods, sure — but we've just seen that you can't define piety and impiety that way, because the same thing can be both hateful and dear to the gods." So I won't press you on that point, Euthyphro. Let's just assume, if you like, that all the gods condemn your father's action. But let me revise the definition: what all the gods hate is impious, and what all the gods love is pious or holy; and what some love but others hate is neither, or both. Shall we go with that as our definition of piety and impiety?

Euthyphro: Why not, Socrates?

Socrates: Why not indeed! As far as I'm concerned, there's no reason why not. But whether this definition will actually help you teach me what you promised — well, that's for you to decide.

Euthyphro: Yes, I'd say that what all the gods love is pious and holy, and what they all hate is impious.

Socrates: Should we examine whether that's true, Euthyphro, or just accept it on our own say-so and everyone else's? What do you think?

Euthyphro: We should examine it. And I believe it will hold up under scrutiny.

Socrates: We'll find out soon enough, my friend. But here's the point I want to understand first: Is what's pious loved by the gods because it's pious? Or is it pious because it's loved by the gods?

Euthyphro: I don't understand what you mean, Socrates.

Socrates: I'll try to explain. We talk about carrying and being carried, about leading and being led, about seeing and being seen. In all these cases, there's a difference between the active and the passive, and you understand what that difference is?

Euthyphro: I think so.

Socrates: And there's a difference between the thing that's loved and the thing that does the loving?

Euthyphro: Of course.

Socrates: Now tell me: is something "being carried" because it's in a state of being carried, or for some other reason?

Euthyphro: No, that's the reason.

Socrates: And the same for what's being led, and what's being seen?

Euthyphro: True.

Socrates: So a thing isn't seen because it's "visible" — it's visible because it's seen. A thing isn't led because it's "in a state of being led" — it's in that state because someone is leading it. You see my point, Euthyphro? Whenever something is acted upon, the state it's in follows from the action — not the other way around. Something doesn't become because it's "in a state of becoming" — it's in that state because it's becoming. It doesn't suffer because it's "in a state of suffering" — it's in that state because something is happening to it. Do you agree?

Euthyphro: Yes.

Socrates: And isn't something that's loved in a state of either being changed or being acted upon?

Euthyphro: Yes.

Socrates: So the same principle applies here: something is in the state of being loved because it's loved — it's not loved because it's in that state.

Euthyphro: Certainly.

Socrates: Now, what do you say about piety, Euthyphro? On your definition, isn't it loved by all the gods?

Euthyphro: Yes.

Socrates: Because it's pious? Or for some other reason?

Euthyphro: No, because it's pious.

Socrates: So it's loved because it's holy — it's not holy because it's loved?

Euthyphro: Yes.

Socrates: But what's dear to the gods is dear to them and in a state of being loved by them precisely because they love it — right?

Euthyphro: Certainly.

Socrates: Then "what's dear to the gods" and "what's holy" aren't the same thing, Euthyphro. They're two different things.

Euthyphro: How do you mean, Socrates?

Socrates: What I mean is this: we've agreed that what's holy is loved by the gods because it's holy — not that it's holy because it's loved.

Euthyphro: Yes.

Socrates: But what's dear to the gods is dear to them because they love it — not loved because it's dear to them.

Euthyphro: True.

Socrates: But, friend Euthyphro, if "what's holy" and "what's dear to the gods" were really the same thing, then: if the holy is loved because it's holy, then what's dear to the gods would be loved because it's dear to them. And if what's dear to the gods is dear because the gods love it, then the holy would be holy because the gods love it. But you see that the reverse is the case — these are two completely different things. One is loved because it's the kind of thing that gets loved. The other is the kind of thing that gets loved because it's loved. So when I ask you what piety essentially is, Euthyphro, you're giving me an attribute — "being loved by the gods" — not the essence itself. You still haven't told me what piety actually is at its core. So if you don't mind, let's start over. Tell me again: what is holiness or piety, really? Whether the gods love it or not — we won't fight about that. Just tell me: what is it?

Euthyphro: But Socrates, I really don't know how to express what I mean. Somehow our arguments, no matter where we start, seem to go walking off on us and refuse to stay put.

Socrates: Your arguments, Euthyphro, remind me of the handiwork of my ancestor Daedalus. If I were the one putting them forward, you might say they walk away because I'm his descendant, and it's in my blood to make things that won't stay still. But these are your arguments, not mine, so you'll need a different joke — because they clearly do have a tendency to wander, as you yourself admit.

Euthyphro: No, Socrates, I still say you're the Daedalus here — you're the one who makes arguments move. Left to me, they'd have stayed perfectly still.

Socrates: Then I must be an even greater craftsman than Daedalus! He could only make his own creations move. I apparently make other people's move too. And the funny part is, I'd rather not. I'd trade the genius of Daedalus and the wealth of Tantalus to be able to pin an argument down and keep it in place. But enough of that. Since I can see you're getting a bit lazy, I'll try to help you out. Let me show you how you might teach me about the nature of piety — and please, don't begrudge the effort. Tell me: isn't everything that's pious necessarily also just?

Euthyphro: Yes.

Socrates: But is everything that's just also pious? Or is everything pious also just, while only some just things are pious — and the rest are something else?

Euthyphro: I don't follow you, Socrates.

Socrates: And yet you're so much wiser than I am — and younger too! But as I said, your abundance of wisdom is making you lazy. Come on, exert yourself a little. It's really not that hard to understand. Let me explain what I mean with an example of what I don't mean. The poet Stasinus writes:

"Of Zeus, the author and creator of all these things, You will not tell: for where there is fear there is also reverence."

Now, I disagree with this poet. Want to hear why?

Euthyphro: By all means.

Socrates: I don't think it's true that where there is fear, there is also reverence. Plenty of people fear poverty and disease and all kinds of bad things, but I don't see them feeling any reverence toward what they fear.

Euthyphro: Very true.

Socrates: But where there is reverence, there is always fear. Anyone who feels reverence and a sense of shame about doing something wrong also fears getting a bad reputation.

Euthyphro: No doubt.

Socrates: So we're wrong to say "where there is fear, there is reverence." We should say: "where there is reverence, there is fear." But there isn't always reverence where there is fear. Fear is the broader category, and reverence is a part of it — just as odd numbers are a part of all numbers, but not all numbers are odd. Are you following me now?

Euthyphro: Perfectly.

Socrates: That's exactly the kind of question I was raising before. Is everything that's just also pious? Or is everything that's pious just, while justice is the broader category — and piety is only a part of it? Do you disagree?

Euthyphro: No, I think you're quite right.

Socrates: Then if piety is a part of justice, we need to figure out which part. Suppose you'd asked me what an even number is, and which part of all numbers the even ones make up. I'd have said: any number divisible into two equal parts. Right?

Euthyphro: Yes, I agree completely.

Socrates: Good. Now I want you to tell me the same kind of thing: which part of justice is piety? Then I can tell Meletus to stop accusing me of impiety, since I'll have been properly educated by you in what holiness and its opposite actually are.

Euthyphro: Piety, Socrates, seems to me to be that part of justice that deals with our obligations to the gods, while the other part deals with our obligations to other people.

Socrates: That's good, Euthyphro. But I'd still like a small clarification. What do you mean by "dealing with" or "attending to" the gods? Because "attending to" can't mean the same thing when applied to gods as it does when applied to other things. For example, we say horses need attending to — but not just anyone can do it. Only a person skilled in horsemanship can attend to horses. Right?

Euthyphro: Certainly.

Socrates: Because horsemanship is the skill of attending to horses?

Euthyphro: Yes.

Socrates: And not everyone can attend to dogs — only a huntsman?

Euthyphro: True.

Socrates: Because the huntsman's skill is the art of attending to dogs?

Euthyphro: Yes.

Socrates: And the herder's skill is the art of attending to cattle?

Euthyphro: Exactly.

Socrates: So piety or holiness would be the art of attending to the gods — is that what you mean, Euthyphro?

Euthyphro: Yes.

Socrates: But isn't all "attending to" aimed at the good or benefit of whatever is being attended to? Horses, for example — when they're properly attended to by someone with skill in horsemanship, they're improved and made better. Right?

Euthyphro: True.

Socrates: And dogs are improved by the huntsman's skill, and cattle by the herder's — and everything else that's properly attended to is cared for in a way that helps it, not harms it?

Euthyphro: Certainly not for its harm.

Socrates: But for its benefit?

Euthyphro: Of course.

Socrates: So does piety — which you've defined as the art of attending to the gods — benefit or improve the gods? Are you saying that when you do something pious, you're making the gods better?

Euthyphro: No, no — that's certainly not what I meant.

Socrates: I didn't think so, Euthyphro. I never imagined you meant that. That's exactly why I asked — I could tell that's not what you had in mind.

Euthyphro: You're right about that, Socrates. That's not the kind of attention I mean at all.

Socrates: Fair enough. But then I still need to ask: what kind of attention to the gods is piety?

Euthyphro: The kind that servants show their masters, Socrates.

Socrates: Ah, I see — a kind of service to the gods.

Euthyphro: Exactly.

Socrates: Now, medicine is also a kind of service, aimed at producing a specific result — health. Right?

Euthyphro: Right.

Socrates: And there's a craft that serves the shipbuilder, aimed at producing a result?

Euthyphro: Yes, Socrates — aimed at building a ship.

Socrates: And a craft that serves the house-builder, aimed at building a house?

Euthyphro: Yes.

Socrates: So tell me, my friend: this service to the gods — what result does it aim to produce? You must know, since you say you're the most expert in religious matters of any person alive.

Euthyphro: And I'm telling the truth, Socrates.

Socrates: Then tell me, please — what is this great work that the gods accomplish with the help of our service?

Euthyphro: The gods accomplish many great things, Socrates.

Socrates: So do generals, my friend. But you can still identify their main work pretty easily. You'd say it's victory in war, wouldn't you?

Euthyphro: Certainly.

Socrates: And farmers accomplish many things, but the main one is producing food from the earth?

Euthyphro: Exactly.

Socrates: So of the many great things the gods accomplish, what's the main one?

Euthyphro: I already told you, Socrates, that learning all of this in detail would be very tedious. Let me just put it simply: piety is knowing how to please the gods in word and deed, through prayers and sacrifices. This kind of piety is the salvation of families and cities. The opposite — impiety, the kind of behavior that displeases the gods — that's what ruins and destroys everything.

Socrates: You could have answered my main question in far fewer words, Euthyphro, if you'd wanted to. But I can see you're not especially eager to instruct me — that's clear enough. Why else would you dodge the question just when we were getting to the point? If you'd only answered me directly, I'd have learned the nature of piety from you by now. But as it is, the person asking the question has to follow wherever the person answering leads. So let me ask again: what is piety? Are you saying it's a kind of knowledge — the knowledge of how to pray and sacrifice?

Euthyphro: Yes, that's what I'm saying.

Socrates: And sacrificing means giving to the gods, and praying means asking from the gods?

Euthyphro: Yes, Socrates.

Socrates: So on this view, piety is the knowledge of how to ask from the gods and give to them?

Euthyphro: You understand me perfectly, Socrates.

Socrates: Yes, my friend — I'm a devoted student of your expertise, and I'm paying close attention, so nothing you say will be wasted on me. Now please tell me: what is this service to the gods? You say we ask things from them and give things to them?

Euthyphro: Yes.

Socrates: And the right way to ask is to ask them for what we need?

Euthyphro: Certainly.

Socrates: And the right way to give is to give them what they need from us? It wouldn't make much sense to give someone something they don't want.

Euthyphro: Very true, Socrates.

Socrates: So piety, Euthyphro, is a kind of business transaction between gods and humans?

Euthyphro: You could put it that way, if you like.

Socrates: I don't have any particular attachment to a phrase — I just want the truth. But tell me: what benefit do the gods get from our gifts? What they give to us is obvious — every good thing we have comes from them. But what good do we give them in return? It's hardly clear. If they give us everything and we give them nothing, that's a pretty lopsided deal — we're getting the much better end of it.

Euthyphro: Do you really think, Socrates, that the gods benefit from what we give them?

Socrates: Well, if they don't, Euthyphro, what are these gifts we give the gods?

Euthyphro: What else but honor and tribute — and, as I was saying, what pleases them?

Socrates: So piety is what pleases the gods, but it doesn't actually benefit them or give them something they value?

Euthyphro: I'd say nothing could be dearer to them.

Socrates: So once again, it seems, piety is "what's dear to the gods."

Euthyphro: Absolutely.

Socrates: And you're surprised that your arguments won't stay put? That they keep walking off? You're going to blame me — call me the Daedalus who makes them wander? Can't you see that there's an even greater craftsman than Daedalus at work here, and it's you? Because the argument has come full circle, right back to where it started. We said earlier that "what's holy" and "what's loved by the gods" aren't the same thing. Do you remember that?

Euthyphro: I remember perfectly.

Socrates: And now aren't you saying that what the gods love is holy? And isn't "what the gods love" just another way of saying "what's dear to the gods"? Don't you see?

Euthyphro: Yes.

Socrates: Then either we were wrong before, or if we were right then, we're wrong now.

Euthyphro: It seems like one of the two has to be true.

Socrates: Then we have to start over again and ask: what is piety? I won't give up on this question as long as I can help it. Please, Euthyphro — don't brush me off. Apply your mind to this with everything you've got, and tell me the truth. Because if anyone in the world knows the answer, it's you — and I'm not letting you go, like Proteus, until you tell me. If you didn't truly know the nature of piety and impiety, there's no way you'd ever have prosecuted your elderly father for murder on behalf of a hired laborer. You wouldn't have risked doing something wrong in the eyes of the gods, and you would've cared too much about what people think. So I'm certain you know. Speak up, my dear Euthyphro, and don't hide what you know.

Euthyphro: Another time, Socrates. I'm in a hurry and have to go now.

Socrates: What are you doing to me, my friend? You're going to leave me in despair? I was hoping you'd teach me about piety and impiety so I could clear myself of Meletus and his indictment. I was going to tell him that Euthyphro had enlightened me, that I'd given up my reckless speculations — which I only pursued out of ignorance — and that from now on I was going to lead a better life.

Apology

I have no idea what effect my accusers had on you, men of Athens, but I can tell you this: they were so persuasive they almost made me forget who I am. And yet they've barely spoken a word of truth. Of the many lies they told, one in particular amazed me — when they warned you to be on your guard against my "powerful eloquence." The sheer audacity of saying that, when they were about to be exposed the moment I opened my mouth and proved myself to be no great speaker at all — that struck me as truly shameless. Unless by "powerful eloquence" they mean the power of truth. If that's what they mean, then I'll gladly plead guilty to being eloquent.

But my eloquence, if you want to call it that, is nothing like theirs. From them you've heard almost no truth at all. From me you'll hear the whole truth. And not delivered the way they do it, gentlemen — no polished speeches decorated with fancy words and phrases. No, by heaven! I'm going to use whatever words and arguments come to me as I speak, because I'm confident that what I'm saying is just. At my age, it would be ridiculous to come before you performing like some young orator — please don't expect that of me.

But I do have one favor to ask. If I defend myself the way I usually talk — using the same words you'd hear from me in the agora, at the money-changers' tables, or anywhere else — please don't be surprised, and don't interrupt me for it. Here's the thing: I'm over seventy years old, and this is my first time in a courtroom. The language of this place is completely foreign to me. So think of me the way you'd think of an actual foreigner — you'd forgive him for speaking in his own way, in his own style, wouldn't you? That's all I ask. Don't worry about the style, which may or may not be polished. Focus only on whether what I'm saying is true. That's the speaker's job — to speak the truth. And it's the judge's job — to decide justly.

First, I need to respond to my older accusers and the older charges against me. Then I'll deal with the more recent ones. Because I've had many accusers over many years — people who've been lying about me to you for a long time — and honestly, I'm more afraid of them than I am of Anytus and his associates, dangerous as those men are. The older accusers are far more dangerous. They got hold of you when you were children, and they planted lies in your minds — telling you about "some guy named Socrates, a wise man who speculates about the heavens above and investigates the earth below and makes the weaker argument defeat the stronger." The people who spread that story are the accusers I really fear, because their listeners tend to assume that anyone who studies those kinds of things must not believe in the gods. And these accusers are numerous. They've been at it for years — going after me back when you were young and impressionable, during your childhood or youth — and the case went by default, because nobody was there to answer the charges. Worst of all, I can't even tell you their names, except maybe for one comic playwright. All those people who were driven by envy and malice to turn you against me — and some of them believed their own propaganda first before convincing others — this whole group is nearly impossible to deal with. I can't bring them up here and cross-examine them. I have to fight shadows in my own defense, making arguments when nobody answers back. So let's work with this: I have two sets of opponents — one recent, one ancient. And I hope you'll agree it makes sense to answer the ancient ones first, since you've been hearing their accusations for far longer, and far more often.

All right, then. Let me try to clear away a slander that's been building for years — and to do it in the short time I have. I hope I succeed, if success is good for both you and me, and if anything can help my cause. The task isn't easy — I understand that perfectly well. But I'll leave the outcome in God's hands, obey the law, and make my defense.

Let me start at the beginning. What accusation gave rise to the slander against me — the slander that encouraged Meletus to bring this charge? What exactly do my old accusers say? Let me treat them like formal prosecutors and read their charges: "Socrates is a criminal who pokes around into things under the earth and up in the sky, who makes the weaker argument defeat the stronger, and who teaches others to do the same." That's the accusation. It's exactly what you've seen in Aristophanes' comedy — some character called "Socrates" walking around claiming to walk on air and spouting all kinds of nonsense about subjects I know nothing about. And I don't say that to disrespect anyone who actually studies natural science — I wouldn't want Meletus to pile that charge on too. But the simple truth, men of Athens, is that I have nothing to do with natural science. Not at all. Many of you here are witnesses to this — go ahead, talk to each other, those of you who've heard me speak. Has anyone ever heard me say a single word about such things? ... You hear their answer. And that should tell you how much truth there is in the rest of the charges, too.

There's just as little truth in the claim that I'm a teacher who charges money. Though honestly, if someone really could educate people, I think charging for it would be perfectly honorable. There's Gorgias of Leontium, and Prodicus of Ceos, and Hippias of Elis — they travel from city to city and manage to convince young men to leave behind the free education available from their own citizens, and instead come to them, pay money, and be grateful for the privilege. And then there's a philosopher from Paros living in Athens right now — I heard about him this way. I ran into Callias, the son of Hipponicus — a man who's spent a fortune on Sophists — and since he has sons, I asked him: "Callias, if your two sons were colts or calves, we'd have no trouble finding someone to train them. We'd hire a horse trainer or a farmer who'd develop their natural excellence. But since they're human beings, who are you planning to put in charge of them? Who understands human excellence — moral and civic virtue? You must have thought about this, since you have sons. Is there such a person?"

"There is," he said.

"Who is he?" I asked. "Where's he from? What does he charge?"

"Evenus, from Paros," he said. "Five minae."

And I thought to myself: Lucky Evenus, if he really has that ability and teaches at such a reasonable price. If I had that kind of wisdom, I'd be walking around pretty proud of myself. But the truth is, I don't have it.

Now, I'm sure someone among you is thinking: "Fine, Socrates, but what's the deal with you? Where did all these accusations come from? There must be something unusual going on — you must be doing something out of the ordinary. All this rumor and gossip wouldn't exist if you were like everyone else. Tell us what it is, so we don't judge you unfairly." And I think that's a perfectly fair challenge. Let me try to explain what's earned me this reputation and all this hostility. Listen carefully. Some of you might think I'm joking, but I promise you — I'm going to tell you the entire truth.

Men of Athens, this reputation of mine comes from a certain kind of wisdom I have. What kind of wisdom? The kind that may be possible for a human being — because to that extent, I do think I'm wise. Whereas the people I just mentioned may possess some kind of superhuman wisdom that I can't even describe, since I certainly don't have it. Anyone who says I do is lying and trying to slander me.

And here, men of Athens, please don't shout me down, even if what I say next sounds outrageous. The claim I'm about to make isn't mine. I'll point you to a witness who's entirely credible — the god at Delphi. He'll tell you whether I have any wisdom, and what kind.

You knew Chaerephon, of course. He was a friend of mine from way back, and a friend of the people too — he went into exile with you during the recent troubles and returned with you. Well, Chaerephon, as you know, was an intense person in everything he did. And one day he went to Delphi and actually had the nerve to ask the oracle — please, don't make an uproar — he asked whether anyone was wiser than me. And the Pythia answered: no one is wiser. Chaerephon himself is dead now, but his brother, who's here in court, can confirm this.

Now, why am I telling you this? Because I need to explain where the prejudice against me comes from. When I heard the oracle's answer, I thought to myself: What can the god mean? What's the riddle? Because I know perfectly well that I'm not wise — not at all. So what does he mean by saying I'm the wisest of men? He's a god — he can't be lying. That would go against his nature.

After thinking about it for a long time, I came up with a way to test the oracle. I figured: if I can find someone wiser than me, I can go back to the god with proof in hand. "Here's someone wiser than I am," I'd say, "but you said I was the wisest."

So I went to a man with a reputation for wisdom — a politician, I won't mention his name — and I examined him. And here's what happened. As I talked with him, it became clear to me that he wasn't actually wise, even though many people thought he was, and he definitely thought he was. So I tried to show him — to explain that he thought he was wise but actually wasn't. And the result? He hated me for it. And so did several of the people who were there listening.

As I walked away, I thought to myself: "Well, neither of us really knows anything worth knowing. But I'm better off than he is — because he knows nothing and thinks he knows, while I neither know nor think I know. On that small point, at least, I seem to have the advantage."

Then I went to another man who had an even greater reputation for wisdom, and I reached exactly the same conclusion. And I made another enemy — of him, and of many others besides.

After that, I went to one person after another, fully aware that I was making enemies, and feeling anxious and afraid about it. But I felt I had to — the god's word had to come first. I thought: I need to go to everyone who seems wise and find out what the oracle means. And I swear to you, men of Athens — by the dog, I swear! — this is what I found: the men with the greatest reputations turned out to be the most foolish, while others who were considered less impressive were actually wiser and better.

Let me tell you about my wanderings — my "Herculean labors," you might call them — undertaken just to prove the oracle right. After the politicians, I went to the poets: the tragedians, the writers of dithyrambs, all kinds. Here, I thought, I'll catch myself red-handed being more ignorant than they are. So I took some of their most elaborate passages and asked them to explain what they meant — figuring they'd teach me something. And you know what? I'm almost embarrassed to say this, but I have to tell the truth: just about anyone here could have explained their own poetry better than they could. So I realized something — poets don't write from wisdom. They write from some kind of genius and inspiration. They're like prophets and seers who say beautiful things but don't understand what they mean. That seemed to be the poets' situation exactly. And I noticed something else: because they wrote good poetry, they believed they were wise about everything else too — which they absolutely were not. So I left them, figuring I had the same advantage over them as over the politicians.

Finally I went to the skilled craftsmen. I was sure they knew many things I didn't — and I was right. They did know things I was ignorant of, and in that respect they were definitely wiser than me. But the good craftsmen had the same flaw as the poets: because they were skilled at their craft, each one believed he was expert in the most important matters too, and this overreach of theirs overshadowed the wisdom they actually had. So I asked myself, on behalf of the oracle: would I rather be as I am — without their knowledge but also without their false confidence — or be like them, with both? And I answered myself, and the oracle: I'm better off as I am.

This investigation has earned me many enemies — the worst and most dangerous kind — and has given rise to all sorts of slander. People call me "wise," because my listeners always assume I possess the wisdom I'm exposing as absent in others. But the truth is, men of Athens, that only the god is truly wise. And his oracle was meant to say this: human wisdom is worth little or nothing. He's not really talking about Socrates — he's just using my name as an example. It's as if he were saying: "The wisest among you is the one who, like Socrates, understands that his wisdom is actually worth nothing."

And so I keep at it, obeying the god, examining anyone — citizen or foreigner — who seems to be wise. And whenever I find that someone isn't, I prove it, vindicating the oracle. This work has consumed my life. I've had no time for public affairs or for my own private business. I'm in complete poverty because of my devotion to the god.

And there's something else. Young men from wealthy families — the ones with time on their hands — they follow me around voluntarily. They enjoy watching me cross-examine people. And then they go and try it themselves. And naturally they find plenty of people who think they know something but actually know very little. The people who get exposed this way don't get angry at themselves — they get angry at me. "That damned Socrates!" they say. "That corrupter of young people!" And if anyone asks them, "What does he actually do? What does he teach?" — they have no idea. But so they won't look foolish, they trot out the stock charges used against all philosophers: "He teaches about things in the clouds and under the earth," "He doesn't believe in the gods," "He makes the weaker argument defeat the stronger." Because the truth — that their pretense of knowledge has been exposed — is the one thing they refuse to admit. These people are numerous, ambitious, energetic, and organized, and they have loud, persuasive voices. They've been filling your ears with their relentless slander for years. And this is what unleashed Meletus, Anytus, and Lycon on me: Meletus with his grudge on behalf of the poets, Anytus on behalf of the craftsmen and politicians, Lycon on behalf of the orators. So as I said at the start, I'd be amazed if I could clear away this mountain of prejudice in the time I have.

There it is, men of Athens — the truth, the whole truth, nothing hidden, nothing disguised. And I'm pretty sure it's exactly this honesty that makes them hate me. But their hatred is proof that I'm telling the truth. That's the source of the prejudice against me, and you'll find it's the explanation whether you investigate now or at any time in the future.

So much for my defense against my original accusers. Now let me turn to the second group, led by Meletus — that good and patriotic citizen, as he likes to call himself. Let's look at their formal charge. It goes something like this: "Socrates is guilty of corrupting the youth, and of not believing in the gods of the city, but in other new spiritual beings instead." That's the accusation. Let's take it apart, piece by piece.

He says I corrupt the youth. But I say, men of Athens, that Meletus is the one doing wrong — making a mockery of serious matters, casually hauling people into court, and pretending to care deeply about things he's never given a moment's thought to. Let me prove it.

Come here, Meletus, and let me ask you something. You care a great deal about the moral improvement of young people, don't you?

Yes, I do.

Well then, tell the jury: who improves them? You must know, since you've gone to all the trouble of discovering who corrupts them — namely me — and dragging me into court. So speak up. Tell the jury who their improver is. ... See that, Meletus? You're silent. You have nothing to say. Doesn't that strike you as embarrassing? Isn't it rather strong proof of exactly what I've been saying — that you've never cared about this at all? Come on. Tell us. Who improves the young?

The laws.

But that's not what I'm asking, my good man. I want to know which person — who, first of all, knows the laws.

The jurors, Socrates. The men right here in this court.

Really, Meletus? You're saying they can educate and improve the young?

Absolutely.

All of them? Or only some?

All of them.

Well, by Hera, that's wonderful news! What a supply of improvers we have! And what about the audience watching? Do they improve the young too?

Yes, they do.

And the members of the Council?

Yes, the Council improves them too.

But what about the members of the Assembly? Do they corrupt them? Or do they improve them as well?

They improve them.

So every single Athenian improves the young and makes them better — except me. I alone corrupt them. Is that your claim?

That is exactly my claim.

What extraordinarily bad luck I have! But let me ask you something: Is it the same way with horses? Does the whole world do them good and only one person harm them? Isn't the truth exactly the opposite? Only one person — or at most a few, the professional horse trainers — actually does horses good, while most people, if they try to handle them, make them worse. Isn't that true, Meletus, of horses and every other animal? Of course it is, whether you and Anytus admit it or not. What a happy situation it would be for young people if only one person corrupted them and everyone else improved them! But you've made it perfectly clear, Meletus, that you've never given a thought to the young. Your own carelessness is on full display — you don't actually care about the very things you're prosecuting me for.

Now, another question, Meletus — by Zeus: Is it better to live among good people or bad people? Answer me, friend — it's not a hard question. Don't good people benefit the people around them, and bad people harm them?

Of course.

And is there anyone who'd rather be harmed than helped by the people he lives with? Answer — the law requires you to. Does anyone want to be harmed?

Of course not.

So when you accuse me of corrupting the young — do you claim I do it on purpose, or accidentally?

On purpose, I say.

Really, Meletus? Are you so much wiser at your age than I am at mine? You've figured out that bad people always do harm to those closest to them, and good people do them good — while I, apparently, am so profoundly stupid that I don't realize that by corrupting the people around me, I'm making them likely to harm me? And you're saying I do this deliberately? I don't believe you, Meletus, and I don't think anyone else will either.

Here's the thing: either I'm not corrupting the young at all, or if I am, I'm doing it unintentionally. On either view, you're wrong. If it's unintentional, the law doesn't recognize that as a crime — you should have taken me aside privately and set me straight. Because obviously, if I'd understood better, I'd have stopped doing something I was only doing by accident. But you didn't want to teach me. Instead, you brought me here — to a place of punishment, not instruction.

So it's quite clear to you all, men of Athens, that Meletus has never cared about this matter in the slightest. But still, tell me, Meletus: in what way exactly do you claim I corrupt the young? According to your indictment, it's by teaching them not to believe in the gods the city recognizes, but in other new spiritual beings instead. That's the lesson that corrupts them, right?

Yes, that's exactly what I say.

Then, by those very gods, Meletus, explain yourself more clearly — to me and to the jury. Because I can't figure out what you mean. Are you saying I teach people to believe in some gods, just different ones from the city's gods? In that case, I do believe in gods — I'm not a complete atheist — you're just saying they're the wrong gods. Or are you saying I'm a total atheist who teaches atheism?

I mean the latter — you're a complete atheist.

What an extraordinary claim, Meletus! Why would you say that? Do you mean I don't even believe the sun and moon are gods, like everyone else?

That's right, jurors — I swear it! He says the sun is a rock and the moon is made of earth.

My dear Meletus, you think you're accusing Anaxagoras! And you must have a very low opinion of these jurors if you think they're so uneducated they don't know those ideas come from the books of Anaxagoras of Clazomenae, which are full of exactly those claims. And so the youth supposedly learn these things from Socrates, when they can pick them up at the theater any day for a drachma at most? They'd laugh at Socrates if he tried to pass off those ideas as his own. But seriously, Meletus — do you really think I don't believe in any god at all?

I swear by Zeus — you believe in none whatsoever.

Nobody will believe you, Meletus. Honestly, I'm pretty sure you don't even believe yourself. Men of Athens, it seems to me that Meletus is simply being reckless and outrageous, and that he's written this whole indictment out of youthful arrogance and showing off. It's as if he made up a riddle to test me: "Let's see if that wise fellow Socrates will spot my clever contradiction, or if I can fool him and everyone else." Because he quite clearly contradicts himself in the indictment — it's like saying "Socrates is guilty of not believing in gods, and also of believing in gods." That's not something a serious person would say.

Follow this with me, men of Athens — let's examine his inconsistency together. And Meletus, answer my questions. And everyone else, please remember my request not to interrupt if I speak in my usual style.

Has anyone ever believed in human activities but not in human beings? ... I wish he'd answer, men of Athens, instead of constantly trying to create distractions. Has anyone ever believed in horsemanship but not in horses? Or in flute-playing but not in flute-players? No one ever has, my friend — I'll answer for you, since you refuse to speak. Now answer the next question: Can a person believe in spiritual activities but not in spiritual beings?

He cannot.

How generous of you to finally answer — dragged out of you by the court! Now then: you state in the indictment that I teach and believe in spiritual activities — whether new or old, the point is that I believe in spiritual activities. You say so. You swear to it. But if I believe in spiritual activities, then I absolutely must believe in spiritual beings, mustn't I? Of course I must — and your silence gives consent. Now: what are spiritual beings? Aren't they either gods or the children of gods?

Certainly they are.

And there's the absurdity — the riddle I was talking about. You're saying I don't believe in gods, and then turning around and saying I do believe in gods, since I believe in spiritual beings. Because if spiritual beings are children of the gods — whether born from nymphs or any other mothers, as the stories say — what human being would believe that children of gods exist but gods don't? That would be as ridiculous as believing in mules but denying the existence of horses and donkeys. No, Meletus — this indictment can only have been your way of testing me, because you had nothing real to accuse me of. There's no one with a shred of intelligence who could be convinced that a person can believe in spiritual and divine activities but not believe in spirits, demigods, and gods.

I've said enough to answer Meletus. No elaborate defense is needed. But I know all too well that I've made many enemies, and that's what will destroy me if I'm destroyed — not Meletus, not Anytus, but the envy and hostility of the world. It has been the death of many good men, and will probably be the death of many more. There's no danger I'll be the last.

Now, someone might say: "Aren't you ashamed, Socrates, of pursuing a way of life that might get you killed?" Here's my answer: You're wrong to think that way. A person who's worth anything at all shouldn't calculate the chances of living or dying. The only thing to consider is this: Am I doing what's right or what's wrong? Am I acting like a good man or a bad one? By your logic, the heroes who died at Troy were fools — especially Achilles, the son of Thetis, who completely scorned danger compared to dishonor. When he was burning to kill Hector, his goddess mother warned him: "If you avenge your friend Patroclus and kill Hector, you yourself will die. Fate waits for you right after Hector." He heard that warning and thought nothing of death or danger. What he feared was living in dishonor, failing to avenge his friend. "Let me die right now," he said, "and punish my enemy, rather than sit here by the ships, a joke and a burden on the earth." Do you think Achilles worried about death? Because here's the truth: wherever a person's post is — whether he chose it himself or was assigned it by his commander — that's where he ought to stand firm in the hour of danger, not thinking about death or anything else except disgrace. That, men of Athens, is the truth.

Think about how strange my behavior would be if I did otherwise. When the generals you elected to command me posted me at Potidaea, Amphipolis, and Delium, I stayed where they put me, like everyone else, and faced death without flinching. But now, when I believe the god has assigned me the mission of living the philosophical life — examining myself and others — should I desert my post out of fear of death? That would truly be strange. That's when you could justly drag me into court for denying the existence of the gods — if I disobeyed the god's command because I was afraid of death, thinking I was wise when I wasn't. Because the fear of death is exactly that — pretending to know what you don't know. No one knows whether death might actually be the greatest blessing a person can receive. But people fear it as if they knew for certain it's the worst evil. And isn't that the most shameful kind of ignorance — thinking you know what you don't?

On this point, men of Athens, I may genuinely be different from most people, and if I could claim to be wiser than anyone, it would be in this: just as I don't know much about the world after death, I don't pretend to know. But I do know that injustice and disobedience to one's betters — whether god or human — are evil and dishonorable. So I'll never run from what might be good in order to avoid what I know for certain is evil.

Even if you offered to let me go right now — rejecting Anytus, who told you that either I should never have been brought to trial at all, or, since I was, I must be put to death (because, as he warned you, if I escape, your sons will all be ruined by my teaching) — even if you said to me: "Socrates, we'll ignore Anytus this time and let you off, but on one condition: you must stop this philosophizing, stop this investigating. And if you're caught doing it again, you'll die" — if you offered me freedom on those terms, I would reply:

Men of Athens, I respect and love you. But I will obey the god rather than you. As long as I have breath and strength, I will never stop practicing philosophy, never stop urging you on and pointing things out to everyone I meet. I'll keep saying, in my usual way: "You, my friend — a citizen of Athens, the greatest and most famous city in the world for its wisdom and power — aren't you ashamed of spending your energy on piling up money, reputation, and honors, while giving no thought or care to wisdom, truth, and the improvement of your soul?"

And if any of you argues back, "But I do care about those things," I won't just walk away. I'll stay and question him, examine him, test him. And if I find that he doesn't actually possess virtue, but only claims to, I'll reproach him for valuing what matters least and ignoring what matters most. I'll do this to everyone I meet — young and old, citizen and foreigner — but especially to you, my fellow citizens, because you are my people.

Understand: this is the god's command, and I believe that nothing better has ever happened to this city than my service to the god. All I do is go around trying to persuade every one of you — old and young alike — to stop worrying first about your bodies and your bank accounts, and instead to care above all about making your soul as good as it can be. I tell you that money doesn't produce virtue — it's the other way around. Virtue produces everything good in life, both for individuals and for the community. If that teaching corrupts the youth, then I guess I'm a dangerous man. But if anyone says that's not what I teach, he's lying.

So, men of Athens, I say to you: do what Anytus recommends or don't; acquit me or convict me. But know this — I will never change my ways, not even if I have to die a hundred times.

Don't shout, men of Athens — hear me out! We had an agreement that you'd let me finish, remember? I have something more to say that might make you want to cry out — but I believe hearing it will do you good. Please don't interrupt.

Here's what I want you to understand: if you execute a man like me, you'll hurt yourselves more than you'll hurt me. Meletus and Anytus can't actually harm me — it's not possible for a worse man to harm a better one. Oh, they can kill me, sure, or exile me, or strip me of my rights. Maybe they think that's a terrible injury. I don't. I think the far greater evil is what they're doing right now — trying to unjustly put a man to death.

So I'm not making this argument for my own sake, men of Athens, but for yours — so that you don't sin against the god by condemning me, who am his gift to you. Because if you kill me, you won't easily find another like me. I know this sounds absurd, but I'm like a gadfly — if you'll forgive the ridiculous comparison — that the god has attached to this city. And the city is like a big, well-bred horse that has grown sluggish because of its size and needs to be stung awake. That's what I am. I'm that gadfly, placed here by the god, and all day long, everywhere I go, I land on you, wake you up, prod you, challenge you. You won't easily find another person like me. And so, I'd advise you to spare me.

But I suspect you might be irritated — like someone shaken out of a deep sleep — and you might swat me dead, as Anytus suggests. Then you could go right back to sleep for the rest of your lives — unless the god, in his concern for you, sends you another gadfly.

That I really was sent to this city by the god — here's the proof: No ordinary human being would have done what I've done. I've neglected all my own affairs. For years I've patiently let my own interests go unattended, while I've been attending to yours — going to each of you individually, like a father or an older brother, urging you to care about virtue. If I'd been getting something out of this, or if someone were paying me for my advice, there'd be some logic in it. But as you can see — and not even my accusers have the nerve to claim otherwise — no one has ever paid me a cent. And I have a perfectly good witness to prove it: my poverty.

Someone might wonder: Why does he go around giving private advice and meddling in everyone's business, but never step into public life to advise the city? The answer is something you've heard me mention many times before — that divine sign, that inner voice, the thing Meletus mocks in his indictment. It started when I was a child. It's a kind of voice that comes to me, and whenever it speaks, it holds me back from something I'm about to do. It never tells me what to do — only what not to do. That's what's kept me out of politics. And rightly so, I think.

Because I'm quite certain, men of Athens, that if I'd gone into politics, I'd be dead by now — and I'd have done no good for you or for myself. Don't be offended by the truth: the fact is, no person who genuinely opposes the injustices committed by any government — yours or any other — will survive for long. Anyone who truly fights for what's right, if he wants to live even a little while, has to work as a private citizen, not a public official.

I can give you proof of this — not just words, but actions, which you value more. Let me tell you something from my own life that shows I would never give in to injustice out of fear, even at the cost of my life. The only public office I ever held, men of Athens, was senator. My tribe, Antiochis, happened to hold the presidency at the trial of the generals who'd failed to recover the bodies of the dead after the battle of Arginusae. You wanted to try them as a group, which was illegal — as everyone later agreed. At the time, I was the only one of the presiding officers who voted against doing something unlawful. The politicians threatened to have me arrested and prosecuted. You shouted and jeered. But I decided I'd rather stand on the side of law and justice and take the risk than join in your injustice out of fear of prison or death.

That was under the democracy. But when the oligarchy of the Thirty came to power, they summoned me and four others to the Tholos and ordered us to go arrest Leon of Salamis so they could execute him. This was the kind of thing they did constantly — dragging as many people as possible into their crimes so everyone would be complicit. And then I showed — not with words, but with actions — that death meant absolutely nothing to me, but that doing something unjust or unholy meant everything. That brutal regime couldn't intimidate me into doing wrong. When we left the Tholos, the other four went to Salamis and arrested Leon. I simply went home. I might have been executed for that, if the Thirty hadn't fallen from power shortly afterward. Many people can confirm this.

Now, do you honestly think I'd have survived all these years if I'd been in public life, standing up for justice as a good man should? Not a chance, men of Athens. Neither would anyone else. But throughout my life, in every situation — public and private — I've always been the same person. I've never made any corrupt compromise with anyone, including those who my detractors like to call my "disciples." I don't have disciples. But anyone who wants to listen while I do my work is welcome — young or old, rich or poor. I don't charge anyone, and I don't refuse anyone. I talk with everyone on the same terms. If any of them turns out well or badly, that can't fairly be blamed on me, because I've never claimed to teach anyone anything or promised any special instruction. And if anyone says he's learned something from me in private that the rest of the world hasn't heard — let me tell you, he's lying.

But people will ask: "Why do they keep coming to talk with you? What's the attraction?" I've already told you the whole truth about that, men of Athens. People enjoy watching me cross-examine those who claim to be wise. It's entertaining. And this duty of cross-examination has been laid on me by the god — through oracles, dreams, and every other way that divine will has ever been communicated to anyone. This is true, men of Athens. If it weren't, it would be easy to disprove.

Think about it: if I've been corrupting the young, then surely some of them — the ones who are grown up now and have realized that I gave them bad advice when they were young — should be coming forward as accusers to get their revenge. And if they don't want to do it themselves, their relatives should — their fathers, brothers, other family members — they should be telling you what harm I've done to their families. The time is now. And I see many of them right here in this courtroom.

There's Crito, my contemporary from the same deme, and his son Critobulus. There's Lysanias of Sphettus, the father of Aeschines — he's here. There's Antiphon of Cephisus, the father of Epigenes. There are the brothers of men who spent time with me: Nicostratus, the son of Theozotides and brother of Theodotus — Theodotus himself is dead, so at least he can't be the one holding his brother back. There's Paralus, son of Demodocus, whose brother was Theages. There's Adeimantus, son of Ariston — and his brother Plato is right here. And Aeantodorus, whose brother Apollodorus I can also see.

I could name many more. Meletus should have called some of them as witnesses during his own speech. If he forgot, let him do it now — I'll step aside and give him the floor. Let him tell us if he has any such testimony. But no, men of Athens — you'll find the very opposite is true. Every one of these people is ready to support me — the supposed corrupter, the man who supposedly harmed their families, as Meletus and Anytus claim. The young men I allegedly corrupted — well, maybe they'd have a reason to support me. But their uncorrupted older relatives? Why would they back me, except for the simple reason that they know I'm telling the truth and Meletus is a liar?

Well, men of Athens, that's essentially my defense. There may be more I could say, but that covers it.

Now, perhaps some of you are thinking about your own experience — how you or someone you know, facing a much less serious charge, begged and pleaded with the jury, weeping, bringing your children into court for the spectacle, parading out relatives and friends. And here I am, probably facing death, and I'm doing none of that. Maybe the comparison annoys you. Maybe it makes you want to vote against me out of resentment.

If anyone here feels that way — and I'm not saying anyone does — but if so, I think I could fairly say to him: "My friend, I'm a man like any other — flesh and blood, not 'made of wood or stone,' as Homer says. I have a family. I have three sons, men of Athens — one nearly a man, two still young. But I'm not going to bring any of them up here to beg you for an acquittal."

And why not? Not out of stubbornness or disrespect. Whether or not I'm afraid of death is a separate question. But in terms of my reputation, yours, and the city's honor, I don't think it would be right — not for a man my age, with my name. Rightly or wrongly, the world has decided that Socrates is somehow different from most people. And if the men among you who are supposed to be superior in wisdom, courage, or any other virtue — if they behave that way, it's a disgrace. I've seen it: men of reputation, when convicted, acting as if something terrible would happen to them when they died, as if they'd live forever if only you'd spare them. I think people like that bring shame on the city. Any foreigner would look at them and say, "So this is what passes for the finest men in Athens? These men whom the Athenians elect and honor — they're no better than weeping children." That sort of thing shouldn't be done by anyone with a reputation, and if it is done, you should punish it — you should make it clear that you're more inclined to convict the man who puts on a pathetic show and embarrasses the city than the one who keeps his composure.

But reputation aside, there's something simply wrong about begging a judge and getting acquitted through pity rather than argument. A judge's job isn't to hand out justice as a favor — it's to determine what's just. He's sworn to judge according to the law, not his personal feelings. We shouldn't tempt you to break that oath, and you shouldn't let yourselves be tempted — there's no piety in that for either of us.

So don't ask me to do what I consider dishonorable, impious, and wrong — especially now, when Meletus is charging me with impiety. Because if I were to sway your oaths with tears and pleading, I'd be teaching you that there are no gods — and my own defense would become the proof of the charges against me. But that's not the case. Far from it. I believe in the gods, men of Athens, more deeply than any of my accusers do. And so I entrust my case to you and to the god, to decide as is best for you and for me.

There are many reasons I'm not upset about the guilty verdict, men of Athens. I expected it. What surprises me is how close the vote was. I'd thought the margin against me would be far larger. As it stands, if just thirty votes had gone the other way, I'd have been acquitted. And I think I can fairly say that I've beaten Meletus, at least — without the help of Anytus and Lycon, he wouldn't have gotten a fifth of the votes, and the law would have fined him a thousand drachmas.

So. He proposes death as my penalty. And what do I propose as an alternative, men of Athens? Clearly, whatever I deserve. And what do I deserve? What's the right reward for a man who has never been idle in his whole life — who has ignored the things most people care about, like wealth, family business, military commands, political office, conspiracies, and party politics? A man who decided he was honestly too good a person to survive in politics, and so went where he could do the most good — going to each of you privately, one by one, and trying to persuade you to care first about becoming the best person you can be before you worry about your other interests, and to care about the city becoming the best it can be before you worry about the city's assets? What should be done with such a man?

Something good, men of Athens — if we're being fair. And the good thing should suit him. So what reward would suit a poor man who has been your benefactor, and who needs the free time to keep encouraging you? I can't think of anything more fitting than free meals at the Prytaneum — the city hall. He deserves it far more than any Olympic victor who's won the horse race or the chariot race with two horses or four. That person gives you the appearance of happiness. I give you the real thing. And he doesn't need the free meals — I do.

So if I have to propose a penalty based on what I actually deserve, I propose this: free meals at the Prytaneum.

Maybe you think I'm being defiant — just like when I talked about the tears and the begging. I'm not. It's that I'm genuinely convinced I've never intentionally wronged anyone — but I can't convince you of that, because we've had so little time together. If Athens had a law like other cities, requiring capital cases to be tried over several days instead of one, I believe I could have persuaded you. But I can't undo a lifetime of slander in a few hours.

Since I'm certain I've never wronged anyone, I'm certainly not going to wrong myself. I won't say I deserve punishment, and I won't propose some penalty for myself. Why should I? Because I'm afraid of the death penalty Meletus proposes? But I don't even know whether death is good or bad — so why would I choose something I know for certain is bad? Imprisonment? Why should I live in prison, a slave to whoever happens to be holding office that year? A fine, with prison until it's paid? Same problem — I have no money.

Should I propose exile? Maybe that's what you'd want. But I'd have to be pretty desperate to cling to life if I thought that through. You — my own fellow citizens — couldn't put up with my conversations and my questioning. You found them so annoying and unbearable that you're now trying to get rid of me. So do I really think strangers will put up with me? Of course not. And what a life that would be, at my age — wandering from city to city, constantly being expelled. Because I know this for certain: wherever I go, young people will come to listen, just as they do here. If I drive them away, they'll persuade their elders to drive me out. And if I let them come, their fathers and relatives will drive me out on their behalf.

Someone might ask: "But Socrates, can't you just keep quiet? Couldn't you go into exile and simply hold your tongue?" This is the hardest thing to make you understand. If I tell you that keeping quiet would mean disobeying the god — and that's why I can't do it — you won't believe me. You'll think I'm being coy. And if I say that the greatest good a person can do is to talk every day about virtue and the other things you hear me examining, both in myself and in others — and that the unexamined life is not worth living — you'll believe me even less. But it's the truth, men of Athens, even though it's hard to make you see it.

Besides, I've never believed I deserve to suffer harm. If I had money, I'd propose a fine I could afford — that wouldn't hurt me at all. But I don't have any. Unless you want to set the fine at what I can actually pay. I could probably manage one mina. So I'll propose that.

Wait — Plato here, and Crito, and Critobulus, and Apollodorus, my friends — they're telling me to propose thirty minae, and they'll guarantee it. So let thirty minae be the penalty. These men are more than good for it.

You didn't gain much time, men of Athens, and in exchange you'll get a reputation — from anyone who wants to criticize this city — as the people who killed Socrates, a wise man. They'll call me wise whether I am or not, just because it makes the insult sting more. If you'd just been patient, you'd have gotten what you wanted naturally. Look at me — I'm far along in years, clearly near the end. I'm speaking now not to all of you, but only to those who voted to condemn me.

And I have something to say to you. Maybe you think I lost because I didn't have the right words — that if I'd been willing to do and say whatever it took to win, I could have gotten off. Not at all. What I lacked wasn't words. What I lacked was the shamelessness and the willingness to say what you wanted to hear — to weep, to wail, to carry on, to say and do the degrading things you're used to hearing from other defendants. I thought then, and I think now, that facing danger is no reason to act like a coward. I don't regret how I defended myself. I'd rather die having spoken honestly than live having groveled.

Because neither in war nor in court should a person do just anything to avoid death. In battle, it's obvious: a man can save his life by dropping his weapons and falling to his knees before the enemy. In every kind of danger, there are always ways to avoid death — if you're willing to do and say anything. The hard thing, my friends, isn't avoiding death. It's avoiding corruption. Corruption runs faster than death. I'm old and slow, and the slow runner — death — has caught up with me. But my accusers are sharp and quick, and the faster runner — wickedness — has caught up with them. I leave here condemned by you to die. They leave condemned by truth to suffer the penalty of evil and injustice. I accept my sentence. Let them accept theirs. Perhaps this is how it had to be. And I think it's right.

And now I want to prophesy to you — you who voted to condemn me. Because I'm at the point of death, and that's when people are said to have the gift of prophecy. I tell you, my executioners: as soon as I'm gone, a punishment far worse than what you've done to me will fall on you. You killed me because you wanted to avoid being called to account for your lives. But the result will be exactly the opposite. There will be more people questioning you, not fewer — people I've been holding back until now. And because they're younger, they'll be harsher, and you'll be more offended. If you think you can stop people from criticizing your lives by killing them, you're badly mistaken. That kind of escape is neither possible nor honorable. The easiest and noblest way isn't to silence others — it's to make yourselves better. That's my prophecy to those who condemned me.

And now let me speak with those of you who voted to acquit me, my friends. Let's talk while the officials are busy and before I go to the place where I must die. Stay with me a little while — we might as well talk while we can.

I want to explain to you what just happened to me, because I think it means something remarkable. My familiar divine sign — that inner oracle — has always, throughout my life, opposed me even in small matters whenever I was about to make a mistake. But today, as you've seen, the thing that most people would consider the ultimate catastrophe has happened to me. And yet my divine sign didn't oppose me — not when I left my house this morning, not when I came to the court, not at any point during my speech, not once when I was about to say anything. In other conversations, it has often stopped me in mid-sentence. But today, in everything I said and did regarding this trial, it never once held me back. What do I make of that?

I'll tell you. I think it means that what has happened to me is a good thing, and that those of us who believe death is an evil must be wrong. My sign gave me powerful evidence of this — because it certainly would have stopped me if I had been heading toward something bad.

Let's think about it another way, and we'll see there's real reason to hope that death is good. It's one of two things. Either death is a state of total nothingness — like a sleep without dreams — or, as some say, it's a migration of the soul from here to another place.

If it's the dreamless sleep — well, what an extraordinary gain that would be! Think about it: if you picked out the one night in your life when you slept so deeply you didn't even dream, and compared it to all the other nights and days of your life — how many days and nights have been better and more pleasant than that one? I think anyone would agree, not just an ordinary person, but even the Great King of Persia himself, that those perfectly restful nights are rare indeed. So if death is like that, I call it a gain — because then all of eternity is nothing more than a single perfect night.

But if death is a journey to another place, and the stories are true that all the dead are there — what could be better than that, my friends and judges? If a person arrives in the underworld, leaving behind the so-called judges here and finding the true judges who are said to give justice there — Minos, Rhadamanthus, Aeacus, Triptolemus, and other demigods who were just in their own lives — wouldn't that be a journey worth making? What would you give to meet Orpheus, and Musaeus, and Hesiod, and Homer? I'd die over and over for that chance.

And what a wonderful time I'd have meeting Palamedes, and Ajax the son of Telamon, and every other hero of old who died through an unjust verdict! Comparing my experiences with theirs — that would be something. And best of all, I could spend my time there exactly as I spend it here: examining and questioning the people there, finding out who among them is truly wise and who only thinks he is. What would you give, my judges, to cross-examine the leader of the great expedition against Troy? Or Odysseus? Or Sisyphus? Or the countless other men and women? The joy of talking with them and examining them would be beyond measure. And certainly they don't execute people for asking questions there. That's one of the advantages — the people there, besides being happier in every other way, are immortal. At least, if what we're told is true.

So you too, my judges, should face death with hope, and hold on to this one truth: no evil can happen to a good man, either in life or after death. The gods do not neglect him. And what's happened to me today hasn't happened by accident. I see clearly that it was better for me to die now and be free from trouble. That's why my divine sign never held me back. That's why I'm not angry with my condemners or my accusers. They haven't harmed me — though they certainly didn't intend to help me, and for that I may gently blame them.

But I have one last request. When my sons are grown, I want you to do for them what I did for you. If they seem to care more about money or anything else than about virtue — give them a hard time. If they pretend to be something when they're nothing — call them out, the way I called you out, for caring about the wrong things and thinking they're important when they're not. If you do this, my sons and I will have received justice from you.

The hour of departure has arrived. We go our separate ways — I to die, and you to live. Which of us goes to the better fate? Only God knows.

Crito

Persons of the dialogue:
  Socrates
  Crito

Scene: The Prison of Socrates, before dawn.

Socrates: Why have you come at this hour, Crito? It must be really early.

Crito: Yes, very early.

Socrates: What time is it, exactly?

Crito: Just before dawn.

Socrates: I'm surprised the prison guard let you in.

Crito: He knows me — I come here often, Socrates. And I've done him a few favors.

Socrates: Did you just get here?

Crito: No, I've been here for a while.

Socrates: Then why did you just sit there in silence instead of waking me up right away?

Crito: I wouldn't have wanted to, Socrates. I wouldn't want to be in the kind of anguish you're facing — I really wouldn't. I've been sitting here watching you, amazed at how peacefully you sleep. That's why I didn't wake you. I wanted to let you have as much comfort as possible. I've always thought you had a remarkably steady temperament, but I've never seen anything like this — the calm, easy way you're handling this catastrophe.

Socrates: Well, Crito, it would be pretty absurd for a man my age to be upset about dying.

Crito: Other old men find themselves in the same situation, Socrates, and their age doesn't stop them from being upset.

Socrates: That's true. But you still haven't told me why you've come so early.

Crito: I'm bringing you news, Socrates. Painful news. Not painful for you, I imagine — but devastating for all of us who are your friends. And most devastating of all for me.

Socrates: What is it? Has the ship arrived from Delos — the one whose return means my execution?

Crito: It hasn't actually arrived yet. But people coming from Sunium say they saw it there, so it'll probably reach Athens today. That means tomorrow, Socrates, will be the last day of your life.

Socrates: Well then, Crito — if that's the will of God, so be it. I'm ready. Though I have a feeling there'll be one more day's delay.

Crito: What makes you think that?

Socrates: I'll tell you. I'm supposed to die the day after the ship arrives, right?

Crito: That's what the authorities say, yes.

Socrates: Then I don't think the ship will get here until tomorrow. I'm basing this on a dream I had last night — or really, just a few minutes ago, since you were kind enough to let me sleep.

Crito: What was the dream?

Socrates: A woman appeared to me — beautiful, dressed in white — and she called out to me: "Socrates, on the third day you shall reach the fertile shores of Phthia."

Crito: What a strange dream, Socrates.

Socrates: But its meaning seems clear enough, I think.

Crito: Too clear, maybe. But Socrates — my dear, dear friend — please, I'm begging you, one last time: listen to me and escape. If you die, it's not just one loss for me — I'll have lost a friend I can never replace. But there's something else, too. People who don't know both of us will think I could have saved you if I'd been willing to spend the money, and that I just didn't care enough to do it. Can you think of a worse reputation than that — being seen as someone who values money more than the life of a friend? Most people won't believe that I begged you to escape and you refused.

Socrates: But why should we care what most people think, my dear Crito? The good and thoughtful people — the only ones worth worrying about — will understand what really happened.

Crito: But you can see, Socrates, that the opinion of ordinary people does matter. Look at what's happening to you right now. It proves that the crowd can do the greatest harm to someone who's lost their good opinion.

Socrates: I wish that were true, Crito — I wish ordinary people could do the greatest harm. Because then they'd also be capable of doing the greatest good, and wouldn't that be wonderful? But the reality is they can do neither. They can't make a person wise or foolish. Whatever they do, they do by chance.

Crito: Fine, I won't argue about that. But tell me this, Socrates — you're not staying out of concern for me and your other friends, are you? Are you worried that if you escape, the informers will come after us for helping you, and we'll lose our property or worse? Because if that's what's holding you back, don't let it. We should be willing to take that risk to save you — and even greater risks than that. Please, listen to me.

Socrates: I am concerned about that, Crito, among other things.

Crito: Then don't be. For one thing, the price of getting you out isn't even that high. And the informers are cheap — it wouldn't take much money to buy them off. My own funds are more than enough, and they're yours to use. And if you have any hesitation about spending my money, there are foreigners here in Athens ready to contribute. One of them, Simmias of Thebes, has brought a large sum for exactly this purpose. Cebes is ready too, and so are plenty of others. So don't let money be the reason you hesitate.

And don't say what you said at the trial — that you wouldn't know what to do with yourself in exile. People will welcome you in other cities, not just Athens. I have friends in Thessaly who would take care of you and protect you, and no one there would give you any trouble.

Besides, Socrates, I don't think what you're doing is even right. You're throwing your life away when you could be saved. You're bringing on yourself the exact fate your enemies want for you — you're doing their work for them.

And what about your sons? You're going to abandon them. You could stay alive and raise them and educate them. Instead, you'll leave them to whatever luck brings. And we all know what usually happens to orphans. A man shouldn't bring children into the world if he's not willing to see their upbringing through to the end. You seem to be choosing the easy path, not the brave one — and that's not what I'd expect from someone who's spent his whole life talking about virtue.

Honestly, Socrates, I'm ashamed — for you and for all of us who are your friends. The whole affair is going to look like it was caused by our cowardice. The trial didn't have to happen. It could have been handled differently. And now this final chapter — this crowning disaster — is going to seem like it happened because we were too gutless to act, when in fact we could have saved you, and you could have saved yourself. There was nothing stopping us.

Think about how embarrassing this is, Socrates — for you and for us. Make up your mind. Actually, the time for deliberation is over. There's only one decision left, and it has to be carried out tonight. If we wait any longer, it'll be too late.

Please, Socrates. I'm begging you. Do what I'm asking.

Socrates: Dear Crito, your passion is admirable — if it's pointed in the right direction. But if it's not, then the more passionate you are, the more dangerous it becomes. So we need to think carefully about whether I should do what you're asking.

Because I've always been the kind of person who follows reason, and only reason — specifically, whatever argument, after careful reflection, seems best to me. I can't throw away my principles just because my circumstances have changed. The principles I've honored my whole life still look the same to me now. And unless we can find better ones right here, right now, I won't agree with you — not even if the power of the mob could pile on more imprisonments, more confiscations, more death sentences, trying to scare us like children with monsters under the bed.

So what's the best way to think this through? Let's go back to that old argument of ours about opinions. We used to say that some opinions deserve respect and others don't. Was I right to say that before my conviction? Or has the argument turned out to be just empty talk — just something we said for the sake of saying it? That's what I want to examine with you, Crito: whether the argument looks any different now that I'm the one facing death, or whether it holds just the same. If it holds, we follow it. If not, we let it go.

The argument, as I remember it — and plenty of thoughtful people would agree — was this: some opinions are worth taking seriously, and others aren't. Some people's views matter, and other people's don't.

Now, you're not about to die tomorrow, Crito — at least, there's no reason to think so — which means you're not being influenced by my situation. You can think clearly. So tell me: was I right about that? That only some opinions, from some people, are worth valuing?

Crito: Yes, you were right.

Socrates: The opinions of wise, thoughtful people should be taken seriously, and the opinions of foolish people shouldn't?

Crito: Yes.

Socrates: And the opinions of the foolish are harmful?

Crito: Of course.

Socrates: Now, here's an example. If someone's training as an athlete, should he pay attention to the praise and criticism of just anyone? Or should he listen to one person only — his doctor or his trainer?

Crito: One person only.

Socrates: So he should worry about that one expert's criticism and welcome that one expert's praise — and ignore everyone else?

Crito: Obviously.

Socrates: And he should train, exercise, eat, and drink according to what that one expert — the one who actually understands these things — recommends, rather than following the opinions of the general public?

Crito: True.

Socrates: All right. But if he ignores the expert and follows the crowd instead — people who don't understand anything about training — won't he suffer for it?

Crito: He definitely will.

Socrates: What kind of harm will he suffer? What part of him will it affect?

Crito: His body, obviously. That's what gets ruined.

Socrates: Good. And isn't the same true for everything else? I won't go through every case, but let's get to the one that matters here. When it comes to questions of right and wrong, honorable and shameful, good and evil — which is exactly what we're discussing right now — should we follow the opinion of the crowd and fear their judgment? Or should we follow the one person who truly understands these things — assuming such a person exists — and respect and fear that person's judgment more than everyone else's combined?

Because if we ignore the expert on these matters, we'll damage and corrupt that part of ourselves that's made better by justice and destroyed by injustice. Isn't there such a part of us?

Crito: There certainly is, Socrates.

Socrates: Now think about it this way. If we listen to ignorant people and ruin whatever is improved by health and damaged by disease, would life be worth living? And the thing that gets ruined in that case is the body, right?

Crito: Right.

Socrates: Is life worth living with a body that's been wrecked and corrupted?

Crito: No, definitely not.

Socrates: Then is life worth living if that higher part of us — the part that justice improves and injustice damages — is wrecked and corrupted? Or do we think that whatever this part of us is — the part that has to do with justice and injustice — is less important than the body?

Crito: Certainly not less important.

Socrates: More important?

Crito: Far more.

Socrates: Then, my friend, we really shouldn't worry about what the general public says about us. We should care about what the one person who understands justice and injustice will say — and what the truth itself will say. So you're starting from the wrong place when you suggest we should care about the crowd's opinion on what's just and unjust, good and evil, honorable and shameful.

"Sure," someone will say, "but the crowd can kill us."

Crito: Yes, Socrates — that'll obviously be the response.

Socrates: You're right, it will be. But here's the thing: the old argument still holds up, as far as I can tell. And let me ask you about another principle we've held — that it's not just life that matters, but a good life. Does that still hold?

Crito: It does.

Socrates: And a good life is the same as a just and honorable life — does that hold too?

Crito: Yes.

Socrates: Then from these principles, here's the question we need to answer: should I try to escape without the Athenians' consent, or shouldn't I? If escaping is clearly the right thing to do, then I'll try it. If it isn't, I won't.

All those other considerations you raised — money, reputation, raising my children — I'm afraid those are really just the concerns of the crowd, who'd be just as ready to bring people back to life as they are to kill them, and with just as little thought. No — since our argument has brought us this far, the only question that matters is this: would we be doing the right thing if I escape and others help me do it? Or would we actually be doing wrong? And if we'd be doing wrong, then we can't let the threat of death or any other consequence enter into the calculation.

Crito: I think you're right, Socrates. How should we proceed?

Socrates: Let's think it through together. And if you can find a flaw in my reasoning at any point, tell me and I'll listen. But if you can't, then please, my dear friend — stop urging me to escape against the wishes of Athens. I value your attempts to persuade me, I truly do. But I can't be persuaded against my own better judgment.

Now here's my starting point. See if you can answer it.

Crito: I'll try.

Socrates: Do we agree that we should never deliberately do wrong? Or is it that sometimes we should and sometimes we shouldn't? Or is wrongdoing always, in every case, a harmful and shameful thing — just as we've always said? Have all the things we agreed on over the years been thrown out the window in the space of a few days? Have we — men of our age — been talking earnestly to each other our whole lives only to discover we're no better than children? Or, in spite of what the crowd thinks, and regardless of whether things get better or worse for us, does the truth remain what it was: that injustice is always harmful and shameful to the person who commits it? Do we hold to that, or not?

Crito: We hold to it.

Socrates: Then we must never do wrong.

Crito: Never.

Socrates: And we must never return wrong for wrong — even though most people think that's perfectly acceptable — since doing wrong is never right. Agreed?

Crito: Agreed.

Socrates: And what about doing harm to people, Crito — is that ever acceptable?

Crito: Surely not, Socrates.

Socrates: And what about returning harm for harm — which is what most people call justice? Is that right or wrong?

Crito: It's wrong.

Socrates: Because doing harm to someone is the same as doing wrong to them.

Crito: Exactly.

Socrates: So we must never strike back, never return evil for evil to anyone, no matter what they've done to us.

But I want you to think carefully about this, Crito, because I know most people disagree. This principle has never been popular, and it never will be. People who accept it and people who reject it have no common ground — they can only look at each other with contempt when they see how far apart they are.

So think hard: do you truly agree with me that we must never do wrong, never retaliate, never return evil for evil? Will that be our starting point? Or do you disagree? Because I've believed this for a long time, and I still do. But if you've changed your mind, tell me now.

Crito: No, I haven't changed my mind. Go ahead.

Socrates: All right, next step. If a person makes an agreement, and it's a just agreement — should he honor it, or should he break it?

Crito: He should honor it.

Socrates: Good. Now apply that here. If I leave this prison without the city's consent, am I doing wrong to anyone? Am I breaking the very principles we just agreed were right? What do you think?

Crito: I can't answer that, Socrates. I'm not sure.

Socrates: Then look at it this way. Imagine I'm about to walk out of here — about to break out, escape, whatever you want to call it — and the Laws of Athens, together with the whole political order, step in front of me and say:

"Tell us, Socrates — what exactly do you think you're doing? Aren't you trying, with this single act, to destroy us — the Laws — and the entire city, as far as it depends on you? Do you really think a state can survive when its legal decisions are ignored, overruled, and trampled on by private citizens?"

What would we say to that, Crito? Because anyone — especially a skilled debater — would have plenty to say in defense of the principle that court judgments must be carried out. Should we answer, "Yes, but the state wronged us — the trial was unfair, the verdict was unjust"? Is that our response?

Crito: That's exactly what I'd say, Socrates.

Socrates: And then imagine the Laws reply:

"Was that our agreement with you, Socrates? Or did you agree to abide by whatever decisions the state handed down?"

And if I looked surprised at hearing this, they'd probably say:

"Don't stand there gaping, Socrates — you're the one who's always asking and answering questions. So answer this one. What complaint do you have against us that justifies trying to destroy us and the city?

"First of all — didn't we bring you into existence? Your father married your mother under our authority and fathered you because of us. So tell us: do you have any objection to the laws governing marriage?"

No, I'd have to say.

"What about the laws governing childhood, upbringing, and education — the laws under which your father was required to educate you in music and athletics? Were those laws wrong?"

No, they were right.

"Well then. Since you were brought into the world, raised, and educated under our care, can you really deny that you are, first and foremost, our creation — our child, even our subject — just as your parents were before you? And if that's the case, you and we aren't on equal footing. You don't have the right to do to us whatever we do to you. Think about it: you wouldn't have the right to hit your father back if he hit you, or insult him if he insulted you, or do him any kind of harm in return for harm he did to you. Would you?"

No.

"Then do you think you have that right against your country and its Laws? If we decide to carry out your sentence, do you think you're justified in trying to destroy us in return?

"You — who claim to care about true virtue — are you really going to tell us you're in the right here? Has a philosopher like you somehow failed to understand that your country deserves even more respect than your father or your mother, or all your ancestors combined? That in the eyes of the gods and of all thinking people, your country is more sacred, more holy, more worthy of reverence? That when your country is angry, you should respond with even more gentleness and respect than you'd show your own father — either persuading it to change its mind, or obeying whatever it commands? That when your country punishes you — whether with prison or with blows — you must bear it quietly? That if it leads you into battle to be wounded or killed, you must go? That neither in war, nor in court, nor anywhere else may you flee or desert your post — you must do what your city and your country command, or else change their minds through legitimate persuasion? And that if violence against a parent is wrong, violence against your country is far more wrong?"

What do we say to that, Crito? Are the Laws right?

Crito: I think they are.

Socrates: Then imagine the Laws continue:

"Think about this carefully, Socrates. If what we're saying is true, then what you're planning to do is wrong. We brought you into the world. We nurtured you. We educated you. We gave you — and every other citizen — a share in everything good that we had to offer.

"And beyond all that, we made this public offer to every Athenian: once you've come of age and seen how the city works, how we operate — if you don't like us, you're free to leave. You can take your property and go wherever you want. Any citizen who's unhappy with us and the city can emigrate to a colony or to any foreign land. None of us Laws will stop him. None of us will stand in his way.

"But any citizen who stays — who has seen how we administer justice and manage the state, and still chooses to remain — that citizen has entered into an agreement with us. An implied contract: he will obey our commands.

"And anyone who breaks that contract is guilty on three counts. First, because he's disobeying us — his parents, in a sense. Second, because he's disobeying the very institutions that educated and raised him. And third, because after making an agreement to follow our commands, he neither follows them nor tries to change our minds when he thinks we're wrong. Because that's the deal we offer: obey us, or convince us we're mistaken. We don't give orders like tyrants. We give you the choice — follow or persuade — and this person does neither.

"These are the charges you'd face, Socrates, if you go through with this. And you'd face them more than any other Athenian."

And if I asked, "Why me more than anyone else?" the Laws would have good reason to point out that I, more than almost any Athenian alive, have accepted their authority. They'd say:

"The proof is overwhelming, Socrates, that we and the city suited you just fine. Out of all the Athenians, you were the most devoted homebody. You never left the city. You never traveled to see the games — except once, to the Isthmian Games. You never went anywhere else unless you were on military service. You had no curiosity about other cities or their laws. Your entire life stayed within our borders. We were enough for you. You chose to live under our governance. You raised your children here — which only proves how content you were.

"On top of all that, during your trial, you could have proposed exile as your penalty. The city that won't let you leave now would have let you go then. But you put on a big show of preferring death to exile. You said you weren't afraid to die.

"And now you've forgotten all those noble words. You show no respect for us, the Laws, whose destruction you're plotting. You're behaving like the most miserable kind of runaway slave — sneaking away, breaking every compact and agreement you made as a citizen.

"So answer us this, first of all: aren't we right that you agreed to live under our authority — not just in words, but in your actions? Is that true, or isn't it?"

How do we answer that, Crito? Can we deny it?

Crito: We can't, Socrates.

Socrates: Then the Laws would say:

"You're breaking the agreements and commitments you made with us — and not agreements you were pressured into, or tricked into, or forced to make in a hurry. You had seventy years to think about them. Seventy years during which you were free to leave the city at any time if you were unhappy with us, or if you thought our terms were unfair. You could have moved to Sparta. You could have gone to Crete — you're always praising their systems of government. You could have gone to any Greek or foreign city.

"But you didn't. You, more than anyone in Athens, seemed to love this city — or in other words, us, its Laws. Because who would love a city that had no laws? You stayed put. The lame, the blind, the crippled weren't more rooted in Athens than you were.

"And now you want to run away and abandon your agreements? Don't do it, Socrates. Don't make yourself ridiculous by escaping.

"Just think about what would happen. If you break the law this way, what good will it do — for you or your friends? Your friends will almost certainly face exile themselves, or lose their citizenship, or have their property confiscated. As for you — if you flee to one of the nearby well-governed cities, like Thebes or Megara, you'll arrive as an enemy. Every law-abiding citizen there will look at you with suspicion, as a man who undermines the rule of law. And you'll only confirm, in their minds, that the jury was right to convict you. After all, a person who destroys the laws is probably the kind of person who'd corrupt the young and the impressionable, too.

"So what are you going to do — avoid all the well-governed cities and all the decent, law-abiding people? And if you do, is that kind of life even worth living?

"Or will you go to these places and — what? — talk to people? And what will you say? The same things you said here in Athens, about how virtue and justice and institutions and laws are the most important things in life? Don't you think that would look a little ridiculous, coming from you?

"Maybe you'll avoid well-governed cities entirely and head for Thessaly, to Crito's friends, where things are loose and disorderly. They'd probably love to hear the story of your dramatic prison escape — all the entertaining details of how you snuck out disguised in a goatskin or some other costume, like a common fugitive. But won't someone eventually point out that you — an old man with probably only a few years left — weren't ashamed to cling so desperately to life that you violated the most fundamental laws of your city?

"Maybe they won't, as long as you keep everyone happy. But the moment you don't? You'll hear plenty of humiliating things. You'll spend your remaining days flattering and groveling before everyone, living as a servant. And doing what? Eating and drinking in Thessaly — as if you'd traveled abroad just for the food.

"And where will all your fine talk about justice and virtue be then?

"Maybe you'll say it's for your children — you want to live so you can raise them. But are you really going to drag them to Thessaly and make them foreigners, stripping them of their Athenian citizenship? Is that the gift you want to give them? Or maybe you think they'll be better raised and educated here even if you're not around, because your friends will look after them. But then — will your friends care for them only if you're alive in Thessaly, and not if you've gone to the next world? If the people who call themselves your friends are worth anything at all, they'll look after your children either way.

"Listen to us, Socrates — we who raised you. Don't put life and children ahead of justice. Put justice first — so that when you stand before the rulers of the underworld, you can defend yourself. Because if you do what Crito is urging, things won't go better for you in this life or in the next. Not for you, not for your friends, not for anyone.

"But if you leave this place now, you leave as an innocent man. You leave as a victim — not of the Laws, but of other men. But if you escape — if you return evil for evil, harm for harm, breaking the agreements and commitments you made with us, wronging the very people you should wrong least of all: yourself, your friends, your country, and us — then we will be angry with you while you live. And our brothers, the Laws of the world below, will not receive you kindly either. They'll know that you tried your best to destroy us.

"Listen to us, Socrates. Not to Crito."

This, dear Crito, is the voice I seem to hear — like the sound of a flute echoing in the ears of a mystic. That voice is humming inside me, and it drowns out everything else.

I know that anything more you say will be in vain. But if you have something to say, say it.

Crito: I have nothing to say, Socrates.

Socrates: Then leave me, Crito, to fulfill the will of God, and to follow where he leads.

Phaedo (Part 1)

Characters in this dialogue:
  Phaedo, who narrates the dialogue to Echecrates of Phlius
  Socrates
  Apollodorus
  Simmias
  Cebes
  Crito
  An attendant of the prison

Setting: The prison of Socrates

Echecrates: Were you actually there in the prison with Socrates, Phaedo, on the day he drank the poison?

Phaedo: I was, Echecrates. I was there.

Echecrates: I'd love to hear about his death. What did he say in his last hours? We were told he died by taking poison, but nobody knew anything beyond that. No one from Phlius goes to Athens anymore, and it's been ages since any traveler from Athens has come our way, so we never got a clear account.

Phaedo: You didn't hear about the trial?

Echecrates: Yes, someone told us about the trial. But we couldn't understand why, after being condemned, he wasn't put to death right away. Why the long delay? What was the reason for that?

Phaedo: It was a matter of timing, Echecrates. The stern of the ship that Athens sends to Delos happened to be crowned the day before his trial.

Echecrates: What ship is that?

Phaedo: It's the ship that, according to Athenian tradition, Theseus sailed to Crete when he took those fourteen young people with him and saved both them and himself. The story goes that the Athenians made a vow to Apollo at the time: if they were saved, they'd send a mission to Delos every year. And they've kept this custom ever since. The whole period of the voyage to Delos and back, from the moment the priest of Apollo crowns the stern of the ship, is a sacred season during which the city isn't allowed to be polluted by public executions. When the winds blow against the ship, the round trip can take quite a while. As I was saying, the ship was crowned the day before the trial, and that's why Socrates lay in prison all that time and wasn't put to death until long after his conviction.

Echecrates: And what was the manner of his death, Phaedo? What was said and done? Which of his friends were with him? Or did the authorities forbid them from being present, so that he died alone?

Phaedo: No, several of them were with him.

Echecrates: If you've got the time, I'd love for you to tell me everything that happened, as exactly as you can.

Phaedo: I have nothing else to do, and I'll try to satisfy your wish. Being reminded of Socrates is always the greatest pleasure for me, whether I'm talking about him myself or hearing someone else talk about him.

Echecrates: Well, your listeners feel the same way. So please be as precise as you can.

Phaedo: I had the strangest feeling being in his company that day. I couldn't quite believe I was present at the death of a friend, and yet I didn't feel sorry for him, Echecrates. He died so fearlessly, and his words and manner were so noble and gracious, that he seemed blessed to me. I thought that in going to the other world, he must surely have a divine calling, and that if any man was ever going to be happy when he arrived there, it would be Socrates. So I didn't pity him, even though you'd think that would be natural at such a moment. But at the same time, I didn't feel the pleasure I usually feel in philosophical conversation — and philosophy was what we talked about. I felt pleasure, yes, but mixed in was this strange current of pain, because I kept remembering that he was about to die. All of us felt this double pull. We were laughing and weeping by turns — especially Apollodorus. You know the kind of man he is?

Echecrates: Yes.

Phaedo: He was completely beside himself. And all the rest of us were deeply moved.

Echecrates: Who was there?

Phaedo: Of native Athenians, besides Apollodorus, there were Critobulus and his father Crito, Hermogenes, Epigenes, Aeschines, and Antisthenes. Also Ctesippus from the deme of Paeania, Menexenus, and some others. Plato, if I'm not mistaken, was ill.

Echecrates: Were there any foreigners?

Phaedo: Yes — Simmias, Cebes, and Phaedondes from Thebes, and Euclid and Terpison from Megara.

Echecrates: What about Aristippus and Cleombrotus?

Phaedo: No, they were said to be in Aegina.

Echecrates: Anyone else?

Phaedo: I think that's nearly everyone.

Echecrates: Well then, what did you talk about?

Phaedo: I'll start from the beginning and try to repeat the whole conversation. In the days before, we'd been in the habit of gathering early in the morning at the courthouse where the trial had taken place, which is near the prison. We'd wait there talking with one another until the doors opened — they didn't open very early — and then we'd go in and generally spend the day with Socrates. On this last morning, we gathered even earlier than usual, because the evening before, when we left the prison, we'd heard that the sacred ship had arrived from Delos. So we arranged to meet at our usual place as early as possible.

When we arrived, the jailer who normally let us in came out instead and told us to wait until he called us. "The Eleven are with Socrates right now," he said. "They're taking off his chains and giving orders that he's to die today." After a little while, he came back and said we could go in.

When we entered, we found Socrates just freed from his chains, with Xanthippe — you know her — sitting beside him, holding their child in her arms. When she saw us, she cried out the sort of thing women say: "Oh, Socrates, this is the last time you'll talk with your friends, or they with you!" Socrates looked at Crito and said, "Crito, have someone take her home." So some of Crito's people led her away. She was crying out and beating her breast.

Socrates sat up on the couch, bent his leg and rubbed it, and said as he rubbed it:

What a strange thing pleasure is, and how oddly it's related to pain — which you'd think would be its opposite. They never show up together at the same moment, and yet if you chase after one of them, you're pretty much forced to accept the other too. They're like two creatures with separate bodies joined at the head. I can't help thinking that if Aesop had noticed this, he'd have made a fable about it — about God trying to end their quarrel, and when he couldn't manage it, fastening their heads together. That's why when one arrives, the other follows right behind. I'm experiencing it myself right now: the chain was causing pain in my leg, and now that it's gone, pleasure comes along to take its place.

Cebes: I'm glad you mentioned Aesop, Socrates. It reminds me of a question that lots of people have been asking — Evenus the poet asked me about it just the other day, and he's sure to ask again. So if you'd like me to have an answer ready for him, you might as well tell me what to say. He wanted to know why you, who never wrote a line of poetry before, are now that you're in prison turning Aesop's fables into verse, and also composing a hymn to Apollo.

Socrates: Tell him the truth, Cebes — that I had no intention of competing with him or his poems. I knew that wouldn't be easy! I was trying to work out a scruple I had about the meaning of certain dreams. Throughout my life, I've often had a recurring dream telling me to "compose music." The same dream kept coming, sometimes in one form, sometimes another, but always with the same message: "Cultivate music and work at it." Until now, I'd always assumed this was just encouraging me to keep doing philosophy, which has been the pursuit of my life and is the noblest and finest form of music. The dream was telling me to do what I was already doing — like spectators shouting "Run!" at a runner who's already running. But I wasn't completely sure. Maybe the dream meant music in the ordinary sense. And since I'm under a death sentence, and the festival gave me a reprieve, I figured I should play it safe and satisfy the scruple by composing some verses before I go. So first I wrote a hymn to the god of the festival, and then, realizing that a real poet shouldn't just string words together but should invent stories — and I'm no storyteller — I took some of Aesop's fables that I had at hand and knew well, and turned the first ones I came across into verse. Tell Evenus this, Cebes. Tell him to be of good cheer, and say that I'd have him come after me, if he's a wise man, and not delay. It looks like today is my day — the Athenians say I must go.

Simmias: What a message for a man like Evenus! From what I know of him, he's not going to take your advice unless he absolutely has to.

Socrates: Why — isn't Evenus a philosopher?

Simmias: I think he is.

Socrates: Then he, or anyone who truly has the spirit of philosophy, will be willing to die — though he won't take his own life, since that's held to be wrong.

Here he shifted his position, swinging his legs off the couch and placing his feet on the ground. He sat this way for the rest of the conversation.

Cebes: Why do you say, Socrates, that a person shouldn't take their own life, but that the philosopher should be ready to follow the dying?

Socrates: Haven't you and Simmias heard your teacher Philolaus talk about this?

Cebes: Yes, but what he said was obscure.

Socrates: What I have to say is only an echo of what I've heard, but there's no reason I shouldn't repeat it. In fact, since I'm about to make a journey to another place, it's perfectly fitting for me to spend the time thinking and talking about the nature of that journey. What better way to pass the hours between now and sunset?

Cebes: Then tell me, Socrates — why is suicide considered wrong? I've certainly heard Philolaus say so when he was staying with us in Thebes, and others say the same. But I've never understood what any of them meant.

Socrates: Don't lose heart. Someday you may understand. But I imagine you're puzzled about this: why, when other evils can sometimes be good for certain people at certain times, death should be the one exception — why a person who'd be better off dead isn't permitted to do himself that favor, but has to wait for someone else to do it.

Cebes: Exactly, said Cebes with a gentle laugh, speaking in his native Boeotian dialect.

Socrates: Put like that, it does seem inconsistent. But there may not be any real inconsistency after all. There's a teaching whispered in the mysteries that we humans are in a kind of prison, and we have no right to break out and run away. That's a profound idea, and I don't entirely understand it myself. But I do believe this much: the gods are our guardians, and we are their possessions. Do you agree?

Cebes: Yes, I do.

Socrates: Well then — if one of your own possessions, say an ox or a donkey, took it upon itself to die when you hadn't indicated that you wanted it to, wouldn't you be angry? Wouldn't you punish it if you could?

Cebes: Certainly.

Socrates: So looked at this way, there may be good reason to say that a person shouldn't take their own life until God summons them — as he's now summoning me.

Cebes: Yes, Socrates, that does seem right. And yet, how do you square it with what you just said? If God is our guardian and we belong to him, why would the wisest of people be willing to leave that care? It doesn't make sense that a wise person would think he could do better on his own than the gods can do for him. A fool might think that way — he might figure he should run away from his master, without considering that his duty is to stay to the end, and that there'd be no sense in running from something good. But the wise person would want to stay forever with someone better than himself. So on this reasoning, Socrates, it's the wise who should grieve at dying and the foolish who should rejoice — which is the exact opposite of what you were just saying.

The earnestness of Cebes seemed to please Socrates. He turned to the rest of us and said: Here's a man who's always probing, always digging deeper. He's never satisfied with the first answer he hears.

Simmias: And honestly, the objection Cebes is raising does seem to have some force. Why would a truly wise person want to abandon a master who's better than himself? I think Cebes is really talking about you, Socrates. He thinks you're too ready to leave us, and too ready to leave the gods you yourself call our good masters.

Socrates: Fair enough. So you think I should answer your charge as if I were back in court?

Simmias: We'd like that.

Socrates: Then I'll try to make a better defense before you than I did before the jurors. Here's the thing, Simmias and Cebes: I'd have every reason to grieve at death, if I weren't persuaded, first, that I'm going to other gods who are wise and good — and I'm as certain of this as I can be of anything like it — and second, though I'm less sure of this, to men who've already died and are better than the ones I'm leaving behind. So I don't grieve as I might have, because I have good hope that something still awaits the dead, and as the old saying goes, something far better for the good than for the wicked.

Simmias: But are you really going to leave us with just your own thoughts on this, Socrates? Won't you share them? This is something we deserve to hear too. And besides, if you can convince us, that'll be your defense against the charge.

Socrates: I'll do my best. But first let me hear what Crito wants — he's been trying to say something for a while now.

Crito: Only this, Socrates. The attendant who's going to give you the poison has been telling me to pass along a message. He wants you to know that you shouldn't talk too much. Talking, he says, raises your body heat, and that can interfere with how the poison works. People who get themselves worked up sometimes have to take a second or even a third dose.

Socrates: Then let him mind his own business and be prepared to give me the poison twice or even three times if he has to. That's all.

Crito: I knew that's exactly what you'd say. But I was obliged to pass it along.

Socrates: Never mind him.

Now then, my friends — my judges, I should say — I want to explain to you why I believe that a true philosopher has good reason to face death cheerfully, and to hope for the greatest good in the world beyond. Let me try to show you how this works, Simmias and Cebes.

The true devotee of philosophy is likely to be misunderstood by everyone else. What other people don't realize is that the philosopher is always pursuing death and dying. And if that's the case — if he's spent his whole life desiring exactly this — why should he complain when it finally arrives?

Simmias: You're making me laugh, Socrates, even though I'm not in a laughing mood. I think most people, hearing you say this, would feel you've described philosophers perfectly. And the folks back home in Thebes would agree — they'd say that the life philosophers want really is death, and that they've caught them out as deserving the death they desire.

Socrates: And they'd be right to think so, Simmias — except for the part about "catching them out." They haven't understood what kind of death the true philosopher deserves, or how he deserves and desires it. But let's leave the crowd out of it and talk among ourselves. Do we believe there's such a thing as death?

Simmias: Of course.

Socrates: And isn't death the separation of the soul from the body? Being dead means the soul exists by herself, released from the body, and the body exists by itself, released from the soul. Death is nothing other than that, right?

Simmias: Right, that's exactly what it is.

Socrates: Now here's another question that should shed light on things, if we can agree about it. Should the philosopher care about the so-called pleasures of eating and drinking?

Simmias: Certainly not.

Socrates: What about the pleasures of sex?

Simmias: Not at all.

Socrates: And what about all the other ways of pampering the body — buying expensive clothes, fancy shoes, other physical adornments? Doesn't the philosopher look down on these things, at least beyond what's strictly necessary? What do you say?

Simmias: I'd say the true philosopher despises them.

Socrates: So wouldn't you say he's entirely focused on the soul rather than the body? He wants, as much as he can, to turn away from the body and toward the soul.

Simmias: That's true.

Socrates: And in all these ways, philosophers more than anyone else are trying to separate the soul from its close association with the body.

Meanwhile, the rest of the world thinks that someone who has no taste for physical pleasures and doesn't participate in them might as well be dead — that life isn't worth living for such a person.

Simmias: That's very true.

Socrates: Now, what about the actual pursuit of knowledge? Is the body a help or a hindrance? Think about it this way: do sight and hearing give us any real truth? The poets are always telling us our senses are inaccurate, and if even sight and hearing — the best of our senses — are unreliable, what can we say about the rest?

Simmias: Yes, you're right.

Socrates: Then when does the soul reach the truth? Whenever she tries to investigate something with the body's help, she's clearly led astray.

Isn't it in pure thought, if anywhere, that reality is revealed to her?

And thought works best when the mind is gathered into herself, undisturbed by any of these things — neither sounds nor sights, neither pain nor pleasure — when she takes leave of the body and has as little contact with it as possible, when she's free of bodily perception and desire and reaching toward true being?

And isn't this exactly what the philosopher does — dishonoring the body? His soul runs away from the body and longs to be alone, by herself?

Simmias: That's true.

Socrates: Well, here's another thing, Simmias. Is there such a thing as absolute justice?

Simmias: Absolutely, yes.

Socrates: And absolute beauty? And absolute good?

Simmias: Of course.

Socrates: But have you ever seen any of these things with your eyes?

Simmias: Certainly not.

Socrates: Have you ever grasped them through any bodily sense? And I'm not talking just about these — I mean the true nature of everything: absolute greatness, health, strength, the essential reality of anything at all. Has the truth of any of these ever been perceived through the body? Or is it the case that whoever prepares his mind most carefully — aiming for the most precise understanding of the essence of each thing he examines — comes closest to knowledge?

Simmias: Yes, that's right.

Socrates: And the person who achieves the purest knowledge is the one who approaches each thing with the mind alone, without dragging in sight or any other sense along with his reasoning — who uses the pure light of the mind itself to search into the pure truth of each thing, having gotten rid of eyes and ears and, so to speak, the whole body, because these are distracting elements that corrupt the soul and prevent her from gaining truth and knowledge. If anyone is going to attain knowledge of what truly is, isn't it this person?

Simmias: What you're saying is profoundly true, Socrates.

Socrates: And when real philosophers think all this through, won't they naturally arrive at something like this conclusion? "It seems like we've found a path of reasoning that leads here: as long as we have the body, as long as the soul is tangled up with this bodily affliction, we'll never fully reach what we desire — which is the truth. The body is an endless source of trouble, what with its demands for food, its vulnerability to disease that interrupts our investigations. It fills us with desires and fears and all sorts of fantasies and foolishness, so that, as the saying goes, it literally prevents us from thinking at all. Where do wars come from? Where do conflicts and factions come from? From the body and its appetites, that's where. Wars happen because of the love of money, and money has to be earned for the body's sake and its service. Because of all these distractions, we never have time for philosophy. And worst of all, even when we do get a moment of leisure and turn to some investigation, the body keeps barging in, creating chaos and confusion in our inquiries, dazzling us so that we can't see the truth.

"Experience has shown us this: if we want pure knowledge of anything, we have to be free of the body. The soul must see things as they truly are, by herself. And then we'll finally attain the wisdom we say we love — not during our lives, but after death. Because if pure knowledge is impossible in the body's company, then one of two things follows: either we can never attain knowledge at all, or we can attain it only after death. For only then will the soul be separated from the body and exist by herself alone.

"In this present life, I think we come closest to knowledge when we have as little contact and communion with the body as possible — when we don't saturate ourselves with its nature, but keep ourselves pure until the hour when God himself sees fit to release us. Having freed ourselves from the body's foolishness, we'll be pure. We'll encounter what is pure. We'll know of ourselves the clear light everywhere — which is nothing other than the light of truth."

For the impure aren't permitted to approach the pure.

These, Simmias, are the kinds of things that true lovers of knowledge can't help saying to each other and believing. Wouldn't you agree?

Simmias: Without a doubt, Socrates.

Socrates: And if this is true, my friend, then I have every reason to hope that where I'm going, at the end of my journey, I'll finally attain what I've pursued my whole life. And so I go on my way rejoicing — and not just me, but anyone who believes his mind has been prepared and, in a sense, purified.

Simmias: Certainly.

Socrates: And what is purification but the separation of the soul from the body, as I was saying before? The habit of the soul gathering and collecting herself into herself from every part of the body — dwelling in her own place alone, both in this life and the next, as much as she can — the release of the soul from the chains of the body?

Simmias: Yes, exactly.

Socrates: And isn't this separation and release of the soul from the body what we call death?

Simmias: It is.

Socrates: And true philosophers, and only they, are always working to release the soul. The separation of the soul from the body is their special study, isn't it?

Simmias: It is.

Socrates: So as I said at the start, wouldn't it be ridiculous for people who've spent their whole lives practicing something as close to death as possible to then complain when death actually arrives?

True philosophers, Simmias, are always rehearsing for death. That's why death is less frightening to them than to anyone else. Look at it this way: if they've been enemies of the body in every respect, always wanting to be alone with the soul, wouldn't it be completely inconsistent for them to tremble and protest when that desire is finally granted? Wouldn't they rejoice at departing for the place where they hope to find what they loved all their lives — wisdom — and to finally be rid of the company of their enemy?

Think about it: many a person has been willing to go down to the world below, inspired by the hope of seeing a dead lover, or a wife, or a son, and talking with them again. Will someone who is a true lover of wisdom, who is deeply convinced that only in that other world can he truly possess her — will he really resent death? Will he not depart gladly? Surely he will, my friend, if he's a true philosopher. He'll have a firm conviction that there and there alone he can find wisdom in her purity. And if that's so, then as I was saying, it would be utterly absurd for him to fear death.

Simmias: It really would.

Socrates: So when you see someone dreading the approach of death, isn't that proof enough that he's not a lover of wisdom, but a lover of the body — and probably a lover of money or power, or both?

Simmias: Exactly right.

Socrates: And isn't courage, Simmias, a quality that's especially characteristic of the philosopher?

And what about self-control — what people usually mean by it, the ability to govern your passions and not be ruled by them? Doesn't that belong specifically to those who care least about the body and spend their lives in philosophy?

Simmias: It must.

Socrates: Because here's the thing: the courage and self-control of other people, if you really examine them, are contradictions.

Simmias: How so?

Socrates: You know that most people regard death as a great evil?

Simmias: Very much so.

Socrates: And the "courageous" among them face death only because they're afraid of something worse, right?

Simmias: That's true.

Socrates: So everyone except philosophers is brave only out of fear, because they're cowards. And isn't that a strange thing — courage born from cowardice?

And the self-controlled are in the same boat. They're self-controlled because they lack self-control — which sounds like a contradiction, but it's exactly what happens. There are certain pleasures they're afraid of losing, and in their desire to keep those pleasures, they abstain from other pleasures because they're overpowered by the ones they want more. People call it "lack of self-control" when you're conquered by pleasure, but these supposedly self-controlled people are also conquered by pleasure — they just trade one set of pleasures for another. So in a sense, they achieve self-control through its opposite.

Simmias: That does seem to be the case.

Socrates: But my dear Simmias, this isn't real virtue. Trading one fear or pleasure or pain for another — bigger for smaller, as if they were coins — that's not the right exchange. There's only one true currency that everything should be traded for, and that's wisdom. Only when courage, self-control, and justice are bought and sold in exchange for wisdom — accompanied by wisdom — are they the real thing, regardless of whether pleasures and fears and other such things come along with them or not. But when these supposed virtues are separated from wisdom and merely swapped around with each other, that kind of "virtue" is just a shadow play. There's nothing free or healthy or true in it. Real virtue is a purification from all these things, and self-control, justice, courage, and wisdom itself are the means of that purification.

The founders of the mystery religions seem to have understood this. They weren't talking nonsense when they said long ago, in their symbolic language, that those who pass into the underworld uninitiated and unpurified will lie in the mud, while those who arrive properly initiated and purified will dwell with the gods. As they say in the mysteries: "Many carry the wand, but few are true mystics." And the true mystics, as I understand it, are the real philosophers.

All my life, I've been trying to join their number — trying as hard as I could, in my own way. Whether I've tried in the right way, and whether I've succeeded, I'll know for certain in a little while, God willing, when I arrive there. That's what I believe.

And so I maintain, Simmias and Cebes, that I'm right not to grieve or be upset about leaving you and my masters in this world. I believe I'll find equally good masters and friends in the next. Most people don't believe that. But if I can convince you with my defense today better than I convinced the Athenian jurors, that'll be good enough.

Cebes: I agree with most of what you've said, Socrates. But when it comes to the soul, people tend to be skeptical. They're afraid that when the soul leaves the body, it may end up nowhere at all — that on the very day of death, the moment it's released from the body, it may disperse like smoke or a puff of air and vanish into nothing. If the soul could somehow collect itself and exist independently after it's been freed from the evils you've described, then there'd be real reason to hope that what you say is true. But that requires a great deal of argument and proof — to show that when a person dies, their soul still exists and retains any power or intelligence.

Socrates: You're right, Cebes. So shall I suggest that we explore the likelihood of these things a bit?

Cebes: I'd very much like to hear your thoughts about them.

Socrates: I don't think anyone who heard me now — not even one of my old enemies, the comic playwrights — could accuse me of wasting time on irrelevant matters. So if you're willing, let's proceed.

Let's consider the question of whether the souls of the dead exist or don't exist in the world below. There's an ancient doctrine that says they go from this world to the other, and then return and are born again from the dead. Now, if it's true that the living come from the dead, then our souls must exist in the other world — because if they didn't, how could they be born again? This would settle the matter, if we could establish that the living really do come only from the dead. But if that's not the case, we'll need other arguments.

Cebes: Very true.

Socrates: Then let's not limit ourselves to human beings. Let's consider animals too, and plants, and everything that comes into existence. The proof will be easier this way. Isn't it true that everything that has an opposite is generated from that opposite? I mean things like good and evil, just and unjust — there are countless pairs of opposites, and they're all generated from their opposites. I want to show you that in all such pairs, the process necessarily works both ways.

For example: anything that becomes bigger must have been smaller first, right?

Cebes: Right.

Socrates: And what becomes smaller must have been bigger before it became smaller.

Cebes: Yes.

Socrates: And the weaker comes from the stronger, and the faster from the slower.

Cebes: Certainly.

Socrates: And the worse comes from the better, and the more just from the more unjust.

Cebes: Yes.

Socrates: So we're agreed? All opposites are generated from their opposites?

Cebes: We are.

Socrates: And in this movement between opposites, aren't there always two processes going on — one in each direction? Between bigger and smaller, there's a process of increase and a process of decrease. What increases we call growing; what decreases we call declining.

Cebes: Yes.

Socrates: And there are many other examples — division and combination, cooling and heating — that involve a passage from one thing into its opposite. Even when we don't have specific words for these processes, in reality things are always being generated from their opposites, with a transition from one to the other.

Cebes: Very true.

Socrates: Good. Now — isn't there an opposite of life, the way sleep is the opposite of waking?

Cebes: There is.

Socrates: What is it?

Cebes: Death.

Socrates: And these, since they're opposites, are generated from each other, with two transitional processes between them?

Cebes: Of course.

Socrates: Now, I'll analyze one of these pairs of opposites and its two processes, and then you can analyze the other. Take sleep and waking. The state of sleep is the opposite of the state of waking. Out of sleeping, waking is generated, and out of waking, sleeping is generated. The process in one direction is falling asleep; in the other, it's waking up. Do you agree?

Cebes: Entirely.

Socrates: Then apply the same analysis to life and death. Isn't death the opposite of life?

Cebes: It is.

Socrates: And they're generated from each other?

Cebes: Yes.

Socrates: What is generated from the living?

Cebes: The dead.

Socrates: And what from the dead?

Cebes: I can only say — the living.

Socrates: Then the living — whether things or people, Cebes — are generated from the dead?

Cebes: That's clear.

Socrates: Then the conclusion is that our souls exist in the world below?

Cebes: So it seems.

Socrates: And one of the two processes between these opposites is visible — dying is something we can clearly see, right?

Cebes: Yes.

Socrates: Then what should we do? Shall we refuse to assign a corresponding opposite process? Shall we suppose nature limps along on one leg? Don't we have to give death some matching process of generation?

Cebes: Absolutely.

Socrates: And what is that process?

Cebes: Coming back to life.

Socrates: And coming back to life, if there is such a thing, is the birth of the dead into the world of the living?

Cebes: Quite right.

Socrates: Then here's another way we arrive at the same conclusion: the living come from the dead, just as the dead come from the living. And if this is true, it's very strong evidence that the souls of the dead must exist somewhere, from which they return.

Cebes: Yes, Socrates. The conclusion seems to follow necessarily from what we've agreed to.

Socrates: And I think we can show that our agreements were fair, Cebes. Consider this: if the process of generation only went in one direction, in a straight line, with no return or circle back to the opposite — then eventually everything would end up in the same state, and generation would stop entirely.

Cebes: What do you mean?

Socrates: It's simple. Let me illustrate with sleep. If there were no alternation between sleeping and waking — if falling asleep weren't balanced by waking up — then eventually the story of the sleeping Endymion would be meaningless, because everything else would be asleep too, and he'd be indistinguishable from anything else. Or if things only combined and never divided, we'd end up with the chaos that Anaxagoras described, everything mixed together.

In the same way, my dear Cebes, if everything that has life eventually dies, and after dying stays dead without coming back to life — wouldn't the inevitable result be that eventually everything dies and nothing is alive? Even if the living originally sprang from something other than the dead, if everything that lives eventually dies and stays dead, how could the end result be anything but universal death?

Cebes: There's no way around it, Socrates. Your argument seems absolutely right.

Socrates: Yes, Cebes, I think it is, and we haven't been misled in agreeing to all this. There truly is such a thing as coming back to life. The living do spring from the dead. The souls of the dead do exist. And the good souls have a better portion than the wicked.

Cebes: You know, Socrates, there's another argument that points the same way — your favorite doctrine that knowledge is simply recollection. If that's true, then we must have learned in some previous existence what we now recollect. But that would be impossible unless our souls existed before taking human form. Here's yet another proof that the soul is immortal.

Simmias: Wait — Cebes, remind me. What are the arguments for this doctrine of recollection? I'm not sure I remember them right now.

Cebes: Here's one excellent proof: if you ask people the right questions in the right way, they can arrive at correct answers on their own. But how could they do this unless they already had knowledge and right reason inside them? This is most clearly demonstrated when you take someone to a geometric diagram or anything like that.

Socrates: But if you're still not convinced, Simmias, let me suggest another way of looking at it — to see whether knowledge might really be recollection.

Simmias: It's not that I'm unconvinced — I just want this doctrine of recollection brought back to my own recollection! From what Cebes has said, I'm starting to remember and be persuaded. But I'd still like to hear what you were going to say.

Socrates: Here it is. We'd agree, wouldn't we, that what a person recollects, they must have known at some earlier time?

Simmias: Yes.

Socrates: And can we agree on what kind of knowledge counts as recollection? What I mean is this: when a person perceives something — sees or hears or otherwise experiences it — and that experience makes them think of something else, something that belongs to a different kind of knowledge, isn't that fairly called recollection?

Simmias: What do you mean?

Socrates: Here's an example. Knowing what a lyre is isn't the same as knowing what a particular person looks like, right?

Simmias: Right.

Socrates: But you know what happens to lovers. When they see a lyre, or a piece of clothing, or anything else that their beloved used to use, they recognize the lyre, and at the same time their mind forms an image of the person it belonged to. That's recollection. In the same way, seeing Simmias might make you think of Cebes, and there are endless examples like this.

Simmias: Endless, absolutely.

Socrates: And recollection is most often the process of recovering something you'd already forgotten through the passage of time or inattention.

Simmias: Very true.

Socrates: And can't you also be led to recollect a person from seeing a picture of a horse or a lyre? Or from a picture of Simmias, you might be led to think of Cebes?

Simmias: Certainly.

Socrates: Or from a picture of Simmias, you might be reminded of Simmias himself?

Simmias: Yes.

Socrates: So recollection can be triggered by things that are either like or unlike what's recollected?

Simmias: It can.

Socrates: And when the recollection comes from something similar, doesn't another thought inevitably arise — whether the likeness falls short of what you're remembering?

Simmias: Yes, it does.

Socrates: Then consider this next step. Is there such a thing as equality — not one stick being equal to another stick, or one stone to another stone, but something beyond all that: absolute equality, equality itself? Shall we say it exists?

Simmias: By all means — let's say so, and swear to it with complete confidence.

Socrates: And do we know what this absolute equality is?

Simmias: Certainly.

Socrates: Where did we get this knowledge? Didn't we see equal things in the physical world — equal pieces of wood or stone — and from those, form the idea of an equality that's different from them? You do see a difference, don't you? Think about it this way: don't the same sticks or stones sometimes appear equal and sometimes unequal?

Simmias: Definitely.

Socrates: But does equality itself — the real thing — ever appear unequal? Is the Form of equality the same as the Form of inequality?

Simmias: Impossible, Socrates.

Socrates: Then these so-called equal things aren't the same as equality itself?

Simmias: Clearly not.

Socrates: And yet from these physical equals — which are different from equality itself — you somehow conceived and grasped the idea of equality itself?

Simmias: That's very true.

Socrates: Whether equal things are like or unlike it?

Simmias: Yes.

Socrates: But it makes no difference. Whenever seeing one thing leads you to conceive of another, whether like or unlike, an act of recollection has taken place.

Simmias: Right.

Socrates: Now here's the key question. When we look at equal sticks and stones and other physical equals, what's our impression? Do they measure up to equality itself, or do they fall short?

Simmias: They fall far short.

Socrates: Then mustn't we agree that whenever someone observes a thing that's aiming to be like something else but falls short — can't quite reach it, remains inferior — the person who notices this must have had prior knowledge of the thing it's falling short of?

Simmias: That's necessary.

Socrates: And isn't this exactly our experience with physical equals and equality itself?

Simmias: Exactly.

Socrates: Then we must have known equality before the first time we ever saw physical equals and noticed that they all strive to be like equality itself but fall short of it.

Simmias: That's right.

Socrates: And we also agree that this knowledge of absolute equality has only been and can only be obtained through the senses — through sight or touch or some other sense? I'm treating them all the same here.

Simmias: Yes, Socrates, for the purposes of this argument they are all the same.

Socrates: So it's from the senses that we get the knowledge that all sensible things strive toward absolute equality but fall short of it?

Simmias: Yes.

Socrates: Then before we began to see or hear or use our other senses, we must have already possessed knowledge of absolute equality — otherwise we couldn't have compared the equal things we perceive through the senses to that standard. Because that's what they all aim at, and that's what they all fall short of.

Simmias: That follows from everything we've said.

Socrates: And didn't we begin seeing and hearing and using our other senses at the moment we were born?

Simmias: Of course.

Socrates: Then we must have acquired knowledge of equality before we were born?

Simmias: So it seems.

Socrates: That is, before we were born.

And if we acquired this knowledge before birth and were born already possessing it, then we also knew before birth — and at the very instant of birth — not only equality and the greater and the less, but all such things. We're not just talking about equality here. The same argument applies to beauty itself, goodness itself, justice, holiness, and everything we stamp with the name "reality" in our philosophical discussions, both in our questions and our answers. We must have acquired knowledge of all these before we were born.

Simmias: That's right.

Socrates: And if, after acquiring this knowledge, we haven't forgotten it, then we must always have been born knowing, and must continue to know throughout our lives. Because knowing is just acquiring knowledge and keeping it — not losing it. Isn't losing knowledge what we call forgetting, Simmias?

Simmias: Exactly, Socrates.

Socrates: But if we acquired this knowledge before birth and lost it at birth, and then later, through our senses, recovered the knowledge we once had — wouldn't the process we call "learning" really be "recovering" knowledge that's naturally ours? And wouldn't we be right to call this recollection?

Simmias: Certainly.

Socrates: Because we've established this: when we perceive something through sight, hearing, or any other sense, that perception enables us to grasp some other thing — something like or unlike it — that's associated with it but had been forgotten. So one of two things must be true: either we were born with this knowledge and retain it all our lives, or after birth, those who "learn" are really just remembering. Learning is recollection.

Simmias: Yes, Socrates, that's absolutely right.

Socrates: So which do you prefer, Simmias? Were we born with knowledge, or do we recollect what we knew before birth?

Simmias: I can't decide right now.

Socrates: Here's something you can decide, though. Would someone who really has knowledge be able to give an account of what they know?

Simmias: They'd have to be able to.

Socrates: And do you think everyone can give an account of the things we've been discussing?

Simmias: I wish they could. But I'm more afraid that tomorrow at this time, there won't be anyone left alive who can give a proper account of them.

Socrates: So you don't think everyone knows these things?

Simmias: Certainly not.

Socrates: Then they're in the process of recollecting what they learned before?

Simmias: It must be so.

Socrates: And when did our souls acquire this knowledge? Not since we were born as human beings?

Simmias: No.

Socrates: Then before that?

Simmias: Yes.

Socrates: Then our souls must have existed before they took human form, Simmias — and during that earlier existence, they must have possessed intelligence.

Simmias: Unless these ideas are given to us at the very moment of birth, Socrates? That's the only other possibility.

Socrates: All right, my friend. But then when do we lose them? We've already agreed they're not in us when we're born. Do we lose them at the very instant we receive them? Can you think of any other time?

Simmias: No, Socrates. I realize I was talking nonsense without even noticing.

Socrates: Then can we say this, Simmias? If all the things we keep talking about really exist — beauty itself, goodness itself, the essential reality of everything — and if we refer all our sense perceptions to these standards, comparing physical things to them, recognizing these realities as something we possessed before — then our souls must have existed before we were born, just as surely as these realities exist. If the realities don't exist, then neither do our preexistent souls. There's the same proof for both: the existence of the soul before birth stands or falls with the existence of these Forms.

Simmias: Yes, Socrates, I'm completely convinced that the same necessity holds for both. And the argument finds perfect refuge in this position: the existence of the soul before birth can't be separated from the existence of beauty, goodness, and all those other realities you were just talking about. Nothing is more obvious to me than that these things have the most real and absolute existence. I'm satisfied with the proof.

Socrates: And what about Cebes? I need to convince him too.

Simmias: I think Cebes is convinced. He's the most skeptical person alive, but I believe he's sufficiently persuaded that the soul exists before birth. However, he's not yet persuaded — and frankly, neither am I — that the soul continues to exist after death. We can't shake off the common fear that Cebes was talking about: the fear that when a person dies, the soul may disperse and that may be the end of it. Because even if the soul was born somewhere else and existed before entering the human body, why couldn't it be destroyed and come to an end after it leaves?

Cebes: Exactly, Simmias. It's like we've proven half of what needs to be proven — that our souls existed before we were born. But the other half is still missing: that the soul will exist after death as well as before birth. Until that's shown, the proof isn't complete.

Socrates: But that proof has already been given, Simmias and Cebes — if you combine this argument with the earlier one about everything living being born from the dead. If the soul exists before birth, and if coming to life means being born from death and dying, then mustn't the soul continue to exist after death? She has to be born again, after all. So the proof you're asking for has already been supplied.

Still, I have a feeling you and Simmias would like to push the argument further. You're like children, scared that when the soul leaves the body, the wind might really blow her away and scatter her — especially if a person happens to die during a storm rather than on a calm day.

Cebes smiled and said: Then argue us out of our fears, Socrates. Or rather — it's not exactly that we're afraid, but there's a child inside each of us who is terrified of death, like a boogeyman in the dark. That's the child we need to persuade.

Socrates: Then you need to charm that child every day until the fear is gone.

Cebes: And where will we find someone to charm away our fears, Socrates, once you're gone?

Socrates: Greece is a big place, Cebes, full of good people. And there are plenty of non-Greek peoples too. Search among them all, far and wide, sparing neither effort nor money. There's no better way to spend your money. And search among yourselves too — you may not find anyone better suited to the task.

Cebes: That search will certainly be made. But if you're willing, let's get back to where we left off.

Socrates: Of course. What else would I want to do?

Now then, shouldn't we ask ourselves: what kind of thing is liable to being scattered, and about which we should be afraid? And what kind of thing is not? Once we figure that out, we can ask which kind the soul is — and our hopes and fears about our own souls will follow from the answers.

Cebes: Very true.

Socrates: Now, isn't it natural to suppose that compound things — things that have been put together — are capable of being taken apart? And that only what is simple and uncompounded must be, if anything is, incapable of dissolution?

Cebes: Yes, I'd think so.

Socrates: And the simple, uncompounded things are most likely to be always the same and unchanging, while compound things are always changing, never staying the same?

Cebes: I agree.

Socrates: Then let's return to those realities we discussed earlier. The essential nature of things — what we define as "true reality" in our philosophical investigations — equality itself, beauty itself, the essence of anything: do these ever change in any way? Or is each of them always what it is, maintaining the same simple, self-identical, unchanging form, never varying at all, in any way, at any time?

Cebes: They must always be the same, Socrates.

Socrates: And what about the many beautiful things in the world — beautiful people, horses, clothes, or anything else that shares a name with those absolutes — things we call equal or beautiful? Are they always the same? Or, quite the opposite, are they practically never the same, either with themselves or with each other?

Cebes: The latter. They're always changing.

Socrates: And these you can touch and see and perceive with the senses. But the unchanging things can only be grasped by the mind — they're invisible, beyond the reach of sight.

Cebes: That's very true.

Socrates: So let's say there are two kinds of existence: one visible, one invisible.

Cebes: Agreed.

Socrates: The visible is the changing; the invisible is the unchanging?

Cebes: Let's accept that.

Socrates: And aren't we ourselves made up of two parts — body and soul?

Cebes: Certainly.

Socrates: Which of our two categories does the body resemble more?

Cebes: Obviously the visible.

Socrates: And the soul — is it visible or invisible?

Cebes: Not visible to humans, at any rate.

Socrates: Well, by "visible" and "invisible" we mean visible or invisible to human eyes, right?

Cebes: Yes.

Socrates: Then the soul is invisible?

Cebes: Yes.

Socrates: So the soul is more like the invisible, and the body more like the visible?

Cebes: That follows necessarily, Socrates.

Socrates: Now, weren't we saying earlier that when the soul uses the body as her instrument of perception — when she sees through the eyes or hears through the ears or uses any other sense — she's dragged by the body into the realm of the changeable, where she wanders in confusion? The world spins around her, and she's like a drunk, because she's in contact with things that are constantly shifting?

Cebes: Yes.

Socrates: But when she returns into herself and reflects on her own, she passes into the realm of the pure, the eternal, the immortal, the unchanging — things that are her own kin. She dwells with them whenever she's free to be by herself, undisturbed. She stops wandering. She becomes steady and unchanging, because she's in communion with what is steady and unchanging. And this state of the soul is called wisdom.

Cebes: That's beautifully and truly said, Socrates.

Socrates: So based on both this argument and the previous one, which category does the soul more closely resemble?

Cebes: I think anyone who follows your reasoning, Socrates — even the most stubborn person — would have to agree that the soul is infinitely more like the unchanging.

Socrates: And the body is more like the changing?

Cebes: Yes.

Socrates: Now consider one more thing. When body and soul are joined together, nature assigns the soul to rule and govern, and the body to obey and serve. Which of these functions is more like the divine, and which more like the mortal? Doesn't the divine seem to be the one that naturally rules and leads, and the mortal the one that serves and obeys?

Cebes: Yes.

Socrates: And which does the soul resemble?

Cebes: Obviously the soul resembles the divine, and the body the mortal. No doubt about it.

Socrates: Then consider, Cebes, whether everything we've said leads to this conclusion: the soul is most like what is divine, immortal, rational, uniform, indissoluble, and unchanging. The body is most like what is human, mortal, irrational, multiform, dissoluble, and changeable. Can we deny this?

Cebes: No.

Socrates: And if that's true, isn't the body naturally prone to rapid dissolution, while the soul is nearly or entirely indissoluble?

Cebes: Of course.

Socrates: And consider this: after death, the body — the visible part of a person, lying in the visible world, what we call a corpse — which you'd expect to decompose and disintegrate, doesn't actually dissolve right away. It can last quite a while, sometimes a very long time, especially if the person was healthy at the time of death and dies in the right season. A body that's been shrunk and embalmed, as the Egyptians do, can last almost forever. And even in decay, certain parts — bones, ligaments, and the like — are practically indestructible. Agreed?

Cebes: Yes.

Socrates: Then is it likely that the soul, which is invisible, which is headed for a place that is like herself — invisible, pure, and noble — on her way to the good and wise God (where, God willing, my own soul will soon be going) — is it likely that this soul, if such is her nature and origin, would be blown to pieces and destroyed the instant she leaves the body, as most people claim?

Far from it, my dear Simmias and Cebes. The truth is more like this: the soul that departs pure, dragging along no contamination from the body — the soul that during life voluntarily had nothing to do with the body, avoiding it, gathering herself into herself, making this her constant practice — which means she's been a true student of philosophy, genuinely rehearsing for death. Isn't philosophy the practice of dying?

That soul, I say — herself invisible — departs to the invisible world, to the divine, the immortal, the rational. Arriving there, she's free from error, folly, fear, wild passions, and all other human afflictions, and she dwells forever, as they say of the initiated, in the company of the gods. Is this true, Cebes?

Cebes: Yes, beyond any doubt.

Socrates: But the soul that departs polluted, that was the companion and servant of the body all its life, fascinated by the body and its pleasures and desires, until it came to believe that only physical things are real — things you can touch and see and taste and use for gratification — the soul that's been trained to hate and fear and avoid the life of the mind, which to bodily eyes seems dark and invisible and can only be reached through philosophy — do you think a soul like that will depart pure and uncontaminated?

Cebes: Impossible.

Socrates: She's weighed down by the physical, which constant association with the body has made part of her very nature.

And this physical element, my friend, is heavy and earthy. It's the element that drags the soul back down into the visible world, because she's afraid of the invisible world below. She prowls around tombs and graveyards — and near such places, we're told, ghostly apparitions of souls have actually been seen. These are the phantoms of souls that didn't depart pure but still cling to the visible, which is why they can be seen.

Cebes: That seems very likely, Socrates.

Socrates: It does. And these must be the souls not of the good but of the wicked, who are forced to wander around such places as punishment for their former evil way of life. They keep wandering until the craving for the physical that never leaves them finally imprisons them in another body. And they probably find themselves in bodies that match whatever character they cultivated in their previous lives.

Cebes: What do you mean, Socrates? What kinds of bodies?

Socrates: Well, those who gave themselves over to gluttony, lust, and drunkenness without any restraint would probably pass into the bodies of donkeys and similar animals. Don't you think?

Cebes: That seems very likely.

Socrates: And those who chose injustice, tyranny, and violence would pass into wolves, or hawks, or kites. Where else could they end up?

Cebes: Yes, with those sorts of natures, definitely.

Socrates: And it's not hard to figure out where each type goes — their destinations correspond to their characters, right?

Cebes: Not hard at all.

Socrates: The happiest among them — happiest both in themselves and in where they end up — are those who practiced the ordinary social virtues, what people call self-control and justice, which they acquired through habit and practice rather than through philosophy and genuine understanding.

Cebes: Why are they the happiest?

Socrates: Because they'll probably pass into some gentle, social species like their own — bees, perhaps, or wasps, or ants — or even back into human form, becoming decent, moderate people.

Cebes: Very likely.

Socrates: But no one who hasn't pursued philosophy, no one who isn't completely pure when they depart, is allowed into the company of the gods. Only the lover of knowledge is admitted. And this is exactly why, Simmias and Cebes, the true devotees of philosophy hold out against all physical desires and refuse to give in to them. It's not because they fear poverty or financial ruin, like the lovers of money. And it's not because they dread dishonor or disgrace, like the lovers of power.

Cebes: No, that wouldn't suit them at all.

Socrates: Not at all. Those who truly care about their souls, and don't merely spend their lives shaping and decorating the body, say goodbye to all of that. They refuse to walk the path of the blind. When philosophy offers them purification and release from evil, they feel they shouldn't resist her. They follow wherever she leads.

Cebes: What do you mean?

Socrates: I'll tell you. The lovers of knowledge realize that when philosophy first received their soul, she was a complete prisoner of the body. She could only view reality through the bars of her cage, never directly by herself. She was wallowing in total ignorance. And the worst part was that her desires had made her an accomplice in her own captivity.

Philosophy saw how terrible this imprisonment was — and saw that the soul was bringing it upon herself — and gently took her in hand, comforting her and trying to set her free. Philosophy pointed out that the eyes and ears and all the other senses are full of deception. She urged the soul to withdraw from them as much as possible, to gather herself into herself, to trust only in herself and in her own direct apprehension of reality, and to distrust whatever comes through other channels, since such things are physical and changeable, while what she perceives through her own nature is intelligible and invisible.

The soul of a true philosopher understands that she shouldn't resist this liberation. So she abstains from pleasures and desires, pains and fears, as much as she can. Because she knows that when a person experiences intense pleasure or pain, fear or desire, the harm isn't just what you'd expect — losing your health or wasting your money on your appetites. No, the real harm is far worse, the greatest and most terrible evil of all, one that most people never even think about.

Cebes: What evil is that, Socrates?

Socrates: This: when the feeling of pleasure or pain is at its most intense, the soul is tricked into believing that whatever produces that intense feeling is the most real and true thing there is. But it isn't — those are merely physical things.

And isn't this exactly when the soul is most enslaved by the body?

Cebes: How so?

Socrates: Because each pleasure and pain acts like a nail, pinning the soul to the body, riveting her there until she becomes like the body and believes that whatever the body says is true. By agreeing with the body and sharing its delights, she's forced to adopt the body's habits and ways. A soul like this will never be pure when she departs for the world below. She'll always be infected by the body. And so she sinks into another body and takes root there, and has no share in communion with what is divine and pure and simple.

Cebes: That is so true, Socrates.

Socrates: And this, Cebes, is why the true lovers of knowledge are self-controlled and courageous — not for the reasons the world thinks.

Cebes: Certainly not.

Socrates: No. The philosopher's soul reasons in a very different way. She won't ask philosophy to free her only to hand herself back over to the slavery of pleasures and pains — doing work that has to be undone again, weaving and unweaving like Penelope at her loom. Instead, she'll calm her passions, follow reason, and dwell in the contemplation of what is true and divine — not opinion, but reality — drawing nourishment from it. This is how she seeks to live while she lives. And after death, she hopes to go to what is kindred to her, to what is like her, and to be freed from human ills.

After a life of these pursuits, Simmias and Cebes, there's no need to fear that the soul will be scattered by the winds and blown away to nothing when she departs from the body.

When Socrates finished speaking, there was a long silence. He himself seemed to be reflecting on what he'd said, and most of us were doing the same. Only Cebes and Simmias exchanged a few quiet words with each other. Socrates noticed them and asked what they thought of the argument — was anything missing? Because, he said, there are still many points open to suspicion and attack, if anyone wanted to examine the matter thoroughly. "If you're thinking about something else entirely, never mind. But if you have doubts, don't hesitate to say exactly what you think. Tell me if you've come up with anything better. And if you think I can be of any help, let me help you."

Simmias: I'll be honest, Socrates. We've both had doubts, and each of us has been pushing the other to ask the question we've been wanting to ask. We both wanted to hear your answer, but neither of us wanted to bother you with it at a time like this.

Socrates smiled and said: Oh, Simmias. If I can't even persuade you that I don't consider my situation a misfortune, how am I going to persuade anyone else that I'm no worse off now than at any other time in my life? Do you really think I have less prophetic power than the swans? Because swans, when they sense that they're about to die — having sung their whole lives — sing more beautifully than ever, rejoicing because they're about to go to the god they serve. But people, afraid of death themselves, slander the swans by saying they sing a lament at the end. They don't consider that no bird sings when it's cold, or hungry, or in pain — not even the nightingale or the swallow or the hoopoe, which are all said to sing out of sorrow, though I don't believe it. Swans are sacred to Apollo, and they have the gift of prophecy. They foresee the good things in the world beyond, and on their last day they sing and rejoice more than they ever have before. I believe I'm a fellow servant of the swans, sacred to the same god, and that I've received prophetic gifts from my master that are no less than theirs. So I don't leave this life any less cheerfully than they do.

Speak freely, then. Ask whatever you like, for as long as Athens' Eleven allow it.

Simmias: Very well, Socrates. I'll tell you my difficulty, and then Cebes will tell you his. I feel — and I'm sure you feel the same way — that achieving certainty about questions like these in our present life is extremely hard, maybe impossible. And yet I'd consider it cowardly not to test what's being said from every angle, not to keep at it until you've either discovered the truth, learned it from someone else, or — if that can't be done — taken the best and most unshakable human reasoning you can find and used it as a raft to carry you through life. Not without risk, I'll admit, unless you can find some divine word that will carry you more safely and securely.

So since you've invited me to speak, I will, and then I won't have to blame myself later for keeping quiet. Because when I examine the argument, Socrates — alone or together with Cebes — I don't find it entirely convincing.

Socrates: You may well be right, my friend. But tell me exactly where you think the argument falls short.

Simmias: Here's my worry. Someone could use the exact same reasoning about a lyre and its harmony. They could say: "Harmony is invisible, immaterial, perfectly beautiful, divine — it exists in a well-tuned lyre. But the lyre itself, and its strings, are physical, material, earthy, and mortal." Then suppose someone smashes the lyre or cuts the strings. Using your kind of argument, they'd say the harmony must survive. After all, you can't imagine that the lyre would survive without its strings, and the broken strings themselves would last — all these mortal things — while the harmony, which shares the nature of what is divine and immortal, would perish before they do. No, the harmony must still exist somewhere. The wood and strings will rot before anything happens to it.

I think this thought must have crossed your own mind, Socrates: that our conception of the soul is something like this. When the body is strung together and held in tension by the elements of hot and cold, wet and dry, the soul is the harmony — the right blend and balance — of those elements. But if that's what the soul is, then whenever the body's strings are overstretched or slackened by disease or injury, the soul — however divine she might be — perishes immediately, just like any other harmony of music or art, even though the physical material of the body may linger on for quite a while before it decays or burns. If someone claims that the soul, as a harmony of the body's elements, is the first thing destroyed in what we call death — how do we answer them?

Socrates looked at us steadily, the way he always did, and said with a smile: Simmias has a point. Doesn't someone here — someone more capable than I am — want to answer him? Because his attack has real force. But perhaps before anyone responds, we should also hear what Cebes has to say, so we have time to think. Then we can either agree with them, if they're right, or defend our position if they're not. So tell us, Cebes — what was troubling you?

Cebes: I will. My feeling is that the argument is in the same place it was before, still open to the same objections. I'll freely grant that the soul's existence before entering the body has been very ingeniously — and, if I may say so, quite sufficiently — proven. But I don't think the soul's existence after death has been proven.

Now, my objection isn't the same as Simmias's. I don't deny that the soul is stronger and more lasting than the body — I think the soul far surpasses the body in those respects. "So why aren't you convinced?" the argument might ask. "If you see that the weaker thing survives after a person dies, won't you admit that the more enduring thing must also survive?"

Well, let me put my objection in a figure too, like Simmias. Imagine an old weaver who dies, and someone says: "He's not really dead! He must still be alive — look, here's the coat he wove and wore, and it's still in one piece." And when someone expresses doubt, this person asks: "Which lasts longer, a man or a coat?" And since the answer is obviously that the man lasts longer, he concludes he's proven the man must still be alive, since the shorter-lived thing is still here.

But that's nonsense, Simmias, and anyone can see it. The truth is that the weaver, over his lifetime, wove and wore out many coats. He outlived all of them except the last one — but that doesn't mean a man is weaker or more fleeting than a coat.

The same analogy applies to the soul and body. Someone might reasonably say that the soul is long-lasting and the body is weaker and shorter-lived by comparison. They could argue that each soul wears out many bodies, especially if a person lives many years — because while we're alive, the body is constantly wasting away and being rebuilt, and the soul keeps repairing the damage, weaving a new garment, as it were. But of course, when the soul finally perishes, she must be wearing her last body. Only then, after the soul is gone, will the body show its natural weakness and quickly rot away.

So I'd rather not rely on the argument that the soul is stronger than the body to prove it survives after death. Even granting more than you claim — even acknowledging not only that the soul existed before birth, but that some souls will continue to exist after death, being born and dying again and again, because the soul has a natural strength that lets it endure through many lifetimes — even granting all of this, we might still worry that the soul wears itself out in the labor of successive births, and may at last succumb in one of its deaths and be utterly destroyed. And no one among us could know which death that is, because none of us has experienced it.

If that's the case, then anyone who faces death with confidence has only a foolish confidence — unless he can prove that the soul is altogether immortal and indestructible. Otherwise, a person about to die will always have reason to fear that when the body falls apart, the soul may perish with it.

All of us, as we said to each other afterward, felt deeply unsettled by what they said. We'd been so firmly convinced by the earlier arguments, and now to have our confidence shaken like this was disorienting. It cast doubt not just on the previous reasoning, but on anything anyone might argue in the future. Maybe we were simply incapable of judging, or maybe there really was nothing solid to believe in.

Echecrates: By heaven, Phaedo, I feel the same way. As you were talking, I found myself asking: what argument can I ever trust again? The argument that the soul is a harmony has always had a powerful hold on me, and when Simmias brought it up, it came back to me at once, like a belief I'd always held. Now I need to start all over and find a new argument to convince me that the soul survives death. Tell me, I beg you — how did Socrates handle this? Did he seem shaken, the way the rest of you were? Or did he take on the challenge calmly? And was his response strong, or weak? Tell me everything as exactly as you can.

Phaedo: Echecrates, I've often marveled at Socrates, but never more than that day. That he could answer wasn't surprising — he always could. What amazed me was, first, the gentle and warm and approving way he received what the young men said, and then how quickly he sensed the wound the argument had inflicted on us, and how readily he healed it. He was like a general rallying a defeated army, urging them to regroup and return to the battle.

Echecrates: What happened next?

Phaedo: I'll tell you. I was sitting close to him, on his right side, on a low stool, while he was on a couch that was quite a bit higher. He stroked my head and pressed the hair along the back of my neck — he had a habit of playing with my hair — and then he said:

Socrates: Tomorrow, Phaedo, I suppose these fine locks of yours will be cut off.

Phaedo: Yes, Socrates, I suppose they will.

Socrates: Not if you take my advice.

Phaedo: What should I do with them?

Socrates: Today — not tomorrow — if this argument dies and we can't bring it back to life, you and I should both shave our heads in mourning. If I were you, and the argument slipped away from me, and I couldn't hold my ground against Simmias and Cebes, I'd take an oath like the Argives — not to grow my hair back until I'd renewed the fight and won.

Phaedo: But they say even Heracles couldn't take on two opponents at once.

Socrates: Then summon me, and I'll be your Iolaus before the sun goes down.

Phaedo: I'll summon you — but not as Heracles calling for Iolaus. More like Iolaus calling for Heracles.

Socrates: That works just as well. But first, we need to be careful about something.

Phaedo: Careful about what?

Socrates: We need to avoid becoming misologists — haters of argument. Just as there are misanthropes, haters of people, there are misologists, haters of ideas. And both come from the same source: inexperience.

Here's how misanthropy works. You trust someone completely — you think they're perfectly honest, dependable, and true. Then they turn out to be deceitful and dishonest. Then it happens again, and again, especially with people you thought were your closest and most trusted friends. After enough betrayals, you end up hating everyone and believing there's no good in anyone at all. You've seen this happen?

Phaedo (Part 2)

Isn't that feeling something to be ashamed of? Isn't it obvious that someone like that has no real experience of people? Because experience would have taught him the truth: that very few people are truly good, very few are truly evil, and the vast majority fall somewhere in between.

What do you mean? I said.

I mean, he replied, it's like how you might talk about very tall and very short people. Nothing is rarer than someone extremely tall or extremely short, and this applies to all extremes — fast and slow, beautiful and ugly, dark and light. Whether you're talking about people or dogs or anything else, the extremes are rare. Most things cluster in the middle. Have you ever noticed that?

Yes, I said, I have.

And don't you think, he said, that if there were a competition in wickedness, the very worst would turn out to be very few?

Yes, that seems likely, I said.

It does seem likely, he replied. Though in this respect arguments aren't quite like people — and here you've gotten me to say more than I intended. The point of the comparison was this: when someone without training in careful reasoning believes an argument is true, and then later decides it's false — whether it really is or not — and then the same thing happens again and again, eventually he loses all faith in arguments altogether. You know the type. These great debaters end up convinced that they've become the wisest people alive, because they alone can see that nothing in any argument is stable or reliable — that everything, like the currents in the Euripus strait, is constantly flowing back and forth, never settling down.

That's absolutely right, I said.

Yes, Phaedo, he replied, and how tragic it would be — if there really is such a thing as truth, or certainty, or the possibility of knowledge — for someone to encounter an argument that at first seemed true and then turned out to be false, and instead of blaming his own lack of skill, to get so frustrated that he ends up blaming arguments themselves. And from then on, he hates and attacks all reasoning, and loses touch with truth and with understanding reality.

Yes, that really would be tragic, I said.

So the first thing we need to do, he said, is guard against letting this idea creep into our souls — this notion that there's no soundness in any argument at all. Instead, we should say: "We haven't achieved soundness in ourselves yet, and we need to fight hard to get there." You and everyone else need to do this for the sake of your whole future lives. And I need to do it in the face of death. Because right now, I have to confess, I'm not approaching this with a truly philosophical temperament. I'm acting more like a partisan — like someone in a debate. A partisan, when he's arguing, doesn't care about getting to the truth. He just wants to convince his audience that he's right. The only difference between him and me right now is this: he wants to convince his listeners that what he says is true. I'm mostly trying to convince myself. Convincing you all is a secondary concern.

And look at how much I stand to gain from this argument. If what I'm saying is true, then it's good that I believe it. And if there's nothing after death? Well, at least during this short time I have left, I won't distress my friends with weeping and carrying on, and my ignorance won't last — it'll die right along with me. So no harm done either way.

This is the spirit in which I'm approaching the argument, Simmias and Cebes. And I'd ask you to think about the truth, not about Socrates. If what I say seems right to you, agree with me. If not, fight me with everything you've got, so I don't deceive you along with myself in my enthusiasm, and like a bee, leave my sting behind in you before I die.

Now let's get back to it, he said. First, let me make sure I've got your objections right. Simmias, if I remember correctly, is worried that the soul, even though she's something finer and more divine than the body, might still perish first — if she's a kind of harmony. Because a harmony, being made up of other things, would naturally be destroyed before the things that compose it. On the other hand, Cebes seemed to accept that the soul lasts longer than the body, but argued that nobody can know whether the soul, after wearing out many bodies, might finally perish herself, leaving her last body behind. And that this — the destruction of the soul, not of the body — is what death truly is. Is that right, Simmias and Cebes? Are these the objections we need to address?

They both agreed that was a fair summary.

He went on: Do you reject the whole preceding argument, or only part of it?

Only part of it, they replied.

And what did you think, he said, of the part where we said that knowledge is recollection, and from this concluded that the soul must have existed somewhere else before she was enclosed in a body?

Cebes said he'd been wonderfully convinced by that part of the argument, and his conviction remained completely unshaken. Simmias agreed and added that he could hardly imagine ever thinking differently about it.

But you'll have to think differently, my Theban friend, said Socrates, if you still maintain that harmony is a compound, and that the soul is a harmony made out of the strings set in the frame of the body. Because you'd never allow yourself to say that a harmony existed before the parts that make it up.

Never, Socrates.

But don't you see that's exactly what you're implying when you say the soul existed before she took human form and was assembled from elements that didn't yet exist? Because harmony isn't like the soul as you're describing it. First the lyre exists, and the strings, and the sounds — all in a state of discord. Then harmony comes into being last of all, and it's the first thing to perish. How can your theory of the soul-as-harmony square with the idea that the soul existed before the body?

It can't, Simmias replied.

And yet, Socrates said, there surely ought to be harmony in a discussion about harmony.

There ought to be, Simmias replied.

But there's no harmony here, Socrates said. You've got two propositions that can't both be true: knowledge is recollection, and the soul is a harmony. Which one will you keep?

I think, Simmias said, I have much stronger reason to trust the first one, Socrates. It was demonstrated with real proof. The second rests only on plausibility and probability, and I know all too well that those kinds of arguments are impostors. Unless you handle them with extreme care, they'll deceive you — in geometry and everywhere else. But the doctrine of knowledge as recollection was proven on solid grounds. The proof was that the soul must have existed before she entered the body, because she possesses the kind of reality that the very word "being" implies. I'm convinced I was right to accept that conclusion, and so I have to give up the idea that the soul is a harmony.

Let me press the point from another angle, Simmias, Socrates said. Do you think that a harmony — or any compound — can be in a state other than the state of the elements it's made from?

Certainly not.

Or do anything, or have anything done to it, other than what its elements do or have done to them?

Then a harmony doesn't lead the parts that make it up. It only follows them.

He agreed.

Because a harmony can't possibly have any motion, or sound, or quality that goes against its parts.

That would be impossible, he replied.

And doesn't the nature of every harmony depend on how its elements are tuned?

I don't follow, he said.

I mean that a harmony can be more or less of a harmony — more perfectly harmonized or less perfectly harmonized.

But can the soul come in degrees? Is one soul in any way more or less a soul than another?

Not in the slightest.

And yet we say that one soul has intelligence and virtue, and is good, while another has foolishness and vice, and is bad — and we say this truthfully?

Yes, truthfully.

But what will the people who think the soul is a harmony make of this presence of virtue and vice in the soul? Will they say it's another harmony and another discord — that the virtuous soul is harmonized, and being already a harmony, has yet another harmony within her, while the vicious soul is unharmonized and has no harmony within her?

I'm not sure, Simmias replied, but I suppose the harmony theorists would say something like that.

But we already agreed that one soul isn't more or less of a soul than another — which is the same as saying that one harmony isn't more or less of a harmony than another?

That's right.

And what's not more or less of a harmony isn't more or less harmonized?

And what's not more or less harmonized can't have more or less harmony, only equal harmony?

Yes, equal harmony.

Then one soul, not being more or less a soul than any other, isn't more or less harmonized?

Right.

And therefore has neither more nor less of discord or harmony?

She doesn't.

And having neither more nor less harmony or discord, one soul can't have more or less virtue or vice than another — if vice is discord and virtue is harmony?

Not at all.

Or rather, to put it more precisely, Simmias: if the soul is a harmony, she can never have any vice at all. Because a perfect harmony, being purely harmony, has no share in disharmony.

And therefore a soul that's fully a soul has no vice?

How could she, if the argument holds?

Then if all souls are equally souls by nature, all souls of all living creatures must be equally good?

I have to agree with you, Socrates, he said.

And can all this really be true? he said. Because these are the consequences that follow from the assumption that the soul is a harmony.

It can't be true.

Now, one more thing, he said. What rules over the elements of human nature, if not the soul — especially the wise soul? Can you think of anything else?

No, I really can't.

And does the soul go along with the body's feelings, or does she oppose them? For example, when the body is hot and thirsty, doesn't the soul pull us away from drinking? When the body is hungry, away from eating? And this is just one instance out of ten thousand where the soul opposes the body's impulses.

Very true.

But we already agreed that if the soul were a harmony, she could never sound a note at odds with the tensions and vibrations of the strings she's made of. She could only follow, never lead.

That's right, he replied.

And yet we now discover the soul doing the exact opposite — leading the elements she's supposedly made of, opposing and overruling them in all sorts of ways throughout life. Sometimes harshly, with the pains of exercise and medicine. Sometimes more gently — warning, threatening, talking to our desires and passions and fears as if they were something separate from herself. Just as Homer shows Odysseus doing in the Odyssey:

"He struck his chest and rebuked his heart: Endure, my heart — you've suffered worse than this."

Do you think Homer wrote that under the impression that the soul is a harmony, led around by the body's feelings? Or isn't it clear that he saw the soul as something that leads and masters them — something far more divine than any harmony?

Yes, Socrates, I completely agree.

Then, my friend, we can never be right in calling the soul a harmony. We'd be contradicting Homer and contradicting ourselves.

True, he said.

Well then, said Socrates, we seem to have made our peace with Harmonia, the goddess of Thebes. But what about her husband Cadmus, Cebes? How do I win him over?

I think you'll find a way, said Cebes. I have to say, you handled the harmony argument in a way I never would have expected. When Simmias raised his objection, I thought there was no possible answer. So I was amazed when his argument couldn't even survive the first charge of yours. I wouldn't be surprised if the same fate awaits the one you're calling Cadmus.

No, no, my good friend, said Socrates. Let's not boast, or some evil eye might jinx the argument I'm about to make. But we'll leave that in the hands of the gods. Let me come at your argument in Homeric fashion and test its strength. Here's the heart of your objection: you want it proven that the soul is imperishable and immortal, and that a philosopher who faces death with confidence is foolish to do so — unless he can prove he'll fare better in the next world than someone who lived differently. You say that demonstrating the soul's strength and divinity, and even her existence before we were born, doesn't necessarily prove she's immortal. Granted, the soul may be long-lived and may have existed and known many things in some previous state, but that doesn't make her immortal. Her entrance into a human body might be a kind of disease — the beginning of her dissolution — and after the hardships of life are over, she may come to the end we call death. And whether she enters one body or many makes no difference to our fear, because any man with sense ought to be afraid if he has no proof that the soul is immortal. That's something like your position, Cebes, isn't it? I'm going over it carefully so nothing slips by, and so you can add or change anything you like.

No, said Cebes, as far as I can see right now, I have nothing to add or change. That's exactly what I mean.

Socrates paused for a while, apparently lost in thought. Then he said:

You're raising a tremendous question, Cebes — one that goes to the very heart of how things come into being and pass away. If you'd like, I'll tell you about my own experience with this problem. And if anything I say is useful for resolving your difficulty, you're welcome to use it.

I'd very much like to hear about it, said Cebes.

Then I'll tell you, said Socrates. When I was young, Cebes, I had an enormous desire to learn about the field they call "natural philosophy" — the study of why things exist, why they come into being, why they perish. I thought it was a magnificent pursuit. I was always tormenting myself with questions like these: Is animal growth caused by some process of fermentation involving hot and cold, as some people claim? Is blood the thing we think with — or is it air? Or fire? Or maybe none of these — maybe it's the brain that produces perception, hearing, sight, and smell, and from these come memory and opinion, and from memory and opinion, once they've settled down, comes knowledge?

Then I went on to investigate how these things break down, and then to the study of the heavens and the earth. And in the end, I concluded I was utterly and absolutely hopeless at this kind of investigation. I'll prove it to you. These questions fascinated me so completely that I became blind to things I'd previously thought I understood perfectly — things that other people thought I understood too. I forgot things I once considered self-evident. Take something as basic as this: a person grows because of eating and drinking. Food gets digested, flesh is added to flesh, bone to bone, and by the same process each part grows by the addition of what's compatible with it — and so a small body becomes larger. I used to think I understood that well enough. Didn't that seem like a reasonable explanation?

Yes, said Cebes, I think so.

Well, let me tell you more. There was a time when I thought I understood what "greater" and "less" meant, too. When I saw a tall person standing next to a short one, I figured one was taller than the other by a head. Or one horse seemed bigger than another horse. And it was even clearer to me that ten is two more than eight, and that two cubits is more than one cubit, because two is double one.

And what do you think about all that now? asked Cebes.

I'd be a long way from claiming I know the cause of any of those things — by the gods, I would! I can't even satisfy myself that when you add one to one, the one you added to has become two. Or that the two ones put together make two because of the addition. Because I can't understand how, when they were separate, each was one and not two, but now that they've been brought together, the mere fact of their being next to each other is what caused them to become two. And I can't understand how dividing one thing in half is the way to make two either — because that would mean the exact opposite process produces the same result. In the first case, putting things together made two. In the second, pulling them apart does. I'm no longer even satisfied that I understand why one — or anything else — comes into being, or perishes, or exists at all. I had some confused notion of a new method in mind, but I couldn't accept the old approaches anymore.

Then one day I heard someone reading from a book by Anaxagoras, and the passage said that Mind is the arranger and cause of all things. I was thrilled by this idea. It seemed wonderful. I said to myself: if Mind is the one arranging everything, then Mind will arrange everything for the best. So if you want to discover why anything comes into being or perishes or exists, all you have to find out is how it's best for that thing to exist, or to act, or to be acted upon. By this reasoning, a person only needs to figure out what's best — for himself and everything else — and then he'll also know what's worst, since the same knowledge covers both.

I was overjoyed. I thought I'd found in Anaxagoras exactly the kind of teacher I wanted — someone who would explain the causes of things. I imagined he'd tell me first whether the earth is flat or round, and then he'd explain why it has to be that way, showing that this shape was best. If he said the earth was at the center of things, he'd further explain why being at the center was best. And I told myself I'd then go on to ask about the sun, the moon, and the stars — about their speeds and orbits and interactions — and he'd explain how each arrangement was for the best. Because I couldn't imagine that someone who said Mind arranges all things would give any other explanation for why things are the way they are, except that this is the best way for them to be. I expected him to explain in detail the cause of each particular thing and the cause of everything in general, and then to go on and explain what was best for each and best for all. I wouldn't have sold these hopes for a fortune. I seized his books and read them as fast as I could, eager to learn what was best and what was worst.

What high hopes I had — and how bitterly I was disappointed! As I read on, I found this philosopher completely abandoning Mind and any other principle of order. Instead he was falling back on air and ether and water and all sorts of absurdities. It was as if someone started by declaring that everything Socrates does, he does because of Mind — and then, when trying to explain my particular actions, said something like this: "Socrates is sitting here because his body is made of bones and muscles. The bones are hard and have joints between them, and the muscles are elastic and cover the bones, along with flesh and skin that hold everything together. Since the bones move at their joints through the contraction and relaxation of the muscles, that's why Socrates is able to bend his limbs, and that's why he's sitting here right now in this curved position." And he'd give a similar explanation for my talking to you — chalking it up to sound, air, and hearing — and assign ten thousand other causes like these, while completely forgetting to mention the real cause: that the Athenians decided to condemn me, and I decided it was better and more right to sit here and accept my sentence. Because I'm fairly sure these bones and muscles of mine would have been in Megara or Boeotia long ago — by the dog, they would have! — carried there by their own estimate of what was best, if I hadn't decided that it was nobler and more right to accept whatever punishment the city imposed, rather than play the fugitive and run away.

To call those things causes is absurd. You might say that without bones and muscles I couldn't carry out my decisions — and that would be true enough. But to say that I do what I do because of them, and that this is how Mind works — rather than through the choice of what's best — that's an incredibly careless way of talking. It's the failure to distinguish between the real cause and the mere conditions without which the cause couldn't operate. And that's exactly the mistake most people make, groping around in the dark, calling conditions "causes." That's why one thinker makes a vortex spin around the earth and has the heavens hold it in place. Another puts the earth on a cushion of air, like it's a wide, flat trough. But none of them ever considers the possibility that things are arranged as they are because this arrangement is genuinely best. They never look for that kind of superior force. Instead, they expect to discover some new Atlas — something stronger and more eternal and more all-encompassing than the good. The binding, containing power of the good? That never enters their minds.

And yet this is exactly the principle I'd give anything to learn from someone. But since I failed to discover it myself or learn it from anyone else, let me show you my second-best approach to investigating causes, if you'd like.

I'd very much like to hear it, he replied.

Socrates went on: After failing in my investigation of reality directly, I decided I'd better be careful not to blind the eye of my soul — the way people can damage their actual eyes by staring at the sun during an eclipse without the precaution of looking only at its reflection in water or something similar. That's what I was afraid of: that my soul would go completely blind if I kept trying to grasp things through my senses, looking at them directly. So I decided to take refuge in the world of thought, and look for the truth of things there. Though I should say my comparison isn't perfect — I'm far from admitting that studying things through the lens of thought is seeing them only "through a glass darkly." But anyway, here's the method I adopted: I would start from whatever principle seemed strongest to me, and then I would treat as true whatever agreed with it — whether about causes or anything else — and treat as false whatever didn't. But let me explain more clearly, because I don't think you understand me yet.

No, said Cebes, I really don't.

There's nothing new in what I'm about to say, Socrates continued. It's just what I've been saying all along, here and everywhere else. I want to show you the nature of the cause I've been thinking about. I have to go back to those familiar ideas we keep returning to, and start from the assumption that there exists an absolute Beauty, and an absolute Goodness, and an absolute Greatness, and so on. Grant me this, and I hope to show you the nature of the cause, and to prove that the soul is immortal.

Cebes said: You may go right ahead with the proof. I grant you that.

Good, he said. Then tell me if you agree with the next step. I can't help thinking that if there's anything beautiful besides absolute Beauty itself, it can only be beautiful insofar as it participates in that absolute Beauty. And I'd say the same about everything. Do you agree with this kind of explanation?

Yes, he said, I agree.

He went on: I don't know anything about those other clever explanations people give, and I can't make sense of them. If someone tells me that a thing is beautiful because of its lovely color, or its shape, or anything like that, I just set all of that aside — it only confuses me. I hold simply and plainly — maybe even foolishly — to this: nothing makes a thing beautiful except the presence and participation of Beauty, in whatever way that happens. I'm not sure about the exact mechanism, but I firmly maintain that all beautiful things are made beautiful by Beauty. This seems like the safest answer I can give, to myself or anyone else — and I hold onto it, convinced this principle will never be overthrown. To myself or to anyone who asks, I can safely answer: beautiful things are beautiful because of Beauty. Don't you agree?

I do.

And great things are great because of Greatness, and greater things are greater because of Greatness, and smaller things are smaller because of Smallness?

True.

Then if someone said that person A is taller than person B by a head, and B is shorter than A by a head, you'd refuse to accept that, wouldn't you? You'd insist that what you mean is simply this: the greater is greater by reason of Greatness, and the less is less by reason of Smallness. You'd avoid the absurdity of saying the taller person is taller because of a head — when a head is the same thing in both cases — and you'd especially avoid the ridiculousness of saying someone is taller because of their head, which is small. Wouldn't you be worried about drawing that conclusion?

I certainly would, said Cebes, laughing.

In the same way, you'd be cautious about saying ten exceeds eight by two, and that's what causes the excess. You'd say it exceeds by number. And you'd say two cubits exceeds one cubit not by a half, but by magnitude — because the same danger of error lurks in all these cases.

Absolutely, he said.

And wouldn't you be careful about saying that adding one to one, or dividing one, is the cause of two? You'd declare firmly that you know of no way anything comes into existence except by participating in the reality proper to it. And so, as far as you know, the only cause of two is participation in Duality — that's how to get two. And participation in Oneness is how to get one. You'd say: "I'll leave the puzzles of addition and division to wiser people than me. Inexperienced as I am, and ready to jump at my own shadow, I can't afford to abandon solid ground." And if someone challenged your principle, you wouldn't respond to the challenge until you'd first checked whether the consequences that follow from your principle are consistent with each other. And when you need to defend the principle itself, you'd do so by going up to a higher principle, and then a higher one still, until you reached a satisfactory resting place. But you wouldn't confuse the principle with its consequences in your reasoning, the way the Eristics do — though of course the confusion doesn't bother them, since they never think about such things and are perfectly happy with themselves no matter how muddled their thinking gets. But you, if you're a philosopher, will do as I say.

What you say is absolutely right, said Simmias and Cebes, both speaking at once.

Echecrates: Yes, Phaedo, and I don't wonder they agreed. Anyone with the least sense would have to acknowledge the extraordinary clarity of Socrates' reasoning.

Phaedo: It was, Echecrates. And that was how the whole company felt at the time.

Echecrates: Yes, and we feel the same way, we who weren't there and are only hearing your account now. But what happened next?

Phaedo: After all this had been agreed — that the Forms exist, and that other things participate in them and get their names from them — Socrates, if I remember correctly, said:

Now, this is how you talk about things, and yet when you say that Simmias is taller than Socrates and shorter than Phaedo, you're attributing both tallness and shortness to Simmias, aren't you?

But you'd agree that Simmias doesn't actually exceed Socrates because he's Simmias — the words might suggest that, but that's not the real reason. The reason is the size he happens to have. And Simmias doesn't exceed Socrates because Socrates is Socrates, but because Socrates has smallness compared to Simmias' greatness.

True.

And if Phaedo is taller than Simmias, that's not because Phaedo is Phaedo, but because Phaedo has greatness relative to Simmias, who is smaller.

That's right.

So Simmias is called both tall and short, because he's between the two of them — his tallness exceeds one person's shortness, while his shortness is exceeded by the other's tallness. He added, laughing: I sound like I'm reading from a textbook, but I think what I'm saying is true.

Simmias agreed.

The reason I'm going through all this is that I want you to agree with me about something: not only will absolute Greatness never be both great and small, but greatness in us — in concrete things — will never accept smallness or allow itself to be exceeded. Instead, one of two things will happen: the greater will either retreat before the approach of the less, or it will have already ceased to exist by the time the less arrives. It won't stand its ground and accept smallness and become something other than what it was. Just as I, being short, remain who I am — the same small person — even when compared to Simmias. And just as the Form of Greatness will never stoop to becoming small, so smallness in us can never become great. No opposite, while remaining itself, can ever become its own opposite. It either retreats or perishes in the change.

That, replied Cebes, is exactly my view.

At this point someone in the group — I don't remember exactly who — spoke up: Wait a moment. Isn't this the exact opposite of what we agreed earlier — that the greater comes from the less and the less from the greater, and that opposites are generated from opposites? Now that principle seems completely overturned.

Socrates turned his head toward the speaker and listened. I appreciate your courage in pointing that out, he said. But notice that there's a crucial difference between the two cases. Before, we were talking about concrete things that have opposite properties — things that are called by the names of those opposites. Now we're talking about the essential opposites themselves, which are present in things and give them their names. We're saying these essential opposites will never be generated from one another or turn into one another. Then, turning to Cebes, he said: You're not troubled by our friend's objection, are you, Cebes?

No, said Cebes, I'm not troubled by this one. Though I won't deny that objections often do disturb me.

So we're agreed, then, said Socrates, that an opposite will never be opposed to itself?

Completely agreed, he replied.

Now consider this from yet another angle, and tell me if you agree. There's something you call heat, and something you call cold?

Yes.

But are they the same things as fire and snow?

Absolutely not.

Heat is different from fire, and cold is different from snow?

Yes.

And yet you'll admit that when snow comes under the influence of heat — as we were saying before — the two won't remain as they were, snow and heat together. The snow will either retreat before the advance of the heat, or it will perish.

Absolutely.

And fire, at the approach of cold, will either retreat or perish. They won't coexist as fire and cold together.

That's true, he said.

Now, in some cases, a Form's name is permanently connected not just to the Form itself, but also to something else that — while not being the Form — always exists in that Form's shape. Let me try to make this clearer with an example. Oddness is always called "odd," right?

Yes.

But is oddness the only thing called odd? Aren't there other things that have their own proper names and yet are also called odd, because — although they aren't the same thing as oddness — they're never found without it? I mean things like the number three. Think about it: wouldn't you say that three can be called both by its own name and also "odd" — even though "odd" isn't the same thing as "three"? And the same goes for five, and for every other alternate number — each of them, without being oddness itself, is always odd. And in the same way, two and four and every other alternate number is always even, without being evenness itself. Do you agree?

Of course, he said.

Now here's the point I'm driving at: not only do essential opposites exclude each other, but concrete things that contain opposites also reject the Form that's opposite to the one they contain. When that opposite Form approaches, these things either perish or withdraw. For example: won't the number three endure annihilation or anything else before it lets itself become even while remaining three?

Absolutely, said Cebes.

And yet, Socrates said, the number two isn't the opposite of three, is it?

No.

So it's not just opposite Forms that repel each other. There are also other things that repel the approach of opposites.

Very true, he said.

Let's try to determine, he said, what kinds of things these are.

By all means.

Would they be things, Cebes, that compel whatever they possess to take on not only their own form, but also the form of some opposite?

What do you mean?

Just what I was saying. You know that whatever the number three possesses must be not only three, but also odd.

Certainly.

And on that oddness — the quality that three impresses on things — the opposite Form can never intrude.

No.

And that quality was impressed by the principle of the odd?

Yes.

And the opposite of odd is even?

Yes.

Then the Form of the even will never reach the number three?

Never.

So three has no share in the even?

None.

Then the triad — the number three — is un-even?

Yes.

So, to return to my main distinction: there are things that, while not being the opposite of something, still refuse to accept it. Take three: it's not the opposite of even, but it still won't accept evenness. It always brings the opposite quality — oddness — along with it. And two won't accept oddness, and fire won't accept cold. From examples like these — and there are many — maybe you can arrive at the general principle: not only will opposites not accept each other, but anything that invariably brings an opposite quality with it will also refuse to accept whatever is opposed to the quality it brings. Let me recap, because repetition doesn't hurt here. Five won't accept the nature of even, any more than ten — the double of five — will accept the nature of odd. Ten has its own opposite, and isn't strictly opposed to odd, but it nonetheless rejects oddness entirely. And fractions like three-halves, or anything involving a half or a third, won't accept the concept of "whole" — even though they're not opposed to wholeness. Do you follow?

Yes, he said, I completely agree and I'm with you.

Now, he said, let's start again from the beginning. But don't answer my question with the old safe answer I mentioned earlier. I want a different safe answer — one you can derive from what we've just established. What I mean is this: if someone asks you "what is it that, when present in a body, makes it hot?" — don't give me the safe-and-dull answer "heat." Give me the superior answer: "fire." Or if someone asks "what makes a body sick?" — don't say "sickness," say "fever." If they ask "what makes numbers odd?" — don't say "oddness," say "the unit." And so on. I think you see the pattern clearly enough without more examples.

Yes, he said, I understand you perfectly.

Then tell me: what is it that, when present in a body, makes it alive?

The soul, he replied.

And is this always the case?

Yes, of course, he said.

Then the soul always brings life with her to whatever she enters?

Yes, certainly.

And is there an opposite to life?

There is.

What is it?

Death.

Then the soul will never accept the opposite of what she always brings — as we've already established?

Impossible, said Cebes.

Now, he said, what did we call the principle that refuses to accept the even?

The odd.

And what do we call the principle that refuses to accept the musical, or the just?

The unmusical, he said, and the unjust.

Good. Then what do we call the principle that does not accept death?

The immortal, he said.

And does the soul accept death?

No.

Then the soul is immortal?

Yes, he said.

And can we say this has been proven?

Yes, abundantly proven, Socrates.

Now, Cebes — one more step. If the odd were imperishable, wouldn't three also have to be imperishable?

Of course.

And if whatever is cold were imperishable, then when heat attacked snow, the snow would have to retreat whole and unmelted — because it could never perish, and it could never stay and accept the heat.

True, he said.

And similarly, if the principle that generates warmth were imperishable, then when cold attacked fire, the fire would never perish or be extinguished. It would withdraw unharmed.

Certainly, he said.

Then mustn't the same reasoning apply to what is immortal? If the immortal is also imperishable, then the soul, when attacked by death, cannot perish. Because we've shown that the soul will never accept death, any more than three will accept the even, or fire will accept cold. But someone might object: "Granted that the odd doesn't become even when the even approaches — but why can't the odd simply perish, with the even taking its place?" To that objection, we couldn't reply that the odd can't perish — because we never established that. But if it had been established, we could easily have maintained that at the approach of the even, the odd principle and the number three simply depart. And the same would hold for fire, heat, and everything else.

Now, the same reasoning applies to the immortal. If the immortal is also imperishable, then the soul must be imperishable as well as immortal. But if not, we'd need some other proof of her imperishability.

No other proof is needed, he said. Because if the immortal — being eternal — can perish, then nothing is imperishable.

True, replied Socrates. And I think everyone would agree that God, and the Form of Life itself, and anything immortal, can never perish.

Everyone would agree with that, he said — and the gods even more emphatically than mortals.

Then since the immortal is indestructible, the soul — if she is immortal — must also be imperishable?

She absolutely must.

Then when death comes for a person, the mortal part of him may die, but the immortal part retreats before death's approach, safe and indestructible?

Yes.

Then beyond any question, Cebes, the soul is immortal and imperishable, and our souls will truly exist in another world!

I'm convinced, Socrates, said Cebes. I have nothing more to object. But if my friend Simmias, or anyone else, has something further to say, he'd better speak up now. I don't know what better occasion he could find, if there's anything he wants to say or hear said.

I have nothing more to say either, replied Simmias. I can't see any reason for doubt after what's been said. But I still can't help feeling uncertain when I think about how vast the subject is and how feeble human understanding can be.

Yes, Simmias, replied Socrates. That's well said. And I would add that even our first principles, even if they seem certain, should be examined more carefully. Once you've satisfied yourself about them, then with a kind of cautious confidence in human reason, you may follow the argument wherever it leads. And if the conclusion is plain and clear, there's no need for any further inquiry.

But then, my friends, he said — if the soul really is immortal, think about what care we ought to take of her. Not just for the span of time we call life, but for all eternity! The danger of neglecting her, seen from this perspective, is truly awful. If death were simply the end of everything, the wicked would get a bargain in dying — they'd be happily rid not just of their bodies, but of their own wickedness along with their souls. But as things stand, since the soul clearly is immortal, there's no escape from evil and no salvation except through the pursuit of the highest virtue and wisdom. Because the soul takes nothing with her to the next world except her nurture and education — and these, they say, make all the difference to the newly dead, right at the very start of the journey.

Here's what they say happens. After death, each person's guardian spirit — the one assigned to them in life — leads them to a gathering place where the dead are judged. After the judgment, they travel to the underworld, following a guide appointed to lead them from this world to the next. There they receive what they deserve and remain for an appointed time, and then another guide brings them back, after many long ages. The road to the other world is not, as Aeschylus says in his play Telephus, "a single straight path." If it were, no guide would be needed — nobody could get lost. But there are many forks and winding trails, as I gather from the rituals and sacrifices that are offered at crossroads on earth. The wise and orderly soul follows the straight path and understands her surroundings. But the soul that clings to the body — the one that, as I described before, has been fluttering around the corpse and the visible world for a long time — is dragged away by her guardian spirit only after many struggles and much suffering. And when this impure soul arrives at the gathering place, if she has committed impure acts — foul murders, violent crimes, or things of that nature — then every other soul flees from her and turns away. No one will be her companion, no one her guide. She wanders alone in the extremity of misery until the appointed times have passed, and then she is carried helplessly to the dwelling she deserves. But every pure and just soul, one that has lived life in the company and under the guidance of the gods, finds her own proper home.

Now, the earth has many wonderful regions, and it's nothing like what the geographers say — or so I believe, on the authority of a certain someone.

What do you mean, Socrates? said Simmias. I've heard many descriptions of the earth myself, but I don't know which one you accept. I'd very much like to hear it.

Well, Simmias, replied Socrates, if I had the art of Glaucus, I could prove the truth of what I'm about to tell you. But even if I had that art, I'm afraid my life would run out before the proof was finished. Still, I can describe the earth's shape and regions as I imagine them.

That will be enough, said Simmias.

Well then, he said. My conviction is that the earth is a round body at the center of the heavens, and needs no air or any other support to keep it in place. The uniformity of the heavens all around it, and the earth's own equilibrium, are enough to hold it steady. A thing in equilibrium at the center of something uniformly distributed won't lean in any direction. It will stay perfectly balanced. That's my first principle.

Which certainly seems right, said Simmias.

I also believe the earth is vast — far bigger than we think — and that we who live in the region between the river Phasis and the Pillars of Heracles inhabit just a tiny part of it, clustered around the sea like ants or frogs around a pond. There are many other people living in many other similar places all over the earth. Because everywhere on its surface there are hollows of various shapes and sizes, into which water and mist and the lower air collect. But the true earth is pure, and it sits in the pure heavens where the stars are — what most people call "the ether." What we call air is just the sediment of that ether, and it gathers in the hollows below.

We who live in these hollows are fooled into thinking we're living on the surface of the earth. It's as if a creature living at the bottom of the sea imagined he was on the surface of the water, and that the sea above him was the sky. He'd look up through the water and see the sun and stars, but because he was too sluggish and weak to ever swim to the surface, he'd never know how much purer and more beautiful the world above the waves really is. He'd never have seen it, and never have heard from anyone who had.

That's exactly our situation. We live in a hollow of the earth, and we think we're on the surface. We call the air above us "the sky" and imagine the stars move through it. But the truth is, our weakness and sluggishness prevent us from reaching the surface of the air above us. If someone could get to the top of our atmosphere, or grow wings and fly there, he'd poke his head up — like a fish breaking the surface of the sea — and see a world beyond. And if human nature could bear the sight, he'd realize that this upper world was the place of the true sky, the true light, and the true earth. Because our earth, and our stones, and our whole region, are corroded and worn away, the way everything in the sea is eaten away by salt water. Nothing noble or perfect grows in the sea — just caves and sand and endless sludge. And even the shore can't compare with the beauties of the world above. And our world is just as inferior compared to that higher one.

I can tell you a charming story about that upper earth, Simmias — one that's well worth hearing.

And we'd be delighted to hear it, Socrates, Simmias replied.

Here's the story, my friend. When seen from above, the earth looks like one of those twelve-paneled leather balls, painted in different colors — colors that are like samples of the ones painters use here, but far brighter and more vivid. There you'd see purple of astonishing brilliance, and the radiance of gold, and white that's whiter than any chalk or snow. The whole earth is composed of these colors, more numerous and more beautiful than any human eye has ever seen. Even the hollows, the ones I mentioned, when filled with air and water, have their own color — a gleaming light amid all the other hues — so that the whole surface presents one continuous vision of infinite variety in unity.

And in this beautiful region, everything that grows — trees, flowers, fruits — is proportionally more beautiful. There are hills made of stones that are smoother, more transparent, and more richly colored than our most prized emeralds, sardonyxes, and jaspers. Our precious gems are just tiny fragments of the stones found there. The reason is that those stones are pure, not infected and corroded by the decay that collects down here — the decay that causes disease in earth, stones, animals, and plants alike. The true earth is adorned with all of these jewels, and with gold and silver too, all visible in the light of day, large and abundant and everywhere — making the earth a sight that fills the beholder with joy.

And there are living creatures — animals and people — some living in a middle region, some dwelling in the air the way we dwell around the sea, and others on islands surrounded by air near the mainland. In short, the air is to them what water and the sea are to us, and the ether is to them what air is to us. Their seasons are so temperate they suffer no disease and live far longer than we do, and their sight, hearing, smell, and all the other senses are far more acute than ours — in the same proportion that air is purer than water, or ether than air. They have temples and sacred places where the gods truly dwell, and they hear the gods' voices and receive their answers and are aware of their presence. They see the sun and moon and stars as they truly are. And all their other blessings match these.

Such is the nature of the earth as a whole, and of the things around it. But within the hollows on its surface, there are many regions — some deeper and more extensive than the one we live in, some deeper but with narrower openings, and some shallower and wider. All of them are connected by passages, broad and narrow, running through the earth's interior. And through these passages flows a vast tide of water, in and out like water pouring into and out of bowls — enormous underground rivers that never stop flowing, hot springs and cold springs, and great fires, and great rivers of fire, and streams of liquid mud, thick and thin, like the rivers of mud in Sicily and the lava flows that follow them. These streams fill up whichever regions they happen to flow through.

All of this is set in motion by a kind of seesaw mechanism deep inside the earth. And the cause of this seesaw is a chasm — the greatest chasm of all — that pierces straight through the whole earth from one side to the other. This is the chasm Homer describes:

"Far off, where lies the deepest pit beneath the earth."

Homer, and many other poets, have called it Tartarus. All the rivers flow into this chasm and flow out again, and each takes on the nature of the soil it passes through. The reason the water keeps flowing in and out is that it has no bed or bottom to rest on — it swings and surges up and down, and the air and wind do the same, following the water back and forth, in and out. Just as in breathing, the air is always being inhaled and exhaled. The wind moving with the water produces tremendous, irresistible currents. When the water rushes down to the lower regions, it fills up those passages like water drawn by a pump. When it surges back, it fills the hollows on this side. And from there it flows through underground channels to its various destinations, creating seas, lakes, rivers, and springs. Then it enters the earth again — some rivers making long, winding journeys through many lands, others taking shorter paths — and all of them eventually flow back into Tartarus. Some plunge in much deeper than where they rose; others not much deeper; but all re-enter at a point below where they emerged. Some burst out on the opposite side of the earth, and some on the same side. Some wind around the earth in great coils, like a serpent, and descend as far as they can. But they can only descend to the center — beyond that, in either direction, is an uphill climb.

Now, these rivers are many, and mighty, and varied. But there are four principal ones. The greatest and outermost is called Oceanus, which flows in a circle around the whole earth. Flowing in the opposite direction is Acheron, which runs under the earth through desert regions and empties into the Acherusian Lake. This is the lake where most souls go when they die. After waiting there for an appointed time — longer for some, shorter for others — they're sent back to be born again as living creatures.

The third river emerges between the first two and pours into a vast region of fire, forming a lake larger than the Mediterranean, boiling with water and mud. From there it flows on, muddy and turbid, winding through the earth until it reaches the edges of the Acherusian Lake — but without mingling with its waters. After many coils around the earth, it plunges back into Tartarus at a deeper level. This is Pyriphlegethon, the river that throws up jets of fire in various parts of the earth.

The fourth river comes out on the opposite side and falls first into a wild, savage region that is entirely dark blue, like lapis lazuli. This is the river called the Styx, and the lake it forms is called Lake Styx. After falling into the lake and acquiring strange powers from its waters, the river passes underground, winding in the opposite direction, and approaches the Acherusian Lake from the side opposite Pyriphlegethon. Its waters mingle with no other river's. It flows in a circle and falls back into Tartarus opposite Pyriphlegethon. The poets call this river Cocytus.

Such is the nature of the other world. When the dead arrive at the place where each person's guardian spirit leads them, they're first judged according to how they lived — whether well and piously, or not. Those who are found to have lived neither particularly well nor particularly badly go to the river Acheron, board whatever vessels they can find, and are carried to the lake. There they dwell and are purified of the wrongs they've done, suffering the appropriate penalties. And they receive rewards for their good deeds, each according to what they deserve.

But those who are judged incurable because of the enormity of their crimes — people who have committed many terrible acts of sacrilege, or foul and violent murders, or similar horrors — these are hurled into Tartarus, which is their fitting destiny, and they never come out.

Those who have committed great crimes that are not beyond remedy — people who in a moment of rage did violence to a parent and repented for the rest of their lives, or who took a life under similar extenuating circumstances — these are cast into Tartarus too, and they must endure its torments for a year. But at the year's end, the wave casts them out — the murderers by way of Cocytus, the parricides and matricides by way of Pyriphlegethon — and they are carried to the shore of the Acherusian Lake. There they cry out to the people they wronged, begging for pity, pleading to be allowed out into the lake. If they succeed in persuading their victims, they come out and their suffering ends. If not, they're carried back to Tartarus and from there into the rivers again — and this goes on without ceasing until they win mercy from those they wronged. That is the sentence their judges impose.

And those who have been distinguished for the holiness of their lives are released from these earthly regions entirely. They go up to their pure home above and dwell in the true earth. Among these, the ones who have thoroughly purified themselves through philosophy live from then on entirely without bodies, in dwelling places more beautiful still — places I couldn't describe even if I had the time.

For all these reasons, Simmias, seeing all these things, shouldn't we do everything we can to attain virtue and wisdom in this life? The prize is beautiful, and the hope is great.

Now, a sensible person wouldn't insist that the description I've given of the soul and her future dwelling places is exactly true. But I do think — given that the soul has been shown to be immortal — that it's reasonable and worthwhile to believe something like this is true. It's a noble wager, and a person ought to comfort himself with such stories. That's why I've been spinning this tale at such length. So let a person be of good cheer about his soul — so long as during his life he has rejected the pleasures and ornaments of the body as alien to him and more harmful than helpful, and has instead pursued the pleasures of learning. Let him adorn his soul not in borrowed finery but in her own proper jewels — self-control, justice, courage, freedom, and truth. Dressed in these, she is ready to make her journey to the world below whenever her time comes.

You, Simmias and Cebes, and all the rest of you, will make that journey at some point or other. But me — as the tragic poet might say — the voice of fate calls now. The time has nearly come for me to drink the poison. I think I'd better go take a bath first, so the women won't have the trouble of washing my body afterward.

When he'd finished speaking, Crito said: Do you have any instructions for us, Socrates? Anything about your children, or anything else we can do for you?

Nothing special, Crito, he replied. Only what I've always told you: take care of yourselves. That's a service you can always render to me and to my family and to yourselves, whether you make a special promise to do it or not. But if you neglect yourselves, and refuse to live according to the path I've been laying out for you — not just today but always — then no matter how earnestly you promise right now, it won't do any good.

We'll do our best, said Crito. And how would you like us to bury you?

Any way you like, said Socrates. But first you have to catch me, and make sure I don't escape.

Then he turned to us with a smile and said: I can't seem to convince Crito that I am the Socrates who's been talking and building arguments here with you. He thinks I'm that other Socrates — the one he'll see shortly as a corpse — and he asks, "How shall we bury him?" I've been going on at length trying to show that once I've drunk the poison, I won't be here anymore. I'll have departed for the joys of the blessed. But all those words, which I meant to comfort both you and myself, seem to have had no effect on Crito at all.

So I need you to be my guarantor — but a different kind than the guarantee he gave at my trial. He guaranteed the court that I would stay and face my sentence. I need you to guarantee him that I will not stay — that I will go away and depart. Then he'll take it more easily. When he sees my body being burned or buried, he won't grieve as if something terrible were happening to me. And he won't say at the funeral, "Here we lay out Socrates," or "Here we carry Socrates to his grave," or "Here we bury him." Because you should know, my dear Crito, that false words are not just wrong in themselves — they infect the soul with evil. Be brave. Say that you are burying my body. And do with it whatever is customary, whatever you think is best.

After saying this, he got up and went into another room to bathe. Crito followed him and told us to wait. So we stayed behind, talking among ourselves about what had been said, going back over the arguments — and also talking about how great our loss would be. He was like a father being taken from us, and we were about to spend the rest of our lives as orphans.

When he'd finished bathing, his children were brought in — he had two young sons and one older one — and the women of his family came too. He spoke to them all in Crito's presence, gave them some final instructions, then sent the women and children away and came back to us.

By now it was close to sunset. He'd been gone a long time. He came out and sat down with us again after his bath, but we didn't talk much.

Then the jailer — the servant of the Eleven — came in and stood beside him.

To you, Socrates, he said — you who I know to be the noblest, the gentlest, and the best man who has ever come to this place — I won't say what I have to say to others. Others rage and curse at me when I come to tell them, on the authority's orders, to drink the poison. But I know you won't be angry with me. You know it's not my doing — others are to blame. And so — farewell. Try to bear what must be borne as lightly as you can. You know why I'm here.

Then he burst into tears, turned away, and left.

Socrates looked after him and said: I return your kind wishes, and I'll do as you ask.

Then turning to us, he said: What a good man. The whole time I've been in prison, he's been coming to visit me, talking with me sometimes, being as kind as anyone could be. And now, look how generously he weeps for me. Come, Crito, let's do as he says. Have the cup brought in, if the poison is ready. If not, have someone prepare it.

But Socrates, said Crito, the sun is still on the hilltops. I know that many men have taken the poison quite late — they've had the announcement made and then gone on to eat and drink and even spend time with those they love. Don't rush. There's still time.

Socrates said: The men you're talking about have their reasons, Crito, and they're right to act that way — they think they have something to gain from the delay. But I have my reasons for not following their example. I don't think I'd gain anything by drinking the poison a little later. I'd only make myself ridiculous in my own eyes, clinging to a life that's already over. Please — do as I ask. Don't refuse me.

Crito nodded to the servant standing nearby. The servant went out, and after some time returned with the jailer, who was carrying the cup of poison.

Socrates said: You, my good man — you're experienced in these things. Tell me what I need to do.

The man answered: Just walk around until your legs feel heavy. Then lie down, and the poison will do its work.

And he held out the cup to Socrates.

And Socrates — in the most calm and gentle manner, Echecrates, without the slightest tremor of fear, without the least change of color or expression — looking at the man with those wide, steady eyes of his, the way he always did — took the cup and said:

What do you say about pouring a libation from this cup to some god? Is that allowed, or not?

We only prepare as much as we think is the right dose, Socrates, the man replied.

I understand, Socrates said. But surely I may — and must — pray to the gods that my journey from this world to the next will be a fortunate one. That is my prayer. May it be so.

Then he raised the cup to his lips, and with perfect composure, with perfect cheerfulness, he drank it off.

Up to this point, most of us had managed to hold back our grief. But when we saw him drinking — when we saw that he had actually finished — we couldn't hold on any longer. My own tears came pouring down, despite everything I could do. I covered my face and wept — not for him, but for myself, for my own loss, for the friend I was about to lose. Crito had already gotten up and moved away because he couldn't control his tears. And Apollodorus — who had been crying the entire time — now broke into a loud, anguished cry that shattered every last one of us.

Socrates alone kept his composure. What is this? he said. What is this strange outcry? I sent the women away precisely so they wouldn't behave like this. I've always heard that a person should die in peace. Be still now. Have patience.

When we heard him say this, we were ashamed, and we held back our tears.

He walked around for a while, until, as he said, his legs began to feel heavy. Then he lay down on his back, as the man had directed. The man who had given him the poison checked on him from time to time, pressing his feet, then his legs, moving upward, asking if he could feel anything. He said no. Then the man pressed higher — his shins, his knees — and showed us that he was growing cold and stiff.

Socrates felt his own legs and said: When the poison reaches my heart, that will be the end.

He was growing cold up to his waist when he pulled the cloth from his face — he had covered himself — and spoke his last words.

Crito, he said, we owe a cock to Asclepius. Pay it, and don't forget.

The debt shall be paid, said Crito. Is there anything else?

There was no answer.

A moment later there was a slight movement. The attendants uncovered him. His eyes were fixed. Crito reached over and closed his eyes and his mouth.

Such was the end, Echecrates, of our friend — a man of whom I may truly say that of all the people I have ever known, he was the wisest, the most just, and the best.

Meno

Persons of the dialogue:
  Meno
  Socrates
  A Slave of Meno (Boy)
  Anytus

Meno: Can you tell me, Socrates — is virtue something you can teach? Or do you get it through practice? Or does it come naturally, or in some other way entirely?

Socrates: There was a time, Meno, when the Thessalians were famous among the Greeks only for their wealth and their horsemanship. But now, unless I'm mistaken, they're equally famous for their wisdom — especially in Larisa, your friend Aristippus's hometown. And you have Gorgias to thank for that. When he arrived there, the cream of the Aleuadae fell in love with his brilliance — your admirer Aristippus among them, along with the other leading men of Thessaly. He taught you all the habit of answering questions with confidence and flair, the way someone answers when they actually know what they're talking about. That's exactly how he handles questions himself — any Greek who wants to can walk up and ask him anything at all.

How different things are here in Athens! My dear Meno, there's been a real drought of that kind of thing. All the wisdom seems to have packed up and moved to your part of the world. If you asked any Athenian whether virtue was natural or taught, he'd laugh in your face and say: "Friend, you've got far too high an opinion of me if you think I can answer that. I don't even know what virtue is, let alone whether it can be taught."

And I'm in the same boat, Meno. Living here in this intellectual wasteland, I'm as poor in wisdom as everyone else. I'm ashamed to say it, but I literally know nothing about virtue. And when I don't know what something is, how could I possibly know what it's like? If I knew absolutely nothing about you, Meno — nothing at all — how could I tell whether you were handsome or plain, rich or poor, well-born or not? Could I?

Meno: No, I suppose not. But are you serious, Socrates? You really don't know what virtue is? Am I supposed to bring this report back to Thessaly?

Socrates: Not only that, my friend, but you can add that I've never met anyone else who knows either, as far as I can tell.

Meno: Really? You never met Gorgias when he was in Athens?

Socrates: Yes, I did.

Meno: And you didn't think he knew?

Socrates: My memory isn't great, Meno, so I can't quite recall what I thought of him at the time. Maybe he did know. And I expect you know what he said. So please, remind me of his answer — or better yet, just give me yours. I suspect you and he think pretty much alike.

Meno: That's true.

Socrates: Well, since he's not here, forget about him. Tell me yourself. By the gods, Meno, be generous and tell me what you think virtue is. I'd be absolutely delighted to discover that I was wrong — that you and Gorgias really do have this knowledge, when I'd just been saying I've never found anyone who does.

Meno: That won't be hard at all, Socrates. Take the virtue of a man first — that's easy. A man's virtue is knowing how to manage public affairs, and in doing so to help his friends and harm his enemies, while being careful not to come to harm himself. A woman's virtue? Also easy to describe: she should run the household well, look after what's inside, and obey her husband. Then there's the virtue of a child, of an old person, of a free man, of a slave — each one is different. There are countless virtues, and there's no shortage of ways to define them. Virtue depends on the particular actions and stage of life of each of us in everything we do. And the same goes for vice, Socrates.

Socrates: What luck I'm having, Meno! I ask you for one virtue, and you hand me a whole swarm of them. And speaking of swarms — let me run with that image. Suppose I asked you: "What is the nature of the bee?" And you answered: "There are many different kinds of bees." Then I'd ask: "But do bees differ as bees? Or is the difference really about something else — their beauty, their size, their shape? What would make them different? What would make them the same?" How would you answer that?

Meno: I'd say that bees don't differ from each other insofar as they're bees.

Socrates: And if I followed up: "That's exactly what I want to know, Meno — tell me what that quality is, the one in which they don't differ but are all alike" — could you tell me?

Meno: I could.

Socrates: The same goes for the virtues. However many and different they may be, they all share some common nature that makes them virtues. Anyone who wants to answer the question "What is virtue?" would be wise to keep their eye on that common nature. Do you follow me?

Meno: I'm starting to understand, but I don't quite have a grip on the question the way I'd like.

Socrates: When you say there's one virtue for a man, another for a woman, another for a child, and so on — does this only apply to virtue? Would you say the same about health and size and strength? Is health different in a man and a woman, or is health the same in both?

Meno: I'd say health is the same in both men and women.

Socrates: And size and strength? If a woman is strong, she's strong because of the same quality — the same strength — that exists in a man. I mean that strength, as strength, is the same whether it belongs to a man or a woman. Do you see any difference?

Meno: I don't.

Socrates: And won't virtue, as virtue, be the same whether it's in a child, a grown-up, a woman, or a man?

Meno: I can't help feeling, Socrates, that this case is somehow different from the others.

Socrates: How so? Didn't you just say that a man's virtue is managing the state, and a woman's is managing the house?

Meno: I did.

Socrates: And can you manage a state or a house or anything else well without self-discipline and justice?

Meno: Certainly not.

Socrates: And those who manage a state or a house well — they do it with self-discipline and justice?

Meno: Of course.

Socrates: Then both men and women, if they're going to be good, need the same virtues of self-discipline and justice?

Meno: So it seems.

Socrates: And can a young person or an old person be good while being undisciplined and unjust?

Meno: They can't.

Socrates: They have to be disciplined and just?

Meno: Yes.

Socrates: So everyone is good in the same way — by sharing in the same virtues?

Meno: That's the logical conclusion.

Socrates: And they wouldn't be good in the same way unless their virtue was the same?

Meno: They wouldn't.

Socrates: Good. Now that we've established that all virtue is fundamentally the same, try to remember what you and Gorgias say virtue actually is.

Meno: You want a single definition that covers them all?

Socrates: That's exactly what I'm after.

Meno: Well, if you want one definition for all of them, I'd have to say that virtue is the power to govern people.

Socrates: And does this definition cover all virtue? Is virtue the same in a child and a slave, Meno? Can a child govern his father? Can a slave govern his master? And if a slave governed, would he still be a slave?

Meno: I don't think so, Socrates.

Socrates: No, that doesn't quite work, does it? But let me push on, my friend. According to you, virtue is "the power of governing." But shouldn't you add — "justly, not unjustly"?

Meno: Yes, Socrates, I agree. Justice is virtue, after all.

Socrates: Would you say justice is virtue, or a virtue?

Meno: What do you mean?

Socrates: I mean the same distinction we'd make about anything. I'd say that roundness, for example, is "a shape" and not just "shape" — because there are other shapes too.

Meno: Fair point. That's exactly what I'm saying about virtue — there are other virtues besides justice.

Socrates: What are they? Name them for me, the way I'd name other shapes if you asked.

Meno: Courage, self-discipline, wisdom, generosity — there are virtues, and plenty of them.

Socrates: And here we are again, Meno. We went looking for one virtue and found a whole swarm — just in a different way than before. We still can't find the one common thread that runs through them all.

Meno: I know. I just can't seem to get a handle on a single, unifying concept of virtue the way I can with other things.

Socrates: No wonder. But I'll try to get us closer, if I can. You understand that this applies to everything, right? Suppose someone asked you the question I just raised: "Meno, what is shape?" And if you answered "roundness," he'd say: "Is roundness shape, or a shape?" And you'd have to say "a shape."

Meno: Certainly.

Socrates: Because there are other shapes?

Meno: Yes.

Socrates: And if he asked what those other shapes are, you'd tell him?

Meno: I would.

Socrates: And if he asked about color in the same way, and you answered "whiteness," and he asked "Is whiteness color, or a color?" — you'd say "a color," because there are other colors too?

Meno: I would.

Socrates: And if he said "Tell me what they are" — you'd name other colors that are just as much colors as whiteness?

Meno: Yes.

Socrates: Now suppose he pushed the question the way I do. He'd say: "We keep landing on specific examples, but that's not what I want. Since you use the word 'shape' as a common name that covers them all — round and straight alike, and everything in between — tell me: what is that common nature you're calling 'shape'? What includes the straight and the round, and is no more one than the other?" That's the kind of question you'd face, right?

Meno: Yes.

Socrates: And in asking it, you wouldn't mean that the round is round any more than it's straight, or that the straight is straight any more than it's round?

Meno: Of course not.

Socrates: You'd only be saying that roundness is no more "shape" than straightness is?

Meno: Exactly right.

Socrates: So what do we actually call "shape"? Try to answer. Suppose that when someone asked you this question about shape or color, you said: "Look, I don't understand what you want." They'd probably stare at you and say: "You don't understand that I'm looking for what's common to all these cases?" If they put it another way: "Meno, what is this thing you call 'shape' that includes round and straight and everything else?" — could you answer that? Give it a try. It'll be good practice for answering the question about virtue.

Meno: I'd rather you answered, Socrates.

Socrates: You want me to indulge you?

Meno: Absolutely.

Socrates: And then you'll tell me about virtue?

Meno: I will.

Socrates: Then I'd better give it my best shot — there's a prize to be won.

Meno: Certainly.

Socrates: All right, I'll try to explain what shape is. How about this: shape is the only thing that always accompanies color. Does that work for you? I'd certainly be happy with an answer like that about virtue.

Meno: But Socrates, that's such a simple answer.

Socrates: Why simple?

Meno: Because according to you, shape is "whatever always accompanies color."

Socrates: Granted.

Meno: But what if someone said they don't know what color is, any more than what shape is? What kind of answer would that be?

Socrates: An honest one, I think. And if the person asking were one of those combative debaters — the eristic types who just want to win arguments — I'd say: "There's my answer. If it's wrong, that's your job to show me." But if we were friends, talking the way you and I are now, I'd answer more gently, in a more genuinely philosophical way. That means I'd not only speak the truth, but I'd build my answer from things we both already agree on.

That's the approach I'll take with you. You'd agree, wouldn't you, that there's such a thing as a boundary, or an edge, or a limit? I'm using all these words to mean the same thing. Prodicus might insist on fine distinctions between them, but I'm sure you understand what I mean by "where something ends."

Meno: Yes, I think I understand you.

Socrates: And you'd agree there are things like surfaces and solids — like in geometry?

Meno: Yes.

Socrates: Then you're ready for my definition. Here it is: I define shape as that in which a solid ends. Or more concisely — shape is the limit of a solid.

Meno: All right, Socrates, now tell me: what is color?

Socrates: You're outrageous, Meno! Pestering a poor old man to answer your questions when you won't bother to recall what Gorgias says about virtue!

Meno: Once you've answered my question, I'll answer yours, Socrates.

Socrates: A blindfolded man would only have to hear you talking to know that you're good-looking and still have plenty of admirers.

Meno: Oh? Why do you say that?

Socrates: Because you always talk in commands — like beautiful people do when they're in their prime. You're a tyrant! And I suspect you've figured out that I have a weakness for good-looking people, so I'll give in to please you.

Meno: Please do.

Socrates: Want me to answer in the style of Gorgias? That's what you're most familiar with.

Meno: I'd like nothing better.

Socrates: Don't you and Gorgias and Empedocles say that there are certain emanations flowing off everything that exists?

Meno: Definitely.

Socrates: And that there are channels through which these emanations travel?

Meno: Exactly.

Socrates: And that some of these emanations fit perfectly into the channels, while others are too small or too large?

Meno: True.

Socrates: And there's such a thing as sight?

Meno: Yes.

Socrates: Then, as Pindar says, "read my meaning": color is an emanation from shapes that fits the channels of sight and is perceivable by the senses.

Meno: That, Socrates, strikes me as an excellent answer.

Socrates: Well, it probably appeals to you because it's the kind of answer you're used to hearing. And I'm sure your sharp mind has already noticed you could use the same approach to explain sound and smell and plenty of other similar things.

Meno: Quite true.

Socrates: It's a grand, theatrical kind of answer, Meno, which is why you like it better than my definition of shape.

Meno: Yes, I do.

Socrates: And yet, my friend, I can't help thinking the other one was better. And I'm sure you'd agree, if you didn't have to rush off — you mentioned yesterday you need to leave before the mysteries begin. If you could stay and be initiated, I think you'd come around.

Meno: I'd stay gladly, Socrates, if you'd give me many more answers like that one.

Socrates: Well, for your sake and mine, I'll do my very best — though I'm afraid I won't be able to keep up that standard for long. But now it's your turn to fulfill your promise. Tell me what virtue is, in the universal — give me the one thing, not a plural. Don't break it into pieces. As the jokers say when someone shatters a vase — don't do that to virtue. Deliver it to me whole and intact. I've given you the pattern to follow.

Meno: All right, Socrates. Virtue, as I see it, is this: to desire what's fine and noble and to have the power to get it. As the poet says, and I agree:

  "Virtue is the desire of noble things and the power to attain them."

Socrates: And does someone who desires noble things also desire good things?

Meno: Of course.

Socrates: Then are there some people who desire evil, while others desire good? Don't all people desire what's good, my friend?

Meno: I don't think so.

Socrates: There are some who desire evil?

Meno: Yes.

Socrates: Do you mean they think the evil things they desire are actually good? Or do they know those things are evil and desire them anyway?

Meno: Both, I think.

Socrates: You really think someone can know something is evil and desire it anyway?

Meno: I certainly do.

Socrates: And to desire is to want to possess?

Meno: Yes, to possess.

Socrates: And does this person think the evil things will benefit him, or does he know they'll harm him?

Meno: Some people think evil things will benefit them. Others know the evil things will harm them.

Socrates: And in your view, the ones who think evil things will benefit them — do they actually know those things are evil?

Meno: Certainly not.

Socrates: Then isn't it obvious? Those people don't desire evil at all. They don't even know it's evil. They desire what they believe is good, even though it turns out to be evil. They're mistaken about what's good, but what they actually desire is good things — right?

Meno: Yes, I suppose so, in that case.

Socrates: Now what about the other group — the ones who, as you say, desire evil things and know perfectly well that those things will harm whoever possesses them? They must also know they themselves will be harmed by these things?

Meno: They must.

Socrates: And don't they realize that people who are harmed are miserable, in proportion to the harm?

Meno: How could they not?

Socrates: And that the miserable are unfortunate?

Meno: Yes, definitely.

Socrates: And does anyone actually want to be miserable and unfortunate?

Meno: I'd say no, Socrates.

Socrates: Then if no one wants to be miserable, no one desires evil — because what is misery but desiring and possessing evil things?

Meno: You seem to be right, Socrates. I'll admit it: nobody desires evil.

Socrates: Now, weren't you just saying that virtue is desiring good things and having the power to get them?

Meno: Yes, I said that.

Socrates: Well, if the desiring part is universal — if everyone desires good things — then one person is no better than another in that respect, right?

Meno: True.

Socrates: So if one person is more virtuous than another, it can't be because they desire good things more. It must be because they're better at getting them?

Meno: Exactly.

Socrates: Then by your definition, virtue is simply the power to get good things?

Meno: I entirely approve of the way you're looking at this now, Socrates.

Socrates: Good. Let's see whether you're right. You might well be. You say virtue is the power to acquire good things?

Meno: Yes.

Socrates: And by "good things" you mean things like health, wealth, gold and silver, political office, and honors — that sort of thing?

Meno: Yes, I'd include all of those.

Socrates: So according to Meno — hereditary friend of the Great King of Persia, no less — virtue is the power to get gold and silver. But would you add that you have to get them piously and justly? Or doesn't it matter how you get them? Is getting them dishonestly just as much "virtue" as getting them fairly?

Meno: Of course not, Socrates. That would be vice, not virtue.

Socrates: So justice or self-discipline or piety — some part of virtue — has to accompany the getting. Without those, the mere acquisition of good things isn't virtue.

Meno: How could there be virtue without them?

Socrates: And choosing not to acquire gold and silver dishonestly — whether for yourself or someone else — that kind of restraint can also be virtue?

Meno: True.

Socrates: So it turns out that acquiring good things is no more virtue than not acquiring them. What makes the difference is whether justice and honesty are present. Without justice, it's vice.

Meno: I think that has to be right.

Socrates: But didn't we say just a moment ago that justice, self-discipline, and the rest are each a part of virtue?

Meno: Yes.

Socrates: So, Meno — you're making fun of me.

Meno: Why do you say that, Socrates?

Socrates: Because I asked you to give me virtue whole and unbroken. I gave you a pattern to follow. And what did you do? You forgot already! You told me virtue is the power to acquire good things justly — and you yourself admit that justice is a part of virtue.

Meno: Yes, that's what I said.

Socrates: So it follows from your own words that virtue is doing what you do with a part of virtue. You've used justice — a part of virtue — to define virtue itself.

Meno: So what?

Socrates: So what? Let me spell it out. I asked you to tell me what virtue is as a whole. And instead of telling me that, you say every action done with a part of virtue counts as virtue — as if you'd already told me what the whole of virtue is, and I should just know. So I'm afraid, my dear Meno, that I have to ask the same question all over again: What is virtue? Because at the moment, all you've told me is that every action done with justice is virtue — which just brings us back to: What is virtue? Or do you think someone who doesn't know what virtue is can know what a part of virtue is?

Meno: No, I don't think so.

Socrates: Remember how, in our discussion of shape, we agreed you can't define something using terms that haven't been explained yet?

Meno: Yes, Socrates, and we were right to reject that.

Socrates: Then, my friend, don't try to explain what virtue is through some unexplained part of virtue. That would just force us to ask the same question again: What is virtue? Am I right?

Meno: I think you are.

Socrates: Then start over. What do you and your friend Gorgias say virtue is?

Meno: Oh, Socrates, before I met you, people used to tell me that you were always in a state of confusion yourself and that you made everyone around you confused too. And now I see it's true — you're casting some kind of spell over me. I'm completely bewitched and enchanted, and I've lost my bearings entirely. If you'll forgive me a little joke: you remind me, both in your looks and in the effect you have on people, of that flat torpedo fish — the one that numbs anyone who comes near it and touches it. That's what you've done to me. My mind and my tongue are truly numb. I don't know how to answer you. And the thing is, I've given countless speeches about virtue before — to large audiences — and very good ones, I thought. But right now, I can't even say what virtue is. I think you're very wise not to travel abroad, by the way. If you did this in other cities, they'd throw you in prison as a sorcerer.

Socrates: You're a rogue, Meno. You almost had me.

Meno: What do you mean, Socrates?

Socrates: I can see why you made that comparison about me.

Meno: Why?

Socrates: So I'd make a flattering comparison back about you. I know how handsome young men work — they love having pretty images made of them, and why shouldn't they? But I won't return the favor. As for the torpedo fish comparison — if the torpedo fish is itself numb while it numbs others, then sure, I'm like a torpedo fish. But otherwise, no. I don't confuse people because I have everything figured out myself. I confuse them because I'm genuinely confused. Right now, for instance, I have no idea what virtue is. And you, who maybe knew before you touched me, seem to be in the same fix now. Still, I'm happy to join you in investigating the question.

Meno: But how will you investigate something you don't know at all, Socrates? What will you even be looking for? And if you stumble onto it, how would you recognize it as the thing you didn't know?

Socrates: I see what you're getting at, Meno. It's a clever puzzle, but look at what a dead-end argument you're pushing. You're saying a person can't investigate what they know — because they already know it and don't need to investigate. And they can't investigate what they don't know — because they don't even know what to look for. So investigation is impossible.

Meno: Well, doesn't that argument make sense, Socrates?

Socrates: I don't think so.

Meno: Why not?

Socrates: I'll tell you why. I've heard from certain wise men and women who have studied divine things —

Meno: What did they say?

Socrates: Something glorious and true, I believe.

Meno: What was it? Who were they?

Socrates: Some were priests and priestesses — the kind who take the trouble to understand the reasons behind what they do. And there have been poets who spoke with divine inspiration — Pindar and many others.

Here's what they say — and pay attention, see whether their words ring true: The soul is immortal. It comes to an end — what we call "dying" — and then it's born again, but it's never destroyed. And so we should live as righteously as possible. For as Pindar writes: "In the ninth year, Persephone sends the souls of those who have paid the penalty for ancient wrongs back up from the underworld into the sunlight above, and from them spring noble kings and swift warriors and the greatest in wisdom, and ever after they are called holy heroes among humankind."

The soul, then, being immortal and having been born many times over, has seen everything — both in this world and in the world below — and has learned it all. So it's no surprise that the soul can remember what it once knew about virtue, and about everything else. Since all of nature is connected, and the soul has learned all things, there's nothing to stop someone who remembers just one thing — what we call "learning" — from recovering all the rest, as long as they're determined and don't give up. Because all learning, all investigation, is really just remembering.

So we shouldn't listen to that clever argument of yours about the impossibility of searching for knowledge. It would make us lazy — and it's the kind of thing that only appeals to people who don't want to make the effort. My view is the opposite: believing we should search for what we don't know makes us better, braver, and more resourceful. That's a principle I'm prepared to fight for, in word and in deed.

Meno: That's well said, Socrates. But what exactly do you mean when you say we don't learn — that what we call learning is actually a process of recollection? Can you show me how that works?

Socrates: I just called you a rogue, Meno, and here you go again — asking me to teach you, when I've just said there's no such thing as teaching, only recollection. You're trying to catch me in a contradiction.

Meno: Honestly, Socrates, I didn't mean to trick you. I just asked out of habit. But if you can actually demonstrate what you're saying, I'd really like to see it.

Socrates: It won't be easy, but I'll try to show you. Call over one of your servants — any one of them — and I'll demonstrate using him.

Meno: Certainly. Come here, boy.

Socrates: He speaks Greek, doesn't he?

Meno: Oh yes. He was born and raised in my household.

Socrates: Good. Now pay close attention to my questions, Meno, and watch whether this boy learns something from me — or merely remembers it.

Meno: I'm watching.

Socrates: Tell me, boy — do you know what a square is? A figure like this?

Boy: I do.

Socrates: So a square has four sides, all equal?

Boy: Yes.

Socrates: And these lines I've drawn through the middle — they're equal too?

Boy: Yes.

Socrates: A square can be any size, right?

Boy: Sure.

Socrates: Now, if one side is two feet long, and the other side is also two feet long, how big is the whole square? Let me put it this way: if it were two feet in one direction and only one foot in the other, the area would be two square feet — two times one. Right?

Boy: Yes.

Socrates: But since this side is also two feet, we have two times two?

Boy: Right.

Socrates: So the area is two times two?

Boy: Yes.

Socrates: And how much is two times two? Count it out for me.

Boy: Four, Socrates.

Socrates: Good. Now, could there be another square that's twice as large as this one, with all its sides equal, just like this one?

Boy: Yes.

Socrates: And how many square feet would that be?

Boy: Eight.

Socrates: Now here's the key question: how long would each side of that eight-square-foot square be? This square here has sides of two feet. What would the sides of the double square be?

Boy: Obviously, Socrates — it'll be double. Four feet.

Socrates: You hear that, Meno? I'm not teaching him anything. I'm only asking questions. And right now he thinks he knows the length of the side that produces an eight-square-foot figure. Doesn't he?

Meno: He does.

Socrates: But does he actually know?

Meno: Certainly not.

Socrates: He's just guessing that because the square is double, the side must be double.

Meno: True.

Socrates: Now watch as he works through this step by step.

[To the Boy] Tell me, boy — you say that doubling the side gives you double the area? Remember, I'm not talking about a rectangle. I mean a square — equal on all sides — that's twice the size of our four-square-foot square. That would be eight square feet. You still think doubling the side does that?

Boy: Yes.

Socrates: All right. If we take our two-foot side and add another two feet to it, we get a four-foot side, right?

Boy: Yes.

Socrates: And with four such sides, we get a square of eight square feet?

Boy: Yes.

Socrates: Let me draw this figure. Now — look at it. Don't we have four smaller squares inside it, each one equal to our original four-square-foot square?

Boy: Yes.

Socrates: So how big is the whole thing? Isn't it four times the original?

Boy: It has to be.

Socrates: And is four times the same as double?

Boy: No way.

Socrates: Then how many times bigger is it?

Boy: Four times bigger.

Socrates: So, boy, doubling the side didn't give us double the area. It gave us four times the area.

Boy: That's true.

Socrates: Because four times four is sixteen. Right?

Boy: Yes.

Socrates: Then what length side would give us eight square feet? The four-foot side gave us sixteen. Do you see the problem?

Boy: Yes.

Socrates: And our original two-foot side gave us four square feet?

Boy: Yes.

Socrates: And eight square feet is bigger than four but smaller than sixteen?

Boy: Definitely.

Socrates: So the side we need must be longer than two feet but shorter than four?

Boy: It must be.

Socrates: Good — I like hearing you say what you think. Now tell me: how long do you think it is?

Boy: Three feet.

Socrates: All right, if the side is three feet, let's see what happens. We take our two-foot side and add half of it — one foot — to get three feet. Here's two, and here's the extra one. And on this side, same thing — two feet plus one foot. So we have a square that's three feet on each side. Yes?

Boy: Yes.

Socrates: And if it's three feet this way and three feet that way, the total area is three times three?

Boy: Obviously.

Socrates: And three times three is?

Boy: Nine.

Socrates: But what did we need? What's double four?

Boy: Eight.

Socrates: So a three-foot side gives us nine, not eight?

Boy: No, it doesn't work.

Socrates: Then what side gives us eight? Tell me exactly. If you'd rather not calculate, just point to the line.

Boy: Honestly, Socrates, I don't know.

Socrates: Now do you see what's happening, Meno? Look at the progress this boy has made in recollection. At first, he didn't know the side of the eight-square-foot square — and he still doesn't. But back then he was confident he knew, and he answered without any hesitation. He felt no confusion at all. Now he does feel confused. He doesn't know the answer, and he no longer thinks he does.

Meno: That's true.

Socrates: Isn't he better off now, knowing what he doesn't know?

Meno: I think he is.

Socrates: And when we made him doubt and gave him "the torpedo's shock" — did we do him any harm?

Meno: I don't think so.

Socrates: In fact, we've moved him closer to discovering the truth. Before, he would've happily told anyone who'd listen that a double square requires a double side. Now he actually wants to find the real answer — because he realizes he doesn't have it.

Meno: True.

Socrates: Do you think he would have ever tried to investigate or learn what he thought he already knew? He had to first fall into confusion — had to realize he didn't know — before he could feel any desire to actually find out.

Meno: I don't think so, Socrates.

Socrates: So the torpedo's shock did him good?

Meno: I think it did.

Socrates: Now watch what happens next. I'm going to ask him questions — nothing more. I won't teach him a thing. Watch carefully: see if you can catch me explaining or telling him anything, rather than simply drawing out his own ideas.

[To the Boy] Tell me, boy — this is a square of four square feet, right? This figure I've drawn?

Boy: Yes.

Socrates: And I can add another square right next to it, the same size?

Boy: Yes.

Socrates: And a third one here, the same size as each of the other two?

Boy: Yes.

Socrates: And we can fill in this corner with a fourth?

Boy: Sure.

Socrates: So now we have four equal squares?

Boy: Yes.

Socrates: And how many times bigger is this whole figure compared to the original square?

Boy: Four times.

Socrates: But we needed it to be only twice as big, remember?

Boy: Right.

Socrates: Now — doesn't this diagonal line, going from corner to corner, cut each of these four squares exactly in half?

Boy: Yes.

Socrates: And don't these four diagonals form a new square right here in the middle — a square sitting on its point, contained by these four equal lines?

Boy: Yes.

Socrates: Now look carefully. How big is this inner square?

Boy: I'm not sure I see it.

Socrates: Think about it. Each diagonal cuts one of the four-square-foot squares in half, right?

Boy: Yes.

Socrates: And how many of these half-squares make up the inner figure?

Boy: Four.

Socrates: And how many make up the original small square?

Boy: Two.

Socrates: And four is how many times two?

Boy: Twice.

Socrates: So how many square feet is this inner square?

Boy: Eight!

Socrates: And what line produced this figure?

Boy: This one — the diagonal.

Socrates: That's right. The line that goes from corner to corner of the four-square-foot square. The experts call it the diagonal. And if that's its name, then you, Meno's boy, are prepared to say that the double square is the square built on the diagonal?

Boy: Absolutely, Socrates.

Socrates: What do you say, Meno? Did that boy give a single answer that wasn't his own?

Meno: No — every answer came from him.

Socrates: And yet, as we said earlier, he didn't know?

Meno: True.

Socrates: But these ideas were in him all along, weren't they?

Meno: Yes.

Socrates: So someone who doesn't know a thing can still have true ideas about it?

Meno: Apparently so.

Socrates: Right now these ideas have been stirred up in him, like images in a dream. But if someone kept questioning him about these same things in different ways, he'd eventually come to know them as well as anyone.

Meno: I'd expect so.

Socrates: And he'd reach that knowledge without anyone teaching him — just by being asked questions?

Meno: Yes.

Socrates: And this process of recovering knowledge through questioning — that's recollection?

Meno: Yes.

Socrates: Now, this knowledge that's been stirred up in him — he must have either acquired it at some point or always possessed it.

Meno: Yes.

Socrates: If he always had it, he always knew it. If he acquired it, he couldn't have acquired it in this life. Has anyone ever taught him geometry? He can be led through this same process with all of geometry and every other branch of knowledge. Has anyone taught him all of this? You should know — after all, he was born and raised in your house.

Meno: I'm certain that no one ever taught him.

Socrates: Yet he has this knowledge?

Meno: The fact is undeniable, Socrates.

Socrates: And if he didn't acquire it in this life, then he must have had it and learned it at some other time?

Meno: It seems so.

Socrates: A time when he was not yet a human being?

Meno: Yes.

Socrates: And if true ideas have always existed in him — both during the times he was a man and during the times he was not — and these ideas only need to be awakened into knowledge through questioning, then his soul must have always possessed this knowledge. He always either was or was not a man.

Meno: That follows.

Socrates: And if the truth of all things has always existed in the soul, then the soul is immortal. So take heart, and boldly try to recollect — to recover — what you don't currently know. Or rather: what you don't currently remember.

Meno: Somehow, Socrates, I feel that I like what you're saying.

Socrates: And I like it too, Meno. I won't pretend to be completely confident about every detail of what I've said. But this much I will fight for, in word and deed, with everything I've got: we are better, braver, and less helpless people if we believe we should search for what we don't know, than if we sit back and tell ourselves there's no point in trying to learn because it's impossible. That's a principle I'll defend to the end.

Meno: There again, Socrates, your words are excellent.

Socrates: Good. Then since we agree that a person should investigate what they don't know, shall we join forces and try to discover what virtue actually is?

Meno: By all means, Socrates. Though I'd really prefer to go back to my original question: should we think of virtue as something that can be taught, something that comes naturally, or something that comes to people in some other way?

Socrates: If I had any control over you as well as myself, Meno, I wouldn't ask whether virtue can be taught until we'd figured out what it is. But since you insist on controlling me while never controlling yourself — that being your idea of freedom — I'll give in. You're irresistible.

So here we are: investigating the qualities of something whose nature we still don't know. But at least grant me this much — let me approach the question through a hypothesis. Here's what I mean. Geometers, when asked whether a certain triangle can be inscribed in a certain circle, might say: "I can't tell you yet. But let me offer a hypothesis that might help. If the triangle has such-and-such a property, then one conclusion follows; if not, then another." That's the geometric method — reasoning from a hypothesis.

Let's do the same with virtue. Since we don't know its nature, let's reason hypothetically: if virtue belongs to a certain class of things — say, if it's a kind of knowledge — would it be teachable or not? Here's our first hypothesis: Is virtue knowledge? If it is, can it be taught?

Actually, let's start from what's obvious: isn't it true that the only thing that can be taught is knowledge?

Meno: I agree.

Socrates: So if virtue is knowledge, it can be taught?

Meno: Of course.

Socrates: Good. We've settled that quickly. If virtue is a kind of knowledge, it's teachable. If it's not, it's not.

Meno: Agreed.

Socrates: The next question, then: is virtue knowledge, or something else?

Meno: Yes, that seems like the right question to ask next.

Socrates: Well, we do say that virtue is a good thing, don't we? That's a hypothesis we're not going to set aside.

Meno: Definitely.

Socrates: Now, if there are any good things that are separate from knowledge — things that aren't knowledge at all — then virtue might be one of those things. But if knowledge covers all good things, then we'd be right to conclude that virtue is knowledge.

Meno: True.

Socrates: And virtue does make us good?

Meno: Yes.

Socrates: And if we're good, we're useful? Because all good things are useful?

Meno: Yes.

Socrates: So virtue is useful?

Meno: That's the only conclusion.

Socrates: Then let's think about what kinds of things are useful to us. Health, strength, beauty, wealth — we'd call those useful, right?

Meno: Right.

Socrates: But those same things can also sometimes harm us, can't they?

Meno: Yes.

Socrates: And what makes the difference? When are they useful and when are they harmful? Aren't they useful when they're used wisely and harmful when they're not?

Meno: Absolutely.

Socrates: Now let's look at the qualities of the soul: self-discipline, justice, courage, quickness of mind, good memory, generosity, and so on.

Meno: All right.

Socrates: Take the ones that aren't knowledge but something else. Aren't they sometimes useful and sometimes harmful? Courage, for instance — when it's just raw boldness without good judgment, it's really just recklessness. Courage with good judgment helps you. Courage without it hurts you.

Meno: True.

Socrates: Same with self-discipline and mental sharpness. Whatever you learn or do with wisdom benefits you. Without wisdom, it harms you.

Meno: Very true.

Socrates: In fact, as a general rule: everything the soul undertakes, when guided by wisdom, leads to flourishing. When guided by foolishness, it leads to the opposite.

Meno: That seems right.

Socrates: So if virtue is a quality of the soul, and if we agree it's useful, then it must be wisdom. Because nothing about the soul is useful or harmful in itself — it's the presence or absence of wisdom that makes the difference. So if virtue is useful, virtue must be a kind of wisdom.

Meno: I completely agree.

Socrates: And the same logic applies to everything else we mentioned — wealth and all the rest. We said those things are sometimes good and sometimes bad. Well, when the soul uses them wisely, they become beneficial. When it uses them foolishly, they become harmful. Just as the soul's own qualities are directed by wisdom to good ends and by foolishness to bad ones.

Meno: True.

Socrates: And the wise soul directs things well, while the foolish soul directs them badly.

Meno: Yes.

Socrates: So here's the universal principle: everything in human life depends on the soul, and everything about the soul depends on wisdom, if it's to be good. By this reasoning, wisdom is what makes things useful — and virtue, we've said, is useful.

Meno: Certainly.

Socrates: So we arrive at the conclusion that virtue is either entirely or at least partly wisdom?

Meno: I think what you're saying is very true, Socrates.

Socrates: And if that's right, then good people aren't good by nature?

Meno: I'd say not.

Socrates: Because if they were, there would be experts who could identify naturally virtuous children. We'd spot them early, lock them away in a citadel for safekeeping — guard them more carefully than we'd guard gold — so nobody could corrupt them. When they grew up, they'd be ready to serve the state.

Meno: Yes, Socrates, that would make sense.

Socrates: But if good people aren't good by nature, are they made good by instruction?

Meno: It seems like there's no other option, Socrates. If virtue is knowledge, it has to be taught.

Socrates: Maybe. But what if our hypothesis is wrong?

Meno: I was just feeling so sure we were right.

Socrates: Yes, Meno. But a principle that's any good should hold up not just for the moment but always.

Meno: True. But why are you so reluctant to believe that virtue is knowledge?

Socrates: I'll try to explain. I'm not taking back the claim that if virtue is knowledge, it can be taught. But I'm starting to wonder whether virtue really is knowledge. Consider this: for anything that can be taught, there must be teachers and students. Agreed?

Meno: Of course.

Socrates: And if something has no teachers and no students, we'd have good reason to think it can't be taught?

Meno: True. But do you really think there are no teachers of virtue?

Socrates: I've spent a lot of time asking that very question, Meno, and I've searched hard for them. I've never been able to find any. And plenty of people have helped me look — people I thought were most likely to know.

But look — how lucky we are! Sitting right here, just when we need him, is Anytus. He's exactly the person we should ask. He has every qualification for it. His father, Anthemion, was a wealthy man — and not the kind who got rich by accident or inheritance, the way Ismenias the Theban did, falling into a fortune the size of Polycrates'. No, Anthemion earned his money through his own intelligence and hard work. He was also known as a decent, modest citizen — not arrogant or pompous or difficult. He gave his son here an excellent education, as the Athenian people obviously believe, since they keep electing him to the highest offices. This is exactly the kind of man who can tell us whether there are teachers of virtue and who they are.

Please, Anytus — help me and your friend Meno answer this question: who teaches virtue? Think about it this way. If we wanted Meno to become a good doctor, who would we send him to?

Anytus: To doctors, obviously.

Socrates: And if we wanted him to become a good cobbler?

Anytus: To cobblers.

Socrates: And so on?

Anytus: Yes.

Socrates: Let me push this a bit further. When we say we should send him to the doctors to learn medicine, we mean we'd be right to send him to people who actually practice the skill, who charge a fee for teaching it, and who are open to anyone who wants to learn. Those are the reasons we'd send him, yes?

Anytus: Yes.

Socrates: And the same goes for flute-playing and every other skill. It would be ridiculous to refuse to send someone to the recognized experts — the ones who charge for teaching — and instead pester random people who've never taught the subject and don't even claim to. Wouldn't that be the height of foolishness?

Anytus: By Zeus, yes — foolishness and ignorance both.

Socrates: Exactly right. So now you're in a position to advise me about our friend Meno here. He's been telling me he wants to acquire that kind of wisdom and excellence by which people govern states and households, honor their parents, and know how to welcome friends and strangers as a good person should. So who should he go to in order to learn this? Doesn't our argument clearly point to the people who advertise themselves as teachers of exactly this — who claim to teach it to any Greek who wants to learn, for a set fee?

Anytus: And who exactly do you mean, Socrates?

Socrates: You know perfectly well who I mean, Anytus. The people everyone calls Sophists.

Anytus: By Heracles, Socrates — don't even say it! I pray that no friend or relative of mine, no citizen or foreigner I know, is ever crazy enough to go near those people and let himself be corrupted by them. They're nothing but a plague and a poison to everyone who has anything to do with them.

Socrates: What are you saying, Anytus? Out of everyone who claims to know how to improve people, the Sophists are the only ones who not only fail to improve them but actually make them worse? And they have the nerve to charge money for it? I can hardly believe that. I know for a fact that one man — Protagoras — made more money from his craft than Phidias, who created some of the most magnificent sculptures in the world, or any ten other sculptors put together.

Think about it: a shoe-mender who returned shoes in worse condition than he received them couldn't last thirty days in business. He'd starve. But Protagoras supposedly corrupted everyone he taught for more than forty years, and no one noticed? He was about seventy when he died, and he practiced his profession for forty of those years — and the whole time, right up to this day, his reputation has remained excellent. And it's not just Protagoras. Plenty of other Sophists, both before him and still living today, are well regarded.

So when you say they deceived and corrupted the youth — were they doing it on purpose, or accidentally? Are you really suggesting that people widely considered to be among the wisest men in Greece were actually out of their minds?

Anytus: They're not the ones who are out of their minds, Socrates. The young men who pay them money are out of their minds. Their parents and guardians who let them go are even more out of their minds. And most of all, the cities that allow them in and don't drive them out are out of their minds.

Socrates: Has any Sophist actually done you wrong, Anytus? Why are you so angry at them?

Anytus: By Zeus, no! I've never had anything to do with them, and I wouldn't let any member of my family near them either.

Socrates: So you have absolutely no experience with them?

Anytus: And I don't want any.

Socrates: Then how can you know whether something is good or bad if you have no experience with it at all?

Anytus: Easily. I know exactly what kind of people they are, whether I've had personal dealings with them or not.

Socrates: You must be some kind of prophet, Anytus, because I really can't figure out how you could know about them based on what you've just told me. But never mind that. I'm not asking who will corrupt Meno — let's say those are the Sophists, if you like. I'm asking who will make him better. Who in this great city can teach him the virtues I just described? He's a friend of your family, and you'd be doing him a favor. Tell him who to go to.

Anytus: Why don't you tell him yourself?

Socrates: I did tell him who I thought the teachers were, but you've informed me I was completely wrong. And you're probably right. So now it's your turn. Tell me — which Athenians should he approach? Name someone.

Anytus: Why single out individuals? Any Athenian gentleman, chosen at random, will do him far more good than the Sophists would.

Socrates: And did these gentlemen become virtuous all by themselves? Without teachers of their own? And yet they can somehow teach what they never learned?

Anytus: I'd say they learned from the generation of gentlemen before them. Are you going to tell me there haven't been many good men in this city?

Socrates: There certainly have been many good statesmen in Athens, Anytus, and there still are. But the question isn't whether there have been good men. The question is whether they were also good teachers of their own virtue. That's what we're discussing: not whether good people exist, but whether virtue can be taught. And that comes down to this: did these good men know how to pass their goodness on to others, or is virtue the kind of thing that can't be communicated from one person to another?

That's what Meno and I have been trying to figure out. Look at it from your own perspective: wouldn't you say Themistocles was a good man?

Anytus: Absolutely. One of the best.

Socrates: And if anyone ever was a good teacher of virtue, he would've been one?

Anytus: I'd think so — if he wanted to be.

Socrates: And wouldn't he have wanted to? He certainly wanted to make his own son a good man. He couldn't have been jealous of his own child or deliberately withheld his own excellence from him. You must have heard that he had his son Cleophantus trained to be a superb horseman — the boy could stand upright on horseback and throw javelins and perform all kinds of amazing feats. In anything that could be learned from a master, the boy was top-notch. You've heard all this?

Anytus: I have.

Socrates: So no one could say his son lacked natural ability?

Anytus: I suppose not.

Socrates: But here's the thing: has anyone — young or old — ever said that Cleophantus, son of Themistocles, was a wise or good man, the way his father was?

Anytus: I've never heard anyone say that.

Socrates: And if virtue could have been taught, do you think Themistocles would have spent money training his son in those lesser skills while letting the boy — his own son, remember — turn out no better than his neighbors in the one thing Themistocles himself excelled at?

Anytus: No, I really don't think so.

Socrates: So there's one teacher of virtue — a man you agree was among the best in history — who apparently couldn't teach it to his own son. Let's try another. Aristides, the son of Lysimachus — you'd say he was a good man?

Anytus: Without question.

Socrates: And he gave his son Lysimachus the best education available, in everything masters could teach. But the result? Was his son any better than anyone else? You know him — you've seen what he's like.

Then there's Pericles — a magnificently wise man. He had two sons, Paralus and Xanthippus.

Anytus: I know.

Socrates: And you know he had them trained as the finest horsemen in Athens, and gave them instruction in music and athletics and every other art — they were the equal of anyone in those things. Didn't he want to make them good men too? Of course he did. But apparently virtue isn't the kind of thing that can be taught.

And in case you think it's only the most prominent Athenians who failed at this, consider Thucydides. He had two sons, Melesias and Stephanus. Besides giving them an excellent general education, he had them trained in wrestling by the two best coaches of the day — Xanthias and Eudorus. They were the finest wrestlers in Athens. Do you remember hearing about them?

Anytus: Yes, I've heard of them.

Socrates: Now, Thucydides was perfectly willing to spend money on his sons' training in skills that cost money. Would he have neglected to teach them virtue — which would have cost him nothing — if it were something that could be taught? Was Thucydides some nobody with no connections? Of course not. He was from a great family, enormously influential in Athens and throughout Greece. If virtue could have been taught, he would have found someone — Athenian or foreigner — to teach his sons, even if he was too busy with politics to do it himself.

I'm afraid, friend Anytus, that virtue simply isn't the kind of thing that can be taught.

Anytus: Socrates, I think you're far too ready to speak badly of people. I'd advise you to be careful. There may be no city where it's easier to do a man harm than good, and this is certainly the case in Athens — as I think you know.

Socrates: Meno, I think Anytus is angry. And he has some reason to be. He thinks, first, that I'm insulting these great men. And second, he thinks he's one of them himself. But someday he'll understand what it truly means to slander someone, and when he does, he'll forgive me. For now, let's go back to you, Meno. I assume there are gentlemen in your part of the world too?

Meno: There certainly are.

Socrates: And are they willing to teach the young? Do they claim to be teachers? Do they agree that virtue can be taught?

Meno: Far from it, Socrates. Sometimes you'll hear them say virtue can be taught, and sometimes you'll hear them say the exact opposite.

Socrates: And can we call people teachers when they can't even agree on whether their own subject can be taught?

Meno: I'd say not, Socrates.

Socrates: And what about these Sophists — the only people who actually advertise as teachers of virtue? Do they seem like genuine teachers to you?

Meno: That's the thing I admire about Gorgias, Socrates. You'll never hear him promise to teach virtue. When he hears other Sophists making that promise, he just laughs at them. He thinks what people should learn is how to speak well.

Socrates: So you don't think the Sophists are real teachers of virtue either?

Meno: I honestly can't say, Socrates. Like everyone else, I go back and forth. Sometimes I think they are, sometimes I think they're not.

Socrates: Did you know it's not just you and the other politicians who can't decide whether virtue can be taught? The poet Theognis says the very same thing.

Meno: Where does he say that?

Socrates: In his elegiac verses:

  "Eat and drink and sit with the powerful, and make yourself welcome among them. For from the good you will learn what is good, but if you mix with the bad, you will lose even the sense you already have."

Notice how he seems to be saying that virtue can be taught — that you learn it from good company.

Meno: Clearly.

Socrates: But then in other verses he contradicts himself:

  "If understanding could be manufactured and installed in a man, then those who could do it would earn enormous fees."

And again:

  "A bad son never springs from a good father, for he would have listened to wise instruction. But you will never make a bad man good through teaching."

You see the contradiction?

Meno: I do.

Socrates: Can you name any other subject where the supposed experts are said to be not only bad teachers but actually ignorant of the very thing they claim to teach? Or any subject where even the acknowledged "gentlemen" sometimes say "this can be taught" and sometimes say it can't? Would you really call people "teachers" when they're this confused?

Meno: Certainly not.

Socrates: So if neither the Sophists nor the gentlemen are genuine teachers of virtue, clearly there aren't any teachers at all?

Meno: I don't think there are.

Socrates: And if there are no teachers, there are no students?

Meno: That seems right.

Socrates: And we agreed that a thing can't be taught if there are neither teachers nor students?

Meno: We did.

Socrates: And no teachers of virtue are to be found anywhere?

Meno: No.

Socrates: And if there are no teachers, there are no students?

Meno: That seems true.

Socrates: Then virtue can't be taught?

Meno: Apparently not — if we've been reasoning correctly. But I can't quite believe it, Socrates. Are there really no good people? And if there are, how did they get that way?

Socrates: I'm afraid you and I aren't very good at this, Meno. Gorgias was a poor educator of you, and Prodicus was a poor educator of me. We clearly need to turn our attention to ourselves and find someone who can help us improve. I say this because something important slipped by us in our earlier discussion. We overlooked the fact that right and good action is possible not only through knowledge but through another kind of guidance as well. And if we miss that, we'll never understand how good people come to be good.

Meno: What do you mean, Socrates?

Socrates: We agreed that good people are necessarily useful, right? That had to be correct.

Meno: Yes.

Socrates: And that they'll be useful only if they guide us correctly in our actions?

Meno: Yes.

Socrates: But we were wrong when we said a person can't be a good guide unless they have knowledge. That was our mistake.

Meno: What do you mean by "wrong"?

Socrates: Let me illustrate. Suppose someone knows the road to Larisa — or anywhere else — and goes there and leads others along the way. Wouldn't he be a perfectly good guide?

Meno: Of course.

Socrates: But what about someone who has a correct belief about which road it is, even though he's never been there and doesn't know for certain? Wouldn't he be just as good a guide?

Meno: Just as good.

Socrates: So as long as he has a true opinion about the way — even without certain knowledge — he'll guide people just as well as someone who actually knows?

Meno: Exactly.

Socrates: So true opinion is just as good a guide to right action as knowledge. And that's what we missed in our investigation of virtue. We said knowledge is the only guide to correct action. But there's also true opinion.

Meno: So it seems.

Socrates: Then true opinion is no less useful than knowledge?

Meno: Well, there's this difference, Socrates: the person with knowledge will always be right, but the person with true opinion will sometimes be right and sometimes not.

Socrates: What do you mean? Can someone with a true opinion be wrong, as long as their opinion is true?

Meno: I'll grant you that. So then, Socrates, I'm puzzled. Why should knowledge be valued above true opinion? What's the difference between them?

Socrates: Shall I explain?

Meno: Please.

Socrates: You wouldn't be puzzled if you'd ever seen the statues of Daedalus. But maybe you don't have them in Thessaly.

Meno: What do they have to do with this?

Socrates: They had to be fastened down to keep them in place. If you didn't chain them, they'd wander off.

Meno: So?

Socrates: An unfastened Daedalus statue isn't worth very much — it'll walk away like a runaway slave. But once it's fastened down, it's incredibly valuable. They're magnificent works of art.

Now, this is exactly like the difference between true opinions and knowledge. True opinions are wonderful things, and they produce fine results while they stick around. But they don't stick around for long. They run away from the human soul and don't stay put. So they're not worth very much — until you fasten them down with reasoning about the cause. And that fastening, Meno, is what we agreed to call recollection. Once true opinions are tied down, they become knowledge — and they stay. That's why knowledge is more valuable and more reliable than true opinion: it's chained in place.

Meno: What you're saying, Socrates, sounds very much like the truth.

Socrates: Well, I'm speaking more from conjecture than from certainty. But this much I don't merely conjecture — this I'm quite sure of: knowledge and true opinion are genuinely different things. There aren't many things I'd claim to know, but this is definitely one of them.

Meno: And you're quite right to be sure of it, Socrates.

Socrates: And am I not also right that true opinion, as a guide to action, produces results just as good as knowledge?

Meno: Yes, I think you're right about that too.

Socrates: So true opinion is no less useful in practice than knowledge. And the person with true opinion is no less useful than the person with knowledge?

Meno: True.

Socrates: And we've agreed that the good person is useful?

Meno: Yes.

Socrates: So people become good and useful to their communities not only through knowledge but also through true opinion. And neither knowledge nor true opinion is something people are born with — neither one comes by nature.

Or do you think either of them does?

Meno: No, I don't.

Socrates: So if they don't come by nature, good people aren't good by nature?

Meno: No.

Socrates: And since they're not good by nature, we asked: can virtue be taught?

Meno: Yes.

Socrates: And we concluded that it could be taught if it was knowledge?

Meno: Yes.

Socrates: And if it could be taught, then it was knowledge?

Meno: Right.

Socrates: And if there were teachers of it, it could be taught. But if there were no teachers, it couldn't?

Meno: True.

Socrates: And we agreed there are no teachers of virtue?

Meno: Yes.

Socrates: So it's not taught, and it's not knowledge?

Meno: Apparently not.

Socrates: And yet we agreed it's a good thing?

Meno: Yes.

Socrates: And that the right kind of guidance is useful and good?

Meno: Certainly.

Socrates: And there are only two kinds of right guidance: knowledge and true opinion. These are what guide human beings. Things that happen by chance aren't the result of human guidance. But insofar as people are guided rightly, it's by either knowledge or true opinion.

Meno: I agree.

Socrates: But since virtue isn't taught, it isn't knowledge.

Meno: Apparently not.

Socrates: So of the two good and useful guides, knowledge is ruled out. Knowledge isn't what guides people in political life.

Meno: I'd say not.

Socrates: So it wasn't through wisdom — it wasn't because they were wise — that men like Themistocles and the others Anytus mentioned governed their states. That's why they couldn't make others like themselves: their virtue wasn't based on knowledge.

Meno: That's probably true, Socrates.

Socrates: And if not knowledge, the only remaining option is true opinion. That must be what statesmen use to govern. They're no different, when it comes to wisdom, from fortune-tellers and prophets. Those people say many true things too, but they don't really know what they're saying.

Meno: That sounds about right.

Socrates: Then wouldn't we be right to call these statesmen "divinely inspired"? They achieve great things in word and deed without any real understanding — just like prophets and seers.

Meno: Certainly.

Socrates: And women too, Meno, call good men "divine," don't they? And the Spartans, when they praise someone, say "there goes a divine man."

Meno: And I think they're right, Socrates — though our friend Anytus might not appreciate the phrase.

Socrates: I don't mind about that. There'll be another chance to talk with Anytus.

But to sum up our whole investigation: if we've reasoned correctly, the result seems to be that virtue is neither natural nor taught. It comes as a kind of divine gift to those who possess it — without being accompanied by understanding. Unless, that is, there's some statesman out there who's capable of making other statesmen wise. If such a person exists, you could say about him what Homer says about Tiresias among the dead: "He alone has true understanding; the rest are flitting shades." A man like that would be the real thing among shadows — genuine virtue among mere appearances.

Meno: That's beautifully put, Socrates.

Socrates: Then the conclusion, Meno, is that virtue comes to those who have it as a gift from the gods. But we'll never know this with certainty until we first tackle the question we keep putting off: What is virtue itself? What is its actual nature?

Now I have to go. But you — do me a favor. Now that you've been persuaded, go persuade your friend Anytus of the same things. Calm him down, if you can. If you succeed in soothing him, you'll have done the people of Athens a real service.

Protagoras (Part 1)

Persons of the dialogue:
  Socrates, who narrates the whole conversation to his Companion
  Hippocrates, a young Athenian
  Alcibiades
  Critias
  Protagoras, a Sophist
  Hippias, a Sophist
  Prodicus, a Sophist
  Callias, a wealthy Athenian

Scene: The house of Callias

Companion: Where have you been, Socrates? Actually, I barely need to ask — I know you've been chasing after the gorgeous Alcibiades. I saw him just the other day, and I have to say, he's got a beard now — a real one. He's a man. But between you and me, he's still stunning.

Socrates: What's a beard got to do with it? Don't you agree with Homer, who says "youth is most charming when the beard first appears"? That's exactly where Alcibiades is right now.

Companion: Fair enough. So how did it go? Have you been spending time with him? Was he receptive?

Socrates: Very receptive, actually — especially today. I've just come from his company, and he was helping me in an argument. But here's the strange part: I barely noticed him. Several times I completely forgot he was even there.

Companion: What do you mean? Has something gone wrong between you two? Surely you haven't found someone more beautiful than Alcibiades. Not in this city.

Socrates: Much more beautiful, actually.

Companion: What are you talking about — a citizen or a foreigner?

Socrates: A foreigner.

Companion: From where?

Socrates: Abdera.

Companion: And you're seriously telling me that this stranger is more beautiful to you than the son of Cleinias?

Socrates: Isn't the wiser always more beautiful, my friend?

Companion: So you've actually met someone wise?

Socrates: The wisest man alive, if you're willing to give that title to Protagoras.

Companion: Wait — Protagoras is in Athens?

Socrates: He's been here two days.

Companion: And you've just come from seeing him?

Socrates: I have. We talked for hours.

Companion: Well then, if you've got no other plans, why don't you sit down right here and tell me everything that happened? My attendant will give up his seat for you.

Socrates: I'd love to. And I'll be grateful to you for listening.

Companion: And we'll be grateful to you for telling us.

Socrates: Double gratitude all around. Well then, listen —

Last night — or rather, very early this morning — Hippocrates, son of Apollodorus and brother of Phason, came pounding on my door with his walking stick. Someone let him in, and he burst into the room shouting: "Socrates! Are you awake or asleep?"

I recognized his voice. "Hippocrates, is that you? What's the news?"

"Good news!" he said. "Nothing but good!"

"Wonderful," I said. "But what is it, and why are you here at this ungodly hour?"

He came closer and sat down at the foot of my bed. "Protagoras is here."

"Yes," I said. "He arrived two days ago. Are you just hearing about this now?"

"Yes, by the gods! I only found out yesterday evening. I got back late from Oenoe — I'd gone there chasing my runaway slave Satyrus, and I was meaning to tell you about it, but something else came up. Anyway, when we'd finished dinner and were getting ready for bed, my brother told me: 'Protagoras is in town.' I wanted to come to you right then, but it was already too late. The moment I woke up, though, I came straight here."

I knew Hippocrates and his headstrong enthusiasm, so I said, "What's the matter? Has Protagoras stolen something from you?"

He laughed. "Yes, actually! He's stolen wisdom — because he's hoarding it all for himself and keeping it from me."

"Well," I said, "if you give him money and get on his good side, he'll make you as wise as he is."

"If only it were that simple!" he said. "He could take everything I own — everything my friends own too — if only he would. That's exactly why I've come to you: so you can put in a good word for me. I'm young, and I've never met the man — I've never even heard him speak. Last time he came to Athens, I was just a boy. But everyone says he's incredible, Socrates. They say he's the most brilliant speaker alive. Can't we go see him right now? He's staying with Callias, the son of Hipponicus. Let's go."

"Not yet, my friend," I replied. "It's way too early. Let's get up and walk around the courtyard until dawn. When it's light, we'll go. Protagoras keeps regular hours — we'll find him at home, don't worry."

So we got up and walked around in the courtyard. I decided to test just how serious Hippocrates was about all this, so I started questioning him.

"Tell me, Hippocrates," I said, "you're planning to go to Protagoras and pay him money. But what is he, exactly, and what will he make of you? Suppose you were thinking of going to your namesake, Hippocrates of Cos, the great physician, and you were about to pay him your money. If someone asked you, 'You're paying money to this Hippocrates — what is he?' What would you say?"

"I'd say he's a physician."

"And what would he make of you?"

"A physician."

"Right. And if you were going to Polycleitus of Argos or Pheidias the Athenian and paying them money, and someone asked, 'What are Polycleitus and Pheidias, and why are you paying them?' What would you say?"

"I'd say they're sculptors."

"And what would they make of you?"

"A sculptor, obviously."

"Good. Now, you and I are going to Protagoras, ready to spend your money on him. If our own funds are enough, fine. If not, we'll spend your friends' money too. So suppose, while we're rushing off on this mission, someone stopped us and said, 'Tell me, Socrates and Hippocrates — what is Protagoras? Why are you paying him money?' I know Pheidias is a sculptor and Homer is a poet. But what do we call Protagoras? How is he described?"

"People call him a Sophist, Socrates."

"So we're going to pay him as a Sophist?"

"Yes."

"But suppose someone asked you the next question: 'And what about you? What will Protagoras make of you?'"

He blushed — day was just beginning to break, so I could see his face — and said, "Well, unless this is somehow different from the other examples... I suppose he'd make a Sophist of me."

"By the gods," I said, "wouldn't you be embarrassed to present yourself to the Greek world as a Sophist?"

"Honestly, Socrates? Yes, I would be."

"But hold on, Hippocrates. Maybe the education Protagoras offers isn't like that at all. Maybe you'd learn from him the same way you learned from your grammar teacher, your music teacher, your athletic trainer — not to become a professional in any of those fields, but as part of a general education. The kind of thing a free citizen ought to know."

"Yes, exactly!" he said. "That's a much better way to think about what Protagoras teaches."

"I wonder," I said, "if you really know what you're getting into."

"What do you mean?"

"You're about to hand your soul over to a man you call a Sophist. But I doubt you even know what a Sophist is. And if you don't know that, then you don't know whether you're handing your soul to someone who'll do it good or harm."

"I'm pretty sure I know what a Sophist is," he said.

"Then tell me."

"He's someone who knows wise things — that's what the name means."

"You could say that about a painter or a carpenter too," I said. "They also know wise things. But if someone asked, 'What kind of wise things do painters know?' we'd say, 'The kind that relate to making likenesses,' and so on. So if someone asked, 'What's the Sophist's area of wisdom? What does he produce?' — what would we say?"

"What else could we say, Socrates, except that he produces eloquence — the ability to speak well?"

"Maybe," I said. "But that answer raises another question: eloquence about what? A lyre teacher makes you eloquent about playing the lyre, right?"

"Right."

"So what does the Sophist make you eloquent about? He must make you eloquent about whatever he actually understands."

"That makes sense."

"And what is it that the Sophist knows and teaches his students to know?"

"I honestly can't say."

"Well then," I said, "do you realize the danger you're walking into? If you were going to hand your body over to someone who might help or hurt it, you'd think it over carefully. You'd ask your friends and family. You'd deliberate for days before trusting your body to a stranger. But your soul — which you consider far more valuable than your body, and on which your entire well-being depends — about that, you haven't consulted your father, or your brother, or any of us, your friends. This foreigner shows up, and you immediately want to hand your soul over to him. You hear about him one evening and come running to me at dawn, without a moment's deliberation, without asking anyone whether you should trust him. You've already made up your mind to be a student of Protagoras no matter what, ready to spend everything you and your friends have on it — and yet by your own admission, you don't know him, you've never spoken to him, you call him a Sophist but can't even explain what a Sophist is. This is what you're staking your soul on."

"When you put it that way, Socrates," he said, "I can't argue with you."

"Think about it this way," I said. "Isn't a Sophist basically a kind of merchant — someone who deals, wholesale or retail, in food for the soul?"

"Food for the soul? What do you mean?"

"Knowledge. Knowledge is what nourishes the soul. And we need to be careful, my friend, that the Sophist doesn't trick us the way food merchants trick their customers. Merchants who sell food for the body — wholesalers, retailers — they praise everything they sell without distinction, without knowing what's actually healthy or harmful. And their customers don't know either, unless they happen to be a doctor or a trainer. It's the same with people who peddle knowledge from city to city, selling their intellectual wares to whoever's buying. They praise everything they're selling, but plenty of them probably have no idea what effect their teachings actually have on the soul. And their customers are just as ignorant — unless one of them happens to be, as it were, a doctor of the soul.

"Now, if you're someone who can tell good knowledge from bad, you can safely buy from Protagoras or anyone else. But if you can't — well, then be careful, my friend. Don't gamble with what's most precious to you. There's actually more danger in buying knowledge than in buying food. Food and drink you can carry home in containers, and before you eat or drink anything, you can set it aside, call in an expert, and ask them what's safe to consume, how much, and when. You have time to decide. But knowledge? You can't carry it away in a separate container. Once you've paid for it and taken it in, it goes straight into your soul, and you walk away either greatly helped or greatly harmed. So we should think this through. We should consult people who've been around longer than us, because we're still young — too young to decide something this important on our own.

"For now, let's go hear what Protagoras has to say, as we planned. After we've listened, we can consult others. Protagoras isn't the only one at Callias' house — Hippias of Elis is there too, and I believe Prodicus of Ceos, and several other distinguished thinkers."

We agreed on this plan and headed off. When we reached the front door, we stopped for a moment to finish a point that had come up in our conversation along the way. We stood in the vestibule talking until we'd reached an understanding, and then we knocked.

The doorkeeper — a eunuch, probably fed up with the constant parade of Sophists — heard us talking before he opened. When he saw us, he said, "More Sophists. He's not home." And he slammed the door in our faces.

We knocked again.

"Didn't you hear me?" he shouted through the closed door. "He's not home, gentlemen."

"Listen, friend," I said, "we're not Sophists, and we're not here to see Callias. We want to see Protagoras. Just announce us."

After a good deal of back-and-forth, the man finally let us in.

When we entered, we found Protagoras strolling in the colonnade. Walking alongside him on one side were Callias, son of Hipponicus; Paralus, son of Pericles (his half-brother on their mother's side); and Charmides, son of Glaucon. On his other side were Xanthippus, Pericles' other son; Philippides, son of Philomelus; and Antimoerus of Mende, who was the most prominent of Protagoras' students — a professional in training, planning to become a Sophist himself.

Behind them trailed a whole entourage of admirers. Most of them seemed to be foreigners Protagoras had collected during his travels from city to city, drawing them along with the spell of his voice, like Orpheus leading his followers through song. There were some Athenians mixed in too.

What delighted me most about this procession was their choreography. They never once got in Protagoras' way. Every time he and his inner circle turned at the end of the colonnade, this band of followers split neatly in two, parted to either side, wheeled around, and fell back into formation behind him. It was like watching a perfectly rehearsed dance.

After that, as Homer says, "I lifted up my eyes and saw" — Hippias the Elean, sitting in the opposite colonnade on a chair like a throne. Around him, seated on benches, were Eryximachus, son of Acumenus; Phaedrus of Myrrhinous; Andron, son of Androtion; and a mix of foreigners Hippias had brought from Elis and local Athenians. They were peppering Hippias with questions about science and astronomy, and he was holding court, answering each question from his throne with definitive authority.

And then, "my eyes beheld Tantalus" — Prodicus of Ceos was also in the house. He'd been put up in a room that used to be a storage closet back when Hipponicus owned the place, but since the house was packed with guests, Callias had cleared it out and turned it into a bedroom. Prodicus was still in bed, buried under what looked like a mountain of sheepskins and blankets. Sitting nearby on couches were Pausanias from the deme of Cerameis, and beside him a very young man who was remarkably handsome and seemed to have a gentle, fine nature. I thought I heard them call him Agathon — and I suspect he was Pausanias' beloved. There were also the two Adeimantuses — one the son of Cepis, the other of Leucolophides — and a few others.

I was dying to hear what Prodicus was saying, because the man seemed absolutely brilliant — almost divinely inspired. But I couldn't get close enough to hear. His magnificent deep voice created an echo in the small room that turned everything into a beautiful rumble.

We'd barely gotten inside when Alcibiades walked in behind us — beautiful, as you say, and I don't disagree — along with Critias, son of Callaeschrus.

We paused for a moment to take in the scene, then walked up to Protagoras.

"Protagoras," I said, "my friend Hippocrates and I have come to see you."

"Do you want to speak with me privately," he asked, "or in front of everyone?"

"Whatever you prefer," I said. "You can decide once you've heard why we're here."

"And why are you here?"

"My friend Hippocrates is a native Athenian — son of Apollodorus, from a great and prosperous family. In natural ability, he's the equal of anyone his age. He has ambitions in politics, and he believes that spending time with you is the best way to achieve them. So it's up to you — would you rather discuss this privately, or with the company here?"

"I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Socrates," Protagoras said. "A man in my position has to be careful. When a foreigner goes into great cities and persuades the best young men to leave behind their other mentors — family, friends, old and young alike — and attach themselves to him instead, on the promise that his company will improve them, he has to be cautious. This kind of thing provokes enormous jealousy. It breeds hostility and conspiracies.

"Now, I believe the Sophist's craft is actually ancient. But in the old days, those who practiced it were afraid of the resentment it provoked, so they disguised themselves. Some hid behind the label of 'poet' — Homer, Hesiod, Simonides. Others called themselves religious prophets — Orpheus, Musaeus. Some even disguised themselves as athletic trainers, like Iccus of Tarentum, or Herodicus, who was originally from Megara and is now in Selymbria — a first-rate Sophist. Your own Agathocles pretended to be a musician when he was really an eminent Sophist. Pythocleides of Ceos did the same thing. There were plenty of others, and they all used these labels as disguises because they were afraid of the backlash.

"But that's not my way. I don't think their strategy worked anyway. It didn't fool the powerful people they were trying to deceive. As for the general public — they don't have any independent judgment. They just repeat whatever their leaders tell them.

"And trying to hide but getting caught is the worst thing you can do. It makes people far more hostile, because now they think you're a fraud on top of everything else.

"So I take exactly the opposite approach. I openly declare that I'm a Sophist and a teacher of men. I believe honesty is a better strategy than concealment. And I take other precautions too, so I trust that, with heaven's help, no harm will come from my openness about being a Sophist. I've been doing this for many years now — I've been alive a long time, all told. There's no one here whose father I couldn't be.

"So I'd much prefer to have this conversation in front of everyone."

I suspected he wanted an audience — a chance to show off in front of Prodicus and Hippias and present us as his admirers. So I said, "Why don't we invite Prodicus and Hippias and their companions to join us?"

"Excellent idea," he said.

"Let's set up a proper discussion circle," said Callias, "with chairs so everyone can sit."

Everyone was thrilled at the prospect. We grabbed chairs and benches and arranged them near where Hippias was sitting, where there were already some seats. Meanwhile, Callias and Alcibiades went and extracted Prodicus from his cocoon of blankets and brought him in, along with his companions.

When everyone had settled in, Protagoras said, "Now that we're all assembled, Socrates, tell me about the young man you mentioned."

"I'll start from the beginning," I said. "This is my friend Hippocrates. He's eager to make your acquaintance and wants to know what will happen to him if he studies with you. That's all there is to it."

Protagoras turned to Hippocrates and said, "Young man, if you study with me, on the very first day you'll go home a better person than when you came. And better still the second day. And every day after that, you'll keep improving."

"Protagoras," I said, "that's not a surprising claim. Even you, at your age and with all your wisdom — if someone taught you something you didn't already know, you'd become better too. But please be more specific. Let me give you an example. Suppose Hippocrates, instead of wanting to study with you, wanted to study with the young painter Zeuxippus of Heraclea, who's been in Athens recently. And suppose Zeuxippus made the same claim — 'Every day you'll get better.' Hippocrates would naturally ask, 'Better at what? Better in what way?' And Zeuxippus would answer, 'Better at painting.' Or suppose Hippocrates went to Orthagoras the Theban, heard the same promise, and asked the same question — Orthagoras would say, 'Better at playing the flute.' So give us the same kind of answer. When Hippocrates spends a day with you and goes home better — better at what? In what area will he improve?"

Protagoras said, "That's a fair question, Socrates, and I appreciate people who ask fair questions. If Hippocrates comes to me, he won't suffer the kind of abuse he'd get from other Sophists. Those people take young men who've just escaped from specialized training and drag them right back into it — forcing them to study arithmetic, astronomy, geometry, and music." He glanced at Hippias as he said this. "But with me, he'll learn what he actually came to learn. And what is that? Good judgment in his personal affairs — how to manage his own household in the best way — and good judgment in public affairs — how to be the most effective speaker and actor in the business of the state."

"Let me make sure I understand you," I said. "Are you saying you teach the art of politics? That you make men into good citizens?"

"That, Socrates, is exactly what I do."

"Then you possess a truly noble skill — if you really do possess it. I'll be honest with you, Protagoras: I've always doubted whether this particular thing can be taught, though when I hear you speak, I'm tempted to change my mind. But let me tell you why I've had my doubts.

"I believe the Athenians are a wise people — and other Greeks think so too. Now, I've noticed that when the assembly is debating something like building construction, they call in the builders for advice. When it's about shipbuilding, they summon the shipwrights. The same goes for any specialized skill that they consider learnable and teachable. If some random person tries to give advice who isn't recognized as an expert — no matter how handsome, wealthy, or well-born he is — they won't listen. They laugh and shout him down until he gives up and sits down, or the constables drag him out on orders from the presiding officers.

"That's how they handle technical matters. But when the question is about running the city — about politics — then it's a free-for-all. Anyone can get up and give their opinion: carpenters, metalworkers, cobblers, merchants, sailors, rich, poor, aristocrats, commoners. Nobody criticizes them for giving advice without any training or teacher. The obvious reason? The Athenians don't believe this kind of knowledge can be taught.

"And it's not just the state that operates this way. The same is true of individuals. Take Pericles — the father of those two young men right over there. He gave his sons excellent instruction in everything that has trained teachers. But in his own area of expertise, politics? He neither taught them himself nor hired anyone else to teach them. He just let them wander on their own, hoping they'd somehow stumble onto political virtue by accident.

"Or take another example. Cleinias, the younger brother of our friend Alcibiades here — Pericles was his guardian. And Pericles was terrified that Alcibiades would be a bad influence on him, so he took Cleinias away and put him in Ariphron's household to be educated. Within six months, Ariphron sent him back, completely at a loss for what to do with the boy.

"I could give you countless other examples of good men who never managed to make anyone else good — not their friends, not their family, not strangers.

"So when I look at all this evidence, Protagoras, I'm inclined to believe that virtue can't be taught. But then I hear you speak, and I waver. I'm drawn toward thinking there must be something to what you say, because you clearly have vast experience and learning and ingenuity. So if you could show me more clearly that virtue really can be taught, I'd be deeply grateful."

"I'd be happy to, Socrates," he said. "But what would you prefer? Should I, as the elder speaking to younger men, tell a story — a myth — or should I work through the argument logically?"

Several people in the audience called out that he should choose whichever he liked.

"Well then," he said, "I think the myth will be more engaging."

Once upon a time, there were only gods — no mortal creatures existed yet. But when the appointed time came for mortals to be created, the gods fashioned them deep inside the earth from a mixture of earth and fire and other elements. And when it was time to bring them up into the light, the gods assigned Prometheus and Epimetheus the task of equipping each species with the abilities it would need.

Epimetheus said to Prometheus, "Let me handle the distribution. You can inspect my work afterward."

Prometheus agreed, and Epimetheus got to work.

He gave some animals strength but not speed, and equipped the weaker ones with quickness instead. Some he armed with natural weapons; others he left defenseless but gave them other means of survival — making some large enough that their size alone protected them, and making others small enough to escape by flying through the air or burrowing underground. In this way, he balanced everything out, making sure no species would be wiped out entirely.

After protecting them against each other, he devised protection against the weather. He clothed them in thick fur and tough hides — warm enough for winter, resistant enough for summer heat, and serving as natural bedding when they lay down to rest. He fitted their feet with hooves, or hair, or hard callused pads. He gave them different kinds of food — grass for some, fruit for others, roots for still others, and for some he made other animals their prey. The ones that were hunted, he made prolific breeders; the predators had fewer offspring. This way, the balance held.

But Epimetheus — who wasn't exactly the wisest thinker — made a critical mistake. He used up all the good qualities on the animals. When he got to human beings, he had nothing left to give them.

There stood humanity: naked, shoeless, without shelter or weapons.

And the appointed time had arrived. Humans were supposed to emerge from the earth into the light of day. Prometheus came to inspect the distribution and found that every other animal was well equipped — but humans had nothing. He didn't know what to do. So he broke into the workshop that Athena and Hephaestus shared, stole the secret of working with fire and all the practical arts that went with it — because without fire, those skills would have been useless — and gave them to humanity. That's how humans got the practical skills they needed to survive.

But political wisdom? That, they did not receive. Political wisdom was kept in the citadel of Zeus himself, and Prometheus couldn't get in there — Zeus had fearsome guards. But he managed to sneak into the workshop of Athena and Hephaestus, steal the art of fire and craftsmanship, and give them to humans. And so humanity was equipped with the means of staying alive.

Prometheus, they say, was later prosecuted for theft — all thanks to Epimetheus' blunder.

Now, because humans had received a share of the divine, they were the only animals to believe in gods — being, in a sense, kindred to them. They built altars and carved images of the gods. Before long, they invented language and gave names to things. They built houses, made clothing and shoes, and learned to grow food from the earth.

Equipped like this, humans at first lived scattered across the land. There were no cities. The consequence? They were easy prey for wild animals. Humans were far too weak to fight them. Their practical skills were enough to get food, but they hadn't yet developed the art of living together — the art of politics — of which warfare is one part. They tried banding together in cities for mutual protection, but without political skill, they treated each other so badly that they scattered again and went right back to being picked off one by one.

Zeus saw that the entire human race was about to be destroyed. So he sent Hermes down to give humanity two gifts: a sense of respect for others and a sense of justice — the qualities that would make cities possible and bind people together in friendship.

Hermes asked Zeus, "How should I distribute these? The way the other skills are distributed — one person with medical knowledge serving many, one builder for many who can't build? Should I give justice and respect to just a select few, or to everyone?"

"To everyone," Zeus said. "Let them all have a share. Cities can't exist if only a few people possess these qualities, the way only a few possess specialized skills. And make it a law in my name: anyone who can't participate in respect and justice must be put to death. He's a plague on the community."

And that, Socrates, is why the Athenians — and everyone else — behave the way they do. When the question is about carpentry or any other specialized craft, they let only the experts weigh in, and if anyone else tries to give advice, they shout him down — just as you described, and rightly so. But when it comes to political virtue — which operates through justice and wisdom — they're patient with anyone who speaks up. And that's only natural, because they believe every person should have a share of this virtue. If they didn't, cities couldn't exist.

That's the reason for the phenomenon you noticed, Socrates.

Now, so you don't think I'm fooling you when I say that everyone genuinely believes all people have some share of justice and political virtue, consider this additional proof. In other fields, if a man claims to be an expert flute player or claims some other skill he doesn't actually have, people either laugh at him or get angry, and his family pulls him aside and tells him he's lost his mind. But when it comes to justice and other political virtues, even if everyone knows a man is dishonest, if he openly admits it in public, they call him crazy. They say that everyone ought to claim to be honest, whether they are or not, and that a person who refuses to even pretend to have some basic decency doesn't deserve to live among others. Their assumption is that everyone must have at least some degree of this virtue.

I've established that people are right to accept advice from anyone on matters of political virtue, because they believe everyone shares in it. Now let me show you something further: they don't think this virtue comes from nature or grows on its own. They think it's something that can be taught and developed through effort.

Here's the evidence. Nobody punishes or scolds people for defects that come from nature or bad luck. We don't get angry at someone for being ugly, or short, or weak. We feel sorry for them. Why? Because everyone knows these things aren't under a person's control. But when someone lacks the good qualities that come from education and practice and training — and has the opposite vices instead — that's when people get angry. That's when they punish and condemn. And what are those vices? Impiety, injustice — everything we'd call the opposite of political virtue. People get angry about these things precisely because they believe the virtue in question can be acquired through effort and learning.

Think about the nature of punishment, Socrates, and the point becomes even clearer. No rational person punishes someone simply because they did wrong — you can't undo the past. That's just the blind fury of an animal. Rational punishment is forward-looking. It aims to deter — both the person being punished and anyone watching — from doing wrong again. To punish with the aim of deterrence is to declare, implicitly, that virtue can be taught. And the Athenians, your own fellow citizens, punish wrongdoers exactly this way. From this we can conclude that they — like everyone else — believe virtue can be acquired and taught.

So there you have it, Socrates. I think I've shown clearly enough that your countrymen are right to accept advice from cobblers and metalworkers on political matters, and that they do believe virtue can be taught.

Now for the remaining difficulty you raised: the sons of good men. Why do good men teach their sons everything that has professional teachers — and make them knowledgeable in those subjects — but don't seem to do anything to pass on their own virtue?

Here, Socrates, I'll drop the myth and give you a straight argument.

Consider this: is there some quality that every citizen must possess if a city is going to exist at all? The answer to this question is the answer to your puzzle — there is no other solution.

If such a quality exists — and it isn't the skill of a carpenter, or a smith, or a potter, but rather justice, self-control, and reverence (in a word, human virtue) — if this is the quality everyone must share, the quality that must be present in every person before they can learn or do anything else, and if anyone who lacks it, man or woman, child or adult, must be taught and corrected until they improve, and if whoever resists correction must be exiled or put to death as incurable — if all this is true, then consider how absurd it would be for good men to teach their sons everything else but this.

We've already established that they believe virtue can be taught and cultivated, both privately and publicly. And yet we're supposed to believe that they teach their sons lesser subjects — subjects whose ignorance doesn't carry the death penalty — while neglecting the most important knowledge of all? Knowledge whose absence can lead to death, exile, confiscation of property, the ruin of entire families? We're supposed to believe they don't take the utmost care to teach their children that? How absurd, Socrates!

The truth is, education in virtue begins in the cradle and never stops. From the moment a child can understand speech, mother, nurse, father, and tutor are all competing to make the child better. They say: "This is right, that is wrong. This is honorable, that is shameful. This is sacred, that is wicked. Do this, don't do that." If the child obeys, good. If not, they straighten him out with threats and punishment — like bending a warped piece of wood.

Later, they send the child to school and tell the teachers to pay even more attention to the child's character than to reading and music. And the teachers do as they're asked. When the child has learned to read and begins to understand written words — just as he previously understood only spoken ones — they put the works of great poets in front of him. He reads them on his school bench, and in them he finds stories and praise and examples of great men from the past. He's required to memorize these so he can imitate them, so he can want to be like them.

The music teachers do something similar. They focus on instilling self-discipline, and when they've taught the child to play the lyre, they introduce him to the lyrics of great poets, setting the words to music. They make harmonies and rhythms familiar to the child's soul so he becomes more graceful, more balanced, more rhythmical — and therefore better fitted for speech and action. Because all of human life, in every part, needs harmony and rhythm.

After music comes athletics. They send the child to the gymnasium, so his body can serve a virtuous mind, and so physical weakness won't force him into cowardice in war or anywhere else. This is what the wealthy do — and the wealthy have the advantage here: their children start school earliest and stay longest.

When formal education ends, the state takes over. The state requires citizens to learn the laws and live by them — not by their own whims. It's like a writing teacher who draws guide lines for a beginning student and gives him the tablet to trace: the city provides the laws (invented by wise lawmakers of the past) as guidelines for conduct. Anyone who strays beyond those lines is corrected — "called to account," as they say, a phrase used not just in Athens but in many other cities, because justice calls people to account.

So with all this care given to virtue — both private and public — you're still wondering whether virtue can be taught? Socrates, you should stop wondering. The truly astonishing thing would be if it couldn't be taught.

But then why do the sons of good fathers often turn out badly? There's nothing mysterious about this. As I've been arguing, virtue isn't something any one person owns privately — if the city is to exist, everyone must share in it. And if that's true (and nothing is more true), let me give you an analogy.

Imagine that cities couldn't exist unless everyone was a flute player, to whatever degree they were capable of it. And imagine that everyone taught everyone else the flute, freely, publicly and privately, and criticized bad players openly — the way everyone now teaches justice and the laws without hiding anything, the way we don't conceal virtue from each other the way we might conceal trade secrets, because we all have a stake in each other's justice and decency.

In that world, Socrates, do you think the sons of good flute players would necessarily be better than the sons of bad ones? I don't think so. Everyone's children would grow up to be better or worse flute players based on their natural talent. The son of a great player might turn out mediocre, and the son of a terrible player might turn out gifted. But the key point is this: even the worst player in that society would still be a decent flute player compared to someone who'd never learned at all.

It's the same with virtue. Even the person you consider the worst among those raised in a society with laws and education would look like a master of justice compared to people who had no education, no laws, no courts, no social pressure to be decent — compared to savages. You know the kind I mean: Pherecrates put some on stage at last year's Lenaean festival. If you had to live among the man-haters in his comedy, you'd be thrilled to run into even the worst scoundrels of Athens, and you'd weep with longing for the "rascality" of this civilized world.

The truth is, you're spoiled, Socrates. Everyone teaches virtue, each according to their ability, and you say, "Where are the teachers?" That's like asking, "Who teaches Greek?" There aren't any dedicated Greek teachers — because everyone teaches it. Or asking, "Who teaches the sons of craftsmen their father's trade beyond what their father and fellow workers can show them?" You'd have trouble finding such a teacher, but you'd have no trouble finding a teacher for someone who knew nothing at all about the craft.

It's the same with virtue, and everything else. If anyone is even slightly better than we are at advancing virtue, we should be grateful. I believe I'm one such person. More than anyone else, I have the knowledge that makes someone noble and good. And I give my students their money's worth — more than their money's worth, as they themselves will tell you. That's why I've set up this payment system: when a student finishes studying with me, he pays my fee if he's satisfied. If he's not satisfied, he goes to a temple, swears an oath about what he thinks the lessons were worth, and pays only that amount.

That, Socrates, is my myth and my argument for why virtue can be taught and why the Athenians agree with me. And I've also explained why good fathers can have disappointing sons, and good sons can come from undistinguished fathers — just look at the sons of Polycleitus, who are friends with Paralus and Xanthippus over there but can't hold a candle to their father. The same is true for the sons of many other masters. As for Paralus and Xanthippus — well, they're still young. There's still hope for them.

When Protagoras finished, his voice lingered in my ears, and like the enchanted listener in Homer —

"So charming left his voice, that I the while thought him still speaking; still stood fixed to hear."

Finally, when I realized he'd actually stopped, I shook myself out of it. I turned to Hippocrates and said, "Son of Apollodorus, I can't tell you how grateful I am to you for bringing me here. I wouldn't have missed Protagoras' speech for anything. I used to think no amount of human effort could make people virtuous. Now I'm not so sure."

"But," I continued, turning back to Protagoras, "I still have one small difficulty, and I'm sure you can clear it up easily — you've already explained so much. If someone went to Pericles or any of our other great speakers and asked about these things, he might hear an equally fine speech. But then if you questioned any of them about a particular point, they'd be like books — unable to answer questions or ask their own. Challenge the smallest detail in their speech, and they start droning on in endless monologues, like bronze pots that ring and ring once you strike them until someone puts a hand on them to stop the vibration.

"But Protagoras — he can not only deliver a magnificent speech, as he's just shown, but when someone asks him a question, he can answer briefly. And when he asks a question, he waits for the answer and listens. That's a very rare combination.

"So here's what I'd like to ask, Protagoras — just a small question, and your answer will completely satisfy me. You said virtue can be taught, and if there's anyone in the world I'd trust on that, it's you. But one thing puzzled me, and I'd love to have it cleared up. You talked about Zeus sending justice and respect to humanity. And several times during your speech, you mentioned justice, self-control, reverence, and the rest, as though they were all parts of one thing — virtue. What I want to know is this: Is virtue one unified thing, with justice, self-control, and reverence as its parts? Or are all these just different names for the same single thing? That's my remaining question."

"That's easy," Protagoras said. "They're parts of virtue, which is one whole."

"Parts in what sense?" I asked. "Like the parts of a face — mouth, nose, eyes, ears — where each part is different and has its own function? Or like pieces of gold, which only differ from each other and from the whole by being larger or smaller?"

"The first way," he said. "They relate to each other the way the parts of a face relate to the whole face."

"And do people have some parts of virtue but not others? Or if someone has one part, does he necessarily have all of them?"

"Not at all," he said. "Plenty of men are brave without being just, or just without being wise."

"So you wouldn't deny that courage and wisdom are also parts of virtue?"

"Absolutely they are," he said. "And wisdom is the most important part."

"And each part is different from the others?"

"Yes."

"And does each part have its own distinct function, like the parts of the face? The eye isn't like the ear, and doesn't do what the ear does. None of the parts resemble each other, either in their function or in any other way. Is that how the parts of virtue work too? Each one different in itself and in what it does? That's what your comparison implies."

"Yes, Socrates. You're right. That's what I mean."

"So no part of virtue is like any other? Knowledge isn't like justice, justice isn't like courage, courage isn't like self-control, self-control isn't like reverence?"

"That's correct."

"All right then," I said, "let's look more closely at their natures. First: you'd agree that justice is a real thing? Not just a word, but something that actually exists?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now suppose someone asked us, 'You two keep talking about this thing called justice — is justice itself just, or unjust?' I'd answer: just. Would you agree?"

"I would."

"And if he pressed further, I'd say that justice, by its very nature, is the kind of thing that is just. Would you say the same?"

"Yes."

"Now suppose he continued: 'And is there also such a thing as holiness?' We'd say yes, right?"

"Right."

"'And holiness is a real thing too?' We'd agree?"

He agreed.

"'And is this thing — holiness — of the nature of the holy, or the unholy?' Honestly, I'd be annoyed by that question. I'd say, 'Watch yourself — how could anything be holy if holiness itself isn't holy?' What would you say?"

"The same thing, absolutely."

"Good. Now suppose this questioner moved on and said, 'Wait a moment. Didn't I hear you say earlier that the parts of virtue are different from one another?' I'd reply, 'You heard that correctly, but it wasn't me who said it — I only asked the question. Protagoras gave that answer.' And then he turns to you and says, 'Is that right, Protagoras? You maintain that the parts of virtue are unlike each other?' What would you say?"

"I couldn't deny it, Socrates. It is what I said."

"Well then, having established that, suppose our questioner continued: 'So holiness isn't like justice in nature, and justice isn't like holiness? In fact, holiness is of a nature that is not-just, and justice is of a nature that is not-holy — which means justice is unholy and holiness is unjust?'

"How would we answer that? Personally, I'd say on my own behalf that justice is holy and holiness is just. And I'd say the same on your behalf, if you'd let me — that justice is either the same as holiness, or at least very nearly the same. Above all, I'd insist that justice is like holiness and holiness is like justice. What do you say? Will you let me answer that way, or do you disagree?"

"It's not quite that simple, Socrates," he said. "I can't just agree that justice is holy and holiness is just. There seems to me to be a difference between them. But what does it matter? If you want to call them the same, I'm fine with that."

"Hold on," I said. "I don't want your 'if you want' or 'I'm fine with that.' I want us to test what's actually true, not just reach a convenient agreement. The conclusion will be strongest if we strip away all the 'ifs.'"

"Fair enough," he said. "I'll grant that justice resembles holiness. But then again, everything resembles everything else in some way. White resembles black in certain respects. Hard resembles soft. Even the most extreme opposites share some quality. And the parts of the face, which we just said are different and have different functions, are still similar to each other in some way. By that logic, you could prove anything is like anything else. But things that share one small similarity shouldn't be called 'alike,' and things that differ in one small way shouldn't be called 'unlike.'"

"Are you really saying," I asked, surprised, "that justice and holiness are only slightly alike?"

"Not exactly," he said. "But it's not what I think you're arguing either."

"All right," I said. "Since this is giving you trouble, let's set it aside and try a different angle. Do you agree that there's such a thing as foolishness?"

"Yes."

"And isn't wisdom the exact opposite of foolishness?"

"It is," he said.

"Now, when people act rightly and effectively, would you say they're acting with self-control?"

"Yes."

"And it's self-control that makes them act that way?"

"Yes."

"And people who don't act rightly are acting foolishly, and when they act foolishly, they're clearly not acting with self-control?"

"I agree."

"So acting foolishly is the opposite of acting with self-control?"

He agreed.

"And foolish actions are done through foolishness, while self-controlled actions are done through self-control?"

He agreed.

"And things done with strength are done strongly, and things done with weakness are done weakly?"

He agreed.

"And things done with speed are done quickly, and things done with slowness are done slowly?"

He agreed.

"And whatever is done in the same manner is done by the same quality, and whatever is done in the opposite manner is done by the opposite quality?"

He agreed.

"Now," I said, "is there such a thing as beauty?"

"Yes."

"And its only opposite is ugliness?"

"Yes."

"And is there such a thing as good?"

"Yes."

"And its only opposite is evil?"

"Yes."

"And is there such a thing as high pitch in sound?"

"Yes."

"And its only opposite is low pitch?"

"Nothing else."

"So every quality has one and only one opposite?"

He agreed.

"Now let's go back through what we've established. We agreed that everything has one opposite and no more?"

"Yes."

"And we agreed that what is done in opposite ways is done by opposite qualities?"

"Yes."

"And we agreed that what is done foolishly is done in the opposite way from what is done with self-control?"

"Yes."

"And that self-controlled actions come from self-control, foolish actions from foolishness?"

"Yes."

"And that what is done in opposite ways is done by opposites?"

"Yes."

"And self-control produces one kind of action, foolishness produces the opposite?"

"Yes."

"Done in opposite ways?"

"Yes."

"Therefore by opposite qualities? So foolishness is the opposite of self-control?"

"It appears so."

"Now, do you remember that we already agreed foolishness is the opposite of wisdom?"

He nodded.

"And we said that every quality has only one opposite?"

"Yes."

"Then, Protagoras, which of our claims do we give up? One says that everything has exactly one opposite. The other says that wisdom and self-control are distinct, that they're separate parts of virtue, and that they're not only distinct but dissimilar — different in themselves and in their functions, like the parts of a face. Which claim do we abandon? Because they can't both be true. If everything has only one opposite, and foolishness clearly seems to be the opposite of both wisdom and self-control — then wisdom and self-control must be the same thing. Isn't that right?"

He conceded, very reluctantly.

"So self-control and wisdom are the same thing — just as justice and holiness appeared to be the same, or nearly the same, a moment ago.

"Now, Protagoras," I said, "we can't stop here. Let's not lose our nerve. Do you think a man can be unjust and yet exercise self-control in his injustice?"

"I'd be ashamed to say yes to that, Socrates," he said. "Though I know plenty of people do."

"Would you rather I argued with them, or with you?"

"Why don't you argue with the majority opinion first," he said, "if you don't mind."

"It doesn't matter to me — whichever you prefer, as long as you're the one answering. My goal is to test the validity of the argument. But it may turn out that both of us — the questioner and the answerer — end up being tested."

Protagoras hedged at first, saying the argument wasn't going in an encouraging direction. But eventually he agreed to continue.

"All right then," I said. "Let's start from the beginning. Some people are unjust, yet exercise self-control. Is that the position?"

"Let's say it is," he said.

"And self-control means having good sense?"

"Yes."

"And having good sense means having good judgment — including in doing injustice?"

"Let's say so."

"Good judgment if they succeed," I said, "or if they don't?"

"If they succeed."

"Now, would you agree that some things are genuinely good?"

"Yes."

"And are good things the things that benefit people?"

"Well, yes," he said. "Though I'd add that some things can be harmful to people and yet I'd still call them good."

I could see Protagoras getting irritated. He looked like he was bracing for a fight. So I proceeded gently.

"When you say some harmful things are good, Protagoras, do you mean harmful to people specifically? Or harmful in every way? Do you call something good even if it's completely useless in every respect?"

"Of course not," he said. "But I know many things that are harmful to people yet still good — foods, drinks, medicines, and ten thousand other things. Some things are bad for humans but good for horses. Some are good only for cattle, others only for dogs. Some aren't good for any animal but are good for trees. And even within trees, what's good for the roots can destroy the branches. Take manure: spread it on the roots and the tree thrives; dump it on the young shoots and branches and you'll kill them. Or take olive oil — it's terrible for plants and absolutely destructive to the hair of every animal except humans, for whom it's actually beneficial. And even for humans, what's good for the outside of the body can be very bad for the inside. That's why doctors tell their patients to use only tiny amounts of oil in their food — just enough to mask unpleasant smells in their meals."

The audience applauded.

"Protagoras," I said, "I have a terrible memory. When someone gives a long speech, I lose track of the argument. Now, if I were hard of hearing and you wanted to talk to me, you'd raise your voice. So since I have a bad memory, please cut your answers shorter — otherwise I won't be able to follow you."

"What do you mean, shorter?" he said. "Too short?"

"No, not that."

"Short enough?"

"Yes."

"Short enough in my judgment, or in yours?"

"I've heard," I said, "that you're equally capable of speaking at great length — so that the words never run dry — or with such brevity that no one could use fewer words. So if you're going to talk with me, please use the shorter method."

"Socrates," he said, "I've fought many a verbal battle, and if I'd used whatever method my opponents preferred — the way you're asking me to do — I'd never have beaten anyone. The name of Protagoras would mean nothing."

I could tell he wasn't happy with how his previous answers had gone, and that he wasn't going to keep playing the role of answerer if he could help it. I decided it wasn't my job to force the issue.

"Protagoras," I said, "I don't want to push you into a conversation you'd rather not have. When you're willing to argue in a way I can follow, I'll argue with you. You're said to be equally good at long and short discourse — that's your gift. But I can't handle the long speeches. I wish I could. Since you're capable of both, though, I'm just asking you to use the shorter form. But I can see you'd rather not, and I do have somewhere I need to be, so I should probably go. I would have liked to hear more, though."

I stood up and was starting to leave when Callias grabbed me — my right hand in his right hand, and my old cloak in his left.

"We can't let you leave, Socrates! If you go, the whole discussion falls apart. Please stay. There's nothing I'd rather hear than you and Protagoras going at it."

"Son of Hipponicus," I said, "I've always admired your love of philosophy, and I'd gladly oblige if I could. But what you're asking is impossible. It's as if you asked me to keep pace with Crison of Himera in a footrace, when the man's in his prime. I'd love to run as fast as he does — but my legs won't cooperate. If you want to see us in the same race, you'd have to ask him to slow down. I can't run fast, but he can run slow. Same thing here. If you want to hear Protagoras and me have a real discussion, ask him to keep his answers short, like he did at the beginning. Otherwise, how can we have a discussion? A discussion is one thing, and giving a speech is quite another."

"But Socrates," Callias said, "surely Protagoras has the right to speak in his own way, just as you speak in yours?"

At this point Alcibiades jumped in: "That's not fair, Callias. Socrates freely admits he can't give long speeches — he yields that crown to Protagoras. But I'd be amazed if he yielded to any living person in the ability to hold and follow an argument. If Protagoras would make a similar concession — admitting he's not quite as good at tight argumentation as Socrates — that would settle it. But if he claims to be better at argument too, then let him prove it by asking and answering properly, instead of launching into lengthy speeches every time he's asked a question — speeches so long that most of the audience forgets what the original question was. Not that Socrates will forget — I'll vouch for that, even when he jokes about having a bad memory. So I think Socrates is in the right here, and I think every person should say what he honestly thinks."

After Alcibiades, Critias spoke up: "Prodicus, Hippias — it looks like Callias is taking Protagoras' side, which naturally led Alcibiades to take the opposite position. But we shouldn't be partisans of either Socrates or Protagoras. Let's all join together in asking both of them not to break off the discussion."

Then Prodicus added: "Well said, Critias. Those of us in the audience should be impartial listeners, hearing both sides. But remember: impartiality isn't the same as treating both sides equally. We should hear both speakers without prejudice, but give more weight to the wiser one.

"So I too ask you, Protagoras and Socrates, to keep discussing — to argue, but not to bicker. Friends argue with friends out of goodwill. Enemies bicker. If you do that, you speakers will earn our genuine esteem — not mere praise. Esteem is the honest conviction that forms in a listener's soul. Praise is often just polite words people say without believing them. And we in the audience will experience true satisfaction — not just pleasure. Satisfaction comes to the mind through the intake of wisdom and knowledge. Pleasure is what the body feels when eating or enjoying some other physical delight."

The audience applauded Prodicus warmly.

Protagoras (Part 2)

Hippias the sage spoke up next. He said: All of you here — I consider you kinsmen, friends, and fellow citizens, by nature if not by law. Because by nature, like is drawn to like, but law is a tyrant over humanity, and often forces us to do things that go against our nature. So how embarrassing would it be if we — people who understand how things really work, the wisest people in all of Greece, gathered here in this city that's the capital of wisdom, in the greatest and most impressive house in the city — if we had nothing to show for all this distinction except squabbling with each other like the lowest sort of people? What I'm urging — begging, really — is that you, Protagoras, and you, Socrates, agree to a compromise. Let us be your peacemakers. Socrates, don't insist on that extreme, razor-sharp brevity in your arguments if Protagoras objects. Loosen the reins a bit, let your words flow more freely and grandly. And Protagoras, don't set all your sails and go racing off into an ocean of words until you're completely out of sight of land. Let there be a happy middle ground between you. And here's my advice: choose an umpire or moderator or chairman, someone who'll keep an eye on both of you and make sure your speeches stay a reasonable length.

Everyone approved of this proposal. Callias said he wasn't going to let me leave, and they all urged me to choose an umpire. But I said that choosing a referee for a discussion would be inappropriate. If the person chosen were less capable than us, then having someone inferior presiding over his betters would be wrong. If he were our equal, he'd do exactly what we do, so what's the point of choosing him? And if you say, "Let's find someone better" — well, I don't think you can find anyone wiser than Protagoras. And if you choose someone who isn't really better but you just say he is, that would be an insult to Protagoras, as if you were putting a supervisor over him like he were some inferior person — not that something like that would bother me much personally. But here's what I'll do instead, so that the conversation can go on the way you all want it to. If Protagoras doesn't feel like answering, let him ask the questions and I'll answer. And at the same time, I'll try to show him how I think an answerer ought to respond. Once I've answered as many questions as he likes, he can take his turn answering mine. If he doesn't seem to be sticking to the point, all of you can join me in urging him — just as you urged me — not to derail the discussion. This way we won't need any special referee. You'll all be referees together.

This was generally approved, and Protagoras, very much against his will, was forced to agree that he'd ask questions first, and then, when he'd asked enough, take his turn answering mine in short replies. He began his questioning like this:

I believe, Socrates, he said, that the most important part of education is being skilled in poetry — by which I mean the ability to understand which parts of the poets' compositions are correct and which aren't, to tell them apart, and to explain the difference when asked. So I'm going to take the question you and I have been debating and move it into the realm of poetry. We'll still be talking about virtue, but through the lens of a particular poem. Now, Simonides says to Scopas, the son of Creon of Thessaly:

"Hard it is, on the one hand, for a man to become truly good, built foursquare in hands and feet and mind, crafted without a flaw."

Do you know the poem? Or should I recite the whole thing?

No need, I said. I know it perfectly well — I've studied it carefully.

Very good, he said. And do you think the poem is well composed, and true?

Yes, I said. Both well composed and true.

But if there's a contradiction in it, can it really be good or true?

No, not in that case, I replied.

And isn't there a contradiction? he asked. Think about it.

Well, my friend, I have thought about it.

And doesn't the poet go on to say, "I disagree with the saying of Pittacus, wise man though he was: 'Hard it is to be good'"? You see that this comes from the same poet.

And do you think, he said, that these two statements are consistent?

Yes, I said — I think so. (Though I have to admit, I couldn't help worrying that he might be onto something.)

And you really think otherwise?

Look, he said, how can he possibly be consistent? First, he states as his own view that "hard it is for a man to become truly good." Then a little later in the poem, apparently forgetting what he said, he criticizes Pittacus and refuses to agree with him when Pittacus says "hard it is to be good" — which is exactly the same thing. So when he criticizes someone for saying the same thing he said himself, he's criticizing himself. He must be wrong in either his first statement or his second.

A lot of the audience cheered and applauded at this. And I have to say, at first I felt dizzy and faint, like I'd taken a punch from a professional boxer — between his words and the roar of the crowd. To be honest, I needed time to figure out what the poet really meant. So I turned to Prodicus and called out to him. Prodicus, I said, Simonides is from your part of the world — you ought to come to his defense. I need to summon your help, the way the river Scamander in Homer, when it's being overwhelmed by Achilles, calls on the Simois for backup:

"Dear brother, let the two of us together hold back this hero's power."

I'm calling on you the same way, because I'm afraid Protagoras is going to demolish Simonides. This is the moment to defend Simonides using that specialty of yours — your philosophy of synonyms, the one that lets you distinguish between "wanting" and "wishing" and draw all those delightful fine distinctions you were making earlier. Tell me if you agree with my reading. I don't think there's any contradiction in Simonides at all. But first, Prodicus, let me ask you: in your view, is "being" the same thing as "becoming"?

Certainly not, replied Prodicus.

Right. Now, didn't Simonides first state, as his own view, that "hard it is for a man to become truly good"?

Exactly right, said Prodicus.

And then he criticizes Pittacus — but not, as Protagoras imagines, for repeating what Simonides himself said. The statements are different. Pittacus didn't say, like Simonides, that it's hard for a man to become good. He said it's hard to be good. And as our friend Prodicus here would insist, being is not the same as becoming. So Simonides isn't contradicting himself at all. I'd guess Prodicus and many others would agree with Hesiod, who said:

"Hard it is, on the one hand, for a man to become good, for the gods have placed virtue at the end of a long road of toil. But on the other hand, once you've climbed to the summit, holding onto virtue, however hard it was to win — that part is easy."

Prodicus heard this and approved. But Protagoras said: Your correction, Socrates, contains a bigger mistake than the one you're trying to fix.

Well, I said, that's terrible news, Protagoras. I'm like a doctor who's making his patient worse.

That's exactly the situation, he said.

How so? I asked.

Because, he replied, the poet could never have made the mistake of saying that virtue — which everyone agrees is the hardest thing in the world — can be easily kept.

Ah, I said, and what a stroke of luck that we have Prodicus with us at just the right moment! You know, Protagoras, Prodicus has a kind of wisdom that I suspect is more than human — it may be as old as Simonides himself, or even older. You're clearly learned in many things, but you don't seem to know about this. I know it because I'm Prodicus's student. And if I'm not mistaken, you're misunderstanding the word "hard" as Simonides used it. Let me set you straight, the way Prodicus always sets me straight when I use the word "terrible" as a compliment. If I say that Protagoras or anyone else is a "terribly" wise man, Prodicus asks me if I'm not ashamed to call something good "terrible." He explains that "terrible" always has a negative connotation — nobody talks about "terrible" health, "terrible" wealth, or "terrible" peace. They say "terrible" disease, "terrible" war, "terrible" poverty — because "terrible" means bad. I think Simonides and his fellow Ceans, when they said "hard," meant "bad" — something that you're missing. Let's ask Prodicus, since he should be the expert on Simonides's dialect. What did Simonides mean by "hard," Prodicus?

Bad, said Prodicus.

So, I said, that's why Prodicus says Simonides criticizes Pittacus for saying "hard is it to be good" — it's as if Pittacus had said "bad is it to be good."

Exactly, Prodicus said. That was certainly Simonides's meaning. He's mocking Pittacus for not knowing how to use words properly — which is only natural for a Lesbian, someone raised speaking a rough dialect.

Do you hear that, Protagoras? I asked. Do you have an answer for him?

You're completely wrong, Prodicus, said Protagoras. I know perfectly well that when Simonides used the word "hard," he meant what all of us mean by it — not "bad," but "not easy," something that takes a great deal of effort. I'm certain of it.

I said: You know, Protagoras, I'm actually inclined to think you're right about what Simonides meant. I suspect our friend Prodicus knew that too, but was having a bit of fun — testing whether you could defend your position. Because that Simonides couldn't have meant "bad" is obvious from what follows in the poem, where he says that only a god can have this gift. He surely can't mean that being good is bad, and then turn around and say that only a god possesses this quality. If he meant "bad," then Prodicus would be making Simonides out to be reckless — which is very unlike his fellow Ceans. But let me tell you what I think the real meaning of Simonides's poem is, if you'd like to put my poetic interpretation to the test. Or if you'd rather, I'll listen.

Protagoras replied: Whatever you like. And Hippias, Prodicus, and the others all urged me to go ahead.

Well then, I said, I'll try to explain my reading of this poem. There's a very ancient tradition of philosophy that flourished more in Crete and Sparta than anywhere else in Greece — and there are more philosophers in those places than anywhere in the world. But here's the thing: it's a secret. The Spartans deny it. They pretend to be ignorant, because they don't want the rest of the world to realize that they rule through wisdom, like the Sophists Protagoras was talking about, rather than through courage and military strength. They figure that if people knew the real reason for their supremacy, everyone would start studying philosophy. And this secret has never been discovered by the fans of Spartan culture in other cities — you know, the ones who go around with cauliflower ears in imitation of the Spartans, who wrap their fists with boxing straps, who are always in training, who wear those short cloaks. They think those are the practices that make the Spartans dominant. But when the Spartans want to relax and have open conversation with their wise men, when they've had enough of meeting in secret, they drive out all these Spartan-wannabes and any foreigners who happen to be around, and hold philosophical discussions in private, hidden from strangers. They also don't let their young men travel to other cities — just like the Cretans — so they won't unlearn what they've been taught. And in Sparta and Crete, it's not only men but women who take pride in their intellectual culture. And here's how you can tell I'm right that the Spartans truly excel at philosophy: if you talk to the most ordinary Spartan, you'll find he's usually nothing special in general conversation. But then, at some random point, he'll fire off a remark as sharp and precise as a spear throw — terse, packed with meaning, perfectly aimed. And whoever he's talking to suddenly looks like a child in comparison. Many people, in our time and in the past, have recognized that the true Spartan character loves philosophy even more than athletics. They understand that only a perfectly educated person can produce sayings like that. Among them were Thales of Miletus, Pittacus of Mytilene, Bias of Priene, our own Solon, Cleobulus of Lindos, Myson of Chenae, and seventh on the list, Chilon the Spartan. All of these were admirers and students of Spartan culture, and anyone can see that their wisdom was of this kind — consisting of short, memorable sayings. They met together and dedicated to Apollo at Delphi, as the first fruits of their wisdom, those famous inscriptions that everyone knows: "Know thyself" and "Nothing in excess."

Why am I telling you all this? To explain that this Spartan-style brevity was the hallmark of ancient philosophy. Now, there was a particular saying of Pittacus that circulated privately and was admired by the wise: "Hard it is to be good." Simonides, who was ambitious for a reputation in wisdom, knew that if he could demolish this saying, it would be like defeating a famous champion. He'd win the prize among his contemporaries. And if I'm not mistaken, he composed his entire poem as a deliberate attack on this saying of Pittacus.

Let's examine his words together and see if I'm right. Simonides would have had to be crazy if, right at the start of the poem, wanting simply to say that becoming good is hard, he threw in the word "on the one hand" — "On the one hand, hard it is for a man to become truly good." There's no reason for that "on the one hand" unless you suppose he's setting up a contrast with Pittacus's words. Pittacus says "Hard it is to be good," and Simonides fires back: the really hard thing, Pittacus, is to become good — connecting "truly" not with "good" but with "hard." Not that it's hard to be truly good, as if some people are truly good and others are sort of good but not truly (that would be a trivial observation, unworthy of Simonides). No, you have to read "truly" as modifying "hard." He's recasting Pittacus's saying. Imagine the two of them in a debate. "My friends," Pittacus says, "hard it is to be good." And Simonides answers: "Wrong, Pittacus. The hard thing isn't to be good. What's hard — truly hard — is to become good: foursquare in hands and feet and mind, crafted without a flaw." This reading explains the "on the one hand," explains why "truly" comes where it does, and everything that follows confirms this interpretation. There's much more that could be said about the fine details of this beautifully crafted poem, but that would get tedious. Let me just lay out the general argument, which is clearly designed throughout as a refutation of Pittacus.

Because what Simonides goes on to argue, a bit further along, is this: although it's difficult to become good, it is possible — for a time, and only for a time. But having become good, to stay good permanently, as you claim, Pittacus — that's impossible. That's not something granted to human beings. Only a god has that privilege. "But a person can't help being bad when irresistible circumstances overpower him." Now, who gets overpowered by irresistible circumstances in commanding a ship? Not the ordinary passenger — he's always helpless anyway. You can't knock down someone who's already lying on the ground; you can only knock down someone who's standing. In the same way, irresistible circumstances can only overpower someone who has ability and resources at some point, not someone who's helpless all the time. A massive storm can overpower a skilled pilot. A brutal season can overpower a good farmer or a skilled doctor. The good person can become bad, as another poet says:

"The good are sometimes good and sometimes bad."

But a bad person doesn't become bad — he always was bad. So when overwhelming circumstances crush someone with ability, skill, and virtue, then and only then does the person "become bad" helplessly. And you, Pittacus, say "hard it is to be good." But really: becoming good is the hard part, though it's possible. Being good permanently? That's impossible —

"For the one who does well is the good person, and the one who does badly is bad."

But what counts as "doing well" in reading and writing? What kind of doing makes someone good at it? Obviously, knowing how to read and write. And what kind of doing makes someone a good doctor? Obviously, knowledge of the healing arts. "And the one who does badly is bad." So who becomes a bad doctor? Clearly, someone who is first of all a doctor, and secondly a good doctor — such a person might also become a bad one. But none of us amateurs, no matter how badly we perform, can ever become doctors, let alone bad doctors. We can't become bad carpenters or bad anything else in a field we never entered. In the same way, only the good person can deteriorate — through time, or hardship, or illness, or some other misfortune (the only real "doing badly" is being robbed of knowledge). The bad person will never become bad, because he's bad already. If he were ever to become bad, he'd have to have been good first. So the whole thrust of the poem is that a person can't stay good continuously, but can become good and can also become bad; and that

"Those are best for the longest time whom the gods love."

All of this is aimed at Pittacus, as the rest of the poem proves further. Because Simonides adds:

"Therefore I won't waste my brief span of life searching in vain for what can't exist — a completely faultless human being among all those who share the fruit of the broad earth. But if I find one, I'll send you word."

(This is the aggressive way he keeps up his attack on Pittacus throughout the entire poem.)

"But anyone who does no evil — willingly I praise and love. Not even the gods fight against necessity."

All of this has the same point. Simonides wasn't so foolish as to say he praised those who did no evil willingly, as though some people do evil on purpose. No wise person, I believe, would say that any human being makes mistakes voluntarily or willingly does bad and shameful things. They know perfectly well that everyone who does bad and shameful things does them against their will. And Simonides doesn't say he praises someone who does no evil "willingly" — that "willingly" applies to himself, to his own act of praising. He believed that a good person might often have to force himself to love and praise another person — might have to become the friend and supporter of someone he doesn't naturally admire. It's like a kind of involuntary love, the sort you might feel toward a difficult father or mother, or your country, or something like that. When bad people have parents or a country with serious flaws, they look on with almost gleeful spite, pointing out the defects and exposing them to others — figuring that the rest of the world will be less likely to blame them for their own neglect. They criticize the flaws far more than they deserve, piling on extra hostility. But good people hide their feelings, force themselves to find praise, and if they've been wronged and are angry, they calm themselves down and make peace, compelling themselves to love and honor their own flesh and blood. Simonides, I think, had often found himself in the position of having to praise and glorify some tyrant or similar figure very much against his will. And he also wants Pittacus to understand that he's not criticizing him out of spite.

"I'm satisfied," he says, "when a person is neither bad nor too foolish, and when he knows justice (which is the health of communities) and is of sound mind — I won't find fault with him. I'm not the fault-finding type, and there's no shortage of fools."

(implying that if he enjoyed fault-finding, he'd have plenty of targets.)

"All things are good from which evil is absent."

In these words, he doesn't mean that all things are good which have no evil in them — the way you might say "all things are white that have no black in them," which would be absurd. He means he accepts and doesn't criticize the moderate, in-between state.

("I don't hope," he says, "to find a perfectly blameless person among those who share the fruit of the broad earth — but if I find one, I'll send you word. In this spirit, I praise no one. But whoever is moderately good and does no evil is good enough for me, and I love and approve of everyone")

(and notice here that he uses a Lesbian word, epainemi — "approve" — because he's addressing Pittacus,

"who love and approve of everyone willingly, who does no evil")

and the key punctuation break should come after "willingly": "but there are some whom I involuntarily praise and love. You, Pittacus — I'd never have criticized you if you'd said something moderately good and true. But I do criticize you because, while putting on the appearance of truth, you're speaking falsely about the most important matters." And that, I said, addressing Prodicus and Protagoras, is what I take to be Simonides's meaning in this poem.

Hippias said: I think, Socrates, that's a very good explanation of the poem. But I also have an excellent interpretation of my own, which I'd like to share with you, if you'll let me.

Hold on, Hippias, said Alcibiades. Not now — some other time. Right now we need to stick to the agreement between Socrates and Protagoras: as long as Protagoras is willing to ask questions, Socrates should answer; or if Protagoras would rather answer, then Socrates should ask.

I said: I'd be happy if Protagoras wants to either ask or answer, as he prefers. But I'd really rather be done with poems and odes, if he doesn't mind, and get back to the question I was raising at the start, Protagoras — and with your help, see it through to the end. Honestly, all this talk about poets reminds me of the kind of entertainment at a low-rent dinner party where the guests can't actually hold a conversation or amuse each other with their own words over drinks — because they've got nothing interesting to say — so they hire flute-girls at inflated prices, paying for someone else's music to fill the silence. But when the guests are genuinely educated, thoughtful people, you won't see any flute-girls or dancing-girls or harp-girls. They don't need that noise. They're perfectly content with their own conversation, speaking in turn, keeping things orderly, even when they're drinking freely. A group like ours, made up of people who claim to be what we claim to be, shouldn't need someone else's voice or the poets' words — poets you can't even cross-examine about what they meant. When people quote poets in arguments, one person says the poet meant this, another says he meant that, and they're debating a point that can never be settled. Serious thinkers avoid that kind of thing. They prefer to test each other directly, using their own words and ideas. That's the model I'd like us to follow. Let's leave the poets behind and stick to ourselves, putting each other to the proof in honest conversation. If you want to ask questions, I'm ready to answer. Or if you'd rather, you answer and give me the chance to pick up where we left off and finish the argument we started.

I said all of this and more along the same lines. But Protagoras wouldn't clearly say which he'd rather do. So Alcibiades turned to Callias and said: Do you think it's fair, Callias, that Protagoras refuses to say whether he'll answer or not? I certainly don't. He should either continue the argument or say straight out that he won't — so the rest of us know where we stand. Then Socrates can talk with someone else, and the rest of the company can have their own conversations.

I think Protagoras was genuinely embarrassed by Alcibiades's words. And when Callias and the rest of the group added their appeals, he finally agreed to continue the argument. He said I should ask the questions and he'd answer.

So I said: Don't think, Protagoras, that I have any motive in asking you questions beyond wanting to work through the problems that genuinely puzzle me. I really believe Homer was right when he said:

"When two go together, one sees what the other misses."

Because all of us, when we have a companion, are sharper in action, word, and thought. But when someone

"sees a thing when he is alone,"

he goes looking right away for someone to share his discovery with and confirm it. And I'd rather work through these problems with you than with anyone else, because I think no one has a better grasp of the things a good person should understand, and of virtue in particular. Who else could I turn to? You don't just claim to be a good and honorable person — plenty of people can claim that without being able to make others good. But you are yourself good and can make others good too. And you have so much confidence in your abilities that while other Sophists try to hide what they do, you've announced to all of Greece that you're a Sophist, a teacher of virtue and education, and you were the first to charge a fee for it. How could I possibly not invite you to examine these questions with me? I have to.

So let me refresh both our memories about where we were. If I'm right, the question was this: are wisdom, self-control, courage, justice, and piety five names for the same thing? Or does each name refer to a distinct underlying reality, each with its own unique nature, no one of them being the same as any other? And you said they're not names for the same thing. Each has its own distinct reality. They're all parts of virtue — but not the way pieces of gold are parts of a bar of gold, where every piece is like every other piece and like the whole. They're parts the way the features of a face are parts — where the mouth, nose, eyes, and ears are all different from each other and from the whole face, and each has its own distinct function. I'd like to know if that's still your view. Or if you've changed your mind, just say so. I won't hold you to it. You may have said what you did earlier just to test me.

I stand by what I said, Socrates, he replied. All these qualities are parts of virtue, and four of the five are reasonably similar to each other. But the fifth — courage — is very different from the rest. Here's my proof: you can find plenty of people who are thoroughly unjust, impious, undisciplined, and ignorant, but who are nevertheless remarkably brave.

Wait, I said. I'd like to think about that. When you say brave people, do you mean people who are bold and confident? Or some other kind?

Yes, he said — I mean the reckless ones, the people who charge at things that everyone else is afraid of.

Next point: would you agree that virtue is a good thing — a thing you teach others?

Yes, he said. I'd call it the best of all things, if I'm in my right mind.

And is it partly good and partly bad, I asked, or entirely good?

Entirely good, and in the highest degree.

Now tell me: who feels confident about diving into a well?

The trained divers, I'd say.

And why? Because they have knowledge?

Yes, that's the reason.

And who feels confident fighting on horseback — the skilled rider or the unskilled one?

The skilled rider.

And who in fighting with light shields — the trained soldiers or the untrained?

The trained soldiers. And that's true across the board, he said, if that's where you're heading: people with knowledge are more confident than people without it, and they're more confident after they've learned something than they were before.

But haven't you also seen people who are completely ignorant of these things and yet full of confidence?

Yes, he said. I've seen far too many people like that.

And aren't these confident people also courageous?

In that case, he replied, courage would be something shameful, because the people we're talking about are clearly out of their minds.

Then who are the courageous? Aren't they the confident ones?

Yes, he said. I'll stick with that.

But the people who are confident without knowledge, I said — we've just agreed they're not really courageous, they're crazy. So the wisest people would also be the most confident, and being the most confident, would also be the bravest. And on that logic, wisdom would be the same as courage.

No, Socrates, he replied. You're misremembering what I said. When you asked me, I did say that the courageous are the confident. But you never asked whether the confident are courageous. If you had, I'd have said, "Not all of them." You haven't shown that my answer was wrong. What you showed was that people with knowledge are more confident than they were before, and more confident than people without knowledge — and from that, you jumped to the conclusion that courage is the same as wisdom. But by this logic, you could prove that strength is wisdom. You might start by asking me: "Are the strong able?" and I'd say yes. Then: "Are people who know how to wrestle more able than those who don't? And more able after they've learned than before?" I'd agree. And then you'd use my answers to prove that, on my own view, wisdom is strength. But I'd never admitted that the able are the strong — only that the strong are able. Ability and strength aren't the same thing. Ability can come from knowledge, but also from madness or rage. Strength comes from nature and a healthy body. And it's the same with confidence and courage. They're not identical. The courageous are confident, but not everyone who's confident is courageous. Confidence can come from training, but also from madness and rage. Courage comes from nature and the healthy condition of the soul.

I said: You'd agree, Protagoras, that some people live well and others live badly?

He agreed.

And do you think someone lives well if they spend their life in pain and misery?

No, he said.

But if someone lives pleasantly all the way to the end of their life — wouldn't you say they've lived well?

Yes.

So living pleasantly is good, and living in pain is bad?

Yes, he said — if the pleasure comes from what's good and honorable.

Really, Protagoras? I asked. Are you like most people, who call some pleasant things bad and some painful things good? Because my own view is more like this: things are good insofar as they're pleasant — assuming they don't lead to bad consequences — and things are bad insofar as they're painful.

I don't know, Socrates, he said, whether I can state it quite that simply — that the pleasant is the good and the painful is the bad. Considering not just this particular answer but my whole life and reputation, I think I'd be safer saying: there are some pleasant things that aren't good, some painful things that are good, some that are neutral, and some that are neither one thing nor the other.

And by "pleasant," I said, you mean things that involve pleasure or create pleasure?

Certainly, he said.

So what I'm asking is this: insofar as things are pleasant, aren't they good? I'm suggesting that pleasure is itself a good.

Let's do what you always say, Socrates, Protagoras replied. "Let's think about this together." If the investigation supports it, and pleasure and good really turn out to be the same, then we'll agree. If not, then we'll have something to argue about.

Do you want to lead the investigation, I asked, or should I?

You should lead, he said. It's your question.

Fair enough. Let me use an analogy, I said. Suppose someone were examining another person's health or physical condition. He looks at the face and the fingertips and says, "Take off your shirt — let me see your chest and back so I can examine you properly." That's the kind of thing I want to do here. Having heard your views on pleasure and good, I want to say: Open up your mind to me, Protagoras. Tell me what you think about knowledge. Do you agree with most people, or not? Here's what most people believe: knowledge isn't something powerful, isn't something that leads or commands. They think a person can have knowledge, and yet be overwhelmed by anger, or pleasure, or pain, or passion, or fear — as if knowledge were a slave that gets dragged around by whatever impulse comes along. Is that your view? Or do you think knowledge is something noble and commanding, something that can't be overpowered — that if a person truly knows the difference between good and bad, nothing can force them to act against that knowledge, and wisdom is strong enough to keep them on the right path?

I agree with you, Socrates, said Protagoras. And more than that — it would be especially disgraceful for me, of all people, to deny that wisdom and knowledge are the most powerful forces in human life.

Good, I said. And true. But are you aware that most people disagree? The common belief is that people often know what's best and don't do it, even when they could. And when I've asked people why this happens, they say it's because they're "overcome by pleasure" or pain or one of those other things I mentioned.

Yes, Socrates, he replied. And that's hardly the only thing the majority gets wrong.

Well then, I said, suppose you and I tried to educate them about the true nature of this experience they call "being overcome by pleasure" — this thing they say prevents them from always doing what's best. If we told them, "Friends, you've got it wrong — that's not what's really going on," they'd probably say: "Socrates and Protagoras, if it's not 'being overcome by pleasure,' then what is it? What would you call it?"

But why, Socrates, should we bother with the opinion of the masses, who just say whatever pops into their heads?

I think, I said, that examining their views might actually help us figure out how courage relates to the other parts of virtue. If you're willing to stick with the plan and let me lead us toward what I think is the clearest path through this difficulty, then follow along. If not, we can drop it.

No, you're absolutely right, he said. Go on.

All right then, I said. Suppose they ask us again: "What do you say is really happening in what we call 'being overcome by pleasure'?" Here's what I'd answer: Listen, and Protagoras and I will try to explain. When people are overcome by food, drink, and other sensual desires — things that are pleasant — and they indulge in them while knowing they're harmful, you'd say they've been overcome by pleasure, right? They'd agree.

Then suppose you and I pressed them: "In what sense do you call these things harmful? Is it that they're pleasant in the moment, that they give you immediate gratification? Or is it because down the road they cause disease, poverty, and other problems? If these pleasures had no bad consequences at all — if they simply gave you the experience of pleasure and nothing else — would they still be bad?" I think they'd have to answer: these things aren't bad because of the pleasure they give right now. They're bad because of what comes after — the diseases, the poverty, and so on.

I believe, said Protagoras, that most people would answer the way you describe.

And when these pleasures cause disease, don't they cause pain? And when they cause poverty, don't they cause pain? They'd agree to that too, wouldn't they?

Protagoras said yes.

Then I'd say to them, speaking for both of us: So you think these things are bad for no other reason than that they end in pain and deprive you of other pleasures? They'd agree, right?

We both thought so.

Now flip it around. "Friends, when you say that painful things are good — aren't you talking about things like physical training, military service, medical treatments involving cautery, surgery, harsh drugs, and strict diets? These are the things that are painful but good?" They'd agree.

"And you call them good not because they cause terrible suffering in the moment, but because they eventually bring health, physical fitness, the safety of your city, power, and wealth?" They'd agree to that too, wouldn't they?

He said yes.

"And are these things good for any reason other than that they end in pleasure and relieve or prevent pain? Is there any standard you're using besides pleasure and pain when you call them good?" They'd have to say no.

I think so, said Protagoras.

"So you chase after pleasure because it's good, and you avoid pain because it's bad?"

He agreed.

"So pain is what you regard as bad, and pleasure as good. You even call pleasure bad when it costs you more pleasure than it gives, or causes more pain than the pleasure is worth. But if you're calling pleasure bad in relation to some other standard, you'd be able to tell us what that standard is. But you don't have one."

I don't think they do, said Protagoras.

"And isn't it the same with pain? You call pain good when it takes away greater pain or produces greater pleasure than the pain it causes. But if you have some other standard besides pleasure and pain for calling pain 'good,' you could show us what it is. But you can't."

True, said Protagoras.

Now suppose, I said, people ask us: "Why are you going on about this at such length?" Fair question, I'd say. But first: the whole argument hinges on explaining what "being overcome by pleasure" really means. And even now, if you can show us any way that good can be something other than pleasure, or bad something other than pain, you can retract what we've said. Can you? Are you satisfied to say that the good life is a life of pleasure without pain? If you are, and if you can't point to any good or bad that doesn't ultimately come down to pleasure and pain, then listen to what follows.

If all this is true, then the claim that people often knowingly do bad things because they're "overcome by pleasure" becomes absurd. And so does saying that someone knowingly refuses to do what's good because they're "overwhelmed by pleasure in the moment." To see how ridiculous this is, just stop switching between names. There are two things at work here. Let's call them by one pair of names at a time — first "good" and "bad," then "pleasant" and "painful." Using the first pair: we say a person does what's bad knowing it's bad. Why? "Because he's overcome." Overcome by what? We can't say "by pleasure" anymore, because we've replaced "pleasure" with "good." So our answer is: "He's overcome by... the good." Imagine someone hearing that and laughing: "How absurd! A person does what he knows is bad, when he shouldn't, because he's overcome by the good?" And he'd ask: "Is the good that overcame him worth the trade, or not?" We'd clearly have to say: "No, it wasn't worth it — because if it had been, the person who was supposedly 'overcome by pleasure' wouldn't have been wrong." "But how," our questioner presses, "can the good not be worth the bad, or the bad not worth the good?" There's only one answer: because they're out of proportion. One is greater, the other smaller. One is more, the other less. "And when you talk about being 'overcome,'" he'd say, "don't you just mean choosing a greater bad in exchange for a lesser good?"

We'd have to admit it.

Now put the words "pleasure" and "pain" back in for "good" and "bad," and say: a person does what's painful knowingly, because he's overcome by pleasure — by pleasure that isn't worth overcoming the pain. And what determines whether pleasure is worth the pain or not? What measure compares them? Nothing but excess and deficiency — they become greater and smaller, more and fewer, differ in degree. "But wait," someone says, "immediate pleasure is totally different from future pleasure and pain." And I'd reply: different in what way? Only in how much pleasure and how much pain they involve. There's no other standard.

Think of it like a scale, I'd say. You put pleasures on one side and pains on the other. You factor in how near or far away each one is, and you weigh them. Whichever side is heavier, that's the one you should go with. If you're weighing pleasures against pleasures, obviously take the greater amount. Pains against pains? Take the fewer and the smaller. Pleasures against pains? Choose the path where the painful is outweighed by the pleasant — whether the distant outweighs the near, or the near outweighs the distant. And avoid the path where the pleasant is outweighed by the painful. Isn't that right, friends? I'm confident they couldn't deny it.

He agreed with me.

Good. Then answer me this, I'd continue: Don't the same objects look larger when they're close and smaller when they're far away? They'd agree. And the same goes for thickness and number. And sounds that are equal in themselves seem louder up close and softer at a distance. They'd agree to that too.

Now, if living well depends on choosing the greater and avoiding the lesser, what would be our salvation? Would it be the skill of measuring, or the power of appearances? Isn't it appearances — that deceiving force — that makes us wander back and forth, choosing one thing now and regretting it later, in our actions and our choices of great and small? But the skill of measuring would cut through the illusion of appearances, reveal the truth, and let the soul rest securely in that truth — and so save our lives. Wouldn't people agree that the skill that accomplishes this is the skill of measuring?

Yes, he said. The skill of measuring.

Or suppose our salvation depended on choosing correctly between odd and even, on knowing when to choose the greater or the lesser, whether in relation to themselves or to each other, whether near or far. What would save us? Knowledge, obviously — specifically, the knowledge of measuring when it's a matter of more and less, and the knowledge of number when it's a matter of odd and even. People would agree, wouldn't they?

Protagoras himself thought they would.

Well then, friends, I'd say to them: since it turns out that the salvation of human life depends on the right choice of pleasures and pains — the choice of more and fewer, greater and lesser, nearer and farther — doesn't that come down to measuring their excess, their deficit, and their equality relative to one another?

That's undeniable.

And whatever involves measuring must surely be a skill and a form of knowledge?

They'd agree, he said.

What exactly this skill or science is — that's a question for another time. But the mere fact that such a science exists gives us a decisive answer to the question you originally asked me and Protagoras. Remember? We'd agreed that nothing is more powerful than knowledge, that knowledge always has the advantage over pleasure and everything else. But you challenged us: "What about when people are 'overcome by pleasure'? What's going on there? Tell us what you'd call it." If we'd immediately answered "Ignorance," you'd have laughed at us. But now, if you laugh, you're laughing at yourselves. Because you've admitted that people go wrong in choosing pleasures and pains — that is, in choosing good and bad — through a lack of knowledge. And not just knowledge in general, but specifically the knowledge we've been calling the skill of measuring. And as you know, every wrong action done without knowledge is done from ignorance. So this is what "being overcome by pleasure" really means: ignorance. The worst kind of ignorance.

And our friends Protagoras, Prodicus, and Hippias here claim to be the doctors who cure this ignorance. But you — because you're under the delusion that ignorance isn't the real cause, and because you think this skill can't be taught — you don't go to the Sophists yourselves, and you don't send your children to them. You guard your money and give them none. And the result is that you do worse both in public and in private life.

Let's suppose that's our answer to the general public. And now I want to ask you, Hippias, and you, Prodicus, along with Protagoras — since this argument belongs to all of us — do you think what I'm saying is true or not?

They all said they thought every word of it was true.

So you agree, I said, that the pleasant is the good and the painful is the bad. And here I'll ask my friend Prodicus to spare us his fine distinctions about terminology — whether he wants to call it "pleasurable," "delightful," or "joyful," I don't care. Please just answer in the spirit of what I mean, Prodicus.

Prodicus laughed and agreed, and so did the others.

Then how about this, friends? I continued. Aren't all actions honorable and beneficial whose tendency is to make life free from pain and full of pleasure? Isn't honorable work also useful and good?

This was admitted.

So, I said, if the pleasant is the good, then nobody does something bad when they believe something better is available and within their reach. This kind of inferiority to oneself is simply ignorance, just as superiority over oneself is wisdom.

They all agreed.

And isn't ignorance exactly this: holding false beliefs and being deceived about important matters?

They unanimously agreed.

Then, I said, no one voluntarily pursues what's bad, or what they believe to be bad. It isn't in human nature to prefer what's bad over what's good. And when a person is forced to choose between two evils, no one will choose the greater when they can have the lesser.

Everyone agreed with every word of this.

Good, I said. Now there's a certain thing called fear or dread. And here, Prodicus, I'd particularly like to know: would you agree with me in defining fear or dread as the expectation of something bad?

Protagoras and Hippias agreed. Prodicus said that was fear, but not dread.

Never mind the distinction, Prodicus, I said. Here's my question: if everything we've said is true, would anyone run toward what they fear, when they're not forced to? That would flatly contradict what we've already established — that people regard whatever they fear as bad, and no one willingly pursues or accepts what they believe to be bad.

This too was universally agreed.

Now then, I said, those are our premises, Hippias and Prodicus. And I'd like Protagoras to explain how he can still be right about what he said earlier. I'm not talking about his very first statement — that there are five parts of virtue, none of which is like any other, each with its own distinct function. I'm talking about what he said after that: that four of the five virtues are closely related, but the fifth — courage — is fundamentally different from the rest. He gave this evidence: "You'll find, Socrates, that some of the most impious, unjust, undisciplined, and ignorant people are among the bravest. That proves courage is very different from the other parts of virtue." I was surprised by this at the time, and I'm even more surprised now that we've worked through all of this. So I asked him: when you say the brave, do you mean the bold and confident? "Yes," he said, "and the reckless — the ones who charge straight in." (You remember saying that, Protagoras?)

He agreed.

Well then, I said, tell us: what do the courageous charge toward? The same things as cowards?

No, he answered.

Different things, then?

Yes, he said.

Do cowards go where it's safe, and the courageous where there's danger?

That's what people say, Socrates.

True, I said. But what I want to know is: do the courageous go toward things they believe to be dangerous, or toward things they don't believe to be dangerous?

They can't go toward what they believe to be dangerous, he said. We proved that's impossible in our earlier argument.

Exactly right, I replied. And if that proof was sound, then nobody goes to meet what they think is dangerous — because being overwhelmed by one's impulses when rushing into danger has been shown to be ignorance.

He agreed.

And yet both the courageous and the cowardly go toward what they're confident about. So in that respect, they go toward the same things.

But Socrates, said Protagoras, what the coward goes toward is the exact opposite of what the courageous person goes toward. For instance, the courageous person is ready to go into battle, and the coward isn't.

And is going to battle honorable or disgraceful? I asked.

Honorable, he replied.

And if it's honorable, then we've already agreed it's good — since we said all honorable actions are good.

That's true, and I'll always stand by that view.

Right, I said. So which group refuses to go to war, which is a good and honorable thing?

The cowards, he replied.

And what's good and honorable, I said, is also pleasant?

That's certainly what we established, he replied.

So the cowards knowingly refuse to go toward what's nobler, pleasanter, and better?

If we admit that, he replied, it would contradict everything we've already agreed to.

And doesn't the courageous person go toward what's better, pleasanter, and nobler?

I have to admit that.

And the courageous person has no shameful fear or shameful confidence?

True, he replied.

And if not shameful, then honorable?

He admitted it.

And if honorable, then good?

Yes.

But the fear and confidence of the coward, or the reckless fool, or the madman — those are shameful?

He agreed.

And these shameful fears and misplaced confidences — they come from ignorance and lack of education?

True, he said.

Now, the reason cowards act the way they do — would you call that cowardice or courage?

Cowardice, he replied.

And haven't we just shown that they're cowards because of their ignorance about what's really dangerous and what isn't?

Absolutely, he said.

And it's because of that ignorance that they're cowards?

He agreed.

And you've admitted that what makes them cowards is cowardice?

He agreed again.

So ignorance of what is and isn't dangerous — that is cowardice?

He nodded.

But surely courage is the opposite of cowardice?

Yes.

Then wisdom about what is and isn't dangerous is the opposite of ignorance about these things?

He nodded again.

And the ignorance of what is and isn't dangerous is cowardice?

Again he nodded, very reluctantly.

So the knowledge of what is and isn't dangerous — that is courage, and it's the opposite of that ignorance?

At this point he wouldn't nod or speak. He was silent.

Why won't you agree or disagree, Protagoras? I asked.

Finish the argument yourself, he said.

Just one more question, I said. Do you still believe that there are people who are profoundly ignorant and yet profoundly brave?

You seem determined to make me answer, Socrates. Very well — I'll give you what you want. Based on our argument, it appears to be impossible.

My only reason for pushing this discussion, I said, was my desire to understand the true nature of virtue and how its parts relate to each other. Because if we could get clear on that, I'm sure the other big debate we've been having — you arguing that virtue can be taught, and I denying it — would finally be settled too. And the result of our discussion strikes me as truly remarkable. If the argument had a human voice, it would be laughing at both of us, saying:

"What a strange pair you are, Socrates and Protagoras! There you are, Socrates, who started by claiming that virtue can't be taught — and now you're contradicting yourself by trying to prove that everything is knowledge: justice, self-control, courage — all of it knowledge. Which would mean that virtue obviously can be taught. After all, if virtue were something other than knowledge, as Protagoras was trying to show, then clearly it couldn't be taught. But if virtue turns out to be entirely a matter of knowledge, as you're now trying to demonstrate, then of course it can be taught.

"And then there's Protagoras, who started by saying virtue can be taught — and now he's desperately trying to prove it's anything but knowledge. And if that's true, then it can't be taught at all."

When I see this enormous tangle, I said, all I want is to sort it out. I'd love to keep going until we've figured out what virtue actually is — whether it can be taught or not — so that Epimetheus doesn't trip us up and fool us in the argument the way he forgot about the humans in the story. I prefer your Prometheus to your Epimetheus, Protagoras. I'm trying to use Promethean foresight to take care of my own life. And if you're willing, I'd love your help in working through it, just as I said at the start.

Protagoras replied: Socrates, I'm not a petty person, and I'm the last man in the world to be envious. I can only admire your energy and the way you conduct an argument. As I've often said, of all the people I know, I admire you more than anyone — and far more than anyone your age. I believe you're going to become truly distinguished in philosophy. Let's come back to this another time. For now, I think we should move on to other things.

By all means, I said. That suits me fine. I should have left a long time ago to keep the appointment I mentioned earlier. I only stayed because I couldn't refuse such a gracious host as Callias.

And with that, the conversation ended. And we went on our way.

Gorgias (Part 1)

Persons of the dialogue:
  Callicles
  Socrates
  Chaerephon
  Gorgias
  Polus

Scene: The house of Callicles

Callicles: Well, as the saying goes, the wise man shows up late for the fight but right on time for the party.

Socrates: Are we late for a party?

Callicles: The best kind. Gorgias just gave us a magnificent performance.

Socrates: That's not my fault, Callicles. Blame our friend Chaerephon here — he kept us wandering around the Agora.

Chaerephon: Don't worry, Socrates. The damage I've done, I can undo. Gorgias is a friend of mine, and I'll get him to give the performance again — either now or whenever you'd like.

Callicles: What's going on, Chaerephon — does Socrates want to hear Gorgias?

Chaerephon: Yes, that's exactly why we came.

Callicles: Then come inside. Gorgias is staying with me, and he'll perform for you.

Socrates: Excellent, Callicles. But will he also answer our questions? I want to hear from him what exactly his skill is — what he claims to do and teach. He can save the big performance for another time, as Chaerephon suggests.

Callicles: Nothing like asking him yourself, Socrates. In fact, answering questions is part of the performance. He was just saying that anyone in my house could ask him anything, and he'd answer.

Socrates: How fortunate! Would you ask him, Chaerephon?

Chaerephon: What should I ask?

Socrates: Ask him who he is.

Chaerephon: What do you mean?

Socrates: I mean the kind of question that, if he were a shoemaker, would get the answer "I'm a cobbler." You understand?

Chaerephon: I understand. I'll ask him. Tell me, Gorgias — is our friend Callicles right that you're willing to answer any question put to you?

Gorgias: Absolutely right, Chaerephon. I was saying exactly that just now. And I might add, it's been years since anyone has asked me a new one.

Chaerephon: Then you must be very quick on your feet, Gorgias.

Gorgias: Try me and find out, Chaerephon.

Polus: Oh, yes — and if you want, Chaerephon, you can try me too. I think Gorgias is tired after talking so long.

Chaerephon: Really, Polus? You think you can answer better than Gorgias?

Polus: What does it matter, as long as I answer well enough for you?

Chaerephon: Fair enough. Go ahead and answer, then.

Polus: Ask away.

Chaerephon: My question is this: If Gorgias had the skill of his brother Herodicus, what should we call him? Shouldn't he go by the same title as his brother?

Polus: Of course.

Chaerephon: So we'd be right to call him a physician?

Polus: Yes.

Chaerephon: And if he had the skill of Aristophon the son of Aglaophon, or of his brother Polygnotus, what should we call him?

Polus: Obviously, a painter.

Chaerephon: But what do we call him now? What's the skill he's an expert in?

Polus: Well, Chaerephon, human beings have developed many skills through experience, because experience guides life through craft while inexperience leaves things to chance. Different people excel at different skills, and the best people excel at the best skills. Our friend Gorgias here is among the best, and the skill he practices is the noblest of all.

Socrates: Polus certainly knows how to deliver a beautiful speech, Gorgias — but he hasn't exactly kept his promise to Chaerephon.

Gorgias: What do you mean, Socrates?

Socrates: I mean he hasn't really answered the question he was asked.

Gorgias: Well, why not ask him yourself?

Socrates: I'd much rather ask you, if you don't mind. I can see from the few words Polus has spoken that he's had a lot more training in what's called rhetoric than in careful argument.

Polus: What makes you say that, Socrates?

Socrates: Because when Chaerephon asked you what skill Gorgias practices, you praised it as though someone had been attacking it — but you never actually said what the skill was.

Polus: Didn't I say it was the noblest of skills?

Socrates: You certainly did. But nobody asked about its quality. The question was about its nature — what the skill is, and what name we should give Gorgias. You answered Chaerephon's earlier questions so clearly and briefly — please do the same now and tell us: what is this skill, and what should we call Gorgias? Or better yet, Gorgias, let me ask you directly. What should we call you, and what's the skill you practice?

Gorgias: Rhetoric, Socrates. That's my skill.

Socrates: So I should call you a rhetorician?

Gorgias: Yes, Socrates — and a good one, too, if you want to call me what, in Homer's words, "I claim to be."

Socrates: That's exactly what I'd like to do.

Gorgias: Then please, go ahead.

Socrates: And can you make other people into rhetoricians too?

Gorgias: That's precisely what I do — not just here in Athens, but everywhere.

Socrates: And will you keep answering questions, Gorgias, the way we've been going? Short and direct? Will you save the long speeches for another time — like the one Polus was starting into — and give brief answers to the questions you're asked?

Gorgias: Some answers, Socrates, do require length. But I'll do my best to keep things short. In fact, being brief is one of my specialties.

Socrates: That's what I need, Gorgias. Show me the short version now, and save the long version for later.

Gorgias: I will. And you'll say you've never met a man who uses fewer words.

Socrates: Very good. Now, since you claim to be a rhetorician and a teacher of rhetoric, let me ask: what does rhetoric deal with? I could ask, for example, what weaving deals with, and you'd say the making of cloth, right?

Gorgias: Yes.

Socrates: And music deals with composing melodies?

Gorgias: It does.

Socrates: By Hera, Gorgias, I have to admire how wonderfully brief your answers are.

Gorgias: Yes, Socrates, I do pride myself on that.

Socrates: I'm glad to hear it. Now answer the same way about rhetoric: what does rhetoric deal with?

Gorgias: With speech.

Socrates: What kind of speech, Gorgias? The kind that teaches sick people what treatment will make them well?

Gorgias: No.

Socrates: So rhetoric doesn't deal with every kind of speech?

Gorgias: Certainly not.

Socrates: But it does make people able to speak?

Gorgias: Yes.

Socrates: And to understand what they're speaking about?

Gorgias: Of course.

Socrates: But doesn't medicine — which we just mentioned — also make people able to understand and speak about diseases?

Gorgias: Certainly.

Socrates: So medicine also deals with speech?

Gorgias: Yes.

Socrates: Speech about diseases?

Gorgias: Exactly.

Socrates: And doesn't physical training also deal with speech — speech about the health and fitness of the body?

Gorgias: Very true.

Socrates: And the same goes for all the other skills, Gorgias. Every one of them involves speech about the subjects they deal with.

Gorgias: Clearly.

Socrates: Then why, if you call rhetoric the skill that deals with speech, don't you call all these other speech-involving skills "rhetoric" too?

Gorgias: Because in those other skills, Socrates, the knowledge is tied to some kind of physical work — work done with the hands. But rhetoric has no such physical component. It works and achieves its effects entirely through speech. That's why I'm justified in saying rhetoric deals with speech.

Socrates: I'm not sure I fully understand you, but I think I will soon. Let me ask you this: you'd agree that there are various skills?

Gorgias: Yes.

Socrates: Now, most of those skills are mainly about doing things and require little or no speaking. Painting, sculpture, and many others — the work can happen in complete silence. Those, I take it, are the skills you'd say fall outside of rhetoric.

Gorgias: You've grasped my meaning perfectly, Socrates.

Socrates: But there are other skills that work entirely through language and require little or no physical action — skills like arithmetic, calculation, geometry, and even playing board games. In some of these, speech is roughly equal to action, but in most, the verbal element dominates. They depend entirely on words for their power. And I take it you mean rhetoric is that kind of skill?

Gorgias: Exactly.

Socrates: But I don't think you'd actually call any of those skills rhetoric, would you? Even though your exact words were that rhetoric is a skill "that works and achieves its effects through speech." A nitpicker might jump on that and say, "So, Gorgias, you're calling arithmetic rhetoric!" But I don't think that's what you mean — you wouldn't call arithmetic or geometry rhetoric.

Gorgias: You're quite right, Socrates. You've understood me correctly.

Socrates: Good, then let me get the rest of my answer. Since rhetoric is one of those skills that works mainly through words, and there are other skills that also use words, tell me: what is it about the words rhetoric uses that sets it apart? Suppose someone asked me about one of the skills I just mentioned. He might say, "Socrates, what is arithmetic?" And I'd say, as you did, that it's one of those skills that work through words. Then he'd ask, "Words about what?" And I'd say, "Words about odd and even numbers and their quantities." And if he asked, "What about calculation?" I'd say that's also a skill that works through words. "Words about what?" he'd press. And I'd say — like the clerks in the assembly reading something already on record — "Same as arithmetic, but with a difference: calculation looks not just at the quantities of odd and even numbers but also at their relationships to each other." And if he asked about astronomy, I'd say it's about the movements of the stars, the sun, and the moon, and their relative speeds.

Gorgias: You'd be absolutely right, Socrates.

Socrates: Now it's your turn, Gorgias. Tell us the truth about rhetoric. You'd agree that it's one of those skills that accomplishes everything through words?

Gorgias: True.

Socrates: Words that do what? What subject do the words of rhetoric deal with?

Gorgias: The greatest and most important of human concerns, Socrates.

Socrates: But that's ambiguous, Gorgias — I'm still in the dark. Which are the greatest and most important human concerns? I'm sure you've heard that old drinking song people sing at parties, the one that lists the blessings of life: first health, then beauty, then — as the songwriter puts it — honestly earned wealth.

Gorgias: Yes, I know the song. But what are you getting at?

Socrates: I mean that the people who produce those blessings — the ones the songwriter praises — would immediately challenge you. The physician would step up first: "Socrates, Gorgias is fooling you. It's my skill that deals with the greatest human good, not his." And when I ask, "Who are you?" he'd say, "I'm a physician." "What do you mean?" I'd ask. "Your skill produces the greatest good?" "Obviously," he'd answer. "What could be a greater good than health?" Then the athletic trainer would come along and say, "I'd be astonished if Gorgias can show a greater benefit from his skill than I can from mine." I'd ask who he is. "I'm a trainer," he'd say, "and my business is making people strong and beautiful." And then the moneymaker would show up and look down on all of them. "Think about it, Socrates — can Gorgias or anyone else produce a greater good than wealth?" And we'd say to him, "Are you claiming to create wealth?" "Yes," he'd reply. "And who are you?" "A moneymaker." "And you think wealth is the greatest human good?" "Obviously." And then we'd say, "But our friend Gorgias here claims his skill produces a greater good than yours." And the moneymaker would naturally ask, "What good? Let Gorgias tell us." So that's what I want from you, Gorgias. Imagine this question coming from all of them and from me: what is this thing you say is the greatest human good, and that you're the one who produces it? Tell us.

Gorgias: It truly is the greatest good, Socrates — the one that gives people personal freedom and the power to rule over others in their own cities.

Socrates: And what would that be, specifically?

Gorgias: The power of persuading people with your words — persuading judges in the courts, senators in the council, citizens in the assembly, or any other political gathering. With that power, the physician becomes your servant, the trainer becomes your servant, and that moneymaker you mentioned? It turns out he's been making money not for himself but for you — the one who can speak and persuade the crowd.

Socrates: Now I think you've explained very precisely what you take rhetoric to be, Gorgias. If I understand you correctly, you're saying rhetoric is the craft of persuasion — that's its whole business, its crowning achievement, its purpose. Can you point to any other effect of rhetoric beyond producing persuasion?

Gorgias: No, I think that's a perfectly fair definition, Socrates. Persuasion is the whole point of rhetoric.

Socrates: Then hear me out, Gorgias. Because if there's one thing I'm sure of, it's this: if anyone ever entered a discussion out of pure love for finding the truth, I'm that person. And I'd say the same about you.

Gorgias: What's coming, Socrates?

Socrates: I'll tell you. I'm not entirely clear on what kind of persuasion you mean, or what subjects it covers — though I have my suspicions about both. And I'm going to ask you rather than state my suspicion, not for your benefit but to make sure the argument moves forward in a way that gets us to the truth. Notice that I'm right to ask this follow-up question. If I asked, "What kind of painter is Zeuxis?" and you said, "The painter of figures," wouldn't it be fair for me to ask, "What kind of figures, and where?"

Gorgias: Certainly.

Socrates: Because there are other painters who paint other kinds of figures?

Gorgias: True.

Socrates: But if Zeuxis were the only painter in the world, your answer would have been perfectly adequate?

Gorgias: Quite so.

Socrates: I want to know the same thing about rhetoric. Is rhetoric the only skill that produces persuasion, or do other skills do that too? Here's what I mean: when someone teaches you something, doesn't the teaching persuade you of that thing?

Gorgias: Of course it does, Socrates — no question about it.

Socrates: So let's go back to those skills we were discussing. Doesn't arithmetic persuade us about the properties of numbers?

Gorgias: Certainly.

Socrates: And therefore arithmetic, too, produces persuasion?

Gorgias: Yes.

Socrates: So arithmetic is also a craft of persuasion?

Gorgias: Clearly.

Socrates: And if anyone asks what kind of persuasion and about what subject, we'd answer: persuasion that teaches us about the properties of odd and even numbers. And we could show the same thing for every other skill we mentioned — they're all, in their own way, crafts of persuasion.

Gorgias: Very true.

Socrates: Then rhetoric isn't the only craft of persuasion?

Gorgias: True.

Socrates: Since other skills besides rhetoric can produce persuasion, we have a fair follow-up question — just like with the painter: what kind of persuasion does rhetoric produce, and what is it about? Isn't that a fair way to put it?

Gorgias: I think so.

Socrates: Then what's the answer, Gorgias?

Gorgias: The kind of persuasion used in courts of law and other assemblies, as I was saying. And it's about justice and injustice.

Socrates: That's exactly what I suspected, Gorgias. But don't be surprised if I seem to keep repeating obvious questions. I'm not doing it to trip you up. I'm doing it so the argument moves forward in a logical way, so we don't start guessing at each other's meanings or jumping ahead. I want you to develop your own views in your own way, following whatever path makes sense to you.

Gorgias: I think you're quite right to do that, Socrates.

Socrates: Then let me raise another question. There's such a thing as "having learned" something?

Gorgias: Yes.

Socrates: And such a thing as "having come to believe" something?

Gorgias: Yes.

Socrates: Are "having learned" and "having come to believe" the same thing? Are learning and belief the same?

Gorgias: In my judgment, Socrates, they're not.

Socrates: And you're right about that. Here's how you can tell. If someone asked you, "Gorgias, is there such a thing as false belief as well as true belief?" you'd say yes.

Gorgias: Yes.

Socrates: But is there such a thing as false knowledge as well as true knowledge?

Gorgias: No.

Socrates: Exactly — and that proves that knowledge and belief aren't the same thing.

Gorgias: Very true.

Socrates: And yet both those who have learned and those who merely believe have been persuaded?

Gorgias: Exactly.

Socrates: So shall we say there are two kinds of persuasion — one that produces belief without knowledge, and one that produces actual knowledge?

Gorgias: By all means.

Socrates: And which kind does rhetoric produce in courts and assemblies about justice and injustice — the kind that creates belief without knowledge, or the kind that produces knowledge?

Gorgias: Clearly, Socrates, the kind that creates belief.

Socrates: So rhetoric produces persuasion that makes people believe things about justice and injustice, but it doesn't actually teach them about those things?

Gorgias: True.

Socrates: And the rhetorician doesn't teach courts and assemblies about what's just and unjust — he just makes people believe certain things. After all, no one could actually teach such vast crowds about matters that important in a short time, could they?

Gorgias: Certainly not.

Socrates: Well then, let's think carefully about what rhetoric really is. Because I'm honestly not sure I've figured it out yet. When the assembly meets to choose a physician, or a shipbuilder, or any other professional, the rhetorician isn't the one they consult, is he? Obviously, for each choice they pick the person with the most expertise. When walls or harbors or dockyards need to be built, they ask the master builders, not the rhetoricians. When generals need to be chosen or a battle plan arranged or a position fortified, the military experts advise — not the rhetoricians. What do you say to that, Gorgias? Since you claim to be a rhetorician and a teacher of rhetoric, the best way for me to learn about your skill is from you. And please understand that I have your interests at heart as well as my own. Some of these young men here probably want to become your students — I can see quite a few who seem eager but are too polite to interrogate you. So when I'm asking you these questions, imagine they're asking too: "What's the point of coming to study with you, Gorgias? What will you teach us to advise the state about? Only justice and injustice, or also those other things Socrates just mentioned?" How will you answer them?

Gorgias: I like the way you're leading us, Socrates, and I'll try to reveal the full nature of rhetoric to you. You've heard, I'm sure, that the dockyards and walls of Athens and the plan for the harbor were designed on the advice of Themistocles and Pericles — not the builders.

Socrates: That's the tradition about Themistocles, Gorgias. And I personally heard Pericles speak when he advised us about the middle wall.

Gorgias: And you'll notice, Socrates, that when these decisions are made, it's the rhetoricians who give the advice. They're the ones who win the day.

Socrates: That's exactly what amazes me, Gorgias, and why I've been asking what rhetoric really is. When I look at it this way, its power seems almost incredible.

Gorgias: If you only knew, Socrates! Rhetoric practically contains all the other skills under its wing. Let me give you a striking example. I've gone with my brother Herodicus and other physicians to visit patients who refused to take their medicine or let the doctor use the knife or cautery on them. The physician couldn't persuade them — but I could, just by using rhetoric. And I tell you, if a rhetorician and a physician walked into any city and had to argue before the assembly over which of them should be appointed state physician, the physician wouldn't stand a chance. The person who could speak persuasively would be chosen, if he wanted the job. And in a contest against anyone from any other profession, the rhetorician would win every time. He can speak more persuasively to a crowd than anyone else, on any subject. That's the nature and power of rhetoric.

But, Socrates, rhetoric should be used the way any competitive skill should be used — not against everyone indiscriminately. Just because a rhetorician has the power to outperform anyone doesn't mean he should use it against friends or decent people. Consider: suppose a man trains at the gymnasium and becomes a skilled boxer. Then, in the peak of his strength, he goes and hits his father, his mother, or one of his friends. That's no reason to hate his trainers or ban them from the city. They taught their skill for a good purpose — to be used against enemies and wrongdoers, in self-defense, not aggression. The students are the ones who perverted it — who used their strength and skill for bad purposes. It's not the teachers who are bad, and it's not the skill that's bad. The blame belongs to those who misuse it.

The same argument applies to rhetoric. The rhetorician can speak against anyone on any subject — he can persuade any crowd of practically anything. But that doesn't mean he should cheat the physician or any other professional out of their reputation just because he has the power to do it. He should use rhetoric fairly, just as he'd use athletic skills fairly. And if someone becomes a rhetorician and then abuses his power, we shouldn't blame or punish his teacher. The teacher intended for his instruction to be used well. The student is the one who misused it — and he's the one who should be blamed, banished, or put to death. Not his teacher.

Socrates: Gorgias, I'm sure you have as much experience with arguments as I do, and you must have noticed that people don't always manage to define clearly what they're discussing. When they disagree, they tend to think the other person is arguing in bad faith or out of jealousy rather than genuine interest in the truth. Sometimes they end up trading insults until everyone present regrets having to listen to them.

Why do I bring this up? Because I can't help feeling that what you're saying now doesn't quite match what you said earlier about rhetoric. And I'm nervous about pointing this out — I don't want you to think I have anything against you personally, or that I'm arguing for any reason other than getting at the truth.

Now, if you're the type of person I am, I'd love to keep examining this. If not, we can drop it. What type am I? I'm the kind of person who's perfectly happy to be proven wrong if I've said something false — and equally happy to prove someone else wrong if they've said something false. I consider being corrected the greater benefit of the two. It's a bigger gain to be cured of a serious error than to cure someone else's, because I can't imagine a worse affliction than having false beliefs about the things we're discussing right now. So if you're that kind of person too, let's continue. But if you'd rather stop, that's fine — we can end it here.

Gorgias: I'd say I'm exactly the kind of person you describe, Socrates. But perhaps we should think about the audience. Before you arrived, I'd already given a long performance, and if we continue, this could go on for quite a while. Maybe some of them have other things to do.

Chaerephon: Listen to that cheering, Gorgias and Socrates! The audience clearly wants to hear more. As for me — heaven forbid I should have anything more pressing than a discussion this fascinating and this well conducted.

Callicles: By the gods, Chaerephon, I've been at many discussions, but I doubt I've ever enjoyed one this much. Keep going all day if you want — I'll only enjoy it more.

Socrates: Well, I'm certainly willing, Callicles, if Gorgias is.

Gorgias: After all this, Socrates, I'd look pretty bad if I refused, especially since I promised to answer any question anyone asked. So — as the audience wishes — go ahead. Ask me anything you like.

Socrates: Then let me tell you what surprises me about what you said, Gorgias — though you may well be right, and I may have misunderstood. You're saying you can make anyone who studies with you into a rhetorician?

Gorgias: Yes.

Socrates: Meaning you'll teach them to win over a crowd on any subject — not through genuine instruction, but through persuasion?

Gorgias: Exactly.

Socrates: You were saying the rhetorician will be more persuasive than even a physician when it comes to health?

Gorgias: Yes — with a crowd, at least.

Socrates: "With a crowd" means "with people who don't know." Because among people who actually have medical knowledge, the rhetorician surely wouldn't be more persuasive.

Gorgias: Very true.

Socrates: But if he's more persuasive than the physician, he's more persuasive than someone who actually knows?

Gorgias: Certainly.

Socrates: Even though he's not a physician himself?

Gorgias: No.

Socrates: And someone who's not a physician is obviously ignorant of what the physician knows?

Gorgias: Clearly.

Socrates: So when the rhetorician is more persuasive than the physician, what we actually have is an ignorant person being more persuasive with other ignorant people than the person who actually has knowledge. That's the conclusion, isn't it?

Gorgias: In that case, yes.

Socrates: And the same goes for rhetoric in relation to every other field. The rhetorician doesn't need to know the truth about things — he just needs some technique for persuading ignorant people that he knows more than the actual experts?

Gorgias: Yes, Socrates. And isn't that wonderfully convenient? You don't have to learn all those other skills — just rhetoric alone — and you're in no way inferior to the professionals!

Socrates: Whether the rhetorician is actually inferior to the experts because of this is a question we can examine later, if it's useful. But first I'd rather ask about something else: is the rhetorician equally ignorant about what's just and unjust, what's honorable and shameful, what's good and evil — the way he's ignorant about medicine and the other skills? Does he actually know anything about good and evil, or does he just have a knack for making ignorant people think he knows more than the real experts? Does a student need to know these things before coming to you? If he doesn't know them, are you — the teacher of rhetoric — going to refuse to teach him? After all, that's not your department. You'll just make him seem to know about these things in front of a crowd, even when he doesn't — seem to be a good person, even when he's not. Or will you simply be unable to teach him rhetoric at all unless he knows the truth about these things first? By the gods, Gorgias, I wish you'd show me the real power of rhetoric, as you said you would.

Gorgias: Well, Socrates, I suppose that if a student doesn't happen to know these things already, he'll have to learn them from me too.

Socrates: Stop right there — that's a crucial admission. So anyone you make into a rhetorician must either already know the nature of justice and injustice, or must learn it from you.

Gorgias: Certainly.

Socrates: Now, someone who has learned carpentry is a carpenter?

Gorgias: Yes.

Socrates: And someone who has learned music is a musician?

Gorgias: Yes.

Socrates: And someone who has learned medicine is a physician? In general, anyone who has learned a subject becomes the kind of person their knowledge makes them?

Gorgias: Certainly.

Socrates: Then, by the same logic, someone who has learned what justice is... is a just person?

Gorgias: Absolutely.

Socrates: And a just person does what's just?

Gorgias: Yes.

Socrates: And a just person will always want to do what's just?

Gorgias: That seems to follow, yes.

Socrates: So a just person will never willingly do injustice?

Gorgias: Certainly not.

Socrates: And by our argument, the rhetorician must be a just person?

Gorgias: Yes.

Socrates: And therefore will never be willing to do injustice?

Gorgias: Clearly not.

Socrates: But do you remember what you said a minute ago? You said the trainer shouldn't be blamed or banished if the boxer misuses his boxing skills. In the same way, if a rhetorician makes bad and unjust use of his rhetoric, the teacher isn't the one to blame — the wrongdoer who misused the rhetoric is the one who should be banished. Didn't you say that?

Gorgias: Yes, I did.

Socrates: But now we're saying this same rhetorician would never do anything unjust at all?

Gorgias: True.

Socrates: And at the very beginning, Gorgias, you said rhetoric deals with speech not about odd and even numbers — like arithmetic — but about justice and injustice. Right?

Gorgias: Yes.

Socrates: When you said that, I assumed a skill that's constantly dealing with justice could never be an unjust thing. But then you added, a moment later, that a rhetorician might make bad use of rhetoric — and I noticed the contradiction. That's why I said that if you're the kind of person who benefits from being challenged, we should keep going, but if not, we should stop. And now, as we've worked through the argument, you can see for yourself: the rhetorician has been shown to be incapable of misusing rhetoric or of wanting to do injustice. By the dog, Gorgias, it's going to take quite a bit more discussion before we sort all this out.

Polus: What — Socrates, do you actually believe what you're saying about rhetoric? Come on! Just because Gorgias was too embarrassed to deny that the rhetorician knows about justice and honor and goodness — just because he admitted he'd teach these things to any student who showed up without knowing them — and then a contradiction popped up from that admission — the kind of contradiction you absolutely love, and which you dragged the argument into with your tricky questions — do you seriously think there's any truth in all this? Who would ever admit they don't know what justice is or can't teach it? It's completely rude to push an argument to this kind of conclusion.

Socrates: My dear Polus, the whole point of having friends and younger companions is that when we older folk stumble, a younger generation can set us back on our feet — in our words and in our actions. So if Gorgias and I have stumbled, here you are to help us up. I'm perfectly ready to take back anything you think I got wrong — on one condition.

Polus: What condition?

Socrates: That you rein in that tendency toward long speeches you showed earlier.

Polus: What! You mean I can't say as much as I want?

Socrates: My friend, it would be a real injustice if you came to Athens — the most free-speaking city in all of Greece — and you, of all people, were the only one not allowed to talk. But think about it from my side too: wouldn't it be pretty rough on me if, while you're delivering an endless speech and refusing to answer questions, I'm stuck here having to listen and can't leave? Look, if you genuinely care about the argument — if you want to, as I said before, set it back on its feet — go ahead and take back anything you want. Take turns asking and answering, the way Gorgias and I were doing. Challenge me and let me challenge you. After all, you claim to know everything Gorgias knows, don't you?

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: And like him, you invite anyone to ask you anything, because you'll know how to answer?

Polus: Of course.

Socrates: Well then — which will it be? Do you want to ask or answer?

Polus: I'll ask. Answer me this, Socrates — the very question you think Gorgias couldn't answer: what is rhetoric?

Socrates: Do you mean what kind of skill is it?

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: To tell you the truth, Polus — in my opinion, it's not a skill at all.

Polus: Then what is it, in your opinion?

Socrates: A thing that you yourself claim to have turned into a skill, in a book of yours I read recently.

Polus: What thing?

Socrates: I'd call it a kind of knack.

Polus: A knack? Rhetoric is just a knack to you?

Socrates: That's my view. But you might think differently.

Polus: A knack for what?

Socrates: A knack for producing a certain kind of pleasure and gratification.

Polus: Well, if rhetoric can gratify people, isn't it a fine thing?

Socrates: Hold on, Polus — why are you asking whether rhetoric is a fine thing when I haven't even finished explaining what rhetoric is?

Polus: Didn't I just hear you say it's a kind of knack?

Socrates: Since you're so eager to gratify people, would you gratify me a little?

Polus: Sure.

Socrates: Ask me what kind of skill cooking is.

Polus: All right — what kind of skill is cooking?

Socrates: It's not a skill at all, Polus.

Polus: Then what is it?

Socrates: A knack.

Polus: A knack for what? Explain yourself.

Socrates: A knack for producing pleasure and gratification, Polus.

Polus: So cooking and rhetoric are the same thing?

Socrates: No — they're different branches of the same activity.

Polus: What activity?

Socrates: I'm afraid the truth might sound rude, and I hesitate to say it in case Gorgias thinks I'm mocking his profession. Whether this is actually the rhetoric Gorgias practices, I honestly can't tell — nothing he said earlier gave me a clear picture of what he thinks his skill is. But the rhetoric I'm talking about is part of something not very respectable.

Gorgias: Part of what, Socrates? Don't worry about me — just say it.

Socrates: In my view, Gorgias, rhetoric isn't really a skill at all but the habit of a bold, quick mind that knows how to handle people. I'd sum up the whole thing with one word: flattery. And it seems to me this has several branches, one of which is cooking. Cooking might look like a skill, but I say it's only a knack — a routine, not a real skill. Rhetoric is another branch, along with cosmetics and sophistry. That makes four branches corresponding to four different things.

Now, Polus can ask me — if he wants — what branch of flattery rhetoric is, since he jumped ahead to ask whether I think rhetoric is a fine thing before I'd finished explaining what it is. I won't answer whether it's fine or not until I first explain what it is. That wouldn't be right, Polus. But I'm happy to answer if you ask me properly: what branch of flattery is rhetoric?

Polus: Fine, I'll ask. What branch of flattery is rhetoric?

Socrates: Will you understand my answer? Rhetoric, as I see it, is the counterfeit of one branch of politics.

Polus: And is that a noble thing or not?

Socrates: Not noble — I'd call it ignoble. Since you're making me answer, I call what's bad ignoble. Though I doubt you've grasped what I was saying before.

Gorgias: Frankly, Socrates, I'm not sure I understand either.

Socrates: That's understandable, Gorgias. I haven't explained myself fully yet. And our friend Polus here — young colt by name and young colt by nature — tends to bolt before the explanation is finished.

Gorgias: Never mind him. Just explain what you mean by rhetoric being the counterfeit of a branch of politics.

Socrates: I'll try. And if I'm wrong, my friend Polus can correct me. We'd agree that both bodies and souls exist?

Gorgias: Of course.

Socrates: And that there's a healthy condition for each of them?

Gorgias: Yes.

Socrates: And that this healthy condition might be merely apparent rather than real? There are plenty of people who seem healthy but whom only a physician or trainer would recognize as actually being unhealthy.

Gorgias: True.

Socrates: And the same applies to the soul — there can be an appearance of health without the reality?

Gorgias: Yes, certainly.

Socrates: Now let me try to explain what I mean more clearly. Body and soul are two things, and each has two genuine skills that serve its well-being. The skill that serves the soul is politics, and the skill that serves the body — well, I can't give it a single name, but it has two divisions: physical training and medicine. Within politics, the counterpart to physical training is legislation, and the counterpart to medicine is justice. These pairs overlap — justice deals with the same domain as legislation, and medicine deals with the same domain as physical training — but there are differences between them.

Now here's the key point. There are four genuine skills — two for the body, two for the soul — all aimed at the highest good. Flattery sensed what these skills were about — not through real knowledge, but through guesswork — and divided herself into four counterfeits. She puts on the costume of each genuine skill and pretends to be it, caring nothing for what's actually best for people and using pleasure as bait to trap the foolish, deceiving them into thinking she's supremely valuable.

Cooking disguises itself as medicine and pretends to know what food is best for the body. And if a doctor and a cook had to compete before an audience of children — or adults with no more sense than children — to determine which one really understands the difference between healthy and unhealthy food, the doctor would starve to death.

This is what I call flattery, Polus — and I call it ignoble, since I'm now addressing you directly — because it aims at pleasure without any concern for what's truly best. I refuse to call it a skill. It's a knack. It can't explain the nature of the things it applies or give any rational account of why it does what it does. And I don't call anything irrational a skill. If you want to challenge that, I'm ready to defend it.

So: cooking is the form of flattery that counterfeits medicine. Cosmetics, similarly, is the flattery that counterfeits physical training — dishonest, deceptive, and ignoble, creating an illusion of beauty through colors, creams, and clothes while neglecting the true beauty that comes from genuine fitness.

Rather than go on too long, let me put it the way a mathematician would — I think by now you can follow the proportions:

Cosmetics is to physical training as cooking is to medicine.

Or, more precisely:

Cosmetics is to physical training as sophistry is to legislation.

And: cooking is to medicine as rhetoric is to justice.

That's the natural difference between the rhetorician and the sophist, though they're so closely related that people constantly confuse them — and even they don't fully understand what they are. If the body governed itself without the soul's guidance, and the soul couldn't tell the difference between cooking and medicine, then — as Polus' favorite philosopher Anaxagoras might say — chaos would reign: cooking, health, and medicine would all blur into an indistinguishable mess.

So there you have it. Rhetoric is to the soul what cooking is to the body. Now, I know I may seem inconsistent — making a long speech after telling you to be brief. But you weren't understanding my short answers, so I had to explain at length. If I prove equally unable to understand your answers, you're welcome to go on at similar length. But if I can understand you, do me the favor of keeping things short. Fair enough? Now, do what you want with my answer.

Polus: Wait — are you saying rhetoric is flattery?

Socrates: I said it's a branch of flattery. Can't you remember at your age, Polus? What's going to happen when you're older?

Polus: And you think good rhetoricians are looked down on in their cities as mere flatterers?

Socrates: Is that a question or the start of a speech?

Polus: I'm asking a question!

Socrates: My answer is that they're not even thought about at all.

Polus: What do you mean, not thought about? Don't they have enormous power in their cities?

Socrates: Not if you mean that power is something good for the person who has it.

Polus: That is exactly what I mean.

Socrates: Then I'd say rhetoricians have the least power of anyone in the city.

Polus: What? Don't they do whatever they want — kill people, seize property, exile anyone they choose — just like tyrants?

Socrates: By the dog, Polus, every time you speak I can't tell whether you're stating your own opinion or asking me a question.

Polus: I'm asking you a question!

Socrates: All right, but you're asking two questions at once.

Polus: How two?

Socrates: Didn't you just say that rhetoricians are like tyrants — they kill, seize property, and exile anyone they choose?

Polus: I did.

Socrates: Well, I say those are actually two questions, and I'll answer both. Rhetoricians and tyrants have the least real power in their cities, just as I said. They do literally nothing that they truly will — only what they think is best.

Polus: And isn't that a great power?

Socrates: Not according to what you yourself just said.

Polus: Not according to what I said? That's exactly what I'm asserting!

Socrates: No it isn't, by the — what's the expression? You said power is a good thing for the person who has it.

Polus: I do say that.

Socrates: And would you say a fool has great power when he does what he thinks is best?

Polus: No, I wouldn't.

Socrates: Then prove to me that the rhetorician isn't a fool — that rhetoric is a genuine skill and not just flattery — and you'll have refuted me. But until you do, rhetoricians who do what they think is best, and tyrants who do the same, have nothing to congratulate themselves about. Power is only a good thing — as you yourself agree — if it's exercised with sense. And doing things without sense is an evil.

Polus: Yes, I'll grant that.

Socrates: Then how can rhetoricians or tyrants have great power in their cities, unless Polus can prove to Socrates that they do what they truly will?

Polus: This guy —

Socrates: I'm saying they don't do what they truly will. Prove me wrong.

Polus: Didn't you just admit they do what they think is best?

Socrates: Yes, I still say that.

Polus: Then obviously they do what they will!

Socrates: I deny it.

Polus: Even though they do what they think best?

Socrates: Yes.

Polus: That's outrageous, Socrates. That's absurd.

Socrates: Easy now, my good Polus — to borrow your own style. If you've got a question for me, either show me I'm wrong or answer the question yourself.

Polus: Fine — I'm willing to answer, so I can find out what you mean.

Socrates: Do people seem to you to will the specific thing they're doing at any given moment, or do they will the larger goal for which they're doing it? When people take medicine on their doctor's orders, for example — do they will the drinking of bitter medicine, or the health they're drinking it for?

Polus: The health, obviously.

Socrates: And when people go on a voyage or start a business, they don't will the voyage or the effort itself — who would actually want those risks and hardships? They will the wealth they're trying to gain.

Polus: Certainly.

Socrates: And isn't this universally true? Whenever someone does one thing for the sake of something else, they don't will the thing they're doing — they will the thing they're doing it for.

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: Now, isn't everything either good, evil, or something in between — neither good nor evil?

Polus: Absolutely, Socrates.

Socrates: Wisdom, health, wealth, and things like that — you'd call those good? And their opposites, evil?

Polus: Yes, I would.

Socrates: And things that are neither good nor evil — things that sometimes share in the nature of good, sometimes evil, sometimes neither — things like sitting, walking, running, sailing, or objects like wood and stones? You'd call those neutral?

Polus: Exactly.

Socrates: And people do these neutral things for the sake of the good things, right? Not the other way around?

Polus: Obviously — the neutral things for the sake of the good.

Socrates: So when we walk, we walk because we think it's better to walk — we're doing it for the sake of something good. And when we stand still, same thing — for the sake of something good?

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: And when we kill someone, or exile them, or take their property, we do it because we think it serves our good?

Polus: Certainly.

Socrates: So people do all these things for the sake of what's good?

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: And didn't we agree that when we do one thing for the sake of another, we don't will the thing we're doing — we will the thing we're doing it for?

Polus: Absolutely.

Socrates: Then we don't simply will to kill or exile people or seize their property. We will to do what's good for us. If the act turns out to be good for us, we will it. If it's not good for us — or if it's actually bad — then we don't will it. Because we will what's good, as you say, and we don't will what's neutral or evil. Am I right? Why aren't you answering, Polus?

Polus: You're right.

Socrates: So if anyone — whether tyrant or rhetorician — kills, exiles, or seizes property thinking it's in his interest when it's actually not, he may be doing what seems best to him, but —

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: But is he doing what he wills, if what he's doing is actually bad for him? Why don't you answer?

Polus: Well... I suppose not.

Socrates: Then if great power is a good — as you agree — will such a person really have great power in his city?

Polus: He won't.

Socrates: Then I was right when I said a person can do what seems best to him in a city and still not have real power — and still not be doing what he truly wills.

Polus: As if you, Socrates, wouldn't love to have the power to do whatever you pleased in the city! As if you wouldn't be jealous when you saw someone killing, robbing, or imprisoning anyone he wanted. Oh, no!

Socrates: Justly or unjustly — which do you mean?

Polus: Either way — isn't a person with that kind of power equally to be envied?

Socrates: Watch what you're saying, Polus.

Polus: Why "watch what I'm saying"?

Socrates: Because you shouldn't envy people who deserve pity, not envy.

Polus: Is that what you think the people I'm describing deserve? Pity?

Socrates: Yes, absolutely.

Polus: So a man who kills whoever he wants — and kills them justly — is pitiable and miserable?

Socrates: I didn't say that. But he's not to be envied, either.

Polus: Didn't you just call him miserable?

Socrates: The one who kills unjustly — yes, he is miserable, and pitiable too. And the one who kills justly is not to be envied.

Polus: But surely the person who is unjustly put to death is the real object of pity?

Socrates: Less so than the one who kills him, Polus. And less so than someone who is justly executed.

Polus: How can that be, Socrates?

Socrates: Because doing injustice is the greatest of evils.

Polus: The greatest? Isn't suffering injustice worse?

Socrates: Absolutely not.

Polus: So you'd rather suffer injustice than commit it?

Socrates: I'd rather do neither. But if I had to choose, I'd rather suffer it than commit it.

Polus: Then you wouldn't want to be a tyrant?

Socrates: Not if by "tyrant" you mean what I think you mean.

Polus: I mean exactly what I said before — the power to do whatever you think best in the city: killing, banishing, doing whatever you please.

Socrates: All right then, let me give you a scenario, and then you respond. Suppose I walk into a crowded marketplace with a dagger hidden under my cloak. "Polus," I say, "I've just gained incredible power. I've become a tyrant. See that man over there? If I decide he should die, he's as good as dead. If I want to smash his head in or rip his clothes off, consider it done. That's how much power I have in this city." And if you didn't believe me and I showed you the dagger, you'd probably say: "Socrates, by that logic anyone could have great power — he could burn down any house he wants, torch the dockyards and the whole Athenian fleet, public and private — but do you really think this 'doing whatever you please' amounts to great power?"

Polus: No, certainly not that kind of doing.

Socrates: Can you tell me why you disapprove of that kind of power?

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: Why?

Polus: Because someone who did those things would certainly be punished.

Socrates: And punishment is a bad thing?

Polus: Certainly.

Socrates: So once again, you'd agree that great power is only beneficial if your actions turn out to be genuinely good for you. That's what real power means. If not, it's an evil and no power at all. But let's look at it another way. Don't we agree that the actions we've been discussing — killing, exiling, seizing property — are sometimes good and sometimes not?

Polus: Certainly.

Socrates: So we agree on that?

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: Then tell me: when are these actions good, and when are they evil? What's the principle?

Polus: I'd rather you answered that question yourself, Socrates.

Socrates: Fine, Polus, since you'd prefer to hear it from me: they're good when they're done justly, and evil when done unjustly.

Polus: Hard to refute, aren't you, Socrates? But a child could knock that argument down.

Socrates: Then I'll be very grateful to that child — and equally grateful to you if you'll refute me and free me from my foolishness. Don't hold back. Doing good for a friend is never wasted effort.

Polus: All right, Socrates, I don't need to dig into ancient history. Events from just the other day are enough to refute you and prove that plenty of wrongdoers are perfectly happy.

Socrates: What events?

Polus: You know that Archelaus, the son of Perdiccas, is currently the ruler of Macedonia?

Socrates: I've heard as much.

Polus: Do you think he's happy or miserable?

Socrates: I don't know, Polus. I've never met the man.

Polus: You can't tell whether a man is happy without meeting him?

Socrates: Most certainly not.

Polus: Then I suppose you'd say you can't even tell whether the Great King of Persia is happy?

Socrates: I'd be telling the truth, because I don't know where he stands when it comes to education and justice.

Polus: What! Does happiness really depend on that?

Socrates: Yes, Polus, that's exactly my view. People who are decent and good — men and women alike — are happy. The unjust and wicked are miserable.

Polus: So by your theory, this Archelaus is miserable?

Socrates: If he's wicked, yes.

Polus: Of course he's wicked! He had absolutely no legitimate claim to the throne. He was the son of a slave woman who belonged to Alcetas, the brother of Perdiccas. By rights, Archelaus himself was Alcetas' slave. If he'd wanted to do the right thing, he would have stayed a slave — and then, by your theory, he would have been happy!

Instead, he's committed the most appalling crimes. First, he invited his uncle and rightful master, Alcetas, to visit — promising to restore the throne that Perdiccas had taken from him. He entertained Alcetas and his son Alexander — Archelaus' own cousin, about the same age — got them drunk, threw them into a wagon at night, drove them off, and butchered them both. After committing these atrocities, he never noticed he'd become the most miserable man alive. He felt no remorse at all. Want to hear what he did next? He had a younger half-brother, a seven-year-old boy — the legitimate son of Perdiccas, the rightful heir to the throne. Did Archelaus raise the boy properly and give him back the kingdom? That wasn't his idea of happiness. Instead, not long after, he threw the boy down a well and drowned him, then told the boy's mother Cleopatra that he'd fallen in while chasing a goose.

And now, since Archelaus is the greatest criminal in all of Macedonia, he must be the most miserable man there — not the happiest. And I'd bet plenty of Athenians — you included, probably — would rather be any other Macedonian in the world than Archelaus.

Socrates: I complimented you at the start of this conversation, Polus, for being better trained as a speechmaker than as a careful thinker. And this is exactly the kind of argument you think a child could use to refute me. But, my friend, where is the refutation? I don't accept a single word of what you've said.

Polus: That's because you won't accept it — but you must think the way I do, deep down.

Socrates: No, Polus. The problem is that you're trying to refute me the way lawyers do in court. In court, one side thinks they've won when they parade a bunch of respectable witnesses before the jury, while the other side has only one witness, or none. But this kind of proof is worthless when the truth is what we're after. A person can be sworn down by a mob of impressive-sounding false witnesses. And in this argument, nearly everyone — Athenians and foreigners alike — would take your side. If you want, you can call Nicias, son of Niceratus, and his brothers, the ones who donated that row of tripods in the precinct of Dionysus. Or call Aristocrates, son of Scellius, who made that famous offering at Delphi. Or summon the whole house of Pericles, or any other great Athenian family you like. They'll all agree with you.

But I stand alone. I disagree with all of you. You don't convince me. You just produce a crowd of false witnesses, hoping to rob me of my inheritance — which is the truth.

But here's what I think: nothing worthwhile has been accomplished unless I make you — you, Polus, personally — into my one witness. And nothing worthwhile has been accomplished by you unless you make me your one witness. Forget about everyone else.

There are two ways of arguing. One is yours and the world's. The other is mine. Let's compare them and see which holds up. Because the stakes here are about the most important knowledge there is — what it means to be happy and what it means to be miserable. Nothing is more important to know, and nothing more disgraceful to be ignorant about.

So let me get to the core. You believe that an unjust man who commits injustice can be happy — since you think Archelaus is unjust and happy. Is that a fair statement of your view?

Polus: Certainly.

Socrates: And I say that's impossible. That's one point where we disagree. Good. Now, a second question: would you say the unjust man is still happy even if he gets caught and punished?

Polus: Certainly not. In that case he'd be most miserable.

Socrates: But if the unjust man escapes punishment, then you'd say he's happy?

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: Well, in my view, Polus, the unjust person is miserable no matter what — but more miserable if he escapes punishment and isn't held accountable, and less miserable if he is punished and pays the penalty, whether at the hands of gods or men.

Polus: That's a bizarre thing to say, Socrates.

Socrates: I'll try to bring you around to my way of thinking, though, because I consider you a friend. So let me lay out our points of disagreement. I was saying it's worse to do injustice than to suffer it?

Polus: Exactly.

Socrates: And you said the opposite?

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: And I said the wicked are miserable, and you said I was wrong?

Polus: By Zeus, I did.

Socrates: In your own opinion, anyway.

Polus: Yes, and I'm fairly confident I was right.

Socrates: You also said that a wrongdoer is happy if he goes unpunished?

Polus: Certainly.

Socrates: And I say he's the most miserable of all — and that those who are punished are less miserable. Are you going to refute that too?

Polus: Now that's an even harder proposition to refute, Socrates.

Socrates: Not just hard, Polus — impossible. Because who can refute the truth?

Polus: What are you talking about? Suppose a man is caught trying to make himself tyrant by unjust means. He's arrested, tortured on the rack, mutilated, has his eyes burned out, suffers every kind of terrible abuse — and then watches his wife and children suffer the same — and finally he's impaled or burned alive. You're saying this man is happier than if he'd gotten away with it and become a tyrant, spending the rest of his life doing whatever he pleases, envied and admired by everyone? That's the unrefutable claim?

Socrates: Now you're trying to scare me with horror stories instead of refuting me, Polus — just like before when you called witnesses. But let me ask you to think back to one detail. Did you say "trying to make himself tyrant by unjust means"?

Polus: Yes, I did.

Socrates: Then neither of them will be happier than the other, because neither the man who unjustly seizes a tyranny nor the man who gets caught and tortured is happy. Of two miserable people, you can't say one is "happier." But the one who escapes and becomes a tyrant is the more miserable of the two.

Are you laughing, Polus? Well, that's a novel form of refutation — laughing at what someone says instead of arguing against it.

Polus: Don't you think you've been sufficiently refuted, Socrates, when you're saying things no human being would agree with? Just ask anyone here!

Socrates: I'm not a politician, Polus. Just last year, when my tribe held the presidency of the council and it was my turn to call the vote, I made a fool of myself because I didn't know how. So don't ask me to count votes now either. If you can't offer anything better than a head count, let me try a different approach to making my case. I'll produce just one witness for what I'm saying — and that witness is you, the person I'm arguing with. I know how to collect your vote. But I have nothing to do with the crowd, and I'm not even speaking to them.

So let me ask: will you answer my questions and let your views be tested? Because I truly believe that you and I and everyone deep down believes that doing injustice is a greater evil than suffering it, and that escaping punishment is worse than being punished.

Polus: And I say that neither I, nor anyone else, believes that. Would you really choose to suffer injustice rather than commit it?

Socrates: Yes — and so would you. So would anyone.

Polus: Absolutely not! Not you, not me, not anyone.

Socrates: But will you answer my questions?

Polus: Sure — I'm dying to hear what you've got.

Socrates: Then you'll find out. Let's start from the beginning: which of the two, Polus, do you think is worse — doing injustice or suffering it?

Polus: I'd say suffering it is worse.

Socrates: And which is more disgraceful? Answer me.

Polus: Doing it.

Socrates: And if it's more disgraceful, isn't it also worse?

Polus: Absolutely not.

Socrates: I see — so you're separating the honorable from the good, and the disgraceful from the bad?

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: Let me ask you this. When you call things beautiful — bodies, colors, shapes, sounds, customs — don't you call them beautiful by some standard? Beautiful bodies, for example, are called beautiful either because they're useful or because the sight of them gives pleasure. Can you point to any other reason for calling a body beautiful?

Polus: I can't.

Socrates: And you'd say the same about shapes and colors generally — that they're beautiful either because they give pleasure, or because they're useful, or both?

Polus: Yes, I would.

Socrates: The same with sounds and music?

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: And laws and customs — aren't they beautiful only insofar as they're useful, or pleasant, or both?

Polus: I'd agree with that.

Socrates: And the beauty of knowledge works the same way?

Polus: Absolutely, Socrates. I really like your way of defining beauty in terms of pleasure and usefulness.

Socrates: And ugliness or disgrace can be measured by the opposite standard — by pain and harm?

Polus: Certainly.

Socrates: So when one of two beautiful things is more beautiful than the other, it's because it surpasses in one or both of these — pleasure, usefulness, or both?

Polus: Very true.

Socrates: And when one of two ugly or disgraceful things is more disgraceful than the other, it must surpass in either pain or harm — right?

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: Now, what did you just say about doing and suffering injustice? Didn't you say that suffering injustice is the greater evil, but doing injustice is the greater disgrace?

Polus: I did.

Socrates: Then if doing injustice is more disgraceful than suffering it, it must be either more painful or more harmful, or both. Doesn't that follow?

Polus: Of course.

Socrates: Let's check. First, does doing injustice involve more pain than suffering it? Does the person who commits injustice suffer more than the victim?

Polus: No, Socrates — certainly not.

Socrates: So doing injustice doesn't exceed in pain?

Polus: No.

Socrates: And if not in pain, then not in both pain and harm?

Polus: Apparently not.

Socrates: Then it can only exceed in the other one?

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: That is — in harm?

Polus: True.

Socrates: So if doing injustice exceeds in harm, doing injustice is a greater evil than suffering injustice?

Polus: Clearly.

Socrates: Now, didn't you — and didn't everyone — already agree that doing injustice is more disgraceful than suffering it?

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: And now it's been shown to be a greater evil, too?

Polus: True.

Socrates: So would you choose the greater evil and the greater disgrace over the lesser one? Answer, Polus, and don't be afraid. Trust yourself to the argument the way you'd trust yourself to a doctor — and just answer "yes" or "no."

Polus: I'd say no.

Socrates: Would anyone choose a greater evil over a lesser one?

Polus: No — not when you put it that way, Socrates.

Socrates: Then I was right all along, Polus: neither you, nor I, nor anyone would rather do injustice than suffer it, because doing injustice is the greater evil.

Polus: That is the conclusion.

Socrates: You see, Polus, how different our two methods of argument are? Everyone else agrees with you. But your agreement alone — your single vote — is enough for me. I don't need anyone else. I take your vote and leave the rest.

But let's move on to the next question: whether it's the greatest evil for a guilty person to be punished, as you maintained, or whether escaping punishment is actually the greater evil, as I maintained. Consider: you'd say that being punished is the same as being justly corrected when you've done wrong?

Polus: I would.

Socrates: And would you agree that everything just is honorable, insofar as it's just? Think carefully before you answer.

Polus: Yes, Socrates, I think so.

Socrates: Now consider this: whenever there's someone who acts, there must also be something that's acted upon?

Polus: I'd say so.

Socrates: And the thing acted upon receives the same quality as the action. For example: if someone strikes hard, something is struck hard?

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: And if the strike is fast or violent, the thing struck receives a fast or violent impact?

Polus: True.

Socrates: The effect on the thing struck matches the nature of the action?

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: And if someone burns something, the thing burned experiences burning?

Polus: Certainly.

Socrates: And if the burning is intense or painful, the thing burned is burned intensely or painfully?

Polus: Truly.

Socrates: And the same with cutting — if there's a cut, something is cut?

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: And if the cut is deep or large or painful, the effect on the thing cut matches?

Polus: That's clear.

Socrates: So you'd agree with the general principle: the effect on the thing acted upon matches the nature of the action?

Polus: I agree.

Socrates: Then let me ask: is being punished a matter of acting or being acted upon?

Polus: Being acted upon, Socrates — obviously.

Socrates: And being acted upon implies someone doing the acting?

Polus: Of course — the punisher.

Socrates: And someone who punishes rightly punishes justly?

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: And therefore acts justly?

Polus: Justly.

Socrates: And the person being punished suffers something just?

Polus: That's clear.

Socrates: And we agreed that what's just is honorable?

Polus: Certainly.

Socrates: So the punisher does something honorable, and the punished person experiences something honorable?

Polus: True.

Socrates: And if it's honorable, it's good — since we said the honorable is either pleasant or useful?

Polus: Certainly.

Socrates: Then the person being punished experiences something good?

Polus: That's true.

Socrates: And so he benefits?

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: Do we mean the same thing by "benefit"? I mean that if he's justly punished, his soul is improved.

Polus: Surely.

Socrates: Then the person who's punished is freed from the evil in his soul?

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: And isn't he freed from the greatest evil? Think about it this way. When it comes to money, is there a worse evil than poverty?

Polus: No.

Socrates: And when it comes to the body, you'd say the evils are weakness, disease, and deformity?

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: And you'd agree the soul has its own evils too?

Polus: Of course.

Socrates: And those would be injustice, ignorance, cowardice, and the like?

Polus: Certainly.

Socrates: So for these three domains — wealth, body, and soul — you've identified three corresponding evils: poverty, disease, and injustice?

Polus: True.

Socrates: And which of these evils is the most disgraceful? Isn't it injustice — the evil of the soul, taken as a whole?

Polus: By far the most.

Socrates: And if the most disgraceful, then also the worst?

Polus: What do you mean, Socrates?

Socrates: I mean we've already agreed that whatever is most disgraceful must be either most painful, or most harmful, or both.

Polus: Certainly.

Socrates: And we've agreed that injustice and all evil of the soul is the most disgraceful?

Polus: We have.

Socrates: And it's the most disgraceful either because it's the most painful and causes the most pain, or because it's the most harmful, or both?

Polus: Certainly.

Socrates: So is being unjust, undisciplined, cowardly, and ignorant more painful than being poor and sick?

Polus: No, Socrates — I don't think the painfulness follows from our argument.

Socrates: Then if the evil of the soul isn't the most painful of evils, but it is the most disgraceful, the excess of disgrace must come from an extraordinary degree of harm.

Polus: Clearly.

Socrates: And what exceeds most in harm is the greatest of evils?

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: Then injustice, self-indulgence, and corruption of the soul in general are the greatest of evils?

Polus: That's clear.

Socrates: Now, what skill frees us from poverty? Isn't it making money?

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: And what frees us from disease? Isn't it medicine?

Polus: Very true.

Socrates: And what frees us from vice and injustice? If the answer doesn't come to you right away, think about it this way: where do we take sick people?

Polus: To physicians, Socrates.

Socrates: And where do we take the unjust and undisciplined?

Polus: To the judges, you mean.

Socrates: Who will punish them?

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: And those who punish rightly do so in accordance with justice?

Polus: Clearly.

Socrates: So moneymaking frees us from poverty; medicine frees us from disease; and justice frees us from corruption and injustice?

Polus: That's clear.

Socrates: Which of these three is best?

Polus: Can you list them again?

Socrates: Moneymaking, medicine, and justice.

Polus: Justice, Socrates — by far.

Socrates: And if it's the best, it produces the most pleasure or the most benefit, or both?

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: But is being healed actually pleasant? Do people enjoy the process of medical treatment?

Polus: I'd say not.

Socrates: But it's useful?

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: Because the patient is freed from a great evil. That's the benefit of enduring the pain — you get well.

Polus: Certainly.

Socrates: But who's happier in terms of bodily health — the person who gets healed, or the person who never got sick in the first place?

Polus: Obviously, the person who never got sick.

Socrates: Right. Because happiness isn't a matter of being rescued from evils — it's a matter of never having had them.

Polus: True.

Socrates: And suppose two people are both afflicted with the same illness. One gets treated and cured; the other doesn't. Which is more miserable?

Polus: Obviously the one who isn't healed.

Socrates: And didn't we say that punishment is the cure for the greatest of evils — namely, the corruption of the soul?

Polus: True.

Socrates: And justice punishes us, makes us more just, and serves as medicine for our corruption?

Polus: True.

Socrates: Then the happiest person is the one who has no corruption in his soul at all — since we've shown that to be the greatest of evils.

Polus: Clearly.

Socrates: And second happiest is the person who is freed from corruption?

Polus: True.

Socrates: That is — the person who is admonished, corrected, and punished?

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: Then the person who lives worst is the one who has corruption in his soul and is never freed from it?

Polus: Certainly.

Socrates: And that's the person who commits the greatest crimes and who, being the most unjust of all, manages to escape correction, punishment, and accountability. Which is exactly what you said Archelaus and other tyrants and rhetoricians and men of power have accomplished?

Polus: True.

Socrates: Their situation, my friend, is like that of a person with a terrible disease who manages to avoid going to the doctor and paying the price for his unhealthy habits — won't submit to treatment because, like a child, he's afraid of the pain of being cauterized or cut. Isn't that a fair comparison?

Polus: Yes, truly.

Socrates: It's as if he didn't understand what health and physical strength really are. And if our earlier conclusions are right, the people who try to escape justice are in exactly the same situation. They see that justice is painful and flinch from it, but they're blind to the benefit — they don't realize how much more miserable it is to live with a sick soul than a sick body. A soul that's corrupt, unjust, and unholy. And so they do everything they can to avoid punishment and avoid being cured of the greatest of evils. They spend their money, cultivate their connections, and sharpen their powers of persuasion — all to dodge the cure.

But if we're right, Polus, can you see what follows? Or shall I spell out the consequences step by step?

Polus: If you please.

Socrates: Injustice and the doing of injustice is the greatest of evils?

Polus: That's quite clear.

Socrates: And punishment is the way to be freed from this evil?

Polus: True.

Socrates: And avoiding punishment means the evil persists?

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: So doing injustice is the second-greatest evil. But doing injustice and not being punished for it — that is the first and greatest of all evils?

Polus: That is true.

Socrates: And wasn't this exactly our point of disagreement, my friend? You considered Archelaus happy because he committed terrible crimes without being punished. I maintained that he — or anyone like him who does wrong without being held accountable — is and deserves to be the most miserable of all people. That the person who commits injustice is more miserable than the one who suffers it. And that the one who escapes punishment is more miserable than the one who is punished. Isn't that what I said?

Polus: Yes.

Socrates: And hasn't it been proven true?

Polus: Certainly.

Socrates: Well then, Polus — if all this is true, what's the great use of rhetoric? If we accept what's just been demonstrated, every person should above all guard against doing wrong, because that means suffering great evil.

Polus: True.

Socrates: And if he or anyone he cares about does wrong, he should go voluntarily to face punishment as quickly as possible. He should run to the judge the way he'd run to the doctor — so that the disease of injustice doesn't fester and become an incurable cancer of the soul. Isn't that the conclusion, Polus, if our earlier agreements hold? Is there any other interpretation that's consistent?

Polus: There can be only one answer to that, Socrates.

Socrates: Then rhetoric is useless when it comes to helping a person excuse his own injustice — or the injustice of his parents, friends, children, or country. But rhetoric could be useful for someone who believes the right thing to do is accuse rather than excuse — to accuse himself first and foremost, and then his family and anyone else he cares about who is doing wrong. He should bring the injustice to light, not conceal it, so the wrongdoer can pay the penalty and be made whole. He should force himself and others not to flinch, but to submit bravely, with eyes closed, to the surgeon's knife and cautery — ignoring the pain, pursuing what's good and honorable. If he's committed offenses that deserve a beating, he should let himself be beaten. If imprisonment — imprisoned. If a fine — fined. If exile — exiled. If death — let him die. Let him be the first to accuse himself and his own family, using rhetoric for this purpose alone: to expose their unjust acts so they may be freed from injustice, the greatest of evils. That, Polus, is how rhetoric would truly be useful. Do you agree or not?

Polus: What you're saying sounds very strange to me, Socrates — though I suppose it follows from your premises.

Socrates: And if the premises aren't disproven, the conclusion stands?

Polus: Yes, it certainly does.

Socrates: And looking at it from the other side: if it's ever our duty to harm someone — an enemy, say, though never in self-defense — but if my enemy wrongs a third person, then by every means, through words and actions, I should try to prevent my enemy from being punished or appearing before a judge. And if he does appear, I should make sure he escapes without punishment. If he's stolen money, let him keep it and spend it on himself and his family, with no regard for justice or morality. If he's committed crimes worthy of death, let him not die — better yet, let him live forever in his wickedness. Or if that's not possible, let him live as long as he can.

That's the kind of thing rhetoric might be useful for, Polus. But for someone who isn't planning to commit injustice? It's of little use, if any — at least, we didn't discover any in our discussion.

Callicles: Tell me, Chaerephon — is Socrates serious, or is he joking?

Chaerephon: I'd say he's in dead earnest, Callicles. But you're welcome to ask him yourself.

Callicles: By the gods, I think I will. Tell me, Socrates — are you serious or just playing around? Because if you're serious, and what you're saying is true, then human life is completely upside down. We're all doing the exact opposite of what we should be doing.

Socrates: Callicles, if people didn't share some common feelings — even though they differ from person to person — we'd never be able to communicate with each other at all. I bring this up because I think you and I actually have something in common. We're both lovers, and we each have two loves. I'm in love with Alcibiades, son of Cleinias — and with philosophy. You're in love with the Athenian People — and with Demus, son of Pyrilampes.

Now, I've noticed that no matter how clever you are, you never dare contradict either of your darlings. Whatever they say, you go along with. They shift, you shift. When the Athenian People rejects something you've said in the assembly, you cave and agree with them. You do the same with young Demus — you can't resist whatever your loves say.

So if someone expressed surprise at the strange things you sometimes say under their influence, you'd probably tell them — if you were honest — that you can't help it, that you'll keep saying these things unless your loves are somehow stopped.

Well, understand that what I'm saying works exactly the same way. Don't be surprised by me — go silence philosophy, my love, because she's the one who keeps telling me what I'm telling you right now. Unlike my other love — the son of Cleinias, who says one thing today and another tomorrow — philosophy always says the same thing. She's the teacher whose words are currently baffling you, and you've heard her speak for yourself.

So either refute her — show that doing injustice and escaping punishment isn't the worst of all evils — or, if you leave her words standing, then by the dog, the god of Egypt, Callicles will never be at peace with himself. His whole life will be a discord.

And yet, my friend, I'd rather have my lyre out of tune. I'd rather have the chorus I sponsor singing off-key. I'd rather have the whole world disagreeing with me and opposing me — than be at odds with myself, a single person contradicting himself.

Callicles: Socrates, you're speechifying, running wild with the argument. And the reason you can do it is that Polus fell into the same trap he accused Gorgias of. Remember — Polus said that when you asked Gorgias whether he'd teach justice to a student who came to him without knowing it, Gorgias was too polite to say no, because he thought people would be shocked by a "no." That polite admission led to the contradiction, and you pounced on it — which is exactly your favorite move. Then Polus rightly laughed at you. But now he's fallen into the same hole himself. I have to say, I don't think much of his reasoning when he conceded that doing injustice is more disgraceful than suffering it — because that single concession is what let you tangle him up. He was too polite to say what he really thought, so you shut him up.

Here's the truth, Socrates. You claim to be pursuing truth, but what you're really doing is appealing to popular, conventional morality — which isn't natural at all. Nature and convention are usually opposites. If a person is too polite to say what he really thinks, he ends up contradicting himself. And you, clever as you are, exploit this ruthlessly — when someone argues based on convention, you hit him with nature, and when he argues from nature, you slide back to convention.

That's exactly what you did in this discussion about doing and suffering injustice. When Polus was talking about what's conventionally disgraceful, you attacked him from the perspective of nature. Because by nature, suffering injustice is the greater disgrace — because it's the greater evil. But by convention, doing injustice is considered more disgraceful.

Suffering injustice isn't something a real man does. It's what a slave does — someone who'd be better off dead, since he can't defend himself or protect anyone he cares about.

Here's what I think. The people who make the laws are the majority — the weak. They make their laws and distribute praise and blame to suit themselves and protect their own interests. They try to frighten stronger men — the ones capable of taking more — by saying that taking more than your share is "shameful" and "unjust." They call it "injustice" when someone tries to have more than everyone else. They're happy with equality because they know they're inferior.

That's why, by convention, it's called "shameful" and "unjust" to seek more than the many. But nature herself tells a very different story. Nature shows — among human beings, among animals, among whole cities and nations — that justice means the superior ruling over the inferior and having more than them. On what principle of justice did Xerxes invade Greece, or his father invade Scythia? I could give countless examples. These men acted according to nature — according to the law of nature, if not the artificial law that we invent and impose on people.

We take the best and strongest from their youth upward, and we tame them like young lions. We charm them with speeches and lullabies, telling them that equality is the way, that the equal is the honorable and the just. But if a man with enough strength ever appeared, he'd shake off all these chains, break through and escape. He'd trample our rules and spells and charms and all our laws that go against nature. The slave would rise up and become master, and the light of natural justice would blaze forth.

This, I believe, is what Pindar means when he says:

"Law is king of all, mortals and immortals alike" —

and, as he says, it

"Makes might into right, doing violence with the highest hand; as I infer from the deeds of Heracles, who without buying them —"

I don't remember the exact words, but the point is that Heracles drove off the cattle of Geryon without paying for them and without anyone giving them to him, because by natural right the possessions of the weaker and inferior belong to the stronger and superior.

And this is the truth. You can verify it if you'll stop playing with philosophy and move on to more important things. Philosophy, Socrates, is a fine thing if you study it in moderation at the right age. It's an elegant accomplishment for a young person. But too much of it is the ruin of a man. Even someone with natural talent, if he keeps at philosophy into later life, will inevitably be ignorant of everything a respectable person ought to know — the laws of the city, the language of business and politics, the pleasures and desires and character of real human beings. And when people like this venture into politics or business, they make fools of themselves — just as, I imagine, politicians make fools of themselves when they wander into philosophical discussions. As Euripides says:

"Every man shines in what he's best at, devoting the greatest part of his day to it" —

but anything he's inferior at, he avoids and disparages, praising its opposite only to flatter himself. The real wisdom is to combine both.

Philosophy as part of education? Excellent. Nothing wrong with a young man pursuing it. But when an older man is still at it, still hasn't put it down — I find it ridiculous, Socrates. I feel about older philosophers the way I feel about adults who lisp and play like children. When a little child lisps, it's charming — there's something graceful and natural about it. But when I hear a grown person carefully articulating baby talk, it grates. It sounds slavish. And when I see someone lisping and playing childish games at their age, their behavior strikes me as absurd, unmanly, and deserving of a slap.

I have exactly the same reaction to students of philosophy. When I see a young person engaged in philosophy, I think it suits them beautifully — it marks a free and liberal mind. A young man who neglects philosophy seems inferior to me, someone who'll never aspire to anything great or noble. But when I see someone continuing these studies in later life, refusing to give them up — I want to beat him, Socrates. A person like that, no matter how talented, becomes soft. He hides from the center of the city and the marketplace where, as the poet says, men make their names. He skulks in a corner for the rest of his life whispering with three or four admiring young men, never speaking out like a free citizen in a way that matters.

Now, Socrates, I'm genuinely fond of you. And I feel toward you the way Zethus felt toward Amphion in that play of Euripides I was just mentioning. I'm inclined to say to you what Zethus said to his brother — that you, Socrates, are neglecting the things you ought to care about, that you —

"Who have a soul so noble, wear a ridiculously boyish disguise. You couldn't make a proper argument in court, or give compelling reasons or proof, or offer bold advice for someone else."

Please don't be offended, Socrates — I'm saying this out of goodwill. But aren't you ashamed of being so defenseless? And this isn't just about you — it's about everyone who pushes philosophy too far. Suppose someone hauled you off to prison, claiming you'd done something wrong when you hadn't — you'd have no idea what to do. You'd stand there dizzy and gaping, without a word to say. And if your accuser decided to seek the death penalty — even if he were a nobody, a complete mediocrity — you'd die. How is that wise? What's the value of

"A skill that turns a man of sense into a fool" —

helpless, unable to save himself or anyone else when he's in the greatest danger, about to be stripped of everything by his enemies, living as a man with no rights? Someone who, to put it bluntly, could be slapped in the face with impunity?

So take my advice, my friend. Stop all this refuting, and instead:

"Learn the practical skills that will earn you a reputation for good sense. Leave these subtleties to others" —

call them follies or absurdities, it doesn't matter:

"They'll only make poverty the permanent guest in your house."

Stop trying to imitate these hair-splitting philosophers, Socrates. Imitate the man of substance and reputation, the man who's doing well.

Socrates: Callicles, if my soul were made of gold, wouldn't I be thrilled to find one of those touchstones they use to test gold — the very best one — so I could test my soul against it? And if the stone and I agreed my soul was genuine, I'd know I was in good shape and wouldn't need any further test.

Callicles: What are you getting at, Socrates?

Socrates: I'll tell you. I think I've found the perfect touchstone — in you.

Callicles: Why me?

Socrates: Because I'm confident that if you agree with any opinion my soul holds, it must be true. To properly test whether a soul is living well or badly, a person needs three qualities: knowledge, goodwill, and candor. You have all three.

Many people I meet can't test me properly because they're not knowledgeable enough — unlike you. Others are wise but won't tell me the truth because they don't care about me the way you do. And these two visitors — Gorgias and Polus — are undoubtedly wise men and friends of mine, but they're not candid enough. They're too polite. Their politeness is so extreme that it drove them to contradict themselves, one after the other, in front of a large audience, on matters of the highest importance.

But you have all the qualities they lack. You received an excellent education — many Athenians can confirm that. And you're my friend. How do I know? I know that you, Callicles, along with Tisander of Aphidnae, Andron son of Androtion, and Nausicydes of the deme of Cholarges, studied together — the four of you. I once overheard you all discussing how far philosophy should be pursued, and you agreed among yourselves not to push it too far. You warned each other not to get too wise for your own good, worried that too much wisdom might inadvertently ruin you. And now that I hear you giving me the same advice you gave your closest friends, I have solid evidence of your genuine goodwill toward me. And your candor — your freedom from excessive politeness — you've just demonstrated to my complete satisfaction.

So here's where we stand: if you agree with me about any point in this argument, that point has been thoroughly tested. Neither of us could have agreed from ignorance or excessive politeness or from wanting to deceive the other, since you're my friend, as you yourself say. So when you and I reach agreement, we will have arrived at the truth.

And there's no more important question, Callicles, than the one you just criticized me for pursuing — what should a person's character be? What should he devote himself to? How far should he go, in youth and in later life? If I'm making mistakes in the way I live, believe me — it's not on purpose. It's from ignorance. So don't give up advising me, now that you've started, until I've learned clearly what this thing is that I should practice and how to acquire it. And if you ever catch me agreeing with you now and then not following through later, call me a hopeless case and don't bother teaching me anymore.

But first, go back to the beginning for me. What do you and Pindar mean by natural justice? That the superior should take what belongs to the inferior by force? That the better should rule the worse and the noble have more than the common? Am I remembering your position correctly?

Callicles: Yes, that's what I said, and I stand by it.

Socrates: But do you mean the same person by "better" and "superior"? I couldn't quite follow you before. Do you mean that the stronger are the superior, and the weaker must obey the stronger? That seemed to be your point when you said great nations attack small ones in accordance with natural right — because they're superior and stronger, as though superior, stronger, and better were all the same thing? Or could the better person also be the weaker and inferior, and the superior person also be worse? Or do you define "better" as meaning the same thing as "superior"? That's the point I want you to clarify. Are "superior," "better," and "stronger" the same, or different?

Callicles: I'm telling you clearly: they're the same.

Socrates: But aren't the many naturally superior to the one — the many against whom, as you were saying, they make the laws?

Callicles: Certainly.

Socrates: Then the laws of the many are the laws of the superior?

Callicles: Very true.

Socrates: And therefore the laws of the better? Since the superior are far better, by your account?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: And since they're superior, their laws are by nature good?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: And don't the many believe — as you yourself were just saying — that justice means equality, and that doing injustice is more disgraceful than suffering it? Is that so or not? Answer me, Callicles, and don't let politeness get in the way. Do the many believe this or not? I need your answer, because if you agree with me, I want to be able to say my position has the backing of a truly competent authority.

Callicles: Fine — yes, the many do think that.

Socrates: Then it's not just convention but nature that says doing injustice is more disgraceful than suffering it, and that justice is equality. So it seems you were wrong earlier when you accused me of dishonestly playing nature against convention and convention against nature — slipping between them depending on which suited my argument.

Callicles: This man will never stop with his nonsense. At your age, Socrates, aren't you embarrassed to be playing gotcha games and pouncing on slips of the tongue? Don't you see — haven't I already told you? — that by "superior" I mean better? Do you seriously think I'm saying that if a mob of useless slaves and nobodies with nothing going for them but brute strength get together, their pronouncements count as laws?

Socrates: Well, well! Is that your position, my wise friend?

Callicles: It certainly is.

Socrates: I had a feeling something like that was on your mind, and that's exactly why I pressed the question about what you mean by "superior." I wanted to be clear. So you don't think that two people are necessarily better than one, or that your slaves are better than you just because they're stronger. Start over, then, and tell me: who are the better, if not the stronger? And I'd appreciate it if you'd tone down the lecture a bit, my good sir, or I might have to run away.

Callicles: You're being ironic.

Socrates: No, by the hero Zethus — the very one you just invoked to throw irony at me — I'm not. Just tell me: who do you mean by "the better"?

Callicles: I mean the more excellent.

Socrates: Can you see that you're just using words that don't mean anything yet — that you haven't explained a thing? Will you tell me whether by "the better" and "the superior" you mean the wiser? Or something else?

Callicles: Yes, absolutely — I mean the wiser.

Gorgias (Part 2)

Socrates: So according to you, one wise man can be superior to ten thousand fools, and he should rule over them, and they should be his subjects, and he should have more than they do. That's what I believe you're saying — and don't think I'm just playing word games — if you grant that the one is superior to the ten thousand?

Callicles: Yes, that's what I mean. And that's what I take natural justice to be — that the better and wiser should rule and have more than the inferior.

Socrates: Hold on. Let me ask you about this case: Suppose we're all gathered together, just as we are now. There are several of us, and we have a big shared supply of food and drink. Our group contains people of all different degrees of strength and weakness. Now, one of us happens to be a doctor and knows more about food than the rest. He's probably stronger than some of us and weaker than others. Wouldn't he, being wiser, also be better than us and our superior in matters of food?

Callicles: Certainly.

Socrates: So either he'll get a larger share of the food and drink because he's the better man, or he'll be in charge of distributing it all by virtue of his expertise — but he won't actually consume or use more of it himself. If he does, he'll suffer for it. His share will be more than some people's and less than others', and if he happens to be the weakest person in the group, then he — the best of us all — will get the smallest portion. Isn't that right, my friend?

Callicles: You're talking about food and drink and doctors and other nonsense. That's not what I'm talking about.

Socrates: Well, do you at least admit that the wiser person is the better one? Just answer yes or no.

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: And shouldn't the better person have a larger share?

Callicles: Not of food and drink.

Socrates: I see. Then maybe you mean coats? The most skilled weaver should have the biggest coat and the most of them, and walk around dressed in the finest fabrics?

Callicles: Oh, please — coats!

Socrates: Then what about the most skilled shoemaker? Should the best cobbler walk around in the biggest shoes and own the most pairs?

Callicles: Shoes! What nonsense are you going on about?

Socrates: Or maybe you mean farming? The wisest and best farmer should have a bigger share of seeds and use as much as possible on his own land?

Callicles: There you go again, Socrates, always saying the same thing!

Socrates: Yes, Callicles — and about the same subjects, too.

Callicles: Yes, by the gods, you're literally always going on about cobblers and laundrymen and cooks and doctors, as if any of that had anything to do with our discussion.

Socrates: Then won't you tell me in what way a man must be superior and wiser to deserve a bigger share? You won't accept my suggestions and you won't offer your own.

Callicles: I've already told you! First of all, when I say "superiors" I don't mean cobblers or cooks. I mean wise politicians who understand how to run a state — and who are not only wise but also brave enough to carry out their plans, men who won't faint from lack of nerve.

Socrates: You see, my excellent Callicles, how different my complaint about you is from yours about me? You accuse me of always saying the same thing. But I accuse you of never saying the same thing about the same topic. At one point you defined "the better and superior" as the stronger. Then you switched to the wiser. And now you're introducing yet another idea — the superior and the better are now the more courageous. I really wish you'd just tell me, once and for all, who you mean by "the better and superior," and in what way they're better.

Callicles: I've already told you — I mean those who are wise and courageous in governing the state. They should be the rulers, and justice consists in their having more than those they rule.

Socrates: But whether they're rulers or subjects — will they or won't they have more than themselves, my friend?

Callicles: What do you mean?

Socrates: I mean that every man is his own ruler. Or maybe you think there's no need for a man to rule himself — he only needs to rule others?

Callicles: What do you mean by "ruling himself"?

Socrates: Nothing complicated. Just what everyone says: that a man should be self-controlled, master of himself, ruling over his own pleasures and desires.

Callicles: Ha! How charming. You mean those fools — the self-controlled types?

Socrates: Obviously. Anyone would know that's what I mean.

Callicles: Exactly, Socrates, and they really are fools. How can a man be happy if he's a slave to anything? No — I'll tell you plainly. The man who wants to truly live should let his desires grow as large as possible and never hold them back. And when they've reached their peak, he should have the courage and the intelligence to satisfy every one of them. That, I say, is natural justice and genuine nobility.

But most people can't achieve this. So they attack the strong out of shame at their own weakness, and that's why they say excess is disgraceful. As I said before, they try to enslave the naturally superior, and since they can't satisfy their own desires, they praise self-control and justice — out of pure cowardice.

Think about it. If a man were born the son of a king, or had a nature capable of seizing an empire or a tyranny — for a man like that, what could be more pathetic and harmful than self-control? Here he is, free to enjoy every good thing, with nobody standing in his way — and he voluntarily submits to the customs, the opinions, the judgment of ordinary people as his masters? How could the "glory" of justice and self-control do anything but make him miserable, when it stops him from giving more to his friends than to his enemies, even though he's the one running the city?

Here's the truth, Socrates, since you claim to be pursuing truth: luxury and excess and freedom, when backed by power — that's virtue, that's happiness. Everything else is just pretty-sounding nonsense — man-made agreements that go against nature, worthless talk, nothing at all.

Socrates: Well, there's a bold honesty in the way you approach this argument, Callicles. You're saying out loud what everyone else thinks but is afraid to say. So please, I'm begging you — don't hold back. We need to get to the bottom of how human life should really be lived.

So tell me: you're saying that in a properly developed man, the desires shouldn't be restrained, but we should let them grow to the maximum and find some way to satisfy them, and that this is virtue?

Callicles: Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying.

Socrates: Then people who want for nothing can't rightly be called happy?

Callicles: Of course not — if that were the case, stones and dead men would be the happiest of all.

Socrates: But the life you're describing is a frightening one. You know, I wouldn't be surprised if Euripides was right when he said:

"Who knows if life is really death, and death is life?"

Maybe we're already dead. I once heard a philosopher say that right now, in this moment, we're actually dead — that the body is our tomb, and the part of the soul where desires live is tossed around and buffeted by every impulse. And there was some clever thinker — probably Sicilian or Italian — who played with words and called the soul a "vessel," and called the foolish "the uninitiated" or "the leaky ones." He compared the place in their souls where desires live — the uncontrolled, insatiable part — to a container full of holes, because it can never be filled.

Now this thinker completely disagrees with you, Callicles. He says that among all the souls in Hades — meaning the unseen world — these "leaky" souls are the most wretched of all. They spend eternity pouring water into a container full of holes using a sieve that's just as full of holes. That sieve, my source tells me, represents the soul — and the soul he's comparing to a sieve is the soul of the foolish person, which is likewise full of holes and can hold nothing, because of bad memory and lack of conviction.

Now, these ideas are pretty strange, I admit. But they illustrate the principle I'd love to prove to you: that you should change your mind and choose a life that's orderly and sufficient, with enough for your daily needs, instead of the insatiable, uncontrolled life you're praising.

Am I making any impression on you? Are you coming around to the idea that the disciplined life is happier than the undisciplined one? Or am I failing to persuade you, and no matter how many stories I tell, you'll stick to your position?

Callicles: That last one, Socrates, is closer to the truth.

Socrates: All right, let me try another image from the same school of thought. Consider this as a picture of the two lives — the self-controlled and the uncontrolled.

Imagine two men, each with a large number of storage jars. The first man's jars are sound and full — one of wine, another of honey, a third of milk, and so on. The streams that fill them are scarce and hard to come by, requiring enormous effort. But once his jars are filled, he doesn't need to worry about them. He's done. He can relax.

The second man can also find streams to fill his jars, though not without difficulty. But his jars are cracked and leaky. Day and night he's forced to keep refilling them, and if he stops even for a moment, he's in agony.

Those are the two lives. Now would you say the uncontrolled life is happier than the disciplined one? Does this convince you at all that the opposite of what you believe is true?

Callicles: You don't convince me, Socrates. The man who's already filled up has no pleasure left. That's the life of a stone, like I said — no joy, no pain, once you're full. Real pleasure comes from the constant flow of more pouring in.

Socrates: But the more you pour in, the more waste there is. The holes have to be pretty big for that much to leak out.

Callicles: Certainly.

Socrates: So the life you're actually describing isn't the life of a dead man or a stone — it's the life of a cormorant. Always hungry, always eating.

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: And always thirsty, always drinking?

Callicles: Yes, exactly. A man should have all his desires alive and active, and live happily by gratifying them.

Socrates: Wonderful, excellent! Keep going as you've begun, and don't hold back out of embarrassment. And I shouldn't hold back either. So first, tell me: does the life of someone who itches and scratches count? If you could spend your whole life itching and scratching to your heart's content, would that be a happy life?

Callicles: What a bizarre person you are, Socrates! A total demagogue.

Socrates: That's exactly why I managed to shock Polus and Gorgias into being too embarrassed to say what they really thought. But you — you won't be embarrassed, and you won't back down. You're a brave man. So answer my question.

Callicles: Fine. I'll say that even the scratcher would live pleasantly.

Socrates: And if pleasantly, then happily?

Callicles: Sure.

Socrates: But what if the itching isn't limited to the head? Shall I keep pushing this? Think about how you'd answer, Callicles, if the consequences are pressed to their conclusion — especially if I end up asking whether the life of a catamite is a terrible, foul, wretched thing. Or would you dare to say that even they're happy, as long as they get enough of what they want?

Callicles: Aren't you ashamed, Socrates, to drag the conversation to places like that?

Socrates: Excuse me, my fine friend, but am I the one who dragged us here? Or is it the man who says, without any qualification, that everyone who feels pleasure in whatever way is happy, and draws no distinction between good and bad pleasures? I'm still asking: do you say that pleasure and good are the same thing, or is there some pleasure that isn't good?

Callicles: Well, for the sake of consistency, I'll say they're the same.

Socrates: You're breaking our original agreement, Callicles. You won't be a satisfactory partner in the search for truth if you start saying things you don't actually believe.

Callicles: But that's exactly what you do too, Socrates.

Socrates: Then we're both in the wrong. Still, my dear friend, please consider whether pleasure, from whatever source, really is the good. Because if that's true, then all the unpleasant consequences I just hinted at will follow, along with many others.

Callicles: That's just your opinion, Socrates.

Socrates: And do you, Callicles, seriously stand by what you're saying?

Callicles: I absolutely do.

Socrates: All right then, since you're in earnest — shall we proceed with the argument?

Callicles: By all means.

Socrates: Good. If you're willing, settle this question for me: there's something you'd call knowledge, isn't there?

Callicles: There is.

Socrates: And weren't you saying just now that some courage involves knowledge?

Callicles: I was.

Socrates: And you spoke of courage and knowledge as two different things?

Callicles: I certainly did.

Socrates: And would you say that pleasure and knowledge are the same, or not the same?

Callicles: Not the same, oh wise one.

Socrates: And would you say courage is different from pleasure?

Callicles: Obviously.

Socrates: Good. Let's make a note: Callicles of Acharnae says that pleasure and good are the same thing, but that knowledge and courage are not the same as each other, nor the same as the good.

Callicles: And what does our friend Socrates of Alopece say? Does he agree, or not?

Socrates: He does not. And neither will Callicles, once he sees himself clearly. Tell me — you'd agree that good fortune and bad fortune are opposites?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: And if they're opposites, then they must exclude each other, the way health and sickness do? A man can't be both healthy and sick at the same time, and he can't lose both at the same time?

Callicles: What do you mean?

Socrates: Take any part of the body. A man might have an eye disease — say, ophthalmia.

Callicles: Sure.

Socrates: But he can't have healthy eyes and diseased eyes at the same time, can he?

Callicles: Certainly not.

Socrates: And when the disease goes away, he doesn't lose the health of his eyes along with it? He doesn't lose both at once?

Callicles: Certainly not.

Socrates: That would be absurd, wouldn't it?

Callicles: Very.

Socrates: Rather, he has them and loses them in alternation?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: And the same goes for strength and weakness — they come and go in turns?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: Speed and slowness too?

Callicles: Certainly.

Socrates: And does a person have good fortune and happiness, and their opposites — misfortune and misery — in the same alternating way?

Callicles: Certainly.

Socrates: So if we find something that a person has and doesn't have at the same time, that thing clearly can't be the good and the bad. Do we agree? Think carefully before you answer.

Callicles: I entirely agree.

Socrates: Good. Now go back to what we agreed on earlier. Did you say that hunger — the mere state of being hungry — is pleasant or painful?

Callicles: I said it's painful. But eating when you're hungry is pleasant.

Socrates: I know. But the actual hunger itself is painful, right?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: And thirst is painful too?

Callicles: Yes, very.

Socrates: Do I need to bring up more examples, or would you agree that all wants and desires are painful?

Callicles: I agree. No need for more examples.

Socrates: Good. And you'd agree that drinking when you're thirsty is pleasant?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: And in the sentence you just said, the word "thirsty" implies pain?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: And "drinking" expresses pleasure — the satisfaction of a want?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: There's pleasure in drinking?

Callicles: Certainly.

Socrates: When you're thirsty?

Socrates: And in pain?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: Do you see the point? Pleasure and pain are happening simultaneously. When you say "being thirsty, you drink," those two things are occurring at the same time, affecting the same part of you — whether body or soul doesn't matter. Isn't that right?

Callicles: It is.

Socrates: But you also said that no one can have good fortune and bad fortune at the same time?

Callicles: Yes, I did.

Socrates: Yet you've just admitted that someone in pain can also be feeling pleasure?

Callicles: Clearly.

Socrates: Then pleasure isn't the same as good fortune, and pain isn't the same as bad fortune. Therefore, the good is not the same as the pleasant.

Callicles: I wish I knew what all your quibbling is getting at, Socrates.

Socrates: Oh, you know perfectly well, Callicles. You're just pretending you don't.

Callicles: Fine, keep going, and stop fooling around. Then you'll see what a brilliant advisor you are.

Socrates: Doesn't a man stop being thirsty and stop feeling the pleasure of drinking at the same moment?

Callicles: I have no idea what you're talking about.

Gorgias: Come now, Callicles — answer, if only for our sake. We'd like to hear the argument through.

Callicles: Yes, Gorgias, but this is Socrates all over — always arguing about petty, trivial questions.

Gorgias: What does it matter? Your reputation isn't at stake. Just let Socrates argue in his own way.

Callicles: Fine then, Socrates, go ahead with your petty little questions, since Gorgias wants to hear them.

Socrates: I envy you, Callicles — you've been initiated into the great mysteries before the lesser ones. I didn't think that was permitted! But back to the argument: doesn't a man stop being thirsty and stop feeling the pleasure of drinking at the same moment?

Callicles: True.

Socrates: And if he's hungry or has any other desire, doesn't the desire and the pleasure of satisfying it cease at the same moment?

Callicles: Very true.

Socrates: So he stops feeling pain and pleasure at the same moment?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: But he doesn't stop having good and bad at the same moment — you already agreed to that. Do you still hold to it?

Callicles: Yes, I do. But what's the inference?

Socrates: The inference, my friend, is this: the good is not the same as the pleasant, and the bad is not the same as the painful. Pleasure and pain cease together, at the same moment. But good and bad don't, because they're different things.

How, then, can pleasure be identical with the good, or pain with the bad?

And here's another way to look at it, one I don't think you've considered: aren't people good because good is present in them, the way people are beautiful because beauty is present in them?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: And would you call fools and cowards good people? You said earlier that the courageous and the wise are the good. That's still your view?

Callicles: Certainly.

Socrates: Now, have you ever seen a foolish child feeling happy?

Callicles: Yes, I have.

Socrates: And a foolish adult too?

Callicles: Yes, certainly. But where are you going with this?

Socrates: Nowhere in particular — just answer.

Callicles: Yes, I have.

Socrates: And have you ever seen a wise person happy or unhappy?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: Which group feels more joy and sorrow — the wise or the foolish?

Callicles: I'd say they're pretty much the same in that regard.

Socrates: Fine. And have you ever seen a coward in battle?

Callicles: Of course.

Socrates: And when the enemy retreated, who felt more joy — the coward or the brave man?

Callicles: I'd say both felt a lot of joy. Or at least roughly equal amounts.

Socrates: Doesn't matter. The point is that cowards, not just brave men, feel joy?

Callicles: Very much so.

Socrates: And fools feel it too, it seems?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: And when the enemy approaches — are only the cowards pained, or are the brave also pained?

Callicles: Both.

Socrates: Equally?

Callicles: I'd imagine the cowards are pained more.

Socrates: And they're probably more pleased when the enemy leaves?

Callicles: I suppose so.

Socrates: So the foolish and the wise, the cowardly and the brave, all feel pleasure and pain in roughly equal measure — but the cowards feel them even more intensely?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: But surely the wise and brave are the good, and the foolish and cowardly are the bad?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: Then the good and the bad feel pleasure and pain in roughly equal degree?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: So then — are the good and bad equally good and bad? Or do the bad perhaps have the advantage, since they experience more of both pleasure and pain?

Callicles: I really don't know what you're getting at.

Socrates: Don't you remember? You said people are good because good is present in them, and bad because bad is present in them. And you said pleasures are goods and pains are bads.

Callicles: Yes, I remember.

Socrates: And aren't these pleasures — these goods — present in people who feel joy?

Callicles: Certainly.

Socrates: Then people who feel joy are good, since goods are present in them?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: And people in pain have bad — sorrow — present in them?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: And you'd still say the bad are bad because of the presence of bad in them?

Callicles: I would.

Socrates: Then whoever feels joy is good, and whoever feels pain is bad?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: And the degree of good and bad varies with the degree of pleasure and pain?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: And the wise man and the fool, the brave man and the coward — they all feel joy and pain in roughly equal measure? Or did you say the coward feels even more?

Callicles: I said he does.

Socrates: Then help me draw out the conclusion that follows from what we've agreed. As they say, good things are worth saying twice or even three times. We agreed that the wise and the brave are good?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: And the foolish and the cowardly are bad?

Callicles: Certainly.

Socrates: And whoever feels joy is good?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: And whoever is in pain is bad?

Callicles: Certainly.

Socrates: And the good and the bad both feel joy and pain — but perhaps the bad feel more of both?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: Then we're forced to conclude that the bad man is just as good and bad as the good man — or maybe even more so? Isn't that a further consequence that follows inevitably from saying the good and the pleasant are the same? Can this be denied, Callicles?

Callicles: I've been sitting here listening and agreeing with you, Socrates, and I notice that when someone gives you something in play, you grab hold of it like a child and won't give it back. But do you really believe that I — or anyone else — denies that some pleasures are good and others bad?

Socrates: Oh, Callicles, how unfair you are! You're treating me like a child — saying one thing one moment and something different the next, as if you're deliberately trying to mislead me. I thought at first you were my friend and wouldn't deceive me if you could help it. But I see I was wrong. So I suppose I'll have to make the best of a bad situation, as the old saying goes, and take what I can get.

Well then, let me make sure I understand you: I may now assume that some pleasures are good and others are bad?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: The beneficial ones are good, and the harmful ones are bad?

Callicles: Of course.

Socrates: And the beneficial ones are those that produce some good result, and the harmful ones produce some bad result?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: Take, for example, the bodily pleasures of eating and drinking we were just discussing. You'd say the ones that promote health or some other physical excellence are good, and their opposites are bad?

Callicles: Certainly.

Socrates: And in the same way, there are good pains and bad pains?

Callicles: Of course.

Socrates: And shouldn't we choose and pursue the good pleasures and pains?

Callicles: Certainly.

Socrates: But not the bad ones?

Callicles: Clearly.

Socrates: Because — if you remember — Polus and I agreed that everything we do should be done for the sake of the good. Will you join us in saying that the good is the goal of all our actions, and that we should do everything for the sake of the good, not pursue the good for the sake of something else? Will you add your vote to our two?

Callicles: I will.

Socrates: Then pleasure, like everything else, should be pursued for the sake of the good — not the good for the sake of pleasure?

Callicles: Certainly.

Socrates: But can just anyone tell which pleasures are good and which are bad? Or does that require skill and knowledge?

Callicles: It requires skill.

Socrates: Now let me remind you of what I was saying to Gorgias and Polus. I argued that there are some activities that aim only at pleasure and know nothing about what's better or worse, and other activities that know about good and bad. I put cooking — which I don't call a real craft but just a knack — in the first category, the one concerned only with pleasure. And I put medicine in the category concerned with the good.

Now, I'm begging you, Callicles, by the god of friendship — don't joke around, and don't think I'm joking with you. Don't just answer randomly or contrary to what you really believe. Because consider: we're arguing about how a human life should be lived. And for any person with sense, what question could possibly be more serious than this? Whether a man should follow the path you're urging on me — doing what you call "the manly thing," speaking in the assembly, practicing rhetoric, going into politics as it's currently done — or whether he should pursue the life of philosophy? And what the difference is between those two ways of living.

Maybe we should first try to distinguish them clearly, as I did before. Once we agree they're distinct, we can consider how they differ and which one we should choose.

But perhaps you don't understand what I mean?

Callicles: No, I don't.

Socrates: Then let me spell it out. You and I have agreed that there's such a thing as the good, and such a thing as pleasure, and that pleasure isn't the same as the good, and that the pursuit of one is different from the pursuit of the other. I just want to confirm — do you agree with me on this?

Callicles: I do.

Socrates: Good. Now tell me if you also agree with what I said next to Gorgias and Polus: that cooking, in my view, is not a true craft but only a knack. It goes after pleasure without ever considering the nature or cause of that pleasure. It never reflects or calculates — it just works by routine and experience, remembering what it usually does to produce pleasure.

Medicine, on the other hand, is a genuine craft. It studies the nature and constitution of its patient, understands the principles behind its actions, and can give a reasoned account of everything it does.

Now here's my question: aren't there similar processes that deal with the soul? Some that are genuine crafts, providing for the soul's highest interest — and others that ignore the soul's real welfare and care only about how to give it pleasure, without ever asking whether that pleasure is good or bad, aiming at nothing except gratification?

In my view, Callicles, this is what I call flattery — whether it's directed at the body or the soul, whenever it aims at pleasure with no concern for good and bad.

Do you agree with this, or do you disagree?

Callicles: I don't disagree. I agree — so that I can bring this argument to an end sooner and do my friend Gorgias a favor.

Socrates: And is this true of one soul, or of two or more?

Callicles: Equally true of two or more.

Socrates: Then a man could delight a whole crowd while having no concern whatsoever for their real interests?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: Can you tell me which pursuits delight people? Or rather, let me ask and you answer. Which of them belong to the purely pleasurable category, and which don't? Take flute-playing, for instance. Doesn't that seem like a craft that aims only at pleasure, Callicles, with no thought for anything else?

Callicles: I'd say so.

Socrates: And isn't the same true of all similar arts — like playing the lyre at festivals?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: And what about choral performances and dithyrambic poetry? Aren't they the same? Do you think Cinesias the son of Meles cares about the moral improvement of his audience, or just about pleasing the crowd?

Callicles: Obviously the latter, with Cinesias.

Socrates: And what about his father, Meles the harpist? Did he ever perform with any concern for his audience's good? Could you even say he cared about their pleasure? His singing was a punishment for anyone listening! And what about harp-playing and dithyrambic poetry in general? Haven't they been invented purely for the sake of pleasure?

Callicles: That's how I see it.

Socrates: And what about that solemn and majestic lady — the Muse of Tragedy? What are her aspirations? Does she only try to please the audience? Or does she fight against them, refusing to cater to their pleasant vices, and willingly speak truths that are welcome and unwelcome alike? Which is it, in your view?

Callicles: There's no question, Socrates — Tragedy is all about pleasure and gratifying the audience.

Socrates: And isn't that exactly the kind of thing we were calling flattery?

Callicles: Quite right.

Socrates: Well now, suppose we strip away the melody and rhythm and meter from poetry. What's left? Just speech, isn't it?

Callicles: Of course.

Socrates: And this speech is addressed to a crowd?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: So poetry is a kind of rhetoric?

Callicles: True.

Socrates: And don't the poets in the theaters strike you as rhetoricians?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: So we've discovered a form of rhetoric aimed at a crowd of men, women, and children, free and slave. And it's not a form we think much of, since we've identified it as a kind of flattery.

Callicles: Right.

Socrates: Very well. And what about the other kind of rhetoric — the kind that addresses the Athenian assembly and the assemblies of other free cities? Do the orators always aim at what's best? Do they try to improve the citizens through their speeches? Or are they just like everyone else — bent on pleasing people, forgetting the public good for the sake of their own interests, playing with the people like children, trying to amuse them, never caring whether the people end up better or worse for it?

Callicles: I'd have to make a distinction. Some orators genuinely care about the public good in what they say. Others are exactly as you describe.

Socrates: Fair enough. I'm satisfied with the admission that rhetoric comes in two kinds: one that's pure flattery and shameful pandering, and another that's noble and aims to train and improve the citizens' souls, striving to say what's best whether or not people want to hear it. But have you ever encountered this noble kind of rhetoric? If you have, tell me — who practices it?

Callicles: Well, to be honest, I can't name anyone among the orators currently alive.

Socrates: What about past generations? Can you name anyone who actually improved the Athenians — who found them worse and left them better from the day he started speaking?

Callicles: What! Didn't you ever hear that Themistocles was a great man? And Cimon and Miltiades and Pericles — who just recently died, and whom you yourself heard speak?

Socrates: Yes, Callicles, they were good men — if, as you originally said, true virtue consists in satisfying your own desires and those of others. But if that's not virtue — if, as we were later forced to acknowledge, satisfying some desires makes us better while satisfying others makes us worse, and there's a real skill in telling the difference — can you tell me which of these statesmen knew how to make that distinction?

Callicles: No, I honestly can't.

Socrates: But if you look carefully, you'll find such a person. Let's just calmly consider whether any of them fits the description. Won't a good man, when he speaks, always speak with reference to some standard, and not at random? Just as every craftsman — the painter, the builder, the shipwright — looks to his own work and doesn't apply materials randomly, but strives to give his creation a definite form. Each craftsman arranges everything in order and makes every part harmonize with every other part, until he's constructed a regular, organized whole.

This is true of all craftsmen, and it's equally true of the trainers and doctors we were talking about — they bring order and structure to the body. You don't deny this?

Callicles: No, I'll admit it.

Socrates: Then a house where order and structure prevail is a good house, and one where disorder reigns is a bad house?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: And the same goes for a ship?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: And the same for the human body?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: And what about the soul? Is the good soul one where disorder prevails, or one where there's harmony and order?

Callicles: From what we've already agreed, it has to be the latter.

Socrates: What's the name we give to the effect of harmony and order in the body?

Callicles: I suppose you mean health and strength?

Socrates: Exactly. And what name would you give to the effect of harmony and order in the soul? Try to come up with one, just as you did for the body.

Callicles: Why don't you just say it yourself, Socrates?

Socrates: Fine. If you'd prefer, I'll say it, and you can tell me whether you agree. I'd say that the orderly arrangement of the body produces what we call "health" and all the other physical excellences. Sound right?

Callicles: Right.

Socrates: And the orderly arrangement of the soul produces what we call "lawfulness" and "law" — and these are what make people lawful and orderly. And these amount to self-control and justice. Agreed?

Callicles: Granted.

Socrates: And won't the true rhetorician — the honest one who understands his craft — keep his eye on these qualities in every word he speaks and every action he takes? Whatever he gives and whatever he takes away, his aim will be to plant justice in the souls of his citizens and root out injustice, to plant self-control and root out excess, to plant every virtue and root out every vice. Don't you agree?

Callicles: I agree.

Socrates: Because what's the point, Callicles, of giving a sick person with a broken-down body the most delicious food and drink and every pleasant thing, when it may be doing him as much harm as giving him nothing at all — or even more harm, if we calculate correctly? Isn't that true?

Callicles: I won't argue with that.

Socrates: Because in my view, there's no profit in life if the body is in a ruined state — a life like that is just living badly. Am I right?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: When someone is healthy, doctors generally let them eat when they're hungry and drink when they're thirsty and satisfy their desires as they please. But when they're sick, doctors barely let them indulge any of their desires. You'd agree with that?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: And doesn't the same reasoning apply to the soul, my good friend? While it's in a bad state — senseless, undisciplined, unjust, unholy — its desires should be restrained. It should be prevented from doing anything that doesn't lead to its improvement.

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: Because that's what's best for the soul itself?

Callicles: Of course.

Socrates: And isn't restraining the soul from its appetites a form of discipline?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: Then discipline is better for the soul than the lack of restraint — the very thing you were just praising?

Callicles: I don't understand what you're saying, Socrates. Why don't you go ask someone who does.

Socrates: Look at this, everyone! Here's a man who can't stand to be improved, who refuses to undergo the very discipline we're talking about!

Callicles: I couldn't care less about a word you're saying. I've only been answering this whole time to be polite to Gorgias.

Socrates: Well, what do we do? Just break off in the middle?

Callicles: That's your call.

Socrates: You know what they say — a story ought to have a head and not break off in the middle. I'd hate for the argument to go wandering around headless. So please, just go a little longer and help me finish it.

Callicles: You are a tyrant, Socrates! I wish you and your arguments would give it a rest, or find someone else to argue with.

Socrates: But who else is willing? I want to finish the argument.

Callicles: Can't you finish it on your own? Just talk straight through, or ask and answer your own questions?

Socrates: So I'll have to do what Epicharmus described — "Two men spoke before, but now one will have to be enough"? I suppose there's no help for it.

But if I'm going to carry on by myself, let me first say this: not only I, but all of us should want to discover what's true and what's false in these matters, because finding the truth is a common good.

So I'll proceed according to my own understanding. But if any of you think I'm reaching a false conclusion, you must jump in and refute me. I'm not speaking from some special knowledge — I'm searching, just like you. And if my opponent says something that's sound, I'll be the first to agree with him.

I'm going on the assumption that we should finish the argument. But if you'd all rather stop, let's stop and go home.

Gorgias: I don't think we should stop, Socrates. Not until you've finished the argument. I suspect the others feel the same way. I personally very much want to hear what you have to say.

Socrates: Well, I too would have liked to continue with Callicles, Gorgias — then I could have given him an "Amphion" in return for his "Zethus." But since you're unwilling to continue, Callicles, at least listen and interrupt me if I seem to be wrong. And if you refute me, I won't be angry the way you've been with me. Instead, I'll engrave your name on the tablets of my soul as my greatest benefactor.

Callicles: Just get on with it, old friend. Don't worry about me.

Socrates: Listen, then, as I summarize the argument.

Is the pleasant the same as the good? No, it isn't. Callicles and I agreed on that. Should the pleasant be pursued for the sake of the good, or the good for the sake of the pleasant? The pleasant for the sake of the good. And the pleasant is what makes us feel pleased, while the good is what makes us genuinely good? Right. And we're good — and all good things are good — when some excellence is present in us? That's my conviction.

But the excellence of anything — body, soul, tool, or creature — doesn't come about by accident. It comes through order and truth and the proper skill applied to it. Right? And isn't the excellence of each thing determined by its proper arrangement and order? Yes. And what makes anything good is having the right order inherent in it? That's my view. And isn't a soul with proper order better than one without it? Certainly. And the soul with order is an orderly soul? Of course. And the orderly soul is self-controlled? Absolutely. And the self-controlled soul is good?

I can give no other answer, dear Callicles. Can you?

Callicles: Go on, go on.

Socrates: Then I'll add this: if the self-controlled soul is the good soul, then the soul in the opposite condition — the foolish and undisciplined soul — is the bad soul. True enough.

And the self-controlled person will do what's right in relation to both gods and other people — because he wouldn't be self-controlled if he didn't. Certainly. In his dealings with other people, he'll do what's just. And in his dealings with the gods, he'll do what's holy. And the person who does what's just and holy must be a just and holy person. Absolutely true.

And he must also be courageous. Because the self-controlled person's duty is not to pursue or avoid what he shouldn't, but to pursue and avoid what he should — whether things, people, pleasures, or pains — and to endure patiently when endurance is called for.

Therefore, Callicles, the self-controlled person — being, as we've described, also just, courageous, and holy — must be a perfectly good person. And the good person must do well and excellently in whatever he does. And whoever does well must be happy and blessed. And the bad person, who does badly, must be miserable.

Now this miserable person is exactly the one you were applauding — the undisciplined person, the opposite of the self-controlled one.

That's my position, and I maintain these things are true. And if they're true, then anyone who wants to be happy must pursue and practice self-control and run away from lack of discipline as fast as his legs will carry him. The best plan is to arrange your life so you never need punishment. But if you or anyone you care about — whether an individual or a whole city — does need punishment, then justice must be done and the punishment must be accepted, if there's to be any happiness.

This, I believe, is the goal a person should aim at, directing all their energy — both personal and political — toward having self-control and justice present in their life, so they can be happy. Not letting their desires run wild, not trying to fill them up in an endless chase, living like a bandit. A person like that is no friend to gods or humans, because he's incapable of fellowship. And whoever is incapable of fellowship is incapable of friendship.

The philosophers tell us, Callicles, that fellowship, friendship, order, self-control, and justice hold together heaven and earth, gods and humans. That's why they call this universe "Cosmos" — that is, "Order" — and not "Chaos" or "Disorder." But despite your philosophical pretensions, you seem never to have noticed that proportional equality is a mighty force among gods and humans alike. You think you should cultivate excess and inequality, because you have no use for proportion.

Well then, either we must refute the principle that the happy are made happy by possessing justice and self-control, and the miserable made miserable by possessing vice — or, if we grant it, we must accept all the consequences. And all those consequences I drew earlier, Callicles — the ones you asked whether I was serious about, when I said a man should accuse himself, his son, and his friend if any of them does wrong, and use his rhetoric to that end — all those consequences are true.

And what you thought Polus only admitted out of embarrassment is actually true: doing injustice is worse than suffering it, in exact proportion to how much more shameful it is. And the other point that you said Gorgias admitted only out of embarrassment — that a true rhetorician must be just and understand justice — that turns out to be true as well.

Now, with all of this established, let's consider whether you were right to reproach me for being unable to help myself or any of my friends or family, or to save them from danger — whether I'm really at the mercy of others, like an outlaw anyone can do with as they please: box my ears (that was your bold expression), take my property, exile me, or at the worst — kill me. And you said being in that position is the ultimate disgrace.

My answer — and I've given it before, but it bears repeating — is this: to be boxed on the ears unjustly is not the worst evil that can happen to a person, nor to have my body or my wallet cut open. Rather, to strike and harm me and mine unjustly is far more shameful and evil — for the one who does the harm than for me who suffers it. To rob and enslave and plunder, or to wrong me or mine in any way — all of this is far more shameful and evil for the wrongdoer than for the victim.

These truths, established in our earlier discussion, are now, if I may put it boldly, fastened and locked down with arguments that are like chains of iron and diamond. And unless you or some even bolder hero can break them, there's no way to deny what I'm saying.

My position has always been this: I myself don't fully know how these things are, but I've never met anyone who could say otherwise without looking ridiculous. And that's still my position.

If what I'm saying is true — if injustice is the greatest evil for the person who commits it, and if there's something even worse than that, namely committing injustice and never being punished for it — then what kind of protection would it be truly ridiculous to lack? Wouldn't it be the protection that guards us against the greatest of human evils? And the very worst helplessness would be the inability to protect yourself or your family from that greatest evil. The second worst would be the inability to protect against the second greatest evil. And so on.

The greater the evil, the greater the honor of being able to prevent it, and the greater the shame of being unable to. Am I right, Callicles?

Callicles: Yes, quite right.

Socrates: So given these two evils — doing injustice and suffering injustice — and given that doing injustice is the greater evil and suffering it is the lesser — what resources does a man need to protect himself against both? Does he need only the will, or must he have the power? What I mean is: can a man avoid suffering injustice by merely wanting to avoid it, or must he have actually equipped himself with the power to avoid it?

Callicles: Obviously he must have equipped himself with the power.

Socrates: And what about doing injustice? Is the will alone enough to prevent him from committing injustice? Or must he have acquired some power and skill? Let me put it this way: if he hasn't studied and practiced, will he still commit injustice? Surely you might at least confirm, Callicles, whether Polus and I were right to conclude that no one does wrong willingly — that everyone who does wrong does so against their true will?

Callicles: Fine, granted, Socrates — if you'll just finish up.

Socrates: So it seems that power and skill must be acquired to prevent us from committing injustice?

Callicles: Certainly.

Socrates: And what skill protects us from suffering injustice — not perfectly, perhaps, but as much as possible? I want to know if you agree with me. I think such a skill belongs to someone who is either a ruler or tyrant himself, or who is an equal and intimate of the ruling power.

Callicles: Well said, Socrates. Notice how quick I am to praise you when you talk sense.

Socrates: Good. Then consider whether you'd also approve of this: it seems to me that each person is most friendly toward whoever is most like himself — "like to like," as the ancient saying goes. Would you agree?

Callicles: I would.

Socrates: But when the tyrant is crude and uneducated, he'll probably fear anyone who surpasses him in virtue, and he'll never be able to become truly close to such a person.

Callicles: That's true.

Socrates: And he won't befriend anyone far beneath him either, because he'll despise such a person and never take him seriously as a friend.

Callicles: True again.

Socrates: So the only friend worth mentioning that a tyrant can have is someone of the same character, who likes and dislikes the same things, and is willing to submit and be subservient to him. That's the person who'll have power in the state, and no one will harm him with impunity. Right?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: So if a young man in this city starts asking how he can become powerful and untouchable, this would seem to be the path: from his youth onward, he should train himself to feel the same joys and sorrows as his master, and work to become as much like him as possible?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: And in this way, according to you and your friends, he'll have achieved the goal of becoming a great man who suffers no harm?

Callicles: Very true.

Socrates: But will he also avoid doing harm? Won't the opposite be true? If he's going to be like the tyrant in his injustice and have influence with him, won't he instead try to commit as much injustice as he can — and get away with it?

Callicles: True.

Socrates: And through imitating his master and through the power he gains, won't his soul become corrupt and rotten — and won't that be the greatest evil that can happen to him?

Callicles: You always manage to turn everything upside down, Socrates. Don't you realize that the man who imitates the tyrant can simply kill the man who doesn't, and take everything he has?

Socrates: I know that perfectly well, my excellent Callicles. I'm not deaf. I've heard it a dozen times — from you, from Polus, from practically everyone in Athens. But I wish you'd hear me too. Yes, I'm sure he can kill him if he wants to — the bad man can kill the good and honest man.

Callicles: And isn't that exactly the infuriating part?

Socrates: Not to anyone with sense, as the argument shows. Do you really think our whole purpose in life should be to survive as long as possible, studying every trick to keep ourselves safe? Like that rhetoric of yours that saves people in court, which you're urging me to practice?

Callicles: Yes, and it's excellent advice, too.

Socrates: Well, my friend, what do you think of swimming? Is that an art of great distinction?

Callicles: Not really, no.

Socrates: But swimming certainly saves lives, and there are times when a person absolutely must know how to swim. And if you look down on swimmers, let me point you to an even greater art: the art of the ship's pilot, who saves not only lives but bodies and property from the most extreme danger — exactly like rhetoric. And yet his craft is modest and unpretentious. It doesn't strut around claiming to do anything extraordinary.

In exchange for delivering the very same salvation that the courtroom orator provides, the pilot charges only two obols for the trip from Aegina to Athens, or at most two drachmas for a longer voyage from the Black Sea or Egypt — after he's saved the passenger, his wife, his children, and all their belongings, and landed them safely at the Piraeus. And then the master pilot, who's done all this, just steps off the ship and strolls along the waterfront without any fanfare.

And here's why: he's wise enough to reflect that he has no way of knowing which of his passengers he's actually benefited and which he's harmed by not letting them drown. He knows they're exactly the same when they step off the ship as when they stepped on — not one bit better, either in body or in soul. He reasons that if someone afflicted with severe, incurable physical diseases has merely been saved from drowning, that person is to be pitied, not congratulated. And much more so for someone with severe, incurable diseases not of the body but of the soul — which is the more important part. Life isn't worth living and holds no profit for the bad person, whether they're rescued from the sea, from the courtroom, or from any other devourer. Such a person would be better off not living, since they cannot live well.

That's why the pilot, though he saves lives, isn't usually conceited — any more than the military engineer, who sometimes saves entire cities and is every bit as effective as any general, pilot, or anyone else. Would you compare him to the courtroom pleader? And yet, Callicles, if the engineer were to talk in your high-flown style, he could bury you under a mountain of words, insisting that we should all become engineers and that no other profession is worth a second thought — he'd have plenty of material. But you despise him and his craft. You call him "engineer" as a put-down. You wouldn't let your daughters marry his son, or your son marry his daughter.

Yet on your own principles, what reason could you have for looking down on him? What right do you have to despise the engineer, or the pilot, or the others I mentioned? I know you'll say, "I'm a better man, from a better family." But if "better" isn't what I say it is — if virtue is nothing more than saving yourself and your property, regardless of your character — then your contempt for the engineer, the doctor, and every other lifesaving craft is absurd.

My friend, I want you to consider the possibility that what's noble and good might be something quite different from merely saving yourself and being saved. Maybe a true person should stop worrying about how long they'll live. They should leave that to God, trusting what the women say — that "no one escapes fate" — and instead focus on how best to spend whatever time they're given.

Should they conform to the character of whatever government they live under? Right now, for instance, you have to consider how to become as much like the Athenian people as possible if you want their favor and power in the state. But I want you to ask yourself whether that's truly good for either of us.

I wouldn't want us to risk what matters most — our souls — for the sake of acquiring this power. That would be like those Thessalian sorceresses who, they say, can drag the moon down from the sky but destroy themselves in the process.

And if you think someone can teach you to become powerful in this city without becoming like the city for better or worse, then I'm afraid you're mistaken, Callicles. You can't just imitate them — you have to actually become like them by nature. The person who will make you most like the Athenian people will give you what you want: political power. Because everyone likes to be addressed in their own spirit and language, and dislikes anything foreign to them.

Unless you, sweet Callicles, think otherwise? What do you say?

Callicles: Somehow your words always strike me as true, Socrates. And yet — like most people — I'm not quite convinced.

Socrates: That's because the love of the People that lives in your soul is fighting against me. But I suspect that if we return to these same questions and examine them more thoroughly, you might be convinced yet.

Just remember: we said there are two approaches to caring for anything, body or soul. One aims at pleasure, the other at the highest good. The second doesn't indulge but resists. That was our distinction, wasn't it?

Callicles: Very true.

Socrates: And the one aimed at pleasure was just a kind of vulgar flattery — that was another of our conclusions?

Callicles: Fine, if you insist.

Socrates: And the other aimed at the greatest improvement of whatever it was caring for, whether body or soul?

Callicles: Quite true.

Socrates: And shouldn't we approach the care of our city and its citizens the same way? Shouldn't we try to make the citizens as good as possible? Because, as we've already established, there's no use in giving people any other good — money, office, or any kind of power — unless the minds of those receiving it are decent and good. Shall we agree on that?

Callicles: Sure, if you like.

Socrates: Well then, if you and I, Callicles, were planning to take on some public building project — walls, docks, temples on the largest scale — shouldn't we first examine whether we know the art of building, and who taught it to us? Wouldn't that be necessary?

Callicles: True.

Socrates: And second, we should ask whether we've ever built anything, either for ourselves or for our friends, and whether those buildings turned out well. If we'd had good, distinguished teachers and had successfully completed many fine buildings — not only with their help but also on our own — then it would be reasonable for us to move on to public projects. But if we couldn't point to any teacher, and had only a collection of worthless buildings to our name — or none at all — then it would be absurd for us to attempt public works or encourage each other to try. Isn't that fair?

Callicles: Certainly.

Socrates: And doesn't the same principle hold everywhere? If you and I were doctors and wanted to set ourselves up as public physicians, wouldn't I need to examine your credentials and you mine? "So, how about Socrates himself — is he in good health? Has he ever cured anyone, free or slave?" And I'd ask the same about you. And if we discovered that nobody — citizen or foreigner, man or woman — had ever gotten better through our medical skill, then, by heaven, Callicles, wouldn't it be absurd to set ourselves up as public physicians and advise others to do the same, without having first practiced in private and gained real experience? That would be like what they say about starting with the big jar when you're learning the potter's art — a foolish way to begin.

Callicles: True.

Socrates: And now, my friend — since you're already beginning your public career and are lecturing me for not starting mine — suppose we examine each other. Tell me: has Callicles ever made anyone a better person? Was there ever someone who was vicious, unjust, undisciplined, or foolish, and who became good and noble through Callicles' influence? Was there ever such a person — citizen or foreigner, slave or free? Tell me, Callicles. If someone asked you this question, what would you say? Who would you claim to have improved through your conversation? There may be good deeds like that from your private life, before you entered politics. Why won't you answer?

Callicles: You just love to argue, Socrates.

Socrates: No, I'm not asking this out of argumentativeness. I really want to know how you think the city ought to be governed — whether you have any aim other than improving the citizens when you go into public life. Haven't we already agreed, several times over, that this is the duty of a public man? We have, haven't we? For if you won't answer for yourself, I'll have to answer for you.

But if this is what a good man should accomplish for his own state, then let me bring back the names you just mentioned: Pericles, Cimon, Miltiades, Themistocles. Do you still think they were good citizens?

Callicles: I do.

Socrates: But if they were good, then each of them must have made the citizens better rather than worse?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: So when Pericles first started speaking before the assembly, the Athenians should have been worse than when he gave his last speech?

Callicles: I suppose so.

Socrates: Not "I suppose so," my friend — it follows necessarily, if he was a good citizen.

Callicles: And what difference does that make?

Socrates: None at all. But tell me this: are the Athenians generally thought to have been improved by Pericles, or corrupted? Because what I hear is that Pericles was the first to give the people a state salary, and that he made them idle and cowardly and encouraged their love of talk and money.

Callicles: You heard that from the pro-Spartan crowd, Socrates — the ones who bash their ears up wrestling.

Socrates: But what I'm about to tell you isn't hearsay. It's something both you and I know perfectly well. At first, Pericles was brilliant and no Athenian charged him with any crime — that was when the Athenians were supposedly not yet "improved." But later, after he'd supposedly made them good and gentle, at the very end of his life, they convicted him of theft and nearly sentenced him to death, clearly on the belief that he was a criminal.

Callicles: Well, how does that prove Pericles was bad?

Socrates: Think about it this way. Wouldn't you say that a man who received donkeys or horses or cattle that didn't kick or butt or bite, and then returned them with all these savage tendencies, was a bad handler of those animals? Wouldn't any manager of animals who received them tame and made them wilder be a bad manager? What do you say?

Callicles: I'll do you the favor of saying yes.

Socrates: And will you also do me the favor of saying whether a human being is an animal?

Callicles: Obviously.

Socrates: And Pericles was a shepherd of human beings?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: Then if he was a good political shepherd, his flock should have become more just, not more unjust — as we just agreed?

Callicles: Quite true.

Socrates: And just people are gentle, as Homer says — or do you disagree?

Callicles: I agree.

Socrates: But in fact, Pericles made them more savage than he found them, and their savageness was turned against him personally — which is the last thing he would have wanted.

Callicles: Do you want me to agree with you?

Socrates: If you think I'm telling the truth, yes.

Callicles: Granted, then.

Socrates: And if they became more savage, they must have become more unjust and worse?

Callicles: Granted again.

Socrates: Then, by this reasoning, Pericles was not a good statesman.

Callicles: At least that's your view.

Socrates: No, it's your view too, based on what you've admitted. Now take Cimon. Didn't the very people he served ostracize him, so they wouldn't have to hear his voice for ten years? They did the same to Themistocles — and added exile on top of it. And Miltiades, the hero of Marathon — they voted to throw him into the execution pit, and he was only saved by the chief magistrate's intervention.

If these men had really been good, as you claim, none of this would have happened. Good charioteers don't start out keeping their place, break in their horses, become better drivers, and then get thrown out. That doesn't happen in chariot-driving or any other profession. Does it?

Callicles: I'd think not.

Socrates: So the truth is what I said earlier: no one in Athenian history has ever shown himself to be a truly good statesman. You admitted this was true of current statesmen but insisted the earlier ones were better. But they've turned out to be no better. If they were rhetoricians, they used neither true rhetoric nor flattery effectively — otherwise they wouldn't have fallen from favor.

Callicles: But surely, Socrates, no one alive today has come anywhere near their achievements.

Socrates: Oh, my friend, I'm not criticizing them as servants of the state. In fact, I think they were considerably more effective servants than today's politicians — better at gratifying the people's wishes. But when it comes to transforming those wishes, not just indulging them — using their powers of persuasion or authority to actually improve their fellow citizens, which is the whole point of being a truly good citizen — I don't see that they were one bit superior to today's politicians, even though I agree they were better at building ships and walls and docks and accumulating revenue.

You and I keep going around and around in circles, Callicles, constantly misunderstanding each other. If I'm not mistaken, you've admitted several times that there are two kinds of processes that deal with the body and two that deal with the soul. One serves their immediate wants — feeding the hungry, giving drink to the thirsty, warming the cold, providing clothes and shoes and blankets and everything they crave. I'm deliberately using the same examples as before, so you'll follow me.

The person who supplies these things — whether wholesale or retail or as the actual maker, whether baker, cook, weaver, shoemaker, or leather-worker — is naturally assumed by himself and everyone else to be a proper caretaker of the body. None of them realize there's another art — the art of physical training and medicine — that is the true caretaker of the body and that should be the master of all these other trades, directing their products according to genuine knowledge of what's really good or bad for the body. All these other body-related trades are subordinate and servile, while physical training and medicine are rightfully their masters.

Now, when I say the exact same thing about the soul, you seem at first to understand and agree. But then, a little while later, you come back and say "What about Athens' great and noble citizens?" — and when I ask who they are, you answer as though I'd asked "Who are the great physical trainers?" and you'd replied, "Well, Thearion the baker, Mithoecus who wrote the Sicilian cookbook, and Sarambus the wine merchant — these are magnificent servants of the body, first-rate in their craft! The first bakes brilliant bread, the second cooks exquisite dishes, and the third blends superb wine."

You'd be pretty annoyed if I said, "My friend, you know nothing about physical training. You're naming servants and suppliers of luxury, people with no real understanding of health, who may well be stuffing and fattening people's bodies, winning their praise even as they destroy their original flesh, so that people actually end up thinner than when they started. And the people, in their ignorance, won't blame their feeders for their illness and weight loss. Instead, when years of unhealthy excess finally bring the inevitable disease, they'll turn on whoever happens to be near them at the time and blame that person. But the ones who actually caused the damage? They'll be praised to the skies."

That, Callicles, is exactly what you're doing. You praise the men who feasted the citizens and gave them whatever they wanted, and people say these leaders "made the city great." But they don't notice that the city is swollen and festering because of these earlier statesmen. They stuffed it full of harbors, dockyards, walls, and tribute money — all without justice or self-control. And when the crisis finally comes, the people will blame their advisors of the moment while praising Themistocles and Cimon and Pericles — the ones who actually caused the catastrophe. And if you're not careful, they'll come after you and my friend Alcibiades, when they start losing not just their recent gains but their original possessions too. Not that you're the primary authors of these disasters — but you may be accessories.

I see it happening now, just as it always has, and I hear it discussed constantly. Whenever the state turns on one of its statesmen as a criminal, there's a great uproar and outrage at the supposed injustice — "After all his years of service to the state, they unjustly destroy him!" That's the story. But it's a lie. No statesman has ever been unjustly ruined by the city he leads.

The case of the politician is actually a lot like the case of the Sophist. The Sophists, for all their supposed wisdom, are guilty of the strangest contradiction. They claim to be teachers of virtue — and then turn around and accuse their students of cheating them, not paying their fees, and showing no gratitude for their services! But what could be more absurd than this? Men who've been made just and good, who've had their injustice removed and justice planted in them by their teachers — and then they supposedly act unjustly because of an injustice that no longer exists in them? Can anything be more irrational, my friends?

See, Callicles — you're forcing me to be a demagogue, speechifying at length, because you refuse to answer.

Callicles: And you're the man who can't say a word unless someone answers you?

Socrates: Apparently I can manage. As you can see, right now my speeches are long enough, since you refuse to respond. But please, my good friend, by the god of friendship — tell me: don't you see a glaring inconsistency in saying that you've made someone good and then blaming them for being bad?

Callicles: Yes, I do see that.

Socrates: Don't you ever hear our professional educators making exactly this kind of inconsistent claim?

Callicles: Yes, but why even bother talking about such worthless people?

Socrates: Good question. Then why bother talking about men who claim to be leaders, who declare they're devoted to improving the city, and then at the first opportunity complain about the city's total degeneracy? Do you really think there's any difference between the one and the other?

My good friend, the Sophist and the orator are the same thing, or close to it. That's what I was telling Polus. But in your ignorance, you fancy that rhetoric is something wonderful while sophistry is something contemptible. The truth is, sophistry is as much superior to rhetoric as legislation is to courtroom practice, or physical training is to medicine.

The orators and Sophists are the only class of people who can't complain about the harm done to them by their students without simultaneously admitting that they themselves did no good to the very people they claim to benefit. Isn't that a fact?

Callicles: It certainly is.

Socrates: And if it were really true that they make people better, they're the only ones who could safely leave their fees to the honor of their students. If you've been taught to run by a trainer, you might cheat him of his pay if he left it up to you and didn't make you pay at the time of the lesson — because it's not a lack of speed that makes people act unjustly, but a lack of justice.

Callicles: Very true.

Socrates: But the person who removes injustice is in no danger of being treated unjustly. They're the only ones who can safely trust their students to pay voluntarily — if they've really made those students good. Am I right?

Callicles: Yes.

Socrates: So we've found the reason why there's no dishonor in accepting pay for advice about building or any other craft?

Callicles: Yes, we have.

Socrates: But when the question is how to become the best possible person and how best to govern your household and your state — then saying "I won't give advice unless you pay me" is considered dishonorable?

Callicles: True.

Socrates: And that's because this is the only kind of service that creates in the beneficiary a genuine desire to repay the favor. It's a sign that the benefit is real when the benefactor receives something in return. Otherwise, no benefit was actually given. Is this right?

Callicles: It is.

Socrates: Then to which kind of service to the state are you inviting me? Be precise. Am I to be the physician of the state, struggling to make the Athenians as good as possible? Or am I to be their servant and flatterer? Speak freely and honestly, Callicles, as you did at the start and as you ought to now. Tell me exactly what you think.

Callicles: I say you should be the servant of the state.

Socrates: The flatterer, in other words. What a noble invitation.

Callicles: Call yourself a Mysian peasant if you prefer, Socrates. But if you refuse — the consequences will be —

Socrates: Don't trot out the same old story again — that someone will kill me and take my money. Because then I'll have to trot out my same old answer: that a bad man will kill a good one, and the money will do him no good. He'll use what he stole unjustly, and what's used unjustly is used shamefully, and what's used shamefully is used harmfully.

Callicles: How confident you are, Socrates, that nothing bad will ever happen to you! As if you're living in some other country and could never be dragged into court — which you very well may be, by some miserable, worthless person.

Socrates: Then I really would be a fool, Callicles, if I didn't know that in Athens anything can happen to anyone. But I'll tell you this: if I'm brought to trial, it will be by a villain — of that I'm sure, because no good person would prosecute an innocent man. And I wouldn't be surprised if I'm put to death. Shall I tell you why I expect this?

Callicles: By all means.

Socrates: I believe I'm one of the only Athenians alive — maybe the only one — who practices the true art of politics. I'm the only real politician of my time.

And here's why: when I speak, my words aren't aimed at winning popularity. I look to what's best, not to what's most pleasant. I have no interest in those fine arts and graces you recommend. So I'll have nothing to say for myself in court.

And the analogy I used with Polus applies perfectly to me: I'll be like a doctor tried before a jury of little children, with the cook as prosecutor. "Children," the cook would say, "this man has done terrible things to you! He's practically killing you — especially the littlest ones — with cutting and burning and starving and suffocating. He gives you the bitterest medicines and forces you to go hungry and thirsty. How different from all the delicious treats and sweets I used to give you!"

What do you think the doctor could say in his defense, standing in that predicament? If he told the truth, he could only say, "Children, everything I did, I did for your health." Can you imagine the outcry from a jury like that? They'd lose their minds.

Callicles: I'd imagine so.

Socrates: He'd be completely at a loss for a defense, wouldn't he?

Callicles: He certainly would.

Socrates: And I know the same thing will happen to me if I'm brought to trial. I won't be able to recite for the people all the pleasures I've provided them — the kinds of things they consider real benefits, though I don't envy either the providers or the enjoyers. And if someone accuses me of corrupting the youth and confusing their minds, or of speaking harshly about the older generation in public or private, I won't be able to give the true answer — which is: "Everything I do, I do for the sake of justice, with an eye to your real interest, and nothing else."

So there's no telling what might happen to me.

Callicles: And do you think, Socrates, that a man who can't defend himself like that is in a good position?

Socrates: Yes, Callicles — if he has the one defense that you yourself have acknowledged again and again: if he has defended himself by never having said or done anything wrong toward gods or humans. We've agreed many times that this is the best defense of all.

If anyone could prove I lack this defense, I'd be ashamed — whether I was refuted before a crowd or privately or all alone. And if I died because of this inability, that would truly grieve me. But if I died simply because I lack the tricks of flattery and rhetoric? I'm quite sure you wouldn't find me complaining.

No one who isn't a complete fool and coward is afraid of death itself. What we should fear is doing wrong. Because going to the underworld with a soul full of injustice — that is the last and worst of all evils.

And if you'd like proof of what I'm saying — if you have no objection — I'd like to tell you a story.

Callicles: Fine, go ahead. Let's get this finished.

Socrates: Listen, then, as the storytellers say, to a very remarkable tale. You may be inclined to dismiss it as just a fable. But I believe it's true — every word of it.

Homer tells us how Zeus, Poseidon, and Pluto divided the empire they inherited from their father. Now, in the age of Cronus, there was a law about the fate of human beings, which has always been in force and still holds in heaven: whoever has lived a just and holy life goes, after death, to the Islands of the Blessed, to dwell there in perfect happiness, beyond the reach of evil. And whoever has lived an unjust and godless life goes to the house of punishment — the place called Tartarus.

In those days under Cronus, and still quite recently under Zeus, the judgment was given on the very day the person was going to die. The judges were living, and the people being judged were living. And the result was that the judgments were bad.

So Pluto and the guardians of the Islands of the Blessed went to Zeus and said that souls were ending up in the wrong places. And Zeus said:

"I'll put a stop to this. The judgments are going wrong because the people being judged still have their clothes on — they're still alive. And many people who have corrupt souls are wrapped up in beautiful bodies, or covered in wealth and high rank. When their day of judgment comes, crowds of witnesses show up and testify that they lived righteous lives. The judges are impressed. And on top of that, the judges themselves are clothed too — their eyes and ears and entire bodies are a veil over their own souls. Everything gets in the way: the clothes of the judges and the clothes of the judged.

"Here's what must be done. First, I'll take away people's foreknowledge of their death. Right now they know it's coming; Prometheus has already received my orders to strip them of that knowledge. Second, they must be judged completely naked — meaning dead. The judge must be naked too, meaning dead himself. With his bare soul he'll look into the other bare souls. They'll die suddenly, stripped of all their family and friends, leaving all their finery behind on the earth. Only then will the judgment be just.

"I've known this was the problem all along — longer than any of you — which is why I've already appointed my own sons as judges. Two from Asia: Minos and Rhadamanthus. And one from Europe: Aeacus. When they die, they'll hold court in the meadow at the crossroads, where two paths diverge — one leading to the Islands of the Blessed, the other to Tartarus. Rhadamanthus will judge those from Asia, Aeacus those from Europe. And Minos will serve as the court of final appeal, in case either of the other two is unsure. That way, the judgment on humanity's final journey will be as fair as it can possibly be."

This, Callicles, is the tale I've heard, and I believe it. And here's what I take from it.

Death, as I see it, is simply the separation of two things — soul and body. Nothing more. And after they've separated, each one retains pretty much the same character it had in life. The body keeps its distinctive appearance, and the traces of how it was treated or what happened to it are clearly visible. If a man was tall in life, whether by nature or training or both, he remains tall in death. If he was fat, he stays fat. If he wore his hair long, his hair stays long. If he'd been whipped and bore the scars and marks of the lash — or wounds — you'd see them on his dead body. If his limbs were broken or twisted in life, the same would show in death. In short, whatever the condition of the body during life would still be recognizable after death, either completely or to a great extent for some period of time.

And I believe the exact same thing is true of the soul, Callicles. When a person is stripped of the body, all the natural and acquired qualities of the soul are laid bare.

So when the dead arrive before the judge — the ones from Asia come before Rhadamanthus — he places them before him and examines them with perfect impartiality. He doesn't know who any of them are; he doesn't know their family or their name. Perhaps he'll come upon the soul of a great king or potentate. And he'll find no soundness in it. He'll see it scarred with the lash-marks of perjury and crime, branded by every wrongful act, all twisted with dishonesty and deceit, nothing straight in it — because it was raised without truth. He'll see it deformed and ugly, misshapen by arrogance and luxury and cruelty and self-indulgence. And seeing all this, Rhadamanthus will send it straight to prison in disgrace, to suffer the punishment it deserves.

Now, punishment properly applied has two purposes. Either the person being punished improves and benefits from it, or they serve as an example to others, who see the suffering and are afraid and become better themselves.

Those who improve through punishment — whether by gods or humans — are the ones whose crimes are curable. They're improved through pain and suffering, both in this world and the next, because there's no other way to be freed from evil. But those who've committed the worst crimes and are beyond cure — they're turned into examples. They themselves gain nothing from it, since they're past helping. But others benefit by seeing them endure the most terrible, painful, and fearful sufferings for all eternity, hanging there in the prison house of the underworld as a spectacle and warning to every unjust soul that passes through.

And among these, I firmly believe, will be Archelaus — if Polus was right about him — and every other tyrant like him. In fact, I think most of these eternal examples are drawn from the ranks of tyrants, kings, rulers, and politicians, because they're the ones who commit the greatest and most impious crimes — they have the power to do so.

Homer backs this up. The ones he describes suffering everlasting punishment in the underworld are always kings and potentates — Tantalus, Sisyphus, Tityus. But no one ever described Thersites, or any ordinary private person who happened to be wicked, as suffering eternal punishment. He didn't have the power to commit crimes on that scale, and that very weakness made him luckier than those who did have power.

No, Callicles — the truly terrible souls come from the class that has power. And yet even in that class, good people can emerge, and when they do, they deserve the highest admiration. Where there's enormous power to do wrong, to live and die justly is profoundly difficult and profoundly praiseworthy, and only a few achieve it. But such people have existed and will exist again, both in Athens and elsewhere. There's one who became famous across all of Greece: Aristeides, the son of Lysimachus. But in general, my friend, the great and the powerful are also the wicked.

As I was saying, when Rhadamanthus gets hold of a wicked soul, he knows nothing about who it is — not the name, not the family. He knows only that he's looking at a villain. Having seen this, he stamps the soul as curable or incurable and sends it to Tartarus, where it receives what it deserves.

Or sometimes he looks with wonder at the soul of someone who lived in holiness and truth — perhaps a private citizen, perhaps not. And I'd say, Callicles, that this is most likely to be the soul of a philosopher who minded his own business and didn't meddle in the affairs of others during his lifetime. Rhadamanthus sends this soul to the Islands of the Blessed.

Aeacus does the same. Both of them hold scepters and judge. But Minos alone holds a golden scepter and sits in oversight, as Odysseus describes in Homer:

"Holding a scepter of gold, and giving laws to the dead."

Now, Callicles, I am persuaded that these things are true. And I'm thinking about how to present my soul to the judge as whole and healthy as possible.

I'm giving up the honors the world chases after. I want only to know the truth and to live as well as I can. And when the time comes to die, I want to die as well as I can. And I urge every other person, with all the strength I have, to do the same.

And in answer to your advice, I offer you mine in return: I urge you to join in the great contest — the contest of life, which is greater than any other earthly struggle. And I throw your reproach back at you and say: you're the one who won't be able to help yourself when the day of trial and judgment I've been describing finally comes. You'll stand before the judge, the son of Aegina, and when he seizes you and starts to drag you away, you'll gape and your head will spin — just as mine might in the courts of this world. And quite possibly someone will slap your face in the most humiliating way and heap every kind of insult on you.

Perhaps all this seems to you like nothing more than an old wives' tale, something to be dismissed. And there might be some reason for dismissing it — if by searching we could find something better and truer. But as things stand, you can see that the three of you — you, Polus, and Gorgias, the three wisest Greeks of our time — are unable to show that we should live any other life than one that also serves us in the next world.

Of everything that's been said, only this remains standing: that doing injustice is more to be avoided than suffering injustice; that the reality of virtue, not its appearance, should be pursued above all things, in public life and private; that when anyone has done wrong, they should be corrected — the next best thing to being just is becoming just through discipline and punishment; that all flattery should be avoided, whether of oneself or others, of the few or the many; and that rhetoric and every other skill should always be used in the service of justice.

Follow me, then, and I'll lead you to where you'll be happy in life and after death, as the argument has shown. Don't worry if someone calls you a fool and treats you with contempt. Let them strike you, by Zeus — and take heart. You'll come to no real harm in the practice of virtue, if you're a genuinely good and honest person.

And once we've practiced virtue together, then we'll turn to politics, if that seems right — or to whatever else seems good to us. We'll be better judges then. In our present state, we shouldn't be putting on airs. We keep changing our minds on the most important questions — that's how confused we still are.

So let's take the argument as our guide. It has shown us that the best way of life is to practice justice and every virtue, in life and in death. Let's follow this path, and let's call on all others to follow it too — not the path you trust and urge me to take. Because that path, Callicles, is worth nothing at all.

Symposium (Part 1)

Persons of the dialogue:
  Apollodorus, who repeats to his companion the dialogue which he had heard from Aristodemus, and had already once narrated to Glaucon
  Phaedrus
  Pausanias
  Eryximachus
  Aristophanes
  Agathon
  Socrates
  Alcibiades
  A troop of revelers

Scene: The House of Agathon

As for what you're asking about, I think I'm pretty well prepared to tell you. Just the day before yesterday, I was walking from my home in Phalerum into the city when someone I know spotted me from behind and called out in a joking voice: "Hey! Apollodorus! You Phalerian man! Wait up!"

So I stopped, as requested. And he said, "I've been looking for you, Apollodorus. I wanted to ask you about those speeches on love — the ones given by Socrates, Alcibiades, and the others at Agathon's dinner party. A man named Phoenix, Philip's son, told someone who told me about them, but his account was pretty vague. He did say you'd know the whole story, so would you fill me in? And who better to report the words of your dear friend Socrates? But first tell me — were you actually at this dinner?"

Your source, Glaucon, must have been very vague indeed if you think the party was recent, or that I could possibly have been there.

"Why, yes," he said. "I thought it was."

Not a chance, I said. Don't you know that Agathon hasn't lived in Athens for years? And it hasn't even been three years since I started spending time with Socrates and made it my daily mission to follow everything he says and does. Before that, I used to run around thinking I was doing something important with my life, when really I was the most miserable person alive — no better than you are right now. I thought anything was better than being a philosopher.

"Okay, okay, cut the philosophy," he said. "Just tell me when this party took place."

When we were still boys, I said. It was the day after Agathon won the prize with his first tragedy — the day after he and his chorus made their victory offering.

"Then it must have been a very long time ago," he said. "Who told you about it? Was it Socrates himself?"

No, no — the same person who told Phoenix. It was a little fellow named Aristodemus, from the deme of Cydathenaeum. Never wore shoes. He'd been at Agathon's party, and back in those days there was nobody more devoted to Socrates than he was. I've also checked some parts of his story with Socrates directly, and he confirmed them.

"Well then," said Glaucon, "let's hear it! Isn't the road to Athens practically made for conversation?"

And so we walked and talked about the speeches on love. That's why I said I'm pretty well prepared — I've been through this before, and I'm happy to go through it again. To be honest, talking about philosophy or hearing others talk about it is one of the great pleasures of my life, not to mention the good it does me. But other kinds of conversation — especially the kind you rich businessmen go in for — bore me to death. I feel sorry for you, my friends, because you think you're accomplishing something when you're really accomplishing nothing. And I'm sure you feel sorry for me right back, thinking I'm some poor wretch. You're probably right. But the difference between us is this: I know what you are, while you only think you know what I am.

Companion I see that you're your usual self, Apollodorus — always tearing into yourself and everyone else. You seem to think the entire human race is miserable, with the sole exception of Socrates, starting with yourself. How you earned that nickname "Apollodorus the madman" I have no idea — though it does seem to fit. You're forever raging against yourself and everyone who isn't Socrates.

Apollodorus And you think that proves I'm mad? That having these opinions about myself and about you makes me crazy? No other evidence needed, apparently.

Companion Enough, enough. Please, Apollodorus, just tell us about the speeches.

Apollodorus All right. The speeches on love went like this — but I'd better start from the beginning and try to give you the story in Aristodemus' own words.

He said he ran into Socrates freshly bathed and wearing sandals — which was remarkable, since Socrates almost never wore sandals. So he asked where he was going, all dressed up.

"To dinner at Agathon's," Socrates said. "I turned down his invitation to the victory celebration yesterday because I was worried about the crowd. But I promised to come today instead, so I've made myself presentable — he's such a fine man, after all. How about coming with me? You're not invited, but who cares?"

"I'll do whatever you say," Aristodemus replied.

"Then follow me," said Socrates. "Let's demolish that old proverb. You know the one: 'To the feasts of lesser men, the good go uninvited.' Let's improve it to: 'To the feasts of the good, the good go uninvited.' We've even got Homer on our side. He pictures Agamemnon as the greatest warrior alive, but then has Menelaus — who's frankly a mediocre fighter — show up uninvited to Agamemnon's feast. So there you go: the lesser coming to the feast of the greater."

"I'm a little worried, Socrates," said Aristodemus, "that it's the other proverb that applies to me — the one where the nobody goes uninvited to the feast of the wise. I'm the Menelaus in this scenario. But I'll say you dragged me along, so you'll have to think up the excuse."

"Two heads are better than one," Socrates replied, quoting Homer. "We'll figure something out on the way."

So off they went, talking like this. But along the way Socrates fell into one of his trances and started lagging behind. Aristodemus waited for him, but Socrates waved him on ahead. When Aristodemus arrived at Agathon's house, he found the doors wide open, and then something awkward happened. A servant came out, saw him, and immediately led him to the dining room where the guests were already reclining on their couches — dinner was about to begin.

The moment Agathon spotted him, he called out: "Aristodemus! Perfect timing — you're just in time to eat with us. If you've come about anything else, put it aside. Join the party! I was actually looking for you yesterday to invite you, but I couldn't find you. But wait — where's Socrates?"

I turned around, but Socrates was nowhere in sight. So I had to explain that he'd been with me just a moment before, and that I'd come at his invitation.

"Well, you did the right thing coming," said Agathon. "But where on earth is he?"

"He was right behind me when I came in," said Aristodemus. "I have no idea what happened to him."

"Boy!" Agathon said to a servant. "Go look for Socrates and bring him in." And to Aristodemus: "Take the couch next to Eryximachus."

A servant helped him wash up, and he settled in. Then another servant came back and reported: "That Socrates you sent me for — he's standing in the neighbor's portico. Just standing there. I called out to him, but he won't budge."

"How odd," said Agathon. "Go call him again. Keep trying."

"Leave him alone," Aristodemus said. "He does this. He just stops somewhere and goes completely still, lost in his thoughts, for no apparent reason. He'll turn up soon enough. Don't disturb him."

"Well, if you say so," said Agathon. Then he turned to the servants: "All right, let's eat without waiting for him. Serve whatever you like — tonight nobody's giving you orders. I've never let you fend for yourselves before, but tonight, imagine that I and my guests are your guests. Treat us well, and we'll sing your praises."

Dinner was served, but still no Socrates. Several times during the meal Agathon wanted to send someone to fetch him, but Aristodemus talked him out of it. Eventually, when dinner was about halfway over — Socrates' trances were never that long — in he walked. Agathon, who was reclining by himself at the far end of the table, called out: "Come, Socrates! Lie down next to me, so I can touch you and soak up whatever brilliant insight came to you out there in the portico. I'm sure you must have found what you were looking for — you wouldn't have come in otherwise."

"Wouldn't it be wonderful," said Socrates, taking his place, "if wisdom worked like that? If it could flow from a full mind into an empty one, the way water flows through a string of wool from a full cup into an empty one? If that were true, I'd count it a huge privilege to recline next to you. Your wisdom would fill me up — it's rich and beautiful, blazing with promise. It burst into splendor just the day before yesterday when more than thirty thousand Greeks witnessed it. My own wisdom, by contrast, is a shabby, questionable thing — no more real than a dream."

"You're mocking me, Socrates," said Agathon. "But we'll settle this contest of wisdom later. Dionysus will be our judge. For now, eat your dinner."

Socrates settled in and ate with the rest of them. After the meal, they poured the traditional libations, sang a hymn to the god, and went through the usual rituals. Then it was time for drinking, and Pausanias spoke up.

"So, gentlemen — how do we manage the drinking tonight without destroying ourselves? I'll be honest: I'm still suffering from yesterday's party. I need recovery time. And I suspect most of you are in the same shape, since you were there too. So how can we make the evening easy on ourselves?"

"I couldn't agree more," said Aristophanes. "We absolutely need to go easy tonight. I was one of the people who completely drowned in wine yesterday."

"I'm glad to hear that," said Eryximachus, the son of Acumenus. "But let me check one more person: Agathon, are you up for heavy drinking?"

"Definitely not," said Agathon.

"Well then," said Eryximachus, "it seems like a stroke of luck for us lightweights — myself, Aristodemus, Phaedrus, and the rest of us who can never hold our wine — that even the heavy drinkers aren't in the mood tonight." He paused. "I'm not counting Socrates, of course. He can drink or not drink — it makes no difference to him. He'll be fine either way. So, since nobody here seems keen on getting smashed, I hope you'll forgive me for pointing out — as a doctor — that heavy drinking is genuinely bad for you. I never do it if I can help it, and I certainly don't recommend it, especially to anyone still feeling yesterday's damage."

"I always follow your advice," said Phaedrus, "especially your medical advice. And the rest of the company will too, if they're smart."

So it was agreed: tonight wouldn't be about drinking. Everyone would drink only as much as they wanted, with no pressure.

"Good," said Eryximachus. "Now that we've settled that, I have another proposal. Let's send the flute-girl away. She can go play for herself or for the women inside. But tonight, let's have conversation instead. And if you'll let me, I'll suggest what kind of conversation."

Everyone agreed, so Eryximachus continued.

"I'll begin," he said, "in the words of Euripides' Melanippe: 'The idea is not mine' — it's Phaedrus'. He's always saying to me, with genuine indignation: 'Isn't it incredible, Eryximachus, that every other god has had poems and hymns composed in their honor, but Love — this great and glorious god — has never had a single poet step up to praise him properly? Think about it. We've got respectable intellectuals — take Prodicus, for example — who've written whole essays celebrating the virtues of Heracles and other heroes. I've even come across a philosophical treatise that eloquently praises the usefulness of salt. Salt! And there are plenty more like it. People have worked themselves into a frenzy over the most trivial topics, and yet to this day, no one has dared to give Love the praise he deserves. This great god has been completely neglected!'"

"I think Phaedrus is absolutely right," Eryximachus went on, "and I'd like to do something about it. What better time than now? Here we are, all gathered together — this is the perfect occasion to honor the god of Love. Here's my proposal: each of us takes a turn, going from left to right around the room, and gives a speech praising Love. Give us the best you've got. And Phaedrus should go first, since he's sitting at the far left and since this whole thing was his idea."

"Nobody's going to vote against you, Eryximachus," said Socrates. "How could I possibly object? Love is the only subject I claim to know anything about. I'm sure Agathon and Pausanias won't object either. And Aristophanes certainly won't — his whole life revolves around Dionysus and Aphrodite. No one here will disagree. It is a little tough on those of us at the end of the line, but if the earlier speeches are good enough, we'll be satisfied. So let Phaedrus begin the praise of Love, and good luck to him!"

Everyone expressed their agreement and urged Phaedrus to start.

Now, Aristodemus didn't remember every word that was said, and I don't remember every word he told me. But I'll give you what I thought was most worth remembering, and what the main speakers said.

PHAEDRUS' SPEECH

Phaedrus opened by declaring that Love is a great god, worthy of wonder among both gods and mortals — but especially wonderful in his origin. He's the eldest of the gods, and that's a high honor. The proof? Love has no parents that anyone can name. No poet, no historian has ever said who his mother and father were. As Hesiod puts it:

  "First came Chaos, then broad-breasted Earth,
  the eternal foundation of all things,
  and Love."

So after Chaos, it was Earth and Love — these two came into being. Parmenides agrees, saying:

  "First among the gods, he created Love."

And Acusilaus backs Hesiod up too. So there's a whole chorus of witnesses testifying that Love is the eldest of the gods.

And being the eldest, he's also the source of our greatest blessings. I can think of nothing better for a young man starting out in life than a worthy lover, and nothing better for a lover than a worthy beloved. The guiding principle of a noble life — that sense of shame at doing wrong and love of honor in doing right — no family ties, no wealth, no social standing can instill it the way love can.

Here's what I mean. A man caught in a dishonorable act will feel more pain at being seen by the person he loves than by his own father, his companions, or anyone else in the world. And the same goes for the beloved: getting caught doing something shameful in front of his lover is the worst humiliation imaginable.

If there were some way to build a city — or an army — made up entirely of lovers and their beloveds, they'd be the best possible citizens. They'd never do anything shameful, because they'd be competing with each other in honor. And in battle, fighting side by side, even a small band of them could conquer the world. What man would throw down his shield or abandon his post if the person he loves were watching? He'd rather die a thousand deaths than face that kind of shame. And who would ever desert his beloved in the hour of danger? The biggest coward on earth would become a hero with Love breathing courage into him. What Homer says about divine inspiration — that the gods breathe courage into certain warriors — Love does this naturally to everyone he touches.

And Love will make people die for their beloved — not just men, but women too. The Greeks have a perfect example in Alcestis, the daughter of Pelias. She was willing to lay down her life for her husband when no one else would — not even his own father and mother. Her love so far surpassed theirs that she made his own parents look like strangers to their son, related in name only. Her sacrifice struck the gods as so beautiful that they gave her one of the rarest gifts imaginable: they let her come back from the dead. That's how much the gods honor the devotion and courage of love.

But Orpheus, the son of Oeagrus — the singer — they sent away empty-handed. They showed him a phantom of his dead wife, but the real woman? They wouldn't hand her over. Because he was a coward. He was just a musician. He didn't have the guts to die for love the way Alcestis did. Instead, he tried to figure out a way to sneak into Hades alive. And for his cowardice, the gods later arranged for him to be torn apart by women.

How different the reward of Achilles, who showed true love for Patroclus! And let me set the record straight: Patroclus was the lover and Achilles the beloved — Aeschylus got it backward. Achilles was clearly the more beautiful of the two, more beautiful than all the other heroes, and Homer tells us he was still beardless and much younger than Patroclus. Now, the gods do deeply honor courage inspired by love. But what they honor even more is when the beloved returns the lover's devotion. The lover, after all, is divinely inspired — but when the beloved loves back? That's even more extraordinary, and the gods reward it most generously. Achilles knew full well — his mother had told him — that if he killed Hector, he himself would die, and that if he held back, he could go home and live to old age. But he chose to avenge his dead friend. He didn't just die defending Patroclus — he chose death after Patroclus was already gone. The gods were so moved that they honored him above even Alcestis and sent him to the Islands of the Blessed.

That's why I say Love is the eldest of the gods, the noblest, and the most powerful — and the greatest giver of courage, excellence, and happiness, both in life and after death.

That, more or less, was Phaedrus' speech. Some other speeches followed that Aristodemus couldn't remember. The next one he recalled was Pausanias'.

PAUSANIAS' SPEECH

"Phaedrus," Pausanias began, "I don't think the question has been framed quite right. We've been asked to praise Love as if there's only one kind. But there isn't. If there were only one Love, your approach would be fine. But since there's more than one, we should first figure out which Love deserves our praise. Let me try to fix this. First I'll tell you which Love is praiseworthy, and then I'll try to praise him in a way he deserves.

"We all know that Love is inseparable from Aphrodite. If there were only one Aphrodite, there would be only one Love. But there are two Aphrodites, so there must be two Loves. And there are two Aphrodites, aren't there? The elder one, who has no mother, is the daughter of Uranus — we call her Heavenly Aphrodite. The younger is the daughter of Zeus and Dione — we call her Common Aphrodite. It follows that the Love who works alongside Common Aphrodite is Common Love, and the other is Heavenly Love. All the gods deserve praise, of course, but we need to distinguish between their natures.

"Here's the principle: no action is inherently good or evil. Take what we're doing right now — drinking, singing, talking. None of these are good or evil in themselves. It all depends on how you do them. Done well, they're good. Done badly, they're evil. And love works the same way: not all love is noble or worthy of praise, only the kind that inspires us to love nobly.

"Common Love — the kind that comes from Common Aphrodite — is exactly what you'd expect from common people. It's indiscriminate. People under its influence are just as likely to fall for women as for young men. They're attracted to bodies, not souls, and they go for the least intelligent partners they can find, because all they care about is getting what they want. Whether they get it honorably or not doesn't concern them. That's because their patron goddess is younger, and her birth involved both male and female.

"But Heavenly Love comes from a goddess whose birth involved no female at all — only the male. This is a love that turns toward what is stronger and more intelligent. You can recognize people inspired by this love by the very character of their attachments. They don't fall for boys who are too young to think for themselves. They're drawn to young men whose minds are developing — roughly the age when they start growing beards. And choosing a companion at that age, they intend to stay faithful and spend their whole lives together. They don't want to take advantage of someone's inexperience, make a fool of them, and then move on to the next. In fact, there ought to be a law against pursuing very young boys, since their futures are so uncertain — they might turn out well or badly in body or soul, and a great deal of noble passion could be wasted on them. The best people regulate themselves on this point, but the cruder sort of lover needs restraining by law — just as we try to restrain them from pursuing freeborn women. These are the people who give love a bad name, and some have even been led to declare that all such attachments are shameful. But surely nothing done with propriety and lawfulness can justly be condemned.

"Now, the customs around love are simple in most places but confusing in Athens. In Elis and Boeotia, where people aren't much for speeches, the rule is straightforward: these relationships are fine, and nobody — young or old — says a word against them. I suppose it's because people there are no good at arguing, so lovers don't want the trouble of making their case with words. In Ionia and other places under foreign rule, the custom is the opposite — these relationships are considered dishonorable. And that makes sense for the rulers. Tyrants don't want their subjects to have big ideas, strong friendships, or powerful bonds — exactly the things love tends to create. Our own Athenian tyrants learned that lesson the hard way, when the love between Aristogeiton and the steadfast courage of Harmodius destroyed their power.

"So wherever the custom condemns these relationships, it's the fault of the rulers — their lust for power — and the cowardice of the ruled. And wherever the custom approves indiscriminately, that's just intellectual laziness. Athens does it better than anywhere else, but our custom is admittedly hard to explain.

"Look at it this way. In Athens, pursuing someone openly is considered more honorable than doing it in secret. The love of someone noble and excellent — even if they're not the best-looking person around — is especially honored. Think about the extraordinary encouragement the whole world gives to a lover. Nobody thinks he's doing anything shameful. If he succeeds, he's praised. If he fails, he's pitied. And in the pursuit of love, society lets him do the most outrageous things — things that would be condemned in any other context. He can beg, plead, make extravagant promises, swear oaths, sleep on a doorstep, and endure a kind of slavery no actual slave would put up with. If someone did any of this for money or political power, his friends would stage an intervention and his enemies would call him a pathetic sycophant. But a lover? Everyone finds it charming. He gets a free pass. There's even a saying that lovers' oaths don't count — the gods themselves will forgive a broken oath made in the name of love. So by Athenian custom, gods and men alike give the lover total freedom.

"From this angle, you'd conclude that Athens considers love entirely honorable. But then consider the other side. Fathers hire tutors to keep their sons away from lovers. Boys' friends mock them if they're caught in any such relationship. And the older generation does nothing to stop this mockery. If you look at all of this, you'd conclude the exact opposite — that Athens considers these things deeply shameful.

"Here's the truth, I think. It's not a simple question. It goes back to what I said at the start: no action is good or bad in itself — only in how it's performed. Pursuing love honorably is honorable. Pursuing it dishonorably is disgraceful. Dishonorable means yielding to a bad person or yielding for bad reasons. Honorable means yielding to a good person for good reasons.

"The Common lover is the bad kind. He loves the body rather than the soul, and since bodies don't last, his love doesn't last either. Once the bloom of youth fades, he flies away — all his promises and pretty words forgotten. But the lover of noble character is faithful for life, because he's bonded to something that endures.

"Athenian custom is designed to test both kinds. That's why we encourage pursuit and also encourage flight — so each can be tested and sorted into the right category. That's why a hasty attachment is considered shameful: time is the true test. It's also shameful to be won over by money or political power. Whether someone caves out of fear of losing these things, or simply can't resist the seductions of wealth and influence — either way, it's degrading. None of these things are stable or lasting, and no genuine friendship was ever built on them.

"There's only one honorable path for the beloved, according to our custom. Just as the lover can do all manner of voluntary service without it being called flattery, the beloved has one kind of voluntary service that brings no dishonor: service in pursuit of virtue. Our custom holds that if someone devotes himself to another in the belief that this person will make him better — wiser, more excellent in some way — such voluntary service is never dishonorable.

"So when these two principles come together — the lover's devotion and the beloved's desire for wisdom and excellence — when the lover can genuinely make his beloved wiser and better, and the beloved genuinely seeks to learn and grow, then and only then is it honorable for the beloved to give himself to the lover. In this kind of relationship, there's no disgrace even in being deceived. In every other kind, there is.

"Think about it. If someone gives himself to a lover because he thinks the man is rich, and then the lover turns out to be poor — that's humiliating. The beloved has revealed that he'd sell himself for money, and there's nothing honorable in that. But if someone gives himself to a lover because he believes the man is good, hoping to become better through the relationship, and then it turns out the lover was worthless and had no virtue at all — even then, the beloved has committed a noble error. He's proved that, for his part, he'd do anything for anyone if it meant growing in virtue. And there's nothing nobler than that.

"So it's always noble to accept love for the sake of virtue. This is the love of Heavenly Aphrodite — heavenly itself, and of immense value to both individuals and cities, because it drives both the lover and the beloved to care passionately about their own excellence. All other loves belong to Common Aphrodite.

"That, Phaedrus, is the best I can do off the cuff in praise of Love."

Pausanias came to a pause — this kind of balanced phrasing is how the intellectuals taught me to speak. (Apollodorus' little joke.)

And now it was Aristophanes' turn. But whether he'd eaten too much or for some other reason, Aristophanes had come down with a case of the hiccups and couldn't speak. So he turned to Eryximachus, the doctor, who was reclining on the couch just below him.

"Eryximachus," he said between hiccups, "you need to either cure my hiccups or take my turn until they stop."

"I'll do both," said Eryximachus. "I'll speak in your place, and you speak in mine. While I'm talking, here's what you should do: hold your breath for as long as you can. If that doesn't work, gargle with a little water. And if they still won't quit, find something to tickle your nose with and make yourself sneeze. Sneeze once or twice, and even the most stubborn hiccups will give up."

"Get on with your speech," said Aristophanes. "I'll try your remedies."

ERYXIMACHUS' SPEECH

Eryximachus spoke as follows:

"Since Pausanias started off well but ended rather weakly, I feel I should supply what he left out. He was right that there are two kinds of Love. But my medical expertise tells me that this double Love isn't only found in human souls attracted to beauty. It exists in the bodies of all animals, in the things that grow from the earth — in practically everything that exists. My profession has taught me how vast and universal the dominion of Love really is, extending over all things human and divine alike. Let me begin with medicine, to do honor to my craft.

"The human body contains both kinds of love, and they are fundamentally different. The healthy part of the body desires one thing; the diseased part desires something else. As Pausanias was saying, it's honorable to gratify the good and dishonorable to gratify the bad. The same applies to the body: the good, healthy elements should be encouraged, while the bad, diseased elements should be discouraged. That, in essence, is what medicine is — the science of understanding the body's loves and desires, knowing when to satisfy them and when to deny them. The best doctor is the one who can tell healthy desire from unhealthy desire, who can transform one into the other, who knows when to create desire and when to eliminate it, and who can make the body's warring elements into loving friends.

"And the most hostile elements are the most opposite: hot and cold, bitter and sweet, wet and dry, and so on. My ancestor Asclepius understood how to create friendship and harmony among these warring opposites, and that's how he founded the art of medicine — so the poets tell us, and I believe them. Medicine, gymnastics, farming — they're all under Love's rule.

"Anyone paying attention will see that music works the same way — reconciling opposites. I think that's what Heraclitus meant, though he put it badly. He said, 'The One is united by being pulled apart, like the harmony of the bow and the lyre.' Now, it's absurd to say harmony is discord, or that it's made of things still disagreeing. What he probably meant is this: harmony is made of notes that were once different — higher and lower — but have been brought into agreement by the art of music. If the notes were still disagreeing, there could be no harmony. Obviously. Because harmony is a kind of agreement, and you can't have agreement between things that still disagree.

"In the same way, rhythm is made of fast and slow elements, once different, now brought into accord. And just as medicine creates harmony in the body, music creates harmony in sound. Music, too, is a science of Love — Love applied to harmony and rhythm.

"Now, in the pure theory of harmony and rhythm, there's only one kind of Love to deal with. But when you try to use harmony and rhythm in actual practice — composing songs or performing them correctly, which is what we call education — that's where it gets complicated, and that's where you need a skilled practitioner. The old story comes back: we must follow Heavenly Love — the love of the Heavenly Muse, Urania — and accept what is harmonious and temperate, making the undisciplined more disciplined through love. And Common Love — the love of Polyhymnia — must be handled carefully, so people can enjoy its pleasures without sliding into excess. It's just like my own craft: the key is to regulate the desires of the appetite so a person can enjoy food without making himself sick.

"So in music, in medicine, in everything human and divine, both kinds of Love must be recognized, because both are always present.

"Even the seasons of the year follow this principle. When the elements of hot and cold, wet and dry achieve the harmonious love of one another and blend in proper proportion, they bring health and abundance to people, animals, and plants. But when the excessive, unruly kind of Love takes over the seasons, it's catastrophic — bringing plagues, diseases, frost, hail, and blight. All these come from the disorder and excess of these elemental loves. The science that studies Love's influence on the movements of the heavenly bodies and the seasons is called astronomy.

"And there's more: all sacrifices and everything in the realm of prophecy — which is really the art of communion between gods and mortals — these too are entirely concerned with protecting healthy Love and curing unhealthy Love. Every kind of impiety follows from honoring excessive, disordered Love over harmonious Love, whether in our feelings toward the gods, toward our parents, toward the living, or toward the dead. The business of prophecy is to watch over these loves and to heal them. Prophecy is the peacemaker between gods and mortals, working through its knowledge of which human loves tend toward reverence and which toward impiety.

"Such is the vast and mighty — really, the all-encompassing — power of Love in general. But the Love that works through goodness, that aims at what is just and temperate, among both gods and mortals — this Love has the supreme power. It's the source of all our happiness and harmony, and it makes us friends with the gods above and with one another. I've probably left out some things that could be said in praise of Love, but not on purpose.

"And now, Aristophanes, it's your turn — either fill in what I've missed or take some other approach. I see that you've finally gotten rid of those hiccups."

"Yes," said Aristophanes, "the hiccups are gone. But not before I had to resort to the sneezing cure. Which makes me wonder: does the body's so-called 'harmony' really have a thing for all that tickling and snorting? Because the hiccups stopped the instant I sneezed."

"Careful, Aristophanes," said Eryximachus. "You haven't even started and you're already making fun of me. Now I'll have to sit here watching for something to mock in your speech, when I could have just let you talk in peace."

"You're right, you're right," said Aristophanes, laughing. "Forget I said anything. But please don't watch me like a hawk. I'm nervous enough as it is. I'm not worried about saying something funny — that's what I do, that's what my Muse expects of me — I'm worried about saying something ridiculous."

"You think you can take a shot at me and just walk away?" said Eryximachus. "All right, all right. If you're very careful and remember that I'll hold you accountable, I might let you off."

ARISTOPHANES' SPEECH

Aristophanes said he intended to take a completely different approach from Pausanias and Eryximachus.

"The way I see it," he said, "human beings have completely failed to grasp the power of Love. If they understood it, they'd have built him the grandest temples and altars and offered the most magnificent sacrifices. But none of that has happened, and it absolutely should have, because of all the gods, Love is the one who loves humanity most. He's our helper. He's our healer. He cures the condition that, more than anything else, keeps the human race from being happy.

"I'm going to try to explain his power to you, and then you can spread the word.

"First, you need to understand what human nature was like originally and what happened to it. Because we weren't always the way we are now. Originally, there were three sexes, not two. There was male, female, and a third kind that was a combination of both. This third kind had a name that's survived as an insult — 'androgynous' — but it was once a real thing, a genuine third sex combining male and female.

"Second, the shape of each person was completely round — back and sides forming a circle. Each person had four arms and four legs, one head with two faces looking in opposite directions, set on a circular neck, both faces exactly alike. They had four ears, two sets of genitals, and everything else you'd expect to go with all that. They could walk upright in either direction, forward or backward. And when they wanted to go fast, they'd tuck their limbs and roll — like cartwheeling gymnasts, spinning over and over on all eight limbs. They were fast."

At this point we should imagine the party guests staring at Aristophanes, half delighted and half incredulous. He pressed on:

"Now, the reason there were three sexes is that each one came from a different heavenly body. The male was the child of the Sun, the female was the child of the Earth, and the combined sex was the child of the Moon — because the Moon partakes of both Sun and Earth. They were round, and they moved in circles, just like their parents.

"And they were terrifyingly powerful. Their strength was enormous, and their ambitions were even bigger. They actually attacked the gods. That story Homer tells about Otus and Ephialtes, who tried to scale heaven and assault the gods? That was them.

"So the gods had a crisis on their hands. They held a council. They couldn't just blast these creatures with thunderbolts and wipe out the race, the way they'd done with the giants — because then who would worship them? Who would offer sacrifices? But they also couldn't let these beings keep running around thinking they were as powerful as the gods.

"Finally, after a lot of deliberation, Zeus had a brainstorm. 'I've got it,' he said. 'I've found a way to humble them and improve their behavior. I'm going to cut each one of them in half. This solves everything. First, they'll be weaker. Second, they'll be more numerous, which means more worshippers for us. They'll walk upright on two legs. And if they still give us trouble and won't settle down — well, I'll cut them in half again, and they can hop around on one leg.'

"And he did it. He sliced humans in two the way you'd slice an apple for preserving, or the way you'd cut an egg with a hair. And as he cut each one, he told Apollo to turn the face and half the neck around toward the cut side, so the person would have to look at where they'd been sliced — as a reminder, to teach them some humility. Then he told Apollo to heal the wounds and tidy things up.

"So Apollo went to work. He swung the face around, pulled the skin from the sides over what we now call the belly — like pulling a drawstring purse closed — and tied it all off in a single knot at the center. That's the navel. Then he smoothed out most of the wrinkles, shaping the chest the way a cobbler smooths leather over a form. He left a few wrinkles around the belly and the navel, though, as a reminder of what had happened.

"After the division, each half desperately missed its other half. They'd find each other, throw their arms around one another, and cling together, desperate to merge back into one body. They started dying — of hunger, of sheer neglect — because they refused to do anything apart. And when one half died, the surviving half would wander around looking for another match, clinging to whatever half it found, whether from a person who'd been originally all-male, all-female, or the combined kind. They were wasting away.

"Zeus took pity on them and came up with a second plan. He moved their genitals around to the front. Until then, their genitals had been on the outside — on the back, really — and they'd reproduced not by joining with each other but by sowing seed in the ground, like grasshoppers. Zeus repositioned everything so that reproduction could happen through the embrace of man and woman, and the race could continue. And if a man found a man, well, at least they'd have the satisfaction of physical closeness, and then they could pull themselves together, get back to work, and go about their daily lives.

"So this is where it all comes from — this ancient longing we have for one another. Love is just the name for our pursuit of wholeness, our desire to be complete again.

"Originally, as I said, we were one. But because of our arrogance, god split us in two. And if we don't behave, there's a real danger he'll split us again, and we'll go around like those profile figures carved on tombstones — flat, sliced right down the middle, with half a nose. So let's all be on our best behavior and show reverence to the gods, both to avoid that fate and to have Love guide us toward finding our other half, which is a rare enough gift in this world.

"Now here's the key. Each of us, cut in half as we are, is always searching for our matching half. Men who are a section of the original combined sex — the one that was male and female — are attracted to women. Most men who love women come from this stock, as do most women who love men. Women who are a section of what was originally all-female aren't particularly interested in men — they're drawn to women. And men who are a section of the original all-male are drawn to men. When they're young, being chips off the old male block, they love men and enjoy being close to men, and they're the best of boys and young men because they're the most naturally courageous. Some people call them shameless, but that's wrong. It's not shamelessness that drives them. It's boldness, bravery, and manliness — they're drawn to what resembles themselves. And here's the proof: when they grow up, these are the only ones who go into politics."

A laugh from the party. Aristophanes grinned and continued:

"When they're older, they're lovers of young men. They're not naturally inclined toward marriage and having children — they do it only because the law demands it. They'd be perfectly content to live with one another, unmarried. A nature like this is always ready to love and to be loved, always drawn to what is kindred.

"And when one of these people — whether a lover of men or any other kind — meets their actual other half, the real one, something incredible happens. They're overwhelmed by affection, by intimacy, by a connection so intense that they don't want to be separated for even a moment. These are the people who spend their entire lives together — and yet, if you asked them what they actually want from each other, they couldn't tell you. It's clearly not just physical intimacy, even though that's part of it. No — the soul of each of them is longing for something deeper, something it can't quite name, something it has only a dim, uncertain intuition about.

"Imagine that Hephaestus — the blacksmith god — came to visit this pair while they lay together, tools in hand, and asked them: 'What is it you people really want from each other?' And when they couldn't answer, imagine he pressed further: 'Is this what you want — to be so completely joined that you're never separated, day or night? Because if that's what you want, I can weld you together, melt you into one being. You'll live as one person instead of two, and when you die, you'll go down to Hades as one soul instead of two. Tell me: is this what you want? Would this make you happy?'

"Not a single one of them would say no. Not one. Every person would recognize that this is exactly what they've always yearned for: to merge with their beloved into one, to become whole again. The reason is simple. This is our original nature. We were once complete, and the desire and pursuit of that completeness is what we call Love.

"Once upon a time, we were whole. Now, because of our transgressions, we've been split apart by god — scattered the way the Spartans scattered the Arcadians into separate villages. And there's always the threat that if we offend the gods again, we'll be divided once more, going around like figures in a relief carving, sawed in half down the profile, with one eye and half a nose each.

"So let everyone practice reverence toward the gods, so that we can avoid that fate and win the good things that Love offers as our guide and commander. Let no one work against Love — and whoever opposes Love is an enemy of the gods. If we befriend the god and make our peace with him, we'll find our own true loves — our real other halves — which almost never happens as things stand now.

"And I'm being serious here, so Eryximachus, please don't make fun of what I'm saying or assume I'm talking about Pausanias and Agathon specifically. Maybe they are both sections of the original male, and maybe they have found each other — who knows? But what I'm saying applies to everyone, men and women alike. The human race would be happy if everyone could find their way back to their original nature and discover their true love. If that's the ideal, then the best we can do in the world as it is now is to get as close to it as possible — and that means finding a love who is truly kindred to our nature.

"So if we want to praise the god who makes this possible, we should praise Love. He's our greatest benefactor, right here and now — guiding us back toward what we once were. And he gives us our highest hope for the future: that if we show reverence to the gods, Love will restore us to our original wholeness, heal us, and make us truly happy.

"That, Eryximachus, is my speech on Love. And I know it's different from yours, but please — leave it alone. Don't tear it to pieces. Let everyone have their say. Or rather, let the last two have theirs — Agathon and Socrates are still to come."

"I wouldn't dream of attacking it," said Eryximachus. "I thought your speech was delightful. And if I didn't know that Agathon and Socrates are absolute experts on the subject of love, I'd be worried they'd have nothing left to say, after all that's been said already. But as it is, I'm not worried in the least."

"You played your part beautifully, Eryximachus," said Socrates. "But if you were standing where I'm standing now — or rather, where I'll be standing after Agathon speaks — you'd be in real trouble."

"You're trying to jinx me, Socrates," said Agathon. "You want me to panic, thinking the audience expects something spectacular."

"I'd have to have a terrible memory, Agathon," Socrates replied, "to think that anything could rattle you. I saw the courage and confidence you showed when you walked out on that stage with your actors and faced a theater of thirty thousand people, completely unfazed. You think a handful of friends would make you nervous?"

"But Socrates," said Agathon, "you don't think I'm so stage-struck that I don't realize a few intelligent people are far more intimidating than a whole crowd of fools?"

"No," said Socrates, "I wouldn't dream of being that rude to you. I know perfectly well that when you meet people you consider truly wise, you care far more about their opinion than the mob's. But we were sitting in that crowd of fools at the theater, so you can't count us among the wise. If you were in the presence of someone truly wise, though — you'd be embarrassed to say anything unworthy in front of them. Wouldn't you?"

"True," said Agathon.

"But in front of a crowd? You wouldn't feel ashamed, even if you thought you were saying something unworthy?"

At this point Phaedrus cut in: "Agathon, my friend, don't answer him. If Socrates gets a conversation partner — especially a good-looking one — he'll forget all about our plan. I love listening to Socrates talk, but right now I need him to stay focused. Everyone owes Love a speech, and I intend to collect. Once you've both paid your tribute to the god, you can debate to your heart's content."

"You're absolutely right, Phaedrus," said Agathon. "I have no problem starting my speech. I'll have plenty of other chances to talk with Socrates.

"Let me begin by explaining how I intend to speak, and then I'll speak.

AGATHON'S SPEECH

"The previous speakers all seem to have been congratulating humanity on the benefits Love provides, rather than praising the god himself. Nobody has described what Love actually is — what his nature is like. Well, the correct way to praise anything is to first describe the thing itself, and then talk about what it causes. So let me begin with Love's nature, and then turn to his gifts.

"I say — and I hope the gods won't be offended — that of all the blessed gods, Love is the most blessed, because he is the most beautiful and the best. Here is why he is the most beautiful:

"First, Phaedrus, he is the youngest of the gods. And Love himself provides the proof — he runs from old age, which, fast as it is, catches up with most of us faster than we'd like. Love despises old age and won't go near it. Youth and Love are constant companions. Like attracts like, as the proverb says. I agreed with much of what Phaedrus said, but I can't agree that Love is older than Kronos and Iapetus. No! I say Love is the youngest of the gods, and forever young. Those ancient acts among the gods that Hesiod and Parmenides describe — the castrations, the chains, all that violence — those happened under the rule of Necessity, not Love. If Love had been reigning back then, there would have been no mutilation, no binding, no brutality. There would have been peace and tenderness, as there has been ever since Love took charge.

"And Love is not just young — he's tender. He deserves a poet like Homer to express his delicacy. Homer says of the goddess Ate that she is tender:

  'Her feet are tender, for she sets her steps
  not on the ground but on the heads of men.'

"That's a lovely proof of tenderness — she doesn't walk on anything hard, only on what's soft. I offer the same kind of proof for Love. He doesn't walk on the ground. He doesn't even walk on the skulls of men — which aren't all that soft. No, Love makes his home in the hearts and souls of gods and men, and these are the softest things in existence. He dwells there, nestled in the softest of the soft. Not in every soul, though — when he encounters a hard heart, he leaves. He only stays where it's soft. And if he's always touching and treading on the very softest of soft things, with his feet and his whole body — how can he be anything but the softest and most tender being there is?

"So Love is the youngest and the most tender. And he's also graceful and supple in form. If he were rigid, he couldn't wrap himself around everything the way he does, couldn't wind his way into and out of every soul undetected. His grace proves his flexibility, and grace is something everyone agrees Love possesses in abundance. Gracelessness and Love are perpetual enemies.

"And Love's beauty! The god lives among flowers. He doesn't settle where things have stopped blooming or are fading — whether bodies, souls, or anything else. But wherever things are blossoming and fragrant, there he sits and stays.

"Enough about his beauty, though there's much more I could say. Now let me speak of his virtue.

"Love's greatest glory is this: he can neither commit injustice nor suffer it, from god or from man. He doesn't suffer by force — force can't touch him. And he doesn't act by force — everyone serves Love willingly. Where there's mutual consent, there is justice. So says the law, and the law is right.

"Love is not only just but supremely temperate. Everyone agrees that temperance means mastering your pleasures and desires. And no pleasure has ever mastered Love. He masters them all. He's their ruler, and they're his subjects. If he conquers every pleasure and desire, that's temperance of the highest order.

"As for courage: even the god of war is no match for Love. Ares didn't capture Love — Love captured Ares. The love of Aphrodite mastered him, as the old story tells us. And the captor is always stronger than the captive. If Love conquers the bravest of all the gods, he must be the bravest of all.

"I've spoken of his justice, temperance, and courage. Now for his wisdom — and here I'll do the best I can.

"First of all — and here, like Eryximachus, I'll give special honor to my own craft — Love is a poet. And a magnificent one. He also turns everyone he touches into a poet, even someone who had no music in them before. Surely this proves that Love is a master of all the creative arts, since you can't give what you don't have, and you can't teach what you don't know.

"Consider the creation of every living thing. Isn't it Love's work? All creatures are born and brought into being through him. And look at the arts and crafts: is there any artist touched by Love who doesn't achieve fame? The ones Love ignores walk in obscurity. Apollo discovered medicine, archery, and prophecy under the guidance of desire and love — even he is a disciple of Love! The Muses discovered music through Love, Hephaestus discovered metalwork, Athena discovered weaving, and Zeus discovered how to govern gods and men. All through Love! And it was Love who put the house of the gods in order — the love of beauty, naturally, because Love has nothing to do with ugliness.

"Before Love, as I said, terrible things happened among the gods, because Necessity ruled. But since Love's birth, the love of beautiful things has produced every good thing in heaven and earth.

"And so, Phaedrus, I say this: Love is himself the most beautiful and the best of all beings, and the cause of beauty and goodness in all other things. And a line of poetry comes to mind — it is Love who

  'Gives peace on earth and calms the stormy deep,
  who stills the winds and bids the sufferer sleep.'

"It is Love who empties us of alienation and fills us with kinship. He brings us together at gatherings like this one — at feasts, at dances, at sacrifices. He is our master of ceremonies. He gives us courtesy and takes away hostility. He is generous with kindness and stingy with cruelty. He's the friend of the good, the marvel of the wise, the wonder of the gods. He's longed for by those who don't have him and treasured by those who do. He's the father of elegance, luxury, desire, grace, longing, and tenderness. He watches over the good and ignores the wicked.

"In every word, every work, every wish, every fear — he is our savior, our pilot, our comrade, our champion. He is the glory of gods and men, the fairest and best of guides. Let every person follow in his footsteps, singing sweetly in his praise, joining the song with which Love charms the minds of gods and mortals alike.

"That is my speech, Phaedrus — half playful, half serious, the best I can do in honor of the god."

When Agathon finished, Aristodemus said there was a round of enthusiastic applause. Everyone felt the young man had spoken beautifully — worthy of himself and worthy of the god.

Socrates looked over at Eryximachus and said: "Well, son of Acumenus? Were my fears unreasonable? Wasn't I right when I predicted that Agathon would give a dazzling speech and leave me with nothing to say?"

"You were right about one thing," said Eryximachus. "Agathon did give a dazzling speech. But I don't believe for a second that you'll have nothing to say."

"My dear friend," said Socrates, "how could anyone have something to say after a speech like that? The whole thing was magnificent, but that ending — the beauty of those words and phrases — who could hear it and not be awestruck? When I thought about how utterly incapable I was of saying anything even half as beautiful, I nearly got up and ran away in shame. The whole speech reminded me of Gorgias. In fact, by the end, I was convinced Agathon was wielding the Gorgonian head of the great master of rhetoric — trying to turn me and my speech to stone, strike me dumb.

"That's when I realized what a fool I'd been to agree to take my turn praising Love. I'd said I was an expert on the subject! What a joke. I had no idea how praise was supposed to work. In my naive way, I assumed that when you praise something, you're supposed to tell the truth about it — pick out the finest true things and present them in the best possible way. I was feeling pretty confident, thinking I knew how to give a good speech about Love, since I knew what the truth was.

"But now I see that's not how it works at all. Apparently the goal is to heap every kind of glory and greatness onto your subject, whether it's true or not. Truth doesn't matter. The whole point, it seems, was not to actually praise Love, but to make it look like you're praising him. So you pile on every beautiful quality you can think of, regardless of whether it applies, because the audience doesn't know any better. And I have to admit, it makes for a noble and impressive performance.

"But since I didn't understand the rules, I can't play this game. My tongue made a promise my mind can't keep — as Euripides would put it. So I'm withdrawing from that kind of contest.

"However, if you'd like to hear the truth about Love — just the plain truth, in whatever words happen to come to me, in no particular elegant order — I'm ready to give you that. Phaedrus, would that be acceptable?"

Phaedrus and the whole company told him to speak however he thought best.

"Then let me do one more thing first," Socrates said. "Let me ask Agathon a few questions, so I can use his answers as the starting point for what I want to say."

"Go right ahead," said Phaedrus. "Ask away."

And so Socrates began:

"I think you were absolutely right, my dear Agathon, to start by describing what Love is before talking about what he does. I very much approve of that approach. So since you've spoken so beautifully about Love's nature, let me ask you this: Is Love the love of something, or of nothing? I don't mean 'Is Love the love of some mother or father' — that would be a silly question. I mean it the way you'd answer if I asked: 'Is a father a father of something?' You'd obviously say yes — a father is a father of a son or daughter."

"Certainly," said Agathon.

"And you'd say the same of a mother?"

"Yes."

"Let me give you one more example to make my point clear. Isn't a brother essentially a brother of something?"

"Yes," he said.

"Namely, of a brother or sister?"

"Right."

"Good. Now let me ask about Love. Is Love the love of something, or of nothing?"

"Of something, definitely."

"Hold on to that answer. Now tell me: does Love desire the thing it's the love of?"

"Yes, of course."

"And when Love desires this thing — does Love already possess it, or not?"

"Probably not, I'd say."

"Think about it more carefully," said Socrates. "Don't just say 'probably.' Consider whether it's not necessarily the case. If you desire something, mustn't you lack it? If you don't lack it, you don't desire it. This seems to me absolutely and necessarily true, Agathon. What do you think?"

"I think you're right," said Agathon.

"Good. Now: would a person who is already tall desire to be tall? Would a person who is already strong desire to be strong?"

Symposium (Part 2)

That would be inconsistent with what we've already agreed to.

True. Because anyone who already is something can't want to be what they already are, can they?

And yet, Socrates added, if a strong man wanted to be strong, or a fast man wanted to be fast, or a healthy man wanted to be healthy — you might think he was desiring something he already has. I bring this up so we don't get confused. Because people who have these qualities, Agathon, must already possess their advantages right now, whether they want to or not. And who can desire what they already have? So when someone says, "I'm well and I want to be well," or "I'm rich and I want to be rich" — when they say "I want what I already have" — we'd tell them: "My friend, you have wealth, health, and strength, and what you actually want is to keep having them. Right now, like it or not, you've got them. When you say 'I want what I have,' what you really mean is that you want to still have in the future what you have right now." He'd have to agree with us, wouldn't he?

He would, said Agathon.

Then, said Socrates, this person is really desiring that what he has now will be preserved for the future — which amounts to desiring something that doesn't yet exist for him, something he doesn't yet have.

Very true, he said.

So he — and everyone who desires anything — desires what he doesn't already have, what's in the future rather than the present, what he lacks, what he isn't. These are the kinds of things that love and desire go after?

Very true, he said.

Now then, said Socrates, let's sum up the argument. First: isn't love always love of something? And specifically of something that a person lacks?

Yes, he replied.

And remember what you said in your speech — or if you don't, I'll remind you. You said that the love of beauty brought order to the realm of the gods, because there's no love of ugly things. Didn't you say something like that?

Yes, said Agathon.

And that was a fair point, my friend. But if it's true, then Love is love of beauty, not of ugliness?

He agreed.

And we've already established that Love is desire for something a person lacks?

True, he said.

So Love lacks beauty — Love wants beauty and doesn't have it?

That must be so, he replied.

And would you call something beautiful if it lacks beauty and doesn't possess it?

Certainly not.

Then can you still say that Love is beautiful?

Agathon replied: I'm afraid I didn't really understand what I was saying.

You gave a very fine speech, Agathon, replied Socrates. But there's just one more small question I'd like to ask: isn't the good also the beautiful?

Then in wanting the beautiful, Love also wants the good?

I can't argue with you, Socrates, said Agathon. Let's say what you're claiming is true.

No — say rather, dear Agathon, that you can't argue with the truth. Socrates is easy enough to argue with.

And now, taking my leave of you, I'd like to retell a story about love that I once heard from Diotima of Mantineia — a woman wise in this subject and many others. She was the one who, years ago, when the Athenians were making sacrifices before the plague hit, managed to delay the disease by ten years. She was my teacher in the ways of love, and I'll repeat to you what she told me, starting from the same conclusions Agathon just agreed to — which are pretty much the same ones I agreed to when she questioned me. I think the easiest way to do this is to play both parts myself, just as well as I can. So like you suggested, Agathon, I should talk first about the nature of Love — what he is — and then about what he does.

First, I said to her in nearly the same words Agathon used with me: that Love was a mighty god, and beautiful too. And she proved to me — the same way I proved it to him — that by my own logic, Love was neither beautiful nor good.

"What do you mean, Diotima?" I said. "Is Love ugly and bad, then?"

"Careful," she said. "Does something have to be ugly just because it isn't beautiful?"

"Well, yes," I said.

"And must what isn't wise be ignorant? Don't you see there's a middle ground between wisdom and ignorance?"

"What would that be?" I asked.

"Right opinion," she said. "Which, as you know, can't give reasons for itself, so it isn't knowledge — how could knowledge exist without reasons? But it isn't ignorance either, because it does hit on the truth. It's clearly something in between ignorance and wisdom."

"That's fair," I said.

"Then don't insist," she said, "that whatever isn't beautiful must be ugly, or that whatever isn't good must be evil. And don't assume that because Love is neither beautiful nor good, he must therefore be ugly and evil. He's somewhere in between."

"Well," I said, "everyone admits Love is a great god."

"When you say 'everyone,' do you mean people who actually know, or people who don't?"

"I mean everyone."

"And how, Socrates," she said with a smile, "can Love be universally acknowledged as a great god by people who say he isn't a god at all?"

"Who says that?" I asked.

"You and I, for starters," she replied.

"How can that be?" I said.

"It's perfectly logical," she replied. "You'd agree that all the gods are happy and beautiful — wouldn't you? You wouldn't dare say any god was not?"

"Of course not," I said.

"And by 'happy,' you mean those who possess good and beautiful things?"

"Yes."

"But you've already admitted that Love, precisely because he lacks these things, desires the good and beautiful things he doesn't have?"

"Yes, I did."

"But how can someone be a god if he has no share in what's good or beautiful?"

"He can't, I suppose."

"So you see — you also deny that Love is a god."

"Then what is Love?" I asked. "A mortal?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"Like before — he's something in between mortal and immortal."

"What is he, Diotima?"

"He's a great spirit — a daimon. And like all spirits, he's an intermediary between the divine and the mortal."

"What power does he have?" I asked.

"He interprets and carries messages between gods and humans," she said. "He brings the gods our prayers and sacrifices, and brings us their commands and responses. He's the mediator who bridges the gap between them, and through him everything is connected. Through him the arts of the prophet and the priest — their sacrifices, mysteries, charms, prophecies, and incantations — all find their way. God doesn't mix directly with humanity. All communication between the divine and human worlds, whether in waking or in sleep, passes through Love. The wisdom that understands this is spiritual wisdom; all other wisdom — the practical skills and crafts — is ordinary. These spirits, these intermediary powers, are many and varied, and Love is one of them."

"Who was his father?" I asked. "And his mother?"

"That's a longer story," she said, "but I'll tell you. On the day Aphrodite was born, the gods held a feast. Among the guests was Poros — Plenty — the son of Metis, or Resourcefulness. When the feast was over, Penia — Poverty — came to the door to beg, as people do on such occasions. Now Plenty, having drunk too much nectar (there was no wine in those days), wandered into the garden of Zeus and fell into a heavy sleep. Poverty, sizing up her desperate situation, hatched a plan to have a child by him. So she lay down beside him and conceived Love. That's why Love is a follower and servant of Aphrodite — because he was conceived on the day of her birth, and because he's naturally drawn to beauty, and Aphrodite is beautiful.

"So his nature follows from his parents. First of all, he's always poor. He's nothing like the tender, beautiful figure most people imagine. He's rough and weather-beaten, barefoot, homeless. He sleeps on the bare ground under the open sky — in doorways, on the streets — always in need, just like his mother. But from his father's side, he's always scheming after beautiful and good things. He's bold, enterprising, intense — a relentless hunter, always weaving some plan or other, sharp in pursuit of understanding, endlessly resourceful. He's a philosopher through and through, a formidable enchanter, a wizard of persuasion. He's neither mortal nor immortal: on any given day he might be flourishing and full of life when things are going well, then dying — then coming back to life again, thanks to his father's nature. Whatever flows in is always flowing out, so he's never truly rich and never truly destitute. He's also right in the middle between wisdom and ignorance. Here's why: no god is a philosopher or seeker of wisdom — gods are already wise. And no one who's already wise goes seeking wisdom. But the ignorant don't seek wisdom either, and that's the real curse of ignorance: the person who is neither good nor wise is perfectly satisfied with himself. You don't desire what you don't realize you lack."

"Then who are the philosophers, Diotima," I asked, "if they're neither the wise nor the ignorant?"

"Even a child could answer that," she replied. "They're the ones in between. And Love is one of them. Wisdom is among the most beautiful things, and Love is love of the beautiful — so Love must be a philosopher, a lover of wisdom, and as such he falls between the wise and the ignorant. This too comes from his parentage: his father is wealthy and wise, his mother poor and foolish. That, my dear Socrates, is the nature of the spirit Love. Your earlier mistake was perfectly natural, and from what you've told me, I can see how it happened: you confused love with the beloved. That's why you thought Love was all beautiful. The beloved really is beautiful — delicate, perfect, blessed. But the principle of love is something else entirely, something like what I've described."

I said, "All right, Diotima — you make a persuasive case. But assuming Love is what you say he is, what use is he to people?"

"That, Socrates," she said, "is what I'll try to explain next. I've already described his nature and parentage. You've agreed that love is love of beautiful things. But someone might ask: what does that mean? When a person loves beautiful things, what do they actually want?"

I answered, "To possess them. To make the beautiful things their own."

"But that answer," she said, "just raises another question: What does possessing beauty give you?"

"I don't have a ready answer for that," I said.

"Then let me swap in 'good' for 'beautiful' and try again. When someone who loves good things loves them — what do they want?"

"To possess the good," I said.

"And what does possessing the good give them?"

"Happiness," I replied. "That one's easier."

"Yes," she said. "Happy people are made happy by having good things. And there's no need to ask why someone wants happiness — the answer is self-evident."

"You're right," I said.

"And is this wish — this desire for happiness and good things — common to everyone? Or only to some people?"

"To everyone," I said. "It's universal."

"Then why," she asked, "don't we say everyone is in love, if everyone is always desiring the same good things? Why do we say only some people are in love?"

"I've wondered that myself," I said.

"There's nothing mysterious about it," she said. "What happens is this: we take one particular form of love, give it the name that belongs to the whole category, and use other names for the rest."

"Give me an example," I said.

"Consider 'poetry,'" she said. "As you know, poetry in the broad sense is enormously wide. Every act of bringing something from non-existence into existence is 'poetry' — it's making. The products of every craft are a kind of poetry, and all craftsmen are, in a sense, poets."

"True."

"But we don't call them all poets, do we? We reserve the word 'poetry' for just one slice of the art — the part that deals with music and meter — and call only those practitioners 'poets.'"

"Exactly," I said.

"The same thing happens with love. In the broadest sense, all desire for good things and happiness is love — and it's a powerful thing. But people who pursue this desire through moneymaking, athletics, philosophy, or any other path aren't called 'lovers.' We reserve that name for people whose passion takes one particular form — and only they are said to be 'in love.'"

"You're probably right," I said.

"Now," she continued, "there's a popular theory that lovers are searching for their other half. But I say they're searching for neither the half nor the whole unless that half or whole happens to be good. People will cut off their own hands and feet if those are diseased — they don't cling to what belongs to them just because it's theirs. What people love is the good. Nothing else. Would you agree?"

"Absolutely," I said.

"Then here's the simple truth: people love the good."

"Yes," I said.

"And shouldn't we add: they love possessing the good?"

"Yes."

"And not just possessing it now — possessing it forever?"

"That too."

"Then love," she said, "can be described as the desire for the everlasting possession of the good."

"That's exactly right," I said.

"Now," she continued, "if that's what love is, what form does the pursuit take? What are people actually doing when they show all this eagerness and intensity that we call 'being in love'? What's the goal? Tell me."

"If I knew, Diotima," I said, "I wouldn't have come to you to learn about this very thing. I wouldn't have been so amazed by your wisdom."

"Then I'll teach you," she said. "The goal is giving birth in the presence of beauty — birth in both body and soul."

"That's an oracle," I said. "I need a translation."

"Let me be clearer, then. All human beings are pregnant — in their bodies and in their souls. When we reach a certain age, our nature longs to give birth. But birth can only happen in the presence of beauty, not ugliness. The union of man and woman is a kind of giving birth, and it's a divine thing. Conception and generation are the immortal element in a mortal creature. But they can't happen in what's discordant. Ugliness is discordant with the divine; beauty is in harmony with it. Beauty is the goddess who presides over birth. And that's why, when what is ready to create draws near to beauty, it opens up and overflows and conceives and brings forth. But at the approach of ugliness, it contracts, turns away, shrivels up, and refuses to conceive — and the pain of holding back what it longs to create is terrible. That's why someone who's ripe for creation feels such an intense flutter of excitement around beauty — because beauty relieves the anguish of the creative urge. Love, Socrates, isn't love of beauty."

"What is it, then?"

"It's love of giving birth — of creating — in the presence of beauty."

"Yes," I said.

"Yes, indeed," she said. "And why creation? Because for a mortal being, creation is a kind of eternity and immortality. And if love is the desire for the everlasting possession of the good, as we've agreed, then everyone must also desire immortality alongside the good. Love, therefore, is love of immortality."

All this she taught me at various times when we talked about love. And I remember her once saying to me: "What do you think drives love, Socrates — the desire and all the longing that comes with it? Haven't you noticed how all animals — birds, beasts, everything — are in agony when the mating urge takes hold? They're seized by this infection of love, starting with the desire to mate and then extending to care for their offspring. The weakest animals will fight the strongest to the death for their young. They'll starve themselves, do anything to protect them. With humans, you might say this comes from reason. But what explains it in animals? Can you tell me?"

Again I said I didn't know.

She said: "And you expect to become an expert on love without understanding this? But I've already told you, Diotima — my ignorance is exactly why I come to you. I know I need a teacher. So please, explain to me: why does this happen, and all the other mysteries of love?"

"Don't be surprised," she said, "if you believe, as we've agreed several times, that love is love of immortality. The mortal nature, by the same logic, is always striving to be everlasting and immortal. And the only way it can do that is through generation — through always leaving behind a new being in place of the old one. Even within the life of a single individual, there's constant change, not real permanence. We call a person 'the same' from youth to old age, but in the short interval between the two, they're undergoing a perpetual process of loss and renewal — hair, flesh, bones, blood, the entire body changing constantly. And this is true not just of the body but of the soul as well. Our habits, character, opinions, desires, pleasures, pains, fears — none of these stay the same. They're always arriving and departing. And here's something even more surprising: the same is true of knowledge. Individual pieces of knowledge spring up and fade away, so we're never quite the same in what we know. What we call 'recollection' is actually this: knowledge is always slipping away through forgetting, and study creates a fresh memory to replace the old one — which looks the same but is actually new. This is how everything mortal is preserved: not by staying absolutely the same, as the divine does, but by substitution — the old and worn-out leaving behind something new and similar to take its place. That, Socrates, is how mortal bodies and mortal everything else participate in immortality. The immortal does it differently — by simply remaining the same forever. So don't be surprised that every creature loves its offspring so fiercely. That universal love and devotion exists for the sake of immortality."

I was astonished at her words and said: "Is this really true, Diotima — you who are so wise?"

And she answered with the full authority of a master teacher: "You can be absolutely sure of it, Socrates. Just think about human ambition — the way people behave will seem senseless unless you understand that they're driven by the love of immortal fame. They'll take risks far greater than they'd take for their own children. They'll spend money, endure any hardship, even die — all to leave behind a name that will live forever. Do you think Alcestis would have died to save Admetus, or Achilles to avenge Patroclus, or your own Codrus to preserve the kingdom for his sons, if they hadn't imagined that the memory of their courage — which we still honor today — would be immortal? No," she said. "I'm convinced that everyone does everything they do — and the better the person, the more they do it — in hope of winning immortal glory. What they desire is immortality."

"Those who are pregnant only in body," she continued, "turn to women and have children — that's their form of love, their hope that children will preserve their memory and give them the blessing of immortality. But those who are pregnant in their souls — and there are certainly people who are more creative in their souls than their bodies — they conceive what the soul naturally conceives: wisdom and virtue. The greatest creators of this kind are poets and all the artists and inventors who truly deserve that name. But the greatest and most beautiful form of wisdom, by far, is the wisdom concerned with governing cities and households — what we call moderation and justice.

"When someone carries the seeds of these things in his soul from a young age, and when the time comes for him to create, he goes searching for beauty — for a setting in which to bring forth what he's been carrying. He'll never create in the presence of ugliness. He naturally embraces beautiful bodies over ugly ones, and when he finds a soul that is also beautiful, noble, and well-formed, he embraces the whole person completely. With such a person, he overflows with ideas about virtue — about what a good person should be and should do — and he tries to educate them. Through contact with beauty, and especially through keeping company with a beautiful person, he brings forth what he'd been carrying and conceiving for so long. Together they raise what they've created — and this bond is far closer and more enduring than the bond between parents of mortal children, because what they've created together is more beautiful and more immortal. Who wouldn't rather have Homer's children than human ones? Who wouldn't envy Hesiod and the other great poets for the offspring they left behind — works that have given them undying glory? Or think of the children Lycurgus left: the laws that saved not only Sparta but arguably all of Greece. Think of Solon, honored as the father of Athenian law. And many others, in many lands, both Greek and foreign, who produced magnificent works and became the parents of every kind of virtue. Temples have been raised in their honor because of these children of the soul. No one has ever received such honors for having ordinary human children."

"These, Socrates, are the lesser mysteries of love, and even you might manage to be initiated into them. But the greater mysteries — the ones these lead to, if you follow the path correctly — I'm not sure you can reach. But I'll do my best to explain, and you try to follow.

"The person who approaches this the right way must begin young, drawn toward beautiful bodies. First, if their guide leads them correctly, they should fall in love with one particular beautiful body and through that relationship create beautiful ideas and conversations. Then they should come to realize on their own that the beauty in one body is closely related to the beauty in another. And if beauty of form is what they're pursuing, it would be foolish not to recognize that the beauty in every body is one and the same. Once they see this, they'll relax their intense passion for the one and come to regard it as something small, becoming a lover of all beautiful bodies instead.

"Next, they'll come to see that beauty of the soul is more valuable than beauty of the body. So that even if someone has a soul of great quality but only modest physical beauty, that will be enough — they'll love that person and care for them and search together for ideas that improve the young. This will lead them to recognize the beauty in human activities and laws, and to see that all beauty is of one family — and that the beauty of the body is a small thing by comparison.

"After activities and laws, they'll move on to the sciences, and see the beauty in those. By this point they're no longer a slave to the beauty of one boy or one person or one set of laws — narrow-minded and small. Instead, they've turned toward the vast ocean of beauty and, gazing upon it, they produce many beautiful and magnificent ideas and thoughts in their boundless love of wisdom. They grow and gain strength on that shore until at last a single vision is revealed to them: the knowledge of a beauty that is everywhere. And now, Socrates, give me your closest attention."

"Whoever has been guided this far in the mysteries of love, who has contemplated beautiful things in the proper order and sequence — that person, approaching the final stage, will suddenly perceive something of astonishing beauty. And this, Socrates, is the ultimate goal of everything we've been discussing.

"This beauty is, first of all, eternal — it doesn't come into existence or pass away, it doesn't grow or diminish. Second, it isn't beautiful in one way and ugly in another, or beautiful at one time and ugly at another, or beautiful in one place and ugly in another, or beautiful to some people and ugly to others. It won't appear to them as a face, or hands, or any bodily form at all, or as any word or any piece of knowledge. It doesn't exist in any other thing — not in an animal, not in the earth, not in the sky, not anywhere else. It is beauty itself, absolute, pure, unmixed — not contaminated by human flesh or color or any mortal nonsense. It is the divine beauty itself, existing in a single form. All other beautiful things participate in this beauty in such a way that when they come into being or perish, this beauty is not increased or diminished in the slightest — it remains completely unaffected.

"When someone ascends from earthly beauty through the correct practice of love and begins to glimpse this ultimate beauty, they've nearly reached the goal. And here is the true path of love, whether one walks it alone or is led by another: beginning from the beautiful things of this world, you use them as stepping stones — ascending always for the sake of that higher beauty — from one beautiful body to two, from two to all beautiful bodies, from beautiful bodies to beautiful ways of living, from beautiful ways of living to beautiful fields of knowledge, until from these you arrive at that one special knowledge — the knowledge of beauty itself — and you finally understand what beauty really is.

"This, my dear Socrates," said the woman from Mantineia, "is the life worth living above all others — a life spent in the contemplation of beauty itself. If you ever see it, you won't measure it by the standards of gold and fancy clothes and beautiful boys and young men — the sight of whom now throws you into such ecstasy that you and plenty of others would happily live just gazing at them, without food or drink, if that were possible. But what if someone could see true beauty — divine beauty — pure and clear and uncontaminated, not weighed down by human flesh and all the colors and vanities of mortal life? What if they could behold beauty itself, simple and divine? Do you think that would be a poor life — looking there, communing with true beauty? Don't you see that only there, seeing beauty with the mind's eye, will a person be able to give birth not to images of virtue but to true virtue itself? Because they'd be in contact not with an image but with the real thing. And by giving birth to true virtue and nourishing it, they'd become dear to the gods and, as much as any mortal can, they'd become immortal themselves. Would that be an unworthy life?"

Such, Phaedrus — and I'm speaking to all of you, not just you — were the words of Diotima. And I'm persuaded she was right. And because I'm persuaded, I try to persuade others that in the pursuit of this goal, human nature won't easily find a better ally than Love. And that's why I say everyone should honor Love as I do, and walk in his ways, and encourage others to do the same. I praise the power and spirit of Love to the best of my ability — now and always.

The words I've spoken, Phaedrus, you can call a speech in praise of love, or whatever else you'd like to call it.

When Socrates finished speaking, the company applauded. Aristophanes was starting to respond to something Socrates had said about his own speech — when suddenly there was a tremendous pounding at the front door, the sound of partygoers, and the wail of a flute. Agathon told his servants to go see who it was. "If they're friends of ours, invite them in. If not, tell them the drinking's done."

A moment later they heard the voice of Alcibiades booming through the courtyard. He was completely hammered, shouting at the top of his lungs: "Where's Agathon? Take me to Agathon!" Eventually, propped up by the flute-girl and some of his attendants, he stumbled his way in.

"Hello, everyone!" he announced, swaying in the doorway. His head was crowned with a massive wreath of ivy and violets, trailing ribbons everywhere. "Will you accept a very drunk man as a drinking companion? Or should I just crown Agathon — which is why I came — and be on my way? I couldn't make it yesterday, so I'm here today with these ribbons on my head, ready to take them off and put them on the head of the most beautiful and wisest man alive — if I may call him that. Go ahead, laugh at me for being drunk! I know perfectly well that I'm telling the truth, even if you do laugh. But tell me first — are we agreed on terms? Will you drink with me or not?"

Everyone shouted for him to come in and take a seat, and Agathon invited him warmly. So his friends led him in, and as they did, he was pulling the ribbons off his own head, intending to crown Agathon. He held them in front of his face, which meant he didn't see Socrates — who had moved aside to make room. Alcibiades dropped into the empty spot between Agathon and Socrates, threw his arms around Agathon, and crowned him.

"Take off his sandals," said Agathon, "and let him be the third on our couch."

"Absolutely!" said Alcibiades. "But who's this third person sharing the couch with — "

He turned around and jumped as he caught sight of Socrates.

"By Heracles!" he cried. "What's this? Socrates! Lying in ambush for me again! This is so typical of you — popping up in the last place I'd expect. So what's your excuse this time? Why are you lying here? I notice you've arranged to be next to the most beautiful person in the room — not next to some comedian like Aristophanes."

Socrates turned to Agathon and said: "I need you to protect me, Agathon. My relationship with this man has become a serious problem. Ever since I became his admirer, I haven't been allowed to even look at anyone else who's attractive, let alone talk to them. He flies into jealous rages, calls me names, and can barely keep his hands off me. I'm genuinely worried he might do something right now. So please — either reconcile us, or if he gets violent, defend me. I am physically afraid of his passion."

"There can never be any reconciliation between you and me," said Alcibiades. "But I'll save your punishment for another time. Right now — Agathon, give me back some of those ribbons. I need to crown this man's extraordinary head too. I don't want him complaining that I crowned you and forgot about him — the man who defeats everyone in conversation, not just once, like you did the other day, but every single time."

And with that, he took some of the ribbons, crowned Socrates, and settled back on the couch.

Then he said: "You all seem dangerously sober, gentlemen. That won't do. The deal was I could join you if we drank. So I'm appointing myself master of ceremonies until you're all properly drunk. Agathon! Get me a big goblet. Actually — " He spotted the wine cooler. "Hand me that." It held over two quarts. He filled it, drained the whole thing, then had the servant fill it again for Socrates. "Watch closely, everyone," said Alcibiades. "This little trick of mine won't work on Socrates. He can drink any amount and it makes absolutely no difference." Socrates drank the cup the servant had poured for him.

Eryximachus spoke up: "What are we doing here, Alcibiades? Are we just going to guzzle wine like a bunch of thirsty sailors? No conversation? No songs?"

Alcibiades replied: "Greetings, worthy son of a most worthy and wise father!"

"Same to you," said Eryximachus. "But what should we do?"

"Whatever you say," said Alcibiades. "'The wise physician skilled our wounds to heal' — you prescribe, and we'll obey. What do you want?"

"Well," said Eryximachus, "before you showed up, we agreed that each of us in turn would give the best speech he could in praise of Love, going left to right around the room. Everyone else has spoken. Since you haven't spoken but have certainly drunk your share, it's only fair you take your turn — and then assign whatever task you like to Socrates, and he'll do the same with the person on his right, and so on."

"That sounds good, Eryximachus," said Alcibiades. "But it's hardly fair to compare a drunk man's speech with sober ones. And by the way, my sweet friend — did you actually believe what Socrates said just now? Because I can assure you it's the exact opposite. If I praise anyone but him in his presence — god or mortal — he'll practically attack me."

"Have some shame," said Socrates.

"Quiet, you," said Alcibiades. "By Poseidon, I will not praise another soul when you're in the room."

"Fine then," said Eryximachus. "If you want to, praise Socrates."

"What do you think, Eryximachus?" said Alcibiades. "Should I go after him? Should I take my revenge right here in front of everyone?"

"Wait — what are you planning?" said Socrates. "Are you going to make fun of me? Is that what your 'praise' is going to be?"

"I'm going to tell the truth. You'll allow that, won't you?"

"The truth? I don't just allow it — I insist on it."

"Then I'll start right now," said Alcibiades. "And here's the deal: if I say anything that isn't true, you can interrupt me and call me a liar. Though I fully intend to speak the truth. But don't be surprised if things come out a bit jumbled — it's not easy for a man in my condition to give a smooth, organized account of all the ways you're extraordinary.

"Now then, gentlemen — I'm going to praise Socrates through a comparison that may look like a joke to him, but I swear it's for the sake of truth, not comedy. I say he is exactly like those statues of Silenus you see in sculptor's shops — the ones that are carved holding flutes and pipes, and when you crack them open down the middle, there are tiny figures of gods hidden inside. I'd also say he looks like the satyr Marsyas. You won't deny that your face resembles a satyr's, Socrates — and the resemblance goes deeper than the face. You're a bully, for one thing, as I can prove with witnesses if you won't admit it. And aren't you a kind of flute-player? You absolutely are — and a far more astonishing one than Marsyas. He used actual instruments to charm people's souls with the power of his music, and the musicians who still play his melodies do the same — because the tunes attributed to Olympus were really Marsyas's, and whether performed by a master musician or a mediocre flute-girl, his melodies alone have the power to possess the soul and reveal who is ready for the gods and their mysteries, because the music itself is divine. The only difference between you and Marsyas is that you produce the same effect with words alone, no instrument needed. When we hear any other speaker, even a brilliant one, nobody really cares. But the merest fragments of your words, Socrates — even secondhand, even poorly repeated — amaze and possess every man, woman, and child who hears them.

"If I weren't afraid you'd all think I'm hopelessly drunk, I'd swear an oath to the effect your words have had — and still have — on me. When I hear him speak, my heart pounds harder than any ecstatic worshipper's. Tears stream down my face. And I've seen the same thing happen to many other people. I've heard Pericles and other great orators — they spoke well, I thought — but none of them ever affected me like this. My soul wasn't stirred. I didn't feel angry about the slavishness of my own life. But this Marsyas here has often brought me to a point where I've felt I could hardly bear to go on living the way I do — and Socrates, you won't deny this. Even now, I know that if I let myself listen to him, I couldn't resist. He'd have me sitting at his feet until I'm old. Because he makes me admit something I don't want to admit: that I'm neglecting my own soul while running around playing politics. So I force myself to stop my ears and tear myself away from him, like fleeing from the Sirens, or I'd never leave his side. He's the only person in the world who's ever made me feel ashamed. You probably think that's not in my nature — and you'd be right to think so. But he does it. Because I know I can't argue with what he tells me I should do, yet the moment I leave his presence, the roar of the crowd sweeps me away. So I run from him. And when I see him again, I'm ashamed of everything I confessed before. Many times I've wished he were dead. But I know that if he died, I'd be far more miserable than relieved. I'm completely at a loss about what to do with this man.

"That's what his music — this satyr's flute-playing — has done to me and to many others. But let me show you just how perfect the comparison is, and how extraordinary his power really is. Because let me tell you: none of you truly know him. But I will reveal him to you, now that I've started.

"You see how Socrates is always chasing after beautiful people? He's always hanging around them, always dazzled by them. And then again — he knows nothing, understands nothing. That's the front he puts on. Isn't that pure Silenus? Absolutely. That's the carved exterior. But crack him open, my fellow drinkers, and the self-control inside is beyond anything you can imagine. It doesn't matter to him in the slightest whether someone is beautiful, or rich, or famous, or possesses any of the honors the crowd values so highly. He considers all of it worthless. He considers us worthless. His whole life is spent in a kind of ironic play-acting, teasing and toying with people.

"But when I cracked him open — when I caught a glimpse of his true inner purpose — I saw golden images inside him, images of such breathtaking beauty that I was ready to do anything Socrates asked. Now, I assumed he was genuinely attracted to my looks, and I thought this was a wonderful stroke of luck — that by being generous with my beauty, I could get him to share everything he knew. Because I had a very high opinion of my own attractiveness.

"So one day, I dismissed my attendant — which I'd never done before — and went to see Socrates alone. Now I'm going to tell you the whole truth, so listen carefully. And Socrates, if I say anything false, call me out.

"So there we were, just the two of us, and I thought: This is it. Now he'll talk to me the way lovers talk when they're finally alone. I was thrilled.

"Nothing happened. He talked the way he always talks, spent the day with me, and went home.

"Next, I challenged him to work out at the wrestling ground. We exercised together, grappled several times when nobody else was around. I thought I might get somewhere that way.

"Not a chance.

"Since I'd gotten absolutely nowhere, I decided I had to go on the offensive. I'd started this pursuit and I wasn't going to quit until I knew where I stood. So I invited him to dinner — playing the role of the lover pursuing his beloved. He wasn't easy to convince, but he finally came. The first time, he tried to leave right after we ate, and I was too embarrassed to stop him. The second time, I kept the conversation going late into the night, and when he said he should go, I told him it was far too late and he'd better stay. So he lay down on the couch next to mine — the same one he'd eaten on — and there was nobody in the room but the two of us.

"Up to this point, everything I've told you is the sort of thing anyone could hear. But what comes next — well, I probably wouldn't tell you if I were sober. But as the proverb says, 'there's truth in wine' — with or without the children present — so I have to speak. Besides, I'd be wrong to hide Socrates' extraordinary behavior when I'm supposed to be praising him. And I've been bitten by a snake, as they say — and only fellow sufferers can understand the kind of agony that makes a person say and do anything. Because I've been bitten by something worse than any viper: philosophy. It's stung me in the heart — or the soul — or wherever it is, and it makes a young man say and do the wildest things. And I can see around me — Phaedrus, Agathon, Eryximachus, Pausanias, Aristodemus, Aristophanes — and Socrates himself, of course — all of you have felt the same madness and frenzy in your love of wisdom. So you'll all understand and forgive what I did then and what I'm saying now. But the servants and anyone else who's uninitiated — let them shut their ears tight.

"When the lamp was out and the servants had left, I decided there was no point in being coy. I nudged him and said: 'Socrates, are you asleep?'

"'No,' he said.

"'Do you know what I've been thinking?'

"'What?' he said.

"'I think,' I said, 'that of all the people who've ever been interested in me, you're the only one truly worthy of me — and you seem too modest to say so. Here's how I see it: I'd be a fool to refuse you this or any other favor. So I'm offering you everything I have — myself, my friends' resources, whatever — in the hope that you'll help me become the best person I can be. I believe you can help me more than anyone alive. And honestly, I'd be far more ashamed of what wise people would think if I refused someone like you, than of what the foolish majority would think if I said yes.'

"He listened to all of this and then replied in that maddening ironic way of his: 'Alcibiades, my dear friend, it sounds like you're not as foolish as you look — if what you say is true, and there really is some power in me to make you a better person. You must be seeing some extraordinary beauty in me — something infinitely beyond your own good looks. And if you're proposing to trade your beauty for mine — to exchange what's beautiful in appearance for what's truly beautiful — well, you'd be getting far the better deal. You'd be getting real gold in exchange for a gold-painted imitation. But look more carefully, my sweet friend, and make sure you're not wrong about me. The mind's eye begins to sharpen only when the body's eyes start to fail, and you've got a long way to go before that happens.'

"I said: 'I've told you exactly where I stand, and I mean every word. Now it's your turn to decide what's best for both of us.'

"'That's reasonable,' he said. 'We'll think about it another time and do whatever seems right — about this and everything else.'

"Now — after this exchange, I figured my words had hit their mark, that I'd wounded him. So without waiting for more, I got up, threw my cloak over him, crawled under his threadbare old coat — it was winter — and lay there all night long with this extraordinary creature in my arms.

"This, Socrates, you won't deny.

"And after all that — he was so completely superior to my advances, so contemptuous, so dismissive of my beauty — my beauty, which I'd thought was actually worth something — listen to this, all of you, you who sit in judgment on the towering virtue of Socrates — nothing happened. When I woke up the next morning, I might as well have been sleeping next to my father or my older brother. That's it.

"Now imagine how I felt after that rejection — humiliated by his indifference, and yet in absolute awe of his character, his self-control, his strength of will. I'd never imagined I could meet someone with that kind of wisdom and that kind of endurance in the same body. I couldn't be angry with him — how could I give up his company? But I couldn't seduce him either. I knew perfectly well that he was more invulnerable to bribery than Ajax was to steel, and the one strategy I'd thought might work — my personal attractiveness — had failed completely. I was at a total loss. No one has ever been more thoroughly enslaved by another person than I was by him.

"All of this happened before our military campaign together at Potidaea. We messed together there, and I got to witness his incredible ability to endure hardship. When our supply lines were cut and we had to go without food — something that happens a lot in wartime — nobody could touch him. He was in a league of his own. And yet when supplies were plentiful and there was a feast, he was the only one who actually knew how to enjoy it. He didn't seek out drink, but when pressured to drink, he could outdrink every single one of us — and, incredibly, no human being has ever seen Socrates drunk. You may get a demonstration of that before the night is over.

"His ability to handle cold was just as remarkable. The winters up there are brutal, genuinely terrible. Everyone else either stayed indoors or went out bundled in layers upon layers of clothing, with their feet wrapped in fleece and felt. Socrates marched through it in his usual cloak, barefoot on the ice, and he moved better than the soldiers who had boots. They shot him dirty looks because they felt he was showing them up.

"I've told you one story; now here's another worth hearing —

"'the deeds and sufferings of the enduring man' —

"while he was on that campaign. One morning, he started puzzling over some problem and couldn't solve it. He wouldn't give up. He just stood there thinking, from early dawn straight through to noon. People started to notice. Word spread through the camp: 'Socrates has been standing in the same spot, lost in thought, since sunrise.' Finally, that evening after dinner, some Ionians — out of sheer curiosity (this was summer, not winter) — brought their bedrolls outside to sleep in the open air so they could watch and see if he'd stand there all night.

"He did. He stood there until dawn. When the sun came up, he said a prayer to it and walked away.

"And if you want to hear about his courage in battle — and you should — let me tell you: he saved my life. In the engagement where I won the prize for valor, I was wounded, and Socrates refused to leave me. He rescued both me and my weapons. He deserved the prize himself, and the generals wanted to give it to me partly because of my social rank. I told them to give it to him instead — and Socrates, you won't dispute this — but he was more insistent than the generals themselves that I should have the honor, not him.

"There was another time his behavior was remarkable — during the retreat after the battle of Delium, where he served as a foot soldier. I was on horseback, so I was in less danger. He and Laches were falling back, because the army was in full flight, and I came across them and shouted that they shouldn't lose heart, that I'd stay with them. And there you could see him — Aristophanes, exactly as you've described him — stalking along like a stork, eyes rolling, calmly surveying friends and enemies alike, making it very clear to anyone, even from a distance, that whoever tried to attack this man was going to get a serious fight. That's how he and his companion got out safely. Because in war, people like that are left alone — it's the ones running in blind panic who get cut down.

"I could praise Socrates for many more things, and each would be extraordinary. Some of his qualities might be found in other people. But his absolute uniqueness — his total unlikeness to any human being who ever lived or ever will live — that is truly astonishing. You might compare Brasidas or others to Achilles. You might compare Pericles to Nestor or Antenor. And you could find similar comparisons for other famous men. But for this strange creature, you'll never find a comparison — not even a remote one — among mortals past or present. The closest you can come is the comparison I've already made: not to any human, but to Silenus and the satyrs. And that comparison applies not just to the man but to his words. I forgot to mention this at the start, but his words are just like those Silenus statues that open up. If you hear Socrates talk, his words seem completely ridiculous at first. He wraps them in language like the rough hide of a satyr — he talks about donkeys, blacksmiths, cobblers, and tanners. He says the same things in the same words over and over, so anyone ignorant or inexperienced would laugh at him. But crack open those words and look at what's inside, and you'll find they're the only words that truly make sense. They're the most divine words, overflowing with images of virtue, reaching to everything that matters — everything a person needs to understand if they want to become truly good.

"That, my friends, is my praise of Socrates. I've mixed in my complaints about the way he's treated me. And I'm not the only one — he's done the same thing to Charmides, and Euthydemus, and plenty of others. He starts out acting like their lover, then somehow turns it around until they're the ones chasing him. So let me warn you, Agathon: don't be fooled by this man. Learn from my experience, and don't make the mistake of finding out the hard way, as the proverb says — 'like a fool who has to learn by getting hurt.'"

When Alcibiades finished, everyone laughed at his candor, since he seemed to be still in love with Socrates.

"You're more sober than you let on, Alcibiades," said Socrates. "Otherwise you wouldn't have been so clever about hiding the real point of your speech behind all this elaborate satyr-praise. You slipped it in at the end, as if it were an afterthought — as if the whole thing weren't designed to drive a wedge between me and Agathon. You want me to love only you, and you want Agathon to love only you. But the plot of your little satyr-play has been detected. Agathon, don't let him get away with it — don't let him set us against each other."

"I think you're right," said Agathon. "I'll bet that's why he positioned himself between us — to keep us apart. But it won't work. I'll come lie on the couch next to you."

"Yes, yes," said Socrates. "Come here, lie below me."

"Oh, this is ridiculous!" said Alcibiades. "This man gets the better of me every time. All right then — at least let Agathon lie between us."

"Can't be done," said Socrates. "You've just praised me, and now it's my turn to praise the person on my right — that's how we've been going. If Agathon sits between us, he'd have to praise me again instead of me praising him. No — let it go, and don't be jealous, because I very much want to sing Agathon's praises."

"Ha!" cried Agathon. "I'm moving right now — I want to be praised by Socrates."

"You see?" said Alcibiades. "The usual story. Wherever Socrates is, no one else gets a chance with the beautiful people. And look how smoothly he's manufactured a reason to pull Agathon next to him."

Agathon got up to take his place beside Socrates — but just then a whole mob of partygoers came bursting in through the door (someone going out had left it open) and made themselves at home. The orderly evening fell apart completely. Everyone was forced to drink enormous amounts of wine. Aristodemus said that Eryximachus, Phaedrus, and several others left. He himself fell asleep — the nights were long — and got a good rest.

He woke near dawn to the sound of a rooster crowing. Most of the others were either asleep or gone. Only Socrates, Aristophanes, and Agathon were still awake, sharing a large cup that they passed around. Socrates was making an argument to them. Aristodemus was only half awake and missed the beginning, but the main point, as he remembered it, was this: Socrates was forcing the other two to admit that the same person who truly understands tragedy must also understand comedy — that the genius of comedy and the genius of tragedy are one and the same. They were giving in to this argument more out of drowsiness than conviction, barely able to follow him. Aristophanes nodded off first. Then, as the sky began to lighten, Agathon fell asleep too.

Socrates, having put them both to sleep, stood up and left. Aristodemus followed, as he always did. Socrates went to the Lyceum, took a bath, and spent the rest of the day the way he always spent his days. That evening, he went home to bed.

Phaedrus (Part 1)

Persons of the dialogue:
  Socrates
  Phaedrus

Scene: Under a plane tree, by the banks of the river Ilissus.

Socrates: Phaedrus! Where are you coming from, and where are you headed?

Phaedrus: I'm coming from Lysias — Cephalus' son — and I'm going for a walk outside the city wall. I was sitting with him all morning, and our friend Acumenus tells me it's much healthier to walk in the open air than to stay cooped up indoors.

Socrates: He's right about that. So Lysias was in town?

Phaedrus: Yes, staying with Epicrates, at Morychus' house near the temple of Olympian Zeus.

Socrates: And what did the two of you get up to? I can't be wrong in guessing that Lysias treated you to a feast of words.

Phaedrus: You'll hear all about it, if you've got the time to walk with me.

Socrates: Time? I'd consider your conversation with Lysias something of "higher import," as Pindar would say, "than any business." Let's go.

Phaedrus: So you're coming?

Socrates: If you're going to tell me about it, absolutely.

Phaedrus: Well, you'll appreciate this, Socrates — it's right up your alley. Love was the topic. But love with a twist. Lysias has written a speech about a beautiful young man who was being courted — but not by a lover. That's the whole clever conceit: he argued that a boy should give his favors to the non-lover rather than the lover.

Socrates: How noble of him! I only wish he'd argued that you should prefer the poor man over the rich, or the old man over the young. Now that would be useful to people like me, and to plenty of others. That would be a genuine public service. But as it stands, I'm so eager to hear this speech that even if you walked all the way to Megara and back — the full Herodicus workout — without stopping, I'd keep pace with you the whole way.

Phaedrus: Oh come on, my dear Socrates. How can you expect my unpracticed memory to do justice to an elaborate composition that the finest speechwriter of our time spent ages crafting? I couldn't possibly. I'd give anything to be able to.

Socrates: Phaedrus, I know you about as well as I know myself. And I'm quite sure that when you heard Lysias' speech, you didn't hear it just once. You made him read it again and again. And Lysias was only too happy to oblige. But even that wasn't enough for you. Eventually you grabbed the actual manuscript and pored over the parts you liked best — that's what you did all morning. Then, when you finally got tired of sitting, you went out for a walk. But you hadn't just been reading. By the dog, I believe you'd memorized the entire speech — unless it was impossibly long — and you went outside the walls to practice reciting it. Then along came a fellow who shares your obsession with speeches — you saw him and your heart leapt. "A partner for my revelry!" you thought. So you invited him to walk with you. But when this speech-lover begged you to recite it, you played coy. "Oh, I couldn't possibly," you said — as if you weren't dying to perform. Because the truth is, even if nobody asked, you'd have grabbed some poor bystander and forced him to listen whether he wanted to or not. So, Phaedrus, just do now what you're going to end up doing anyway.

Phaedrus: All right. I can see I won't get out of this until I speak one way or another. So I might as well do my best.

Socrates: A very sensible observation.

Phaedrus: Here's the plan, then. I'll admit, Socrates, I didn't memorize every single word. But I have a good general sense of the argument, and I can walk you through the main points where the lover comes off worse than the non-lover. Let me start from the beginning.

Socrates: Sure, sure. But first — show me what you've got in your left hand, under that cloak. Because I have a strong suspicion that roll you're hiding is the actual speech. And much as I love you, I'm not about to let you practice your memory exercises at my expense when you've got Lysias himself right there.

Phaedrus: Fine! You've caught me — no point pretending I was going to recite from memory. But if I'm going to read it, where should we sit?

Socrates: Let's turn off here and follow the Ilissus. We'll find a quiet spot and sit down.

Phaedrus: I'm lucky I'm barefoot today — and you never wear shoes anyway. We can wade right along through the stream and cool our feet. It's the easiest way, and in this heat, at the height of summer, it'll feel wonderful.

Socrates: Lead on. Find us a good spot to sit.

Phaedrus: Do you see that tall plane tree in the distance?

Socrates: Yes.

Phaedrus: There's shade there, and a gentle breeze, and grass where we can sit or stretch out.

Socrates: Let's go.

Phaedrus: Tell me, Socrates — isn't this somewhere near the place where Boreas is said to have carried off Orithyia from the banks of the Ilissus?

Socrates: So the story goes.

Phaedrus: Could this be the very spot? The stream is so clear and lovely here. I can picture girls playing beside it.

Socrates: Actually, I think it's about a quarter mile downstream, where you cross to the temple of Artemis. There's some kind of altar to Boreas there, if I remember right.

Phaedrus: I've never noticed it. But tell me, Socrates — do you actually believe that story?

Socrates: Well, the experts have their doubts, and I'd be in good company if I doubted too. I could give you a perfectly rational explanation: Orithyia was playing with her friend Pharmacia when a gust of north wind blew her off the neighboring cliffs, and since that's how she died, people said "Boreas carried her away." There's a dispute about the exact location, though — another version says it happened at the Areopagus, not here.

But look — I'll grant you these rationalizing explanations are very clever. But I don't envy the person who has to produce them. Once you start, there's no end to it. You'll have to explain away the centaurs, then the Chimera, then a flood of Gorgons and Pegasuses and every other impossible creature you've ever heard of. If you're the sort of skeptic who insists on reducing each one to something "probable," you'll need a lot of free time on your hands.

I don't have that kind of leisure. And here's why: I still can't follow the inscription at Delphi — "know yourself." It seems ridiculous to go investigating other things when I'm still a mystery to myself. Am I some kind of monster, more tangled and swollen with fury than Typhon? Or am I something gentler and simpler — a creature who shares by nature in something divine and calm? But enough of that. Tell me, friend — haven't we reached your plane tree?

Phaedrus: Yes, this is the one.

Socrates: By Hera, what a beautiful spot for resting! This towering, spreading plane tree — and the chaste tree in full bloom, tall and fragrant. And the stream beneath our feet is deliciously cool. Judging by the small statues and figurines, this must be a place sacred to Achelous and the river nymphs. Feel that breeze — how sweet it is! And that high, shrill chorus of cicadas fills the summer air. But the best part of all is the grass — thick and soft, sloping gently upward like a pillow. Phaedrus, you've been a perfect guide.

Phaedrus: You're the strangest man, Socrates. You really do seem like some tourist who needs a local to show him around. I don't think you ever go beyond the city gates. Do you even cross the border?

Socrates: Guilty as charged, my friend. And I hope you'll forgive me when I tell you why. I'm a lover of learning, and the people who live in the city are my teachers — not the trees and the countryside. Although I have to admit, you've found the perfect way to lure me out. Just dangle a book in front of me, the way you'd wave a branch in front of a hungry cow, and you can lead me anywhere — around all of Attica, around the whole world if you like. But now that we're here, I'm going to lie down. You find whatever position works best for reading. And begin.

Phaedrus: Listen:

"You know how things stand between us, and I believe I've explained how this arrangement would benefit us both. But I want to make my case: I shouldn't lose out just because I'm not in love with you. Because lovers always end up regretting the kindnesses they've shown, once their passion burns out. But the non-lover is free from compulsion. No morning-after regrets for him. He gives what he can, when he can, in whatever way best serves his own interests.

"Consider this too: lovers are always tallying up how their love has made them neglect their own affairs and sacrifice for others. Add in all the emotional turmoil they've suffered, and they figure they've already more than paid the beloved back. But the non-lover has nothing to regret. He hasn't neglected his responsibilities or fought with his family. He's got no suffering to add up, no excuses to make. Why shouldn't he freely give what will make the beloved happy?

"You might say the lover is more devoted, because his love is so intense that he's willing to say and do things that would disgust anyone else, all to please his beloved. Fine — but that only proves he'll do the same for the next person he falls for, and throw you over for the new one.

"And really — how can you trust someone with something this important when he's afflicted with a condition no sensible person would try to cure? The patient himself admits he's out of his mind. He knows his thinking is disordered, but he says he can't help himself. If he ever came to his senses, would he approve of the desires he had when he was out of them?

"Besides, there are far more non-lovers than lovers. If you choose from lovers, you're picking from a small pool. Choose from non-lovers, and you've got the whole world — a much better chance of finding someone truly worthy.

"Worried about what people will think? The lover will almost certainly brag about his conquests — he's always convinced everyone is as competitive as he is, and he wants the world to know his efforts paid off. He needs the audience. But the non-lover is his own master. He cares about real results, not public opinion.

"Then there's the matter of appearances. People notice a lover trailing after his beloved — that's all he does. Whenever they're seen exchanging two words, everyone assumes it's a love affair. But when non-lovers meet? Nobody asks why. It's natural to talk to people, whether out of friendship or simple pleasure.

"And if you're worried about the fragility of friendship — think about this. In most relationships, a falling-out hurts both sides equally. But in a love affair, you've given up the thing most precious to you. You stand to lose more. And you have even more reason to be afraid, because the lover's anxieties are endless. He's always imagining that everyone is plotting against him. That's why he cuts the beloved off from society — he doesn't want you around wealthy people who might outshine him, or educated people who might be more interesting. He's terrified of anyone with any advantage over him. If he can talk you into dropping your friends, you're left with no one. And if you have the good sense to refuse, he picks a fight.

"Meanwhile the non-lover isn't jealous of your friends. He'd actually resent anyone who refused to associate with you, since he thinks your other connections reflect well on you. Companionship with others is more likely to bring love than resentment.

"Many lovers, too, have desired a young man's body before they knew his character or his circumstances. So when the passion fades, who knows if they'll even want to be friends? But with non-lovers who were already your friends, the friendship isn't diminished by any favors granted. The memory of those favors only becomes a down payment on good things to come.

"And here's another point: I'm more likely to make you better, while the lover will spoil you. Lovers praise everything you say and do — partly because they're afraid to offend you, and partly because passion has wrecked their judgment. Love puts on quite a show: it makes disappointments feel agonizing, and it forces the successful lover to praise what shouldn't please anyone. The beloved deserves pity, not envy. But if you listen to me, I won't just think about present enjoyment — I'll look out for your future good. I'm not enslaved by love. I'm my own master. I won't fly into a rage over small things. Even when the provocation is serious, I'll be slow to anger. I'll forgive unintentional offenses and try to prevent intentional ones. Those are the marks of a friendship that will last.

"Do you think only a lover can be a devoted friend? Think about it: if that were true, we'd place no value on sons, fathers, or mothers. We'd never have loyal friends at all, since our love for them comes not from passion but from other bonds. And another thing — if we should shower our favors on whoever begs the hardest, then by that logic we should always give to the neediest, not the most deserving. We should invite beggars to dinner instead of friends, since they'll be the most grateful. But obviously we shouldn't give to those who beg the loudest — we should give to those who can return the favor. Not to the lover, but to those who deserve love. Not to those who'll enjoy your youthful beauty, but to those who'll share their wealth with you in old age. Not to those who'll brag about their conquest, but to those who'll be discreet. Not to those who care about you for a moment, but to those who'll be your friends for life. Not to those who'll pick a quarrel the moment passion fades, but to those who'll prove their character long after your looks have gone. Remember what I've said. And consider this too: everyone tells the lover his way of life is wrong. But nobody has ever scolded a non-lover for acting against his own interests.

"Perhaps you'll ask whether I'm suggesting you should indulge every non-lover. Not at all — the lover himself wouldn't advise you to accept every lover. Indiscriminate favors are less valued by any sensible person, and harder to hide from the world's judgment. Love should benefit both parties and harm neither.

"I believe I've said enough. But if you feel anything has been left out, just ask."

Well, Socrates? What do you think? Isn't the speech brilliant, especially the language?

Socrates: More than brilliant — I'm absolutely ravished. And I have you to thank for it, Phaedrus. I was watching you as you read, and you seemed to be in ecstasy. Since you clearly know more about these things than I do, I followed your lead. And like you, my divine friend, I was swept up in the frenzy.

Phaedrus: So now you're making fun of me.

Socrates: What makes you think I'm not being serious?

Phaedrus: Stop it, Socrates. Tell me honestly — I swear by Zeus, the god of friendship — do you really think any Greek could say more on this subject, or say it better?

Socrates: Hold on. Are you and I supposed to praise the content of the speech, or just the style — the polish, the rhythm, the turns of phrase? As for the content, I'll happily defer to your judgment. I'm not qualified to evaluate it. I was only paying attention to the rhetorical technique. And on that score, I wasn't sure even Lysias himself could defend it. It seemed to me — and correct me if I'm wrong — that he repeated himself two or three times, either because he ran out of things to say or couldn't be bothered to find new ones. He also seemed to be showing off — practically gloating about his ability to say the same thing in two or three different ways.

Phaedrus: Nonsense, Socrates! What you're calling repetition was the best part of the speech. He covered every angle the subject allows, and I don't think anyone could have been more thorough.

Socrates: There I can't agree with you. If the ancient sages — men and women who spoke and wrote about these things — heard me agreeing with you out of politeness, they'd rise up in judgment against me.

Phaedrus: Who are you talking about? Where have you heard anything better?

Socrates: I'm sure I must have. But I can't remember from whom at the moment. Maybe Sappho the beautiful, or Anacreon the wise. Or maybe some prose writer. All I know is that something is welling up inside me, and I feel like I could make a speech every bit as good as Lysias' — and different from it. Now, I'm well aware that none of this comes from me. I know I'm no original thinker. So I must have been filled up through the ears, like a pitcher, from someone else's stream. But in my foolishness, I've completely forgotten who it was.

Phaedrus: Magnificent! I don't care who you heard it from — keep that a mystery if you like. Just do what you say you can: make a speech that's just as long, entirely original, and better. And I, like the nine Archons, will promise to set up a golden statue at Delphi — of you and of me — life-sized.

Socrates: You sweet, golden donkey. You think I'm saying Lysias completely missed the mark and that I can produce a speech that leaves out all his arguments? Even the worst writer hits on something true. Who could argue this thesis without praising the non-lover's good sense and criticizing the lover's foolishness? Those are the basic building blocks of the subject. You have to include them, and there's no credit for it. The only skill is in the arrangement. But when you go beyond the obvious — that's where real originality lives.

Phaedrus: Fair enough. I'll grant you the starting premise — that the lover is more disordered in his wits than the non-lover. If you can build from there and make a speech that's longer and better than Lysias', using different arguments, I'll have your golden statue made and set it right next to the colossal offerings of the Cypselids at Olympia.

Socrates: You really are taking this seriously, aren't you? Just because I teased your beloved speechwriter a little? You honestly think I'm going to outdo the great Lysias in an improvised speech?

Phaedrus: Now I've got you the way you had me. You're going to speak — no getting out of it. Don't make us trade threats back and forth like actors in a farce, or force me to say what you said to me: "I know Socrates as well as I know myself, and he was dying to speak but just played hard to get." Face it: we're not leaving this spot until you deliver a speech. We're alone out here. And I'm younger and stronger than you, remember. So take the hint. Don't make me use force.

Socrates: But Phaedrus, it would be absurd for an amateur like me to improvise a speech in competition with a master like Lysias.

Phaedrus: You see how things stand. No more games. I happen to know the one magic word that will make you do it.

Socrates: Then for the love of everything, don't say it.

Phaedrus: Oh, but I will. And it'll be an oath. I swear — but by what god? By this plane tree right here. I swear that unless you give me that speech, right here, right now, in front of this very tree — I will never share another word of another speech with you. Not ever.

Socrates: You villain! You've found the one way to bend a speech-lover to your will. I surrender.

Phaedrus: Then why are you still stalling?

Socrates: I'm done stalling. You've sworn the oath, and I can't afford to be cut off from my supply.

Phaedrus: Then go ahead.

Socrates: Shall I tell you what I'm going to do?

Phaedrus: What?

Socrates: I'm going to cover my face and race through this as fast as I can. Because if I look at you while I'm speaking, I'll be too embarrassed to go on.

Phaedrus: Just talk. Do whatever else you want.

Socrates: Come, O Muses — whether you're called "melodious" because of the beauty of your song, or because the people of Melos are a musical race — help me with the story my good friend here insists I tell, so that his favorite speaker may seem wiser to him than ever.

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful boy — or really, a young man on the edge of manhood. He had plenty of admirers. And among them was one particularly cunning fellow who'd managed to convince the youth that he wasn't in love with him — when in fact he was, deeply. One day, making his case, this man used exactly the argument we've been discussing: that the youth should accept the non-lover rather than the lover. And here is what he said:

"All good advice begins the same way: you have to understand what you're actually talking about, or your advice will be worthless. Most people assume they understand the nature of things when they don't. Because they skip the step of defining their terms at the outset, they inevitably end up contradicting themselves and each other. You and I shouldn't make that mistake. So since our question is whether the lover or the non-lover makes the better choice, let's start by agreeing on a definition of love — what it is, and what it does. Then, keeping that definition clearly in view, we can ask whether love brings benefit or harm.

"Here's what everyone can see: love is a kind of desire. But we also know that non-lovers desire what's beautiful and good. So how do we distinguish the lover from everyone else? We need to recognize that in every person there are two driving forces that pull us in different directions. One is our inborn craving for pleasure. The other is a learned commitment to what's best. Sometimes these two are in harmony. Sometimes they're at war. When the commitment to what's best wins out, guided by reason, we call that self-control. When the craving for pleasure overpowers reason and drags us toward gratification — that's called excess.

"Now, excess takes many forms, and each form gets its own name — none of them flattering. When the desire for food conquers reason and all our other desires, we call it gluttony, and the person a glutton. When the desire for drink takes the throne, well, the name for that is obvious enough. And you can fill in the blanks for every other appetite.

"By now you can probably see where I'm going with this. But since it's always better to say something plainly than leave it unsaid: when the irrational desire for beauty — especially the beauty of a human body — overwhelms the soul's natural pull toward what's right, and when that desire, empowered by passion itself, conquers everything in its path and drags us forward — that supreme desire, deriving its very name from the force that drives it, is called love."

Now, dear Phaedrus, let me pause and ask — don't you think I'm starting to sound inspired?

Phaedrus: You do seem to be in an unusually powerful flow, Socrates.

Socrates: Then listen in silence. This place truly does feel sacred. So don't be surprised if, as I go on, I seem to be seized by divine frenzy. I'm already slipping into rapturous mode.

Phaedrus: That's certainly true.

Socrates: And it'll be your fault. But let me go on — maybe the fit will pass. That's in the hands of the gods above. I'll keep talking to my imaginary young man. Listen:

So then, my friend, we've defined what love is. Now, keeping that definition firmly in mind, let's consider what benefit or harm the lover or the non-lover brings to the person who accepts him.

The man who is a slave to his passions and a prisoner of pleasure will naturally want to make his beloved as agreeable to himself as possible. And to a sick mind, anything that doesn't resist is agreeable — but anything equal or superior is threatening. So the lover will never tolerate any superiority or even equality in his beloved. He's constantly working to make the other person less.

The ignorant is inferior to the wise. The coward to the brave. The tongue-tied to the eloquent. The slow-witted to the clever. All these deficiencies in the beloved — and more — are a delight to the lover when they occur naturally. And when they don't occur naturally, he works to create them. Because if his beloved were to improve, he'd lose his fleeting advantage.

This is why the lover is inevitably jealous. He'll cut his beloved off from any social connection that might make a real person of him, and above all from the one that would give him wisdom — philosophy. The greatest harm a lover can inflict is exactly this: in his terror of being outgrown and looked down upon, he's driven to banish divine philosophy from his beloved's life. He'll arrange things so that the boy knows nothing, sees nothing, depends entirely on the lover for everything — a source of delight to the lover, and a disaster for the boy himself. In everything relating to the mind, a lover makes the worst possible guardian.

Now let's look at the body. What kind of physical specimen will our master of pleasure — whose ruling principle is desire, not goodness — want to keep and cultivate? He'll choose a beloved who is soft rather than sturdy. Raised in the shade, never in the sun. A stranger to exercise and honest sweat. Someone who knows cosmetics, not health — who has the pallor of paint rather than the color of a body that's been outdoors. The rest you can imagine, and I won't belabor it. Let me sum it up in one line and move on: in war, or in any real crisis, a body like that is a source of anxiety to friends and delight to enemies. Nobody would deny it.

Next — property. How will the lover treat his beloved's possessions? It's obvious enough that the lover wants, above all, to strip the beloved of everything he values most: father, mother, family, friends — anyone who might interfere with or criticize their "sweet companionship." He'll cast a jealous eye on money and property too, because wealth makes the beloved harder to catch and harder to control once caught. So the lover naturally resents his beloved's possessions and rejoices when he loses them. He'd prefer the boy to be unmarried, childless, homeless — and the longer the better, because the longer the boy has nothing, the longer the lover gets to enjoy him.

There are certain kinds of creatures — flatterers, for instance — who are dangerous and harmful, yet nature has mixed in a kind of shallow charm. You might call a courtesan destructive and disapprove of her and her profession, but in the moment she can be very pleasant company. But the lover isn't just harmful — he's also an extremely unpleasant companion. There's an old saying: "birds of a feather flock together." People of the same age, drawn to the same pleasures, become friends through similarity. But even that can become too much of a good thing. And constraint, everyone agrees, is always oppressive.

The lover is nothing like his beloved in this way. He forces himself on the younger man. He's old; his love is young. He won't leave the boy's side, day or night, if he can help it. Compulsion and the sting of desire drive him on, lured by the pleasure of seeing, hearing, touching, being constantly aware of the other. But what pleasure can the beloved possibly be getting from all this? Imagine the disgust of looking at a wrinkled old face, day after day, and the body to match — which is unpleasant even to describe, let alone to be pressed up against. And then the suffocating jealousy and surveillance, the wildly misplaced praise and the equally off-base criticism — unbearable when the man is sober, and when he's drunk, not only unbearable but broadcast to the world in all its sloppy, embarrassing detail.

And it doesn't end there. While the love lasts, the lover is a nuisance and a menace. But when the love dies? He becomes a faithless enemy. All those oaths and prayers and promises he used to barely persuade his beloved to tolerate his tedious company — now the bill comes due. But the lover has a new master now. Instead of love and infatuation, wisdom and moderation rule his heart. He's a changed man. But the beloved hasn't noticed the change. He asks for what was promised. He reminds the lover of what was said, what was done. He thinks he's talking to the same person. But the lover, who doesn't have the courage to admit the truth and doesn't know how to honor the promises he made when he was in the grip of folly — now that he's regained his senses, he doesn't want to do what he did before, or be what he was. So he runs. The coin has flipped — what was pursuit becomes flight, and the beloved is left chasing after him with demands and curses, not realizing that he should never have accepted a deranged lover in the first place instead of a sensible non-lover. By choosing the lover, he handed himself over to someone faithless, irritable, jealous, and insufferable — someone harmful to his property, harmful to his health, and most harmful of all to the cultivation of his mind, which is the most precious thing there is or ever will be in the eyes of gods and men.

Think about all this, beautiful youth, and understand: in the friendship of a lover, there is no real kindness. He has an appetite, and he wants to feed on you.

"As wolves love lambs, so lovers love their loves."

There, you see? Now I'm even speaking in verse. I'd better stop. Enough.

Phaedrus: But I thought you were only halfway through! I was expecting a matching speech about all the advantages of accepting the non-lover. Why are you stopping?

Socrates: Didn't you notice? I've already gone from wild enthusiasm to full-blown epic poetry, and I was only attacking the lover. If I start praising the non-lover, what's going to happen to me? Can't you see I've been seized by the nymphs — the ones you deliberately exposed me to? Let me just say this: the non-lover has every advantage that the lover lacks. And leave it there. The tale can find its own ending. I'm going to cross the river and get home before something worse happens.

Phaedrus: Not yet, Socrates! Not in this heat. Don't you see it's almost noon? The sun is standing right overhead. Let's stay and talk about what was said, and then we'll head back when it cools down.

Socrates: Your love of speeches, Phaedrus, is superhuman. Truly extraordinary. I don't think anyone in your generation has produced, or forced others to produce, more speeches than you have. I'd make an exception for Simmias of Thebes, maybe. But everyone else? Not even close. And now I believe you've caused yet another one.

Phaedrus: That's good news! But what do you mean?

Socrates: I mean that just now, as I was about to cross the stream, my sign came to me — the divine voice that sometimes speaks up to stop me from doing something. It never tells me what to do, only what not to do. And I heard it say that I've committed an act of impiety and must not leave until I've atoned for it.

You know, I'm something of a prophet — not a very good one, but good enough for my own purposes, the way you might say a bad writer's work is good enough for him. And I'm beginning to see where I went wrong. The soul is prophetic, my friend. Even while I was speaking, something felt off. I was troubled, like Ibycus, who said, "I feared that I was buying honor from men at the price of sinning against the gods." Now I see my mistake.

Phaedrus: What mistake?

Socrates: That was a dreadful speech you brought here, Phaedrus. And you made me produce one just as bad.

Phaedrus: What do you mean?

Socrates: It was foolish. And in a certain sense — impious. What could be worse than that?

Phaedrus: Nothing, if it really was as bad as you say.

Socrates: Well — isn't Eros the son of Aphrodite? Isn't he a god?

Phaedrus: So people say.

Socrates: But that's not what either speech acknowledged. Not Lysias' speech, and not the one you charmed out of me. If Love is truly a god — and he surely is — then he can't be evil. Yet both speeches treated him as though he were. They were false. And there was something else about them — a smug cleverness, a pretense of being something profound when they were really just hollow performances, hoping to impress the little people of this earth and win applause. I need to purify myself.

And here's my model. There's an ancient method of purification that Homer never figured out — which is why he was blind — but Stesichorus understood. When Stesichorus lost his eyes as punishment for slandering the beautiful Helen, he knew exactly why it had happened. And he composed his famous recantation, which began:

"That was a lie I told — you never boarded the ships, you never went to Troy."

The moment he finished that poem, his sight came back.

Now I'm going to be wiser than either Homer or Stesichorus. I'm going to make my recantation for slandering Love before I'm punished — not with my face covered in shame, as before, but with my head held high.

Phaedrus: Nothing could make me happier than hearing you say that.

Socrates: Think about it, Phaedrus. Think how utterly crude those two speeches were — mine and the one you read from the book. If someone of genuine nobility, someone who loved or had ever loved another person of similar nature, were to hear us going on about lovers' petty jealousies, their vicious spite, their cruelty to the ones they claim to love — he'd think we'd learned about love in some sailors' dive where nobody has any manners. He'd never accept our indictment as fair.

Phaedrus: Probably not, Socrates.

Socrates: And so, because I'm ashamed at the thought of such a person hearing me, and because I'm afraid of Love himself, I want to wash the salt water out of my ears with something fresh. And I'd advise Lysias not to waste any time: he should write a new speech arguing that, all else being equal, the lover deserves to be chosen over the non-lover.

Phaedrus: Don't worry — he will. Once you've given your speech praising the lover, I'll make absolutely sure Lysias writes a matching one.

Socrates: I believe you. It's in your nature.

Phaedrus: Then speak. Don't be afraid.

Socrates: But where is the beautiful young man I was addressing? He should hear this too, in case he goes and accepts a non-lover before he knows what he's doing.

Phaedrus: He's right here. Always at your service.

Socrates: Then understand this, beautiful youth. That first speech was the word of Phaedrus, son of Pythocles, from the district of Myrrhina. But the speech I'm about to give is the recantation of Stesichorus, son of Euphemus, from the city of Himera. And it goes like this:

"That was a lie — my claim that the beloved should accept the non-lover instead of the lover, on the grounds that the one is sane and the other mad. If madness were simply an evil, that argument would hold. But in fact, some of the greatest blessings we receive come to us through madness — madness that is a gift from the gods.

"Consider: the prophetess at Delphi and the priestesses at Dodona have given Greece some of its greatest benefits, both public and private — but only when they were out of their minds. When they were in their 'right minds,' they accomplished little or nothing. I could mention the Sibyl and other inspired seers who've given countless people warnings that saved them from disaster, but that would be telling you what everyone already knows.

"Here's something worth noting, though: the ancients who invented our words never thought madness was something shameful. The proof is in the language itself. The noblest of all arts — the one that foretells the future — they called prophetic (mantike). And that word is virtually identical to 'madness' (manike). The only difference is a single letter — a 't' — which is really just a later, tasteless addition. The ancients clearly considered inspired madness a noble thing, because they named their highest art after it. By contrast, when people try to predict the future rationally — through reading bird-signs and other methods — using mere human intelligence and information to form human judgment, the ancients gave that a decidedly less exalted name. The language itself testifies: in proportion as prophecy is more perfect and more honored than augury, inspired madness is superior to sober calculation. One comes from the gods; the other is merely human.

"Then there's a second kind of divine madness. When ancient curses and hereditary guilt have brought plagues upon certain families, madness has arrived with sacred prayers and rites, and through inspired utterance has found a way of deliverance for those in need. Through purification and sacred rituals, the person possessed by this madness is made whole and set free from evil — both present and future.

"The third kind of madness belongs to those possessed by the Muses. It seizes a delicate, untouched soul, awakens it, stirs it to lyrical frenzy, and through song and poetry adorns the countless deeds of ancient heroes for the instruction of future generations. But anyone who comes to the door of poetry without the Muses' madness, convinced that technical skill alone will make him a poet — he and his sane, rational verses will be completely eclipsed. The uninspired man vanishes the moment he's put next to the one who is truly possessed.

"I could list many more noble achievements that spring from divine madness. So let no one frighten us by arguing that we should prefer the sober friend to the inspired one. Let him first prove that love is not sent by the gods as a blessing to both lover and beloved. If he can, we'll concede the point. But we, for our part, will prove the opposite: that the madness of love is the greatest blessing heaven can bestow. And this proof will convince the wise, even if the cynics refuse to believe it.

"But first, we need to understand the nature of the soul — both divine and human — by examining what it experiences and what it does. And our proof begins here:

"Every soul is immortal. Here's why: anything that is always in motion is immortal. But anything that moves something else while being moved by something else must eventually stop moving — and when it stops moving, it stops living. Only the self-moving never ceases to move, because it never abandons itself. In fact, the self-moving is the source and origin of motion for everything else that moves. And an origin cannot be created from something else — because if it were, it wouldn't be an origin. And since it was never created, it can never be destroyed. If the origin were destroyed, nothing could ever start it up again, and nothing could ever come into being from it. Everything must have an origin. Therefore the self-moving is the origin of motion, and it can neither be destroyed nor come into being — or else the entire universe would grind to a halt and never move again.

"Now, if we've proven that the self-moving is immortal, we shouldn't hesitate to say that self-motion is the very essence of the soul. Because any body that receives its motion from outside itself is without soul. But any body that is moved from within has a soul — that is the very nature of soul. And if this is true — if the soul is what moves itself — then it follows that the soul must be uncreated and immortal.

"So much for the soul's immortality.

"Now for its nature. To describe what the soul truly is in its deepest reality would require a long and truly superhuman discourse. But to describe it through an image, through a figure of speech — that is within our human power. So let's try it this way.

"Picture the soul as a charioteer driving a team of two winged horses.

"Now, with the gods, both the horses and the charioteer are noble, of excellent breeding. But with the rest of us — with humans — the team is mixed. One horse is beautiful and good, of noble stock. The other is the opposite in every way. And this is what makes our driving so terribly, agonizingly difficult.

"Let me explain the difference between mortal and immortal souls. The soul, in its fullness, has charge of everything that lacks a soul, and it travels through the entire heavens, taking different forms at different times. When the soul is perfect and fully winged, it soars upward and governs the whole cosmos. But when it loses its wings, it falls, tumbling down until it catches hold of something solid — and there it settles, taking on an earthly body. This body seems to move on its own, but it's really the soul's power that moves it. This combination — soul joined to body — is what we call a living, mortal creature. No truly immortal being could be put together this way, though we imagine it without having seen or understood the nature of God. But let that be as God wills.

"Now let us ask: why does the soul lose its wings?

"The wing is the part of the body most akin to the divine. It naturally soars upward, carrying what is heavy toward the heights where the gods dwell. The divine — beauty, wisdom, goodness, and everything like them — nourishes the soul's wings and makes them grow. But ugliness, evil, and everything opposed to the divine causes the wings to waste away and die.

"And now — the great procession.

"Zeus, the mighty lord and ruler of heaven, drives his winged chariot at the head of the host, ordering all things, caring for all things. Behind him comes the army of gods and spirits, marshaled in eleven bands. Hestia alone stays behind in the house of heaven. But the rest — all the gods who belong to the company of the twelve — march in their appointed places. And what a sight awaits them in the inner heaven! Many blessed visions, many paths crisscrossing back and forth, along which the blessed gods travel, each one going about his own divine work. Anyone who is willing and able may follow, because there is no jealousy in the choir of heaven.

"But when the gods go to their feast and celebration, they drive upward along the steep road to the top of the vault of heaven. The gods' chariots, perfectly balanced and obedient to the reins, glide smoothly. But the other chariots struggle. The bad horse pulls down hard, dragging the charioteer toward the earth whenever the horse hasn't been properly trained. And this is the moment of supreme agony and conflict for the soul.

"The immortal souls, when they reach the summit, pass through to the outside and stand on the outer rim of heaven. The great revolution of the heavens carries them around, and they gaze outward at what lies beyond.

"But the heaven that is above the heavens — what earthly poet ever has or ever will sing worthily of that? Yet I must try. I must dare to speak the truth, since truth is my subject.

"In that place beyond the sky dwells true Reality itself — the being that truly is, which only the mind can see, the pilot of the soul. It has no color, no shape, no substance that any hand could touch. It is visible only to the intellect. And the divine intelligence, nourished on pure thought and knowledge, rejoices when it finally beholds Reality. It gazes on truth, and is filled, and made glad. In the great revolution, it contemplates Justice itself — not justice as we know it in the world of change and becoming, but absolute Justice in absolute Being. It beholds Knowledge — not the knowledge that shifts with its objects, not the kind we call knowledge down here, but Knowledge itself dwelling in Reality itself. And beholding all the other true existences in the same way, feasting on them, the soul descends back into the interior of the heavens and returns home. There the charioteer stables the horses and feeds them ambrosia and gives them nectar to drink.

"Such is the life of the gods. But among other souls, the one that follows God most closely and has grown most like him manages to lift the charioteer's head into the outer world and is carried around in the revolution — but troubled by the horses, barely glimpsing true Being. Another soul rises and falls, seeing some things and missing others because the horses are so unruly. The rest of the souls are all straining upward too, all longing to follow — but they aren't strong enough. They're pulled down below the surface, trampling and crashing into one another, each fighting to get ahead. The confusion is enormous. There is straining and sweating and desperate effort. And many souls are crippled. Many have their wings broken through the bad driving of their charioteers. And all of them, after this exhausting, fruitless struggle, depart without having attained the vision of true Being. They go away and feed on mere opinion.

"Why is every soul so desperately eager to see the Plain of Truth? Because the pasture that grows there is the only food that nourishes the highest part of the soul. And the wings on which the soul soars are fed by this food and nothing else. And there is a law of destiny: any soul that catches even a glimpse of truth while traveling in the company of a god is kept safe from harm until the next great cycle. And if it succeeds every time, it is kept safe forever. But when a soul fails to follow, when it fails to see the truth, when through some misfortune it sinks under the double weight of forgetfulness and vice, and its wings fall away and it drops to the earth — then the law decrees that this soul shall be born first as a human being, never as an animal. And the soul that has seen the most truth shall be born as a philosopher, a lover of beauty, or someone devoted to the Muses and to love. The soul ranked second shall become a righteous king or warrior leader. Third: a statesman, an economist, a businessman. Fourth: an athlete or a physician. Fifth: a prophet or a priest of the mysteries. Sixth: a poet or some other kind of imitative artist. Seventh: a craftsman or a farmer. Eighth: a sophist or a demagogue. Ninth: a tyrant.

"In every case, the one who lives justly receives a better lot, and the one who lives unjustly receives a worse one.

"Ten thousand years must pass before any soul can return to the place it came from. Wings cannot regrow in less time than that. The sole exception is the soul of a genuine philosopher, or a lover whose love is not devoid of philosophy. These souls can regain their wings after only three thousand years — three cycles of a thousand years each — if they choose the philosophical life three times in succession. After that, they receive their wings and depart. But the other souls, when they've completed their first life, face judgment. Some are sent to places of correction beneath the earth to be punished. Others are lifted by justice to some region of heaven, where they live in a manner worthy of the life they led on earth. At the end of a thousand years, both the good souls and the bad ones come to draw lots and choose their next life, and they may choose any life they wish. A human soul may pass into the life of an animal, or an animal soul may return to human form — but only if it once beheld truth. Because to be born human requires the ability to reason in general terms — to move from the scattered data of the senses to a unified concept grasped by the mind. And this ability is actually recollection — the memory of the things our souls once saw when they traveled with God, when they looked past what we now call 'reality' and gazed upward at what is truly Real.

"This is exactly why the philosopher's mind alone has wings. His memory always clings, as best it can, to those things in which God dwells, and by dwelling in which God is what he is. The person who uses these memories rightly is continually initiated into perfect mysteries, and he alone becomes truly complete. But because he has left behind earthly concerns and is absorbed in the divine, ordinary people think he's crazy. They scold and criticize him. They don't realize he's inspired.

"And this brings us to the fourth and final kind of divine madness — the one we've been building toward. When a person sees beauty here on earth and is transported by the memory of true Beauty, he wants to fly upward, but he can't. He stretches toward the sky like a bird, oblivious to everything below, and people call him mad. And I have shown that this is the noblest and most exalted of all forms of inspiration, and that the one who possesses it — the one who loves beauty — is called a lover.

"Because, as I've said, every human soul has by nature beheld true Being. That was the condition of its birth into human form. But not every soul remembers easily. Some saw the truth only briefly. Others, once they fell to earth, were corrupted by bad company and had the memory of sacred things driven out of them. Only a few retain a clear enough recollection. And when these few encounter some image of that other world here below, they're struck with wonder. But they don't fully understand what's happening to them, because their perception isn't clear enough.

"Here's the problem: there is no radiance in the earthly copies of Justice, or of Self-Control, or of any of the other things the soul holds precious. We see them here only through a dim and murky glass, and the few who do perceive the originals behind the copies can only do so with great difficulty. But Beauty — Beauty is different. We saw her there, shining among the celestial forms in dazzling splendor. And when we came to earth, we found that she alone still shines — still radiates — through the clearest channel of our senses.

"Sight is the sharpest of all our bodily senses. It cannot see Wisdom — if Wisdom had a visible form, the love it would inspire would be overwhelming. The same goes for every other Form worth loving. But Beauty alone has this privilege: she is the most radiant, and she is the most visible.

"Now, the person who is not freshly initiated, or who has been corrupted, doesn't easily rise from earthly beauty to the vision of true Beauty. He looks at beauty's earthly namesake and, instead of being awestruck, he gives himself over to pleasure. Like an animal, he tries to mount and breed. He chases physical gratification shamelessly, without reverence or fear. But the person whose initiation is recent, who was a spectator of many glories in the world above — when he sees a godlike face or a body that is a true expression of Beauty — at first a shudder runs through him, and a trace of the old awe steals over him. Then, gazing at the beautiful one, he reveres him like a god. If he weren't afraid of looking completely insane, he'd offer sacrifices to his beloved as to a divine image.

"And as he gazes, something changes. The shudder gives way to an unfamiliar warmth, a strange flushing heat. Because as he takes in beauty through his eyes, something moistens within him. He warms. And the parts of the soul from which the wings once grew — parts that had long been sealed shut, hardened and closed — begin to soften and melt. As this nourishment streams in, the base of the wing begins to swell and push upward from the root. The growth spreads through the entire soul, because once, long ago, the whole soul was winged.

"During this process, the entire soul seethes and throbs. It's like the ache and irritation in the gums when teeth are coming in — that restless, itching, painful swelling. The soul feels exactly this as its wings begin to sprout. It bubbles and aches and tingles. And when the soul turns toward the beautiful one and receives the stream of particles flowing from that beauty — which is why the Greeks call it 'himeros,' desire, from the word for 'flow' — it is warmed and refreshed and the pain subsides into joy.

"But when the soul is separated from the beloved and the moisture dries up, the openings through which the wings were pushing begin to close and seal shut, trapping the new growth inside. Locked in together with desire, the budding wing throbs like a pulse, pushing against its confinement, pricking every sealed passage from within — until the entire soul is pierced through with pain and driven half-mad. And yet even in this agony, at the memory of beauty, there is a flash of delight.

"The soul is torn between the two. The strangeness of what it feels is overwhelming. In its frenzy it can't sleep at night or stay in one place by day. It runs to wherever it thinks it will see the beautiful one again. And when it sees him — when it bathes in the streaming warmth of beauty — the pain loosens, the sealed passages open, and relief floods in. And this, for the moment, is the sweetest pleasure the soul has ever known.

"This is why the lover's soul will never willingly leave the beautiful one. Nothing and no one else matters. Mother, brothers, friends — all forgotten. If his fortune is ruined by neglect, he doesn't care. The rules and social conventions he once took such pride in? He despises them now. He'd sleep on a doorstep, like a servant, as close as he can get to the one he worships — the one who is both the object of his adoration and the only physician who can cure his terrible pain.

"This condition, my dear imaginary youth, is what humans call love. But the gods have another name for it, and when you hear it, you'll probably laugh — you're young enough to find it funny. There are two lines in the secret writings of Homer — lines not found in the official editions — that mention the name. They're a little outrageous, and the meter doesn't quite work. They go like this:

'Mortals call him fluttering love, But the gods call him the winged one, Because the growing of wings is his gift to give.'

"You can take that or leave it. But the experience of lovers and the causes of their love are exactly as I've described.

"Now, a person whose soul once followed in Zeus' company is better able to bear the weight of love's winged god. But those who followed Ares become dangerous when love seizes them — if they think they've been wronged, they're ready to kill, to destroy themselves and their beloved alike. Each person, in fact, lives and loves according to the god he followed. Everyone chooses his beloved from the ranks of beauty, according to his own character. And the beloved becomes a kind of god to the lover — an image he shapes and adorns and worships. Those who followed Zeus seek someone of a philosophical and commanding nature. When they find him and fall in love, they do everything they can to cultivate that nature in him. If they've never encountered such a disposition before, they learn how from any teacher they can find, and they shape themselves accordingly. And they succeed more easily in discovering their god within themselves, because they've been compelled to gaze so intensely on Zeus. Their memory clings to him, and through that connection they absorb his character and disposition, as much as any human being can participate in the divine. They attribute these godlike qualities to their beloved, and love him all the more for them. Like worshippers inspired by Zeus, they pour their own divine inspiration over the beloved, trying to make him as much like their god as possible. Those who followed Hera seek a royal nature, and when they find one, they do the same with him. And in the same way

Phaedrus (Part 2)

...and in this way, the followers of Apollo — and of every other god — walk in the path of their god and seek a beloved who can be shaped in the same image. When they find him, they imitate their god themselves and encourage their beloved to do the same, educating him into the character and nature of that god as far as they can. They feel no jealousy or resentment toward the one they love. Instead, they do everything in their power to create in him the greatest possible likeness to themselves and to the god they honor. And so the desire of the divinely inspired lover is something beautiful and blessed for the beloved — and the initiation I'm describing, into the mysteries of true love, is a genuine blessing, if the beloved allows himself to be won over.

Now, here's how the beloved is captured.

As I said at the beginning of this story, I divided each soul into three parts — two horses and a charioteer. One of the horses was good and the other bad. I described the division but haven't yet explained what makes each one good or bad. So let me do that now.

The right-hand horse is noble and well-formed, with a high arching neck and a fine, hawk-like nose. He's white, with dark eyes — a lover of honor, self-control, and true glory. He needs no whip; a word or a quiet command is enough to guide him. The other horse is a crooked, poorly built beast, thrown together any old way. He has a thick, squat neck, a flat face, and a dark hide with bloodshot eyes and a flushed complexion. He's the companion of arrogance and recklessness — shaggy-eared and half-deaf, barely yielding to whip and spur.

Now, when the charioteer catches sight of the beloved and his whole soul is flooded with warmth through his senses, filled with the pricklings and stirrings of desire — the obedient horse, governed as always by a sense of shame, holds himself back from leaping on the beloved. But the other horse, ignoring the pricks of the goad and the blows of the whip, plunges forward and bolts, causing every kind of trouble for his partner and the charioteer, dragging them toward the beloved and forcing them to recall the pleasures of love.

At first, the other two resist indignantly and refuse to be dragged into doing anything terrible or forbidden. But finally, when the bad horse keeps tormenting them without letup, they give in and agree to do what he demands.

And now they're right there, face to face with the blazing beauty of the beloved. When the charioteer sees it, his memory is carried back to true Beauty itself, which he once beheld standing beside Restraint like an image set on a holy pedestal. He sees it — and he's struck with awe, falling backward in reverence. The force of his recoil yanks the reins back so violently that both horses are pulled onto their haunches — the good one willingly and without complaint, the wild one deeply unwilling. When they've backed off a little distance, the good horse is overcome with shame and wonder, his whole soul drenched in sweat. The bad horse, once the pain from the bridle and the fall has faded and he's caught his breath, is consumed with rage, hurling abuse at the charioteer and his fellow horse for their cowardice and lack of nerve, accusing them of betraying their agreement and deserting the mission.

Again they refuse, and again he drives them forward, and he barely yields to their pleas to wait for another time. When the appointed hour returns, they pretend to have forgotten, but he reminds them — fighting and neighing and dragging them along — until finally, bent on the same purpose as before, he forces them to approach the beloved once more. And when they draw near, he drops his head, raises his tail, bites down on the bit, and pulls forward shamelessly.

Then the charioteer is in worse shape than ever. He falls back like a jockey jerked at the starting barrier, wrenches the bit out of the wild horse's teeth even more violently, covers his foul tongue and jaws with blood, and forces his legs and haunches to the ground, punishing him severely. And after this has happened several times and the brute has finally given up his reckless ways, he's broken and humbled. He follows the charioteer's will, and when he catches sight of the beautiful one, he's ready to die of fear.

And from that point on, the soul of the lover follows the beloved with humility and reverent awe.

The beloved, then — having received from his lover every kind of genuine and loyal devotion, not as a performance but in truth, and being himself naturally disposed to care for his admirer — even if in earlier days he blushed to acknowledge his feelings and turned his lover away because his young friends or others slanderously told him he'd be disgraced — now, as the years pass and the right time comes, he's drawn to accept him into a deep bond. For fate, which has decreed that there can be no true friendship among the wicked, has also decreed that there will always be friendship among the good.

And when the beloved has accepted him into this closeness and intimacy, he's utterly amazed by the lover's goodwill. He realizes that this divinely inspired friend is worth more than all his other friends and relatives put together — none of them have anything remotely comparable to offer.

As this feeling continues, and they draw closer, embracing during exercise and at other times they spend together — then the fountain of that stream, which Zeus named "Desire" when he was in love with Ganymede, overflows onto the lover. Some of it enters the beloved's soul, and when his soul is full, the rest flows back out again. Like a breeze or an echo rebounding off smooth rocks and returning to where it started, the stream of beauty passes back through the beloved's eyes — which are the windows of the soul — and returns to the beautiful one. Arriving there, it waters the passages of the wings, encouraging them to grow, and fills the beloved's soul with love too.

And so he loves — but he doesn't know what he loves. He can't understand or explain his own state. It's as though he's caught an infection from another person's eyes. The lover is like a mirror in which the beloved sees himself reflected, though he doesn't realize it. When they're together, both find relief from their longing. When they're apart, he aches just as the lover aches, carrying love's reflection — love returned for love — lodged in his heart. But he calls it friendship, not love, and thinks of it that way. His desire mirrors the lover's desire, though it's somewhat weaker. He wants to see him, touch him, kiss him, hold him — and before long, those desires find fulfillment.

When they're together, the unruly horse of the lover has something to say to the charioteer: he'd like a little pleasure in return for all his suffering. But the unruly horse of the beloved says nothing at all — he's bursting with a passion he doesn't understand. He throws his arms around the lover and embraces him as his dearest friend, and when they're lying side by side, he's not in a state to refuse the lover anything he might ask, even though his fellow horse and the charioteer oppose it with appeals to shame and reason.

After this, their happiness depends on self-control. If the better elements of the mind — the ones that lead to order and philosophy — win out, then they live their lives in happiness and harmony, masters of themselves and well-ordered, having enslaved the vicious parts of the soul and set the virtuous parts free. And when the end comes, they are light and winged, ready for flight, having won one of the three truly heavenly, truly Olympian victories. No human discipline and no divine inspiration can confer any greater blessing on a person than this.

If, on the other hand, they abandon philosophy and give themselves to the lower life of ambition, then probably — after drinking too much, or in some other careless moment — the two unruly horses catch the two souls off guard and bring them together, and they satisfy that desire which the masses consider the height of bliss. Once they've tasted it, they keep coming back to it, though not often, because they don't have the approval of their whole soul. These lovers too are dear to one another, though not as dear as the others, both during their love and after it fades. They believe they've exchanged the most sacred pledges and that it would be wrong to break them and become enemies.

In the end, they leave the body unwinged but longing to take flight, and so they receive no small reward for their love-inspired madness. For those who have once set out on the heavenward journey will not be sent back down into darkness and the underworld passage. They live in the light always, happy companions on their journey, and when the time comes for them to receive their wings, they share the same plumage — because of their love.

These, my young friend, are the great and divine blessings that the friendship of a lover will bring you. But the attachment of a non-lover, diluted with worldly calculation and dispensing its meager benefits in a worldly, penny-pinching way — that will plant in your soul the petty qualities the masses applaud, will send you rolling around the earth for nine thousand years, and will leave you a fool in the world below.

And so, dear Eros, I've made my recantation and paid my debt, as well and as fairly as I could — especially the poetic images, which I was forced to use because Phaedrus insisted on them. Now forgive what came before and accept what I've offered. Be gracious and merciful to me. Don't strip me of my sight in your anger, or take away the skill of love you've given me, but let me be held in even higher regard by those who are beautiful. And if Phaedrus or I said anything offensive in our first speeches, blame Lysias — he's the father of this whole misguided offspring. Make him give up this kind of talk and turn to philosophy, the way his brother Polemarchus has. Then his devoted Phaedrus here will stop wavering between two positions and dedicate himself fully to love and to philosophical conversation.

Phaedrus: I join in that prayer, Socrates, and echo your words — if this is truly what's best for me, may it all come to pass. But I have to ask: why was your second speech so much better than the first? I'm genuinely puzzled. And honestly, I'm starting to worry that Lysias will look tame by comparison — even if he's willing to put up another speech as fine and long as yours, which I doubt. Actually, just recently one of your politicians was attacking him on exactly this point, calling him a "speechwriter" over and over. So his pride might actually make him give up writing altogether.

Socrates: What an amusing idea! But I think, my friend, you're badly misjudging Lysias if you imagine he's scared off by a little criticism. And maybe you think his attacker was actually being serious?

Phaedrus: It certainly seemed that way, Socrates. And you know that the most powerful and influential politicians are embarrassed to write speeches and leave them behind in written form — they're afraid future generations will call them Sophists.

Socrates: You're forgetting the proverb about "the sweet elbow," Phaedrus — which is really about the long bend of the Nile. You also seem unaware that this "sweet elbow" of theirs is actually a very long reach. Because there's nothing our great politicians love more than writing speeches and passing them down to posterity. In fact, they're so fond of it that they put the names of their supporters right at the top of each document, out of gratitude.

Phaedrus: What do you mean? I don't follow.

Socrates: You don't know that when a politician writes something, he starts with the names of the people who approved it?

Phaedrus: How so?

Socrates: He begins like this: "Be it resolved by the Senate, the People, or both, on the motion of so-and-so" — and "so-and-so" is our author. Then, putting on a very serious face, he proceeds to show off his own wisdom to his admirers in what's often a long and tedious piece of writing. Tell me — what is that, really, if not authorship?

Phaedrus: True enough.

Socrates: And if the law passes, the author leaves the assembly absolutely delighted. But if it's rejected and he's denied his moment of speechmaking, if he's deemed not good enough to write, then he and his supporters go into mourning.

Phaedrus: Very true.

Socrates: So they're hardly contemptuous of writing — quite the opposite. They value the practice enormously.

Phaedrus: No doubt.

Socrates: And when a king or an orator has the power of achieving immortality through authorship — as Lycurgus or Solon or Darius did — doesn't posterity regard him as practically divine when they read his work? Doesn't he think of himself as divine while he's still alive?

Phaedrus: Very true.

Socrates: Then do you really think any politician, no matter how hostile, would genuinely criticize Lysias just for being a writer?

Phaedrus: Not on your argument, no. He'd be insulting his own favorite activity.

Socrates: So it's clear enough: there's nothing disgraceful about writing in itself.

Phaedrus: Of course not.

Socrates: The disgrace begins when someone writes badly.

Phaedrus: Obviously.

Socrates: So what counts as writing well, and what counts as writing badly? Should we consult Lysias on this, or any other poet or speechmaker who has ever written or ever will write — whether it's a political work or something else, in verse or in prose?

Phaedrus: Should we? What's the point of living if not for the pleasures of good conversation? Surely not for bodily pleasures, which almost always come with pain beforehand, and which we rightly call slavish.

Socrates: Well, there's time enough for this. And I think the grasshoppers singing above us in the heat are watching us and talking to each other. If they saw us doing what most people do — dozing off in the midday sun, lulled by their voices, too lazy to think — wouldn't they have a right to laugh at us? They'd assume we were like sheep that had wandered to their watering hole and fallen asleep in the shade. But if they see us conversing, sailing past them like Odysseus past the Sirens, deaf to their enchanting song, they might respect us enough to share the gifts they've received from the gods to pass along to humans.

Phaedrus: What gifts? I've never heard of any.

Socrates: A music-lover like you should really know the story of the grasshoppers. They say that long ago, before the Muses existed, grasshoppers were human beings. But when the Muses appeared and song came into the world, some people were so ravished with delight that they sang constantly and forgot to eat or drink — until eventually they died without even realizing it. From these people, the grasshoppers were born. And this is the gift the Muses gave them in return: from the moment they're born, they never need food or water. They just sing their whole lives, and when they die, they go to the Muses and report who on earth has honored them. They win the favor of Terpsichore for the dancers, of Erato for those in love, and of the other Muses for those who honor them in their various ways. But it's Calliope, the eldest Muse, and Urania, who comes next, that they report to about the philosophers — because these are the Muses most concerned with the heavens and with thought, both divine and human, and they have the sweetest voices of all. So for many reasons, we really should keep talking and not fall asleep at midday.

Phaedrus: Then let's talk.

Socrates: Shall we take up the question we proposed earlier — the rules of good speaking and writing?

Phaedrus: Absolutely.

Socrates: Here's where we have to start: shouldn't a good speaker actually know the truth about whatever subject he's going to speak about?

Phaedrus: Well, Socrates, I've heard it said that someone who wants to be an orator doesn't need to concern himself with genuine justice — only with what the crowd sitting in judgment is likely to approve. Not with what's truly good or honorable, but with what people believe about those things. Because persuasion comes from opinion, they say, not from truth.

Socrates: We shouldn't dismiss what wise people say too quickly — there might be something to it. So let's think through what this claim really means.

Phaedrus: Fair enough.

Socrates: Let me put it this way. Suppose I tried to convince you to buy a horse and go off to war, and neither of us actually knew what a horse looked like — but I did know that you believed a horse was the tame animal with the longest ears.

Phaedrus: That would be ridiculous.

Socrates: It gets worse. Suppose that, in all seriousness, I then composed a speech praising a donkey, calling it a horse: "A noble animal and a most useful possession, especially in war! You can ride it into battle, and it'll carry your baggage and anything else you need."

Phaedrus: That's absurd!

Socrates: Absurd, yes. But isn't even an absurd friend better than a clever enemy?

Phaedrus: I suppose so.

Socrates: Now here's the serious point. When an orator, instead of confusing a donkey for a horse, confuses good for evil — being himself as ignorant of their true nature as the public he's trying to fool — and when he's studied the crowd's opinions and uses those to persuade them, not about "the shadow of a donkey" mistaken for a horse, but about good things mistaken for evil ones — what kind of harvest do you think rhetoric will reap from sowing those seeds?

Phaedrus: Nothing good.

Socrates: But maybe we've been too rough on rhetoric. She might fire back: "What ridiculous nonsense! As if I force anyone to learn to speak without knowing the truth first! Whatever my advice is worth, I'd tell a student to arrive at the truth first and then come to me. But at the same time, I'll boldly say this: knowing the truth alone won't give you the skill of persuasion."

Phaedrus: There's something to that defense.

Socrates: Quite right — if the remaining arguments testify that rhetoric really is a genuine skill. But I seem to hear other voices lining up on the opposite side, declaring that she's lying, that rhetoric is no skill at all — just a routine, a trick. And here comes a Spartan voice saying: there never has been and never will be a real skill of speaking that's divorced from the truth.

Phaedrus: Let's hear those arguments, Socrates. Bring them out so we can examine them.

Socrates: Come forward then, noble arguments, and convince our friend Phaedrus — the father of many fine ideas himself — that he'll never be able to speak properly about anything unless he has a grasp of philosophy. And Phaedrus, you respond.

Phaedrus: Go ahead, ask.

Socrates: Isn't rhetoric, broadly speaking, a kind of universal skill for influencing minds through words? One that's practiced not only in courts and public assemblies, but in private conversations too — dealing with matters great and small, important and trivial alike — and supposedly equally valuable in all cases? Isn't that what you've heard?

Phaedrus: Not exactly. I'd say I've mostly heard the skill described as applying to speaking and writing in lawsuits and to making speeches in assemblies — not extending much beyond that.

Socrates: Ah, then you've only heard about the rhetoric of Nestor and Odysseus, which they polished during their downtime at Troy, and never about the rhetoric of Palamedes?

Phaedrus: I haven't heard of Nestor's or Odysseus's rhetoric either — unless you mean Gorgias is your Nestor and Thrasymachus or Theodorus your Odysseus.

Socrates: Maybe that's what I mean. But let's set them aside. Tell me this: what are the plaintiff and defendant actually doing in a lawsuit? Aren't they in a contest?

Phaedrus: Exactly.

Socrates: A contest about what's just and what's unjust — that's the dispute?

Phaedrus: Yes.

Socrates: And a master of the skill can make the same thing seem just at one moment and unjust at another — to the same audience — whenever he feels like it?

Phaedrus: Exactly.

Socrates: And in the assembly, he can make the same policies seem beneficial to the city at one time and harmful at another?

Phaedrus: That's right.

Socrates: Now, haven't we heard of Zeno of Elea — our "Palamedes" — who has such a skill with words that he makes the same things appear to his audience as both like and unlike, one and many, in motion and at rest?

Phaedrus: We certainly have.

Socrates: So the skill of argument isn't limited to courts and assemblies. It's one and the same everywhere language is used — this is the skill, if it is a skill, that can find a resemblance between anything and anything else, and that brings to light the resemblances and disguises that other people use. Agreed?

Phaedrus: What exactly do you mean?

Socrates: Let me put it this way: when is deception more likely to succeed — when the difference between two things is large, or when it's small?

Phaedrus: When it's small.

Socrates: And you're more likely to slip past unnoticed if you move to the opposite position by small degrees than if you jump there all at once?

Phaedrus: Of course.

Socrates: So anyone who wants to deceive others without being deceived himself needs to know the real similarities and differences between things with absolute precision.

Phaedrus: He'd have to.

Socrates: And if he doesn't know the true nature of a given subject, how can he detect even a tiny degree of resemblance between other things and the thing he's ignorant about?

Phaedrus: He can't.

Socrates: And when people are deceived — when their beliefs are out of step with reality — the error always slips in through resemblances, doesn't it?

Phaedrus: Yes, that's how it works.

Socrates: Then anyone who wants to master the art of rhetoric needs to understand the true nature of things. Otherwise, he'll never know how to guide an audience step by step from truth toward its opposite using resemblances — or how to avoid being led astray himself.

Phaedrus: He won't.

Socrates: So a person who doesn't know the truth and only chases after appearances will end up with a rhetoric that's laughable and not really a skill at all?

Phaedrus: That seems likely.

Socrates: Want to look for examples of genuine skill and the lack of it in Lysias's speech that you're still holding, and in my own speech?

Phaedrus: That would be perfect. Our discussion has been a bit abstract and could use some concrete examples.

Socrates: And it just so happens that the two speeches provide excellent examples of how a speaker who knows the truth can, without being entirely serious, charm his audience. I credit this lucky break to the local gods — and maybe the Muses' prophets singing above us have lent me some inspiration. I certainly don't claim to have any rhetorical skill of my own.

Phaedrus: Fine, fine — just get on with it.

Socrates: All right. Read me the opening words of Lysias's speech.

Phaedrus: "You know my situation, and you've heard how I think things could be arranged to our mutual advantage. I maintain that my suit should not fail simply because I am not your lover. For lovers come to regret..."

Socrates: That's enough. Now, shall I point out the rhetorical problem with those words?

Phaedrus: Yes.

Socrates: Everyone would agree that when it comes to certain things, we're all on the same page, while about other things, we're divided.

Phaedrus: I think I see what you're getting at, but explain.

Socrates: When someone says "iron" or "silver," don't we all picture the same thing?

Phaedrus: Certainly.

Socrates: But when someone says "justice" or "goodness," we go off in different directions — disagreeing with each other and even with ourselves?

Phaedrus: Exactly.

Socrates: So on some things we agree, and on others we don't.

Phaedrus: Right.

Socrates: In which category are we more likely to be fooled? And in which does rhetoric have greater power?

Phaedrus: Clearly in the disputed category.

Socrates: Then a rhetorician needs to make a careful distinction between the two classes — concepts where most people agree and concepts where they're easily confused — and have a clear understanding of both.

Phaedrus: That would be an excellent principle to work from.

Socrates: Right. And next, he needs sharp eyes for the specifics of whatever he's talking about, never misclassifying which category a particular topic belongs to.

Phaedrus: Absolutely.

Socrates: Now, which category does love belong to — the settled or the disputed?

Phaedrus: The disputed, obviously. If it weren't, do you think love would have let you say what you said — that it's both the worst thing that can happen to lover and beloved, and also the greatest possible blessing?

Socrates: Excellent point. But tell me this: did I define love at the beginning of my speech? I was in such an ecstatic state I can barely remember.

Phaedrus: Oh, you absolutely did. No question about it.

Socrates: Well then! Apparently the Nymphs of Achelous and Pan, son of Hermes, who inspired me, are far better rhetoricians than Lysias, son of Cephalus. How outclassed poor Lysias is! Unless, that is, he actually did insist at the start of his speech on defining love as some particular thing, and then built the rest of his argument on that definition. Shall we go back and check?

Phaedrus: If you like, but you won't find what you're looking for.

Socrates: Read it, so we have his exact words.

Socrates: He's done exactly the opposite of what he should have! He started at the end and is swimming backward through the river to the beginning. His pitch to the young man starts where a lover would have finished. Don't you think so, dear Phaedrus?

Phaedrus: You're right, Socrates — he really does start at the end.

Socrates: And what about the rest of it? Aren't the topics just thrown together at random? Is there any organizing principle? Why does one point follow another? In my ignorance, it seemed like he simply wrote down whatever popped into his head. But perhaps you can spot some rhetorical necessity in the sequence of the parts?

Phaedrus: You're giving me too much credit if you think I can detect anything like that in his composition.

Socrates: But surely you'd agree that every good piece of writing should be like a living creature — it should have a body of its own, with a head and feet, a middle, a beginning, and an end, all fitted to one another and to the whole?

Phaedrus: Of course.

Socrates: Can we honestly say that about Lysias's speech? See if you can find any more logical structure in it than in the famous epitaph supposedly inscribed on the tomb of Midas the Phrygian.

Phaedrus: What's special about the epitaph?

Socrates: It goes like this:

"I am a maiden of bronze, and I lie on the tomb of Midas. As long as water flows and tall trees grow, Here on this spot by his sorrowful tomb I'll stay, Telling all passersby that Midas sleeps below."

Now, as you'll notice, it doesn't matter one bit whether you put any line first or last.

Phaedrus: You're making fun of our speech.

Socrates: Well, I'll drop the subject — I don't want to offend you about your friend. Though I think there are plenty more examples of what a speaker should avoid. But let me move on to the other speech, which I think has some useful lessons for students of rhetoric.

Phaedrus: In what way?

Socrates: The two speeches, you'll remember, took opposite positions. One argued that you should accept the lover, the other that you should accept the non-lover.

Phaedrus: And they argued vigorously!

Socrates: You should really say "madly" — and madness was exactly the point. As I said, "love is a form of madness."

Phaedrus: Yes.

Socrates: And we found two kinds of madness: one caused by ordinary human disturbance, and another that's a divine liberation of the soul from the chains of custom and convention.

Phaedrus: True.

Socrates: The divine madness was divided into four types: prophetic, mystical, poetic, and erotic — presided over by four gods respectively. The first was the inspiration of Apollo, the second of Dionysus, the third of the Muses, and the fourth of Aphrodite and Eros. In describing the last kind, which we also called the best, we spoke of love through a metaphor. We wove a myth that was reasonably believable and possibly even true, though partly imaginative — a hymn in honor of Love, who is your lord and mine, Phaedrus, and the guardian of beautiful young people. And we sang this hymn in a measured and solemn tone.

Phaedrus: I took immense pleasure in hearing it.

Socrates: Let's take this as our example and look at how the speech moved from blame to praise.

Phaedrus: What do you mean?

Socrates: I mean that the speech was largely playful. But woven into those spontaneous flights of inspiration were two principles that I'd love to understand more precisely, if some method could clarify them.

Phaedrus: What principles?

Socrates: The first is collection — gathering scattered particulars under a single idea. Take our definition of love: whether it was true or false, it gave the whole speech clarity and internal consistency. The speaker should define his key terms and thereby make his meaning clear.

Phaedrus: And the second principle, Socrates?

Socrates: The second is division — cutting according to the natural joints, the way a good butcher carves, not hacking through bone the way a bad one does. Just as our two speeches took as their starting point a single form of irrationality, and then — just as a single body can be divided into a left side and a right side, each with corresponding parts — the speaker divided the parts on the left side and kept cutting until he found a harmful, "left-handed" love, which he rightly condemned. The other speech, meanwhile, led us to the madness on the right side, where it found a different love — one that shares the same name but is divine — and held it up for admiration, declaring it the source of our greatest blessings.

Phaedrus: Absolutely right.

Socrates: I'm a devoted fan of these twin processes — collection and division. They help me think and speak. And whenever I find someone who can see the One and the Many in the nature of things, I follow that person and walk in his footsteps as though he were a god. The people who have this ability — I've been calling them "dialecticians." But whether that name is the right one, only the gods know. And I'd like to know what name you'd give to Lysias's students — or whether this might be that famous "art of rhetoric" that Thrasymachus and others teach and practice. They're skilled speakers, all right, and they'll happily pass along their skill to anyone willing to pay them royal sums and treat them like kings.

Phaedrus: They may be impressive, but their skill isn't the same as what you're calling dialectic — and you're right to call it that, in my opinion. Still, we're in the dark about what rhetoric actually is.

Socrates: What do you mean? Could there be something valuable that falls outside of dialectic but still counts as a legitimate skill? We certainly shouldn't dismiss it — but what exactly is left?

Phaedrus: There's a great deal, surely, in all those rhetoric textbooks.

Socrates: Right, thank you for the reminder. First there's the "exordium" — how to begin a speech properly. That's what you mean, isn't it? The refinements of the craft?

Phaedrus: Yes.

Socrates: Then comes the statement of facts, followed by the presentation of witnesses. Third, evidence. Fourth, arguments from probability. And the great Byzantine wordsmith — if I'm not mistaken — also talks about "confirmation" and "additional confirmation."

Phaedrus: You mean the excellent Theodorus.

Socrates: That's the one. And he explains how to handle refutation and counter-refutation, whether you're prosecuting or defending. I should also mention the illustrious Evenus of Paros, who invented innuendo and indirect praise. Some say he even put his indirect criticisms into verse as a memory aid. But shall I consign to oblivion Tisias and Gorgias? Those two discovered that probability trumps truth, and through the sheer force of argument they make small things seem great and great things small, dress up the new in old clothes and the old in new ones, and have invented formulas for speeches of every length — from the ultra-brief to the infinitely long. I remember Prodicus laughing when I told him all this. He said he alone had discovered the true rule of the craft: a speech should be neither long nor short, but just the right length.

Phaedrus: Brilliant, Prodicus!

Socrates: And then there's Hippias from Elis, who probably agrees with him.

Phaedrus: I'd imagine so.

Socrates: And don't forget Polus, with his treasury of "double expressions," maxims, and figurative language — techniques taught to him by Licymnius to give his speeches polish.

Phaedrus: Didn't Protagoras have something similar?

Socrates: Yes — rules for proper word choice, among many other fine precepts. As for evoking the "sorrows of a poor old man" or any other emotional scenario, no one does it better than the great Chalcedonian giant, Thrasymachus. He can whip a whole audience into a frenzy and then calm them right back down again with his verbal magic, and he's second to none at fabricating or demolishing accusations on any grounds — or no grounds at all. And they all agree on one thing: a speech should end with a summary, though they don't all use the same term for it.

Phaedrus: You mean there should be a recap of the main arguments to refresh the audience's memory.

Socrates: That's everything I have to say about the techniques of rhetoric. Do you have anything to add?

Phaedrus: Nothing important.

Socrates: Then let's skip the minor points and bring the really important question into the light: what power does this so-called art of rhetoric actually have, and when does it have it?

Phaedrus: Enormous power, I'd say — at least in public gatherings.

Socrates: It does have power. But do you share my feeling about these rhetoricians? To me, their whole framework seems full of holes.

Phaedrus: Give me an example.

Socrates: All right. Suppose someone walked up to your friend Eryximachus — or his father Acumenus — and said: "I know how to produce heating and cooling effects in the body, how to induce vomiting or purging, and all sorts of treatments like that. Since I know all this, I claim to be a doctor, and I can make other people doctors by teaching them what I know." What do you think they'd say?

Phaedrus: They'd obviously ask him: "Do you also know who to give these treatments to, and when to give them, and in what doses?"

Socrates: And what if he answered: "No, I don't know any of that. I expect my patients to figure those things out for themselves"?

Phaedrus: They'd say he was a lunatic — or a clueless bookworm who thinks he's a physician because he stumbled across a couple of remedies in a book, without having any real understanding of medicine.

Socrates: Now suppose someone went to Sophocles or Euripides and said: "I know how to compose very long speeches on trivial subjects and very short speeches on important ones. I can make speeches that are mournful, or terrifying, or threatening, or any other kind you want. And by teaching these things, I believe I'm teaching the art of tragedy."

Phaedrus: They'd laugh at him too, Socrates, if he thought tragedy was anything other than arranging all these elements so they work together and form a coherent whole.

Socrates: But I don't think they'd be rude about it. They'd treat him the way a musician would treat someone who claimed to be a harmony expert just because he could identify the highest and lowest notes. The musician wouldn't snap, "You idiot, you're out of your mind!" Being a musician, he'd say gently and kindly: "My friend, a person who wants to be a real expert in harmony does need to know these things. But someone at your stage of knowledge might understand absolutely nothing about harmony itself. You've learned the prerequisites, not the actual thing."

Phaedrus: Very true.

Socrates: And wouldn't Sophocles say the same to the aspiring tragedian — "What you've shown me isn't tragedy, but the preliminaries of tragedy"? And wouldn't Acumenus say the same to the aspiring doctor about medicine?

Phaedrus: Absolutely.

Socrates: And if the silver-tongued Adrastus or Pericles could hear about all these marvelous techniques — the brachylogies and eikonologies and all the fancy terminology we've been dragging into the light — what would they say? Rather than losing their tempers and throwing around insults the way you and I have been doing, their deeper wisdom would lead them to rebuke us along with the rhetoric teachers. "Easy now, Phaedrus and Socrates," they'd say. "You shouldn't be so harsh with people who lack the dialectical skill to define what rhetoric actually is and consequently mistake the preliminary conditions for the art itself. They teach these techniques to others and imagine they've taught the complete art of rhetoric. As for actually using these tools effectively, or making a speech into a coherent whole — well, they consider that an easy bit their students can figure out on their own."

Phaedrus: I have to admit, Socrates, that the rhetoric these men teach and write about is exactly as you describe. I agree completely. But I still want to know: where and how does one acquire the true art of rhetoric and persuasion?

Socrates: Becoming a truly accomplished orator is like becoming accomplished at anything else — it requires both natural talent and training. If you have the natural gift and add knowledge and practice to it, you'll be a remarkable speaker. If you fall short in either area, you'll be deficient to that degree. But the genuine art of rhetoric, insofar as there is an art, doesn't lie in the direction Lysias or Thrasymachus points.

Phaedrus: Then which direction?

Socrates: I think Pericles was the most accomplished orator of them all.

Phaedrus: And?

Socrates: All the great arts demand serious study and deep thinking about the nature of things. That's where lofty thought and complete mastery come from. And this is exactly the quality that Pericles, on top of his natural gifts, gained from his association with the philosopher Anaxagoras. He steeped himself in higher philosophy, gained insight into the nature of Mind and the absence of Mind — Anaxagoras's favorite subjects — and then applied what was useful to the art of speaking.

Phaedrus: Go on.

Socrates: Rhetoric is like medicine.

Phaedrus: How so?

Socrates: In medicine, you need to understand the nature of the body. In rhetoric, you need to understand the nature of the soul. That is, if you want to proceed scientifically rather than just by trial and error — in one case to produce health and strength through the right medications and diet, in the other to implant whatever conviction or excellence you're aiming for, through the right words and practices.

Phaedrus: You know, Socrates, I think you're right about that.

Socrates: And do you think you can truly understand the nature of the soul without understanding the nature of the universe as a whole?

Phaedrus: Hippocrates says you can't even understand the body properly without looking at the whole.

Socrates: He's right, friend. But we shouldn't just take Hippocrates at his word — we should examine whether his reasoning actually holds up.

Phaedrus: Agreed.

Socrates: Then consider what truth itself, along with Hippocrates, says about any nature we want to investigate. Shouldn't we first determine whether the thing we want to study and teach about is simple or complex? If it's simple, then we should ask what power it has to act on other things, or to be acted upon by them. If it's complex, then we should count its different forms and examine each one the same way — asking what power of acting or being acted upon makes each of them what it is.

Phaedrus: That sounds right, Socrates.

Socrates: Any method that skips this analysis is like a blind man groping in the dark. But surely someone who calls himself a craftsman shouldn't be compared to someone who's blind or deaf. The rhetorician who truly teaches his students to speak scientifically will carefully explain the nature of the thing he's addressing his speeches to. And that thing, I believe, is the soul.

Phaedrus: Obviously.

Socrates: Because the soul is where the orator directs all his effort. That's where he's trying to create conviction.

Phaedrus: Yes.

Socrates: So clearly, Thrasymachus — or anyone else who teaches rhetoric seriously — must first provide an exact description of the nature of the soul. This will show us whether it's a simple unity or, like the body, has many different forms. That's what it means to reveal the nature of the soul.

Phaedrus: Exactly.

Socrates: Second, he'll explain how the soul acts and how it's acted upon.

Phaedrus: Right.

Socrates: Third, having sorted out the different types of souls and the different types of arguments, along with their various effects, he'll match them up — showing why one kind of soul is persuaded by a particular kind of argument, and another is not.

Phaedrus: Now that's a powerful approach.

Socrates: Yes, and it's the one true method. No subject can ever be properly presented or treated by rules of art, whether in speech or in writing, any other way. But the rhetoric teachers of today, the ones you've been studying with, are crafty — they know all about the soul's nature perfectly well and are deliberately hiding it. Until they adopt our method of analysis, we can't grant that they're working from genuine knowledge of their craft.

Phaedrus: And what exactly is our method?

Socrates: I can't give you every last detail, but let me describe the general approach, as far as I can, for how a person should proceed according to genuine principles of the art.

Phaedrus: I'm listening.

Socrates: Rhetoric is the art of influencing souls, and therefore the person who wants to be an orator must first learn the different types of human souls — there are many, of various kinds — and from these come the differences between people. Having gotten that far in his analysis, he'll then classify the different types of speeches: "This kind of person is affected by this kind of speech in this way" — and he'll explain why. The student needs a solid theoretical grasp of all this first, and then real-world experience — the ability to observe these types in actual people, following them with all his senses sharp. Otherwise he'll never get past what he learned in the classroom. But when he understands which arguments persuade which people, and when he spots the actual person he'd previously only thought about in the abstract standing right in front of him, and can say to himself, "This is the man — this is the character type that calls for this particular argument to create this particular conviction" — when he knows all this, and also knows when to speak and when to hold back, when to use a pointed remark, when an emotional appeal, when a dramatic effect, and every other technique he's learned — when, I say, he knows the right times and occasions for all of these, then and only then is he a true master of the art. But if he falls short on any of these points, whether in speaking, teaching, or writing, and still claims to be practicing a genuine art — well, anyone who says "I don't believe you" has the better of the argument.

"So then," our imaginary teacher might say, "is this your account of the so-called art of rhetoric, Phaedrus and Socrates? Or should I look elsewhere?"

Phaedrus: This has to be it, Socrates. There's no other possibility. Though I have to say — creating such an art doesn't sound easy.

Socrates: Very true. So let's turn this over and look at it from every angle, to see whether there might be a shorter and easier path. There's no point taking a long, rough detour when there's a more direct route. Can you think of anything you've heard from Lysias or anyone else that might help us?

Phaedrus: I'd help if I could, but nothing comes to mind right now.

Socrates: Then shall I share something I was told by someone who knows about these things?

Phaedrus: Please do.

Socrates: They say even the wolf deserves a hearing — so shall I make his case?

Phaedrus: Go ahead.

Socrates: The argument goes like this: there's no need for such a grand, circuitous approach. As I said at the start, when it comes to questions of justice and goodness — or questions involving people who are just and good, whether by nature or by habit — the skilled orator has no need for truth. In the courts, nobody actually cares about truth; they only care about what's convincing. And what's convincing is based on probability. So the aspiring orator should devote himself entirely to probability. In fact, they say there are cases where you should suppress the actual facts, if they're improbable, and present only what seems likely — whether you're prosecuting or defending. In every speech, probability should be your guiding star, and you should say goodbye to truth. Master that principle from start to finish, and you've mastered the entire art.

Phaedrus: That's exactly what the rhetoric professors say, Socrates. I remember we touched on this briefly before. They consider it the central point.

Socrates: Well, you know Tisias well enough. Tell me — doesn't he define "probability" as simply what the majority believes?

Phaedrus: That's exactly what he says.

Socrates: And here's a clever little case he supposedly invented to illustrate it. A weak but brave man assaults a strong but cowardly one and robs him of his cloak or something. They end up in court, and Tisias says both men should lie. The coward should claim he was attacked by multiple assailants, not just one. The other man should prove they were alone and then argue: "How could a little guy like me have possibly assaulted a big guy like him?" The plaintiff, of course, won't want to admit his own cowardice, so he'll invent some other lie — and that gives the defendant an opening to tear it apart. There are other tricks of the same kind built into the system. Am I right, Phaedrus?

Phaedrus: You are.

Socrates: What a marvelously mysterious art Tisias — or whoever it was, whatever name or country he's so proud of — has discovered! Shall we say a word to him, or not?

Phaedrus: What should we say?

Socrates: Let's tell him this: "Before you showed up, Tisias, we were already saying that this 'probability' of yours is created in people's minds by its resemblance to the truth. And we'd just established that the person who knows the truth will always be best at finding those resemblances. So if you have something else to add about the art of speaking, we'd love to hear it. If not, we'll stick with what we've already concluded: unless a person understands the different types of listeners and can classify things properly, grouping them under single ideas, he'll never be a skilled orator, even within the bounds of what's humanly possible. And this skill won't come without tremendous effort — effort that a good person should undertake not just to impress other people in speech and action, but to be able to say and do what's pleasing to the gods as far as it lies within him. For people wiser than us have said that a sensible person shouldn't spend his life trying to please his fellow servants — at least that shouldn't be his primary goal — but should aim to please his good and noble masters. So if the road is long and winding, don't be surprised. For great destinations, we take the longer road. But not for lesser ones like yours."

"Truly, Tisias," the argument might conclude, "if you're willing to go that far, rhetoric has a worthy starting point right here."

Phaedrus: I think that's admirable, Socrates — if only it's achievable.

Socrates: But even failing at a noble goal is honorable.

Phaedrus: True.

Socrates: Well, I think we've said enough about what makes rhetoric genuine and what makes it a sham.

Phaedrus: Agreed.

Socrates: But there's still something to be said about the appropriateness and inappropriateness of writing.

Phaedrus: Yes, there is.

Socrates: Do you know how to speak or act regarding rhetoric in a way that would be pleasing to the gods?

Phaedrus: No, I don't. Do you?

Socrates: I've heard an old tradition. Whether it's true, only the ancients know. Though if we could discover the truth ourselves, would we really care much about what people said in the past?

Phaedrus: That's a silly question — but please, tell me what you've heard.

Socrates: Very well. At the Egyptian city of Naucratis, there lived a famous old god named Theuth. The ibis is the bird sacred to him. He was the inventor of many things — arithmetic, calculation, geometry, astronomy, board games, and dice. But his greatest invention was writing.

Now, in those days, the god Thamus was king of all Egypt, ruling from that great city of Upper Egypt that the Greeks call Egyptian Thebes. (The god himself they call Ammon.) Theuth came to Thamus and displayed his inventions, asking that they be shared with the rest of the Egyptian people. He explained them one by one, and Thamus praised some and criticized others, depending on whether he thought each was useful or not. It would take far too long to repeat everything Thamus said about each invention. But when they came to writing, Theuth said: "This invention, my king, will make the Egyptians wiser and improve their memories. I've discovered a remedy for both memory and wisdom."

Thamus replied: "O most ingenious Theuth, the person who invents something is not always the best judge of how useful or harmful it will be for the people who use it. You, as the father of writing, have a father's bias — you've attributed to your creation the very opposite of its real effect. This invention will produce forgetfulness in the souls of those who learn it, because they'll stop exercising their memories. They'll rely on external written marks instead of remembering things themselves, from within. What you've discovered is not a remedy for memory, but for reminding — and you're offering your students the appearance of wisdom, not the real thing. They'll hear about many subjects without genuinely learning them. They'll seem to know everything while actually knowing nothing. And they'll be exhausting company — full of the conceit of wisdom, without the substance."

Phaedrus: You know, Socrates, you have a real talent for making up stories about Egypt — or any other country, for that matter.

Socrates: Well, the tradition at the oracle of Dodona was that the first prophecies came from oak trees. The people of that earlier age, simpler than you sophisticated young philosophers, were happy to listen to truth even from "an oak or a rock," as long as it was true. But you, it seems, care less about whether something is true than about who's saying it and where they're from.

Phaedrus: Fair enough — you're right to call me out. And I think the Theban god has a point about writing.

Socrates: Anyone who thought he could establish a genuine art by putting it in writing — or who accepted written instructions thinking that anything clear or reliable could come out of written words — would be deeply naive, a stranger to the wisdom of Thamus. He'd be imagining that written words can do more than serve as a reminder to people who already know what the writing is about.

Phaedrus: That's absolutely right.

Socrates: You know, Phaedrus, writing has this strange quality, which makes it really just like painting. The creations of a painter stand there looking as though they're alive, but if you ask them a question, they maintain a dignified silence. Written words are the same way. You'd think they were speaking with intelligence, but if you ask them something — if you want to understand what they're saying — they just keep repeating the same thing, over and over, forever. And once something has been written down, it rolls around everywhere, landing in the hands of people who understand it and people who don't, without distinction. It doesn't know who it should speak to and who it shouldn't. And when it's attacked or unfairly criticized, it can't defend itself — it always needs its father to come to its rescue, because on its own, it's completely helpless.

Phaedrus: That's absolutely true as well.

Socrates: But isn't there another kind of speech, far better than this one, with far greater power? A legitimate sibling of the written word, but of nobler birth?

Phaedrus: What do you mean? Where does this other kind come from?

Socrates: I mean the living word of knowledge, written in the soul of the learner — a word that can defend itself, and that knows when to speak and when to stay silent.

Phaedrus: You mean the living, breathing discourse of someone who truly knows — a discourse that has a soul. The written word is just its shadow, isn't it?

Socrates: Exactly. And now, let me ask you this: would a sensible farmer, who had seeds he valued and wanted to bear fruit, seriously plant them in the heat of summer in some little "garden of Adonis," just to enjoy watching them sprout prettily in eight days? He might do that for fun, for amusement on a holiday. But when he's serious, he uses proper farming techniques — he plants in the right soil at the right time, and he's satisfied if the seeds he's sown reach maturity in eight months.

Phaedrus: That's exactly right, Socrates. He'd do the serious planting properly and the other only for play.

Socrates: And are we really going to say that the man who understands justice, goodness, and beauty has less sense about his own "seeds" — his ideas — than a farmer has about his crops?

Phaedrus: Certainly not.

Socrates: Then he won't seriously attempt to "write his thoughts in water" — using pen and ink to sow words that can't speak for themselves and can't adequately teach the truth to others.

Phaedrus: No, that doesn't seem likely.

Socrates: No, it doesn't. In the garden of letters, he'll plant and write only for recreation and amusement — storing up reminders as a treasury against the forgetfulness of old age, for himself and for anyone else who follows the same path. He'll take pleasure in watching his garden of words grow. And while other people refresh themselves with drinking parties and similar entertainments, his pastime will be this.

Phaedrus: A glorious pastime, Socrates, compared to those ordinary amusements — the pastime of someone who can find delight in serious talk and spin stories about justice and other great themes.

Socrates: It is. But far nobler still, Phaedrus, is the serious work of the dialectician. He finds a kindred spirit and, with the help of genuine knowledge, plants words in that soul that can take care of themselves and take care of the one who planted them — words that aren't barren, but carry within them a seed that, nurtured in other soils and other souls, keeps the flame alive forever, making its possessors as happy as it's possible for a human being to be.

Phaedrus: Far nobler, yes.

Socrates: And now, Phaedrus, since we've agreed on the premises, we can draw our conclusion.

Phaedrus: What conclusion?

Socrates: The one about Lysias, which started this whole discussion — whether he deserves censure for his writing, and what his speeches reveal about rhetorical skill or the lack of it. That's what we set out to examine, and now I think we have a pretty clear picture of what constitutes genuine art and what doesn't.

Phaedrus: I think so too, but I'd like you to summarize it.

Socrates: Here it is. Until someone knows the truth about every subject he's writing or speaking about, and can define things as they really are, and having defined them can divide them further until they can be divided no more — and until he can analyze the nature of the soul in the same way, identifying which types of discourse are suited to which types of soul, and arrange everything accordingly, offering simple arguments to simple natures and complex, many-layered arguments to complex natures — until he's accomplished all of that, he won't be able to handle the craft of speaking with genuine artistry, whether his purpose is teaching or persuading. That's the view our entire argument points to.

Phaedrus: Yes, that was definitely our conclusion.

Socrates: Second, regarding whether it's right or wrong to write and deliver speeches, and when it's a credit and when it's a disgrace — didn't our earlier argument make clear...?

Phaedrus: Make clear what?

Socrates: That whether it's Lysias or any other writer who ever lived or ever will live — whether a private citizen or a politician proposing laws and thereby becoming the author of a political treatise — if he imagines that his written words possess great certainty and clarity, the mere fact of his writing that way is a disgrace, regardless of what anyone says. Because not to understand the nature of justice and injustice, good and evil, and not to be able to tell the dream from the reality — that can't honestly be anything but disgraceful, even if the whole world applauds.

Phaedrus: True.

Socrates: But the person who recognizes that a written work necessarily contains much that isn't serious, and that no poem or prose composition — spoken or written — has ultimate value if it's merely recited to be believed rather than examined and learned from; the person who understands that even the best writing is only a reminder of what we already know; that true clarity, depth, and seriousness exist only in principles of justice and goodness and nobility that are communicated through live dialogue and inscribed directly on the soul, which is the only real writing; the person who considers such living principles his own legitimate children — first, the understanding he discovers within his own heart, and second, the understanding he has carefully planted in the souls of others, which are its descendants and relatives — the person who cares for these and disregards everything else: this is the right kind of person. And you and I, Phaedrus, should pray to become like him.

Phaedrus: That is absolutely my wish and my prayer.

Socrates: Well then — the play has been performed, and we've said enough about rhetoric. Go and tell Lysias that we went down to the fountain and school of the Nymphs, and they told us to deliver a message — to him and to all other writers of speeches, to Homer and all poets whether they write lyrics or not, and to Solon and everyone who has composed political works they call laws. The message is this: if their writings are founded on knowledge of the truth, and they can defend and prove what they've written through live conversation — arguments that make their written words look thin by comparison — then they deserve to be called not just poets or orators or lawmakers, but something higher, a name that befits the serious work of their lives.

Phaedrus: And what name would you give them?

Socrates: "Wise" — that I can't call them. That's too great a title; it belongs to the divine alone. But "lovers of wisdom" — philosophers — that's their proper and fitting name.

Phaedrus: Very fitting indeed.

Socrates: On the other hand, someone who can't rise above his own compositions — who has spent ages patching and stitching them together, adding a bit here, removing a bit there — can fairly be called a poet, a speechwriter, or a lawmaker. Nothing more.

Phaedrus: Of course.

Socrates: Now go tell that to your friend Lysias.

Phaedrus: But there's another friend of yours who shouldn't be forgotten.

Socrates: Who?

Phaedrus: Isocrates — the brilliant young Isocrates. What message will you send him? How should we describe him?

Socrates: Isocrates is still young, Phaedrus. But I'm willing to make a prophecy about him.

Phaedrus: What prophecy?

Socrates: I think he has a genius that soars far above the speeches of Lysias, and his character is made of finer stuff. I have a feeling he'll improve astonishingly as he grows older, and that all the rhetoricians who came before will seem like children compared to him. What's more, I believe rhetoric alone won't satisfy him. There's a divine spark in him that will drive him toward something higher. He has the element of philosophy in his nature. That's the message from the gods who dwell in this place. I'll deliver it to Isocrates myself — he's my delight. And you deliver the other message to Lysias, who is yours.

Phaedrus: I will. And now that the heat has died down, let's head back.

Socrates: Shouldn't we offer a prayer first to the gods of this place?

Phaedrus: By all means.

Socrates: Beloved Pan, and all you other gods who make this place your home: grant me beauty in my inner soul, and let my outer self be in harmony with what's within. Let me count the wise as the truly wealthy. And as for gold, give me only as much as a self-controlled person can carry.

Is there anything else? I think that prayer is enough for me.

Phaedrus: Pray the same for me too. After all, friends should share everything.

Socrates: Let's go.

The Republic

Republic — Book I

I went down to the Piraeus yesterday with Glaucon, Ariston's son. I wanted to offer my prayers to the goddess, and I was also curious to see the festival — it was the first time they'd held it. The procession put on by the locals was impressive, but the Thracian contingent was every bit as beautiful, maybe even more so. After we'd finished our prayers and taken in the spectacle, we turned to head back toward the city.

That's when Polemarchus, Cephalus' son, spotted us from a distance as we were setting off. He sent his servant running after us. The servant grabbed my cloak from behind and said, "Polemarchus wants you to wait."

I turned around and asked where his master was.

"He's right behind you," said the boy. "Just wait a moment."

"We'll wait," Glaucon said. And sure enough, a few minutes later Polemarchus appeared, along with Adeimantus — Glaucon's brother — and Niceratus, the son of Nicias, and several others who'd been at the procession.

Polemarchus said to me, "Socrates, it looks like you and your friend are already heading back to the city."

"You're not far wrong," I said.

"But do you see how many of us there are?" he replied. "Are you stronger than all of us? Because if not, you're going to have to stay right here."

"Well, there might be another option," I said. "We could persuade you to let us go."

"Can you persuade people who refuse to listen?" he asked.

"Certainly not," said Glaucon.

"Then you can count on us not listening."

Adeimantus chimed in: "Has nobody told you about the torch-race on horseback tonight? It's in honor of the goddess."

"On horseback!" I said. "That's something new. Riders carrying torches and passing them to each other during the race?"

"Exactly," said Polemarchus. "And that's not all — there's going to be a festival after dark that you really shouldn't miss. We'll eat dinner first and then go watch. There'll be lots of young people there, and we'll have a good conversation. Stay. Don't be difficult."

Glaucon said, "Well, since you insist, I suppose we'll have to."

"Fine by me," I replied.

So we went home with Polemarchus. There we found his brothers Lysias and Euthydemus, along with Thrasymachus the Chalcedonian, Charmantides the Paeanian, and Cleitophon the son of Aristonymus. Cephalus, Polemarchus' father, was there too. I hadn't seen him in a long time, and he looked like he'd aged quite a bit. He was sitting in a cushioned chair with a garland on his head — he'd been offering sacrifices in the courtyard. There were other chairs arranged in a semicircle, and we sat down next to him. He greeted me warmly, then said:

"You don't come to see me nearly often enough, Socrates. If I could still get around, I wouldn't be asking you to come to me — I'd come to you. But at my age I can barely make it into the city, so you should come down to the Piraeus more often. Because let me tell you something: the more the body's pleasures fade away, the more I enjoy good conversation. The desire for it grows and grows. So don't turn me down. Come visit us. Treat this house like your own. These young men are good company, and you and I are old friends."

"There's nothing I like better, Cephalus," I replied, "than talking with men of your age. I think of you as travelers who've already walked a road that I may have to walk myself, and I want to ask you: is the road smooth and easy, or rough and difficult? You've reached what the poets call the 'threshold of old age.' So tell me — is it harder toward the end? What's your report?"

"I'll tell you exactly how I feel about it, Socrates," he said. "A group of us old men get together regularly — birds of a feather, as the saying goes. And at these gatherings, the usual refrain is: 'I can't eat like I used to. I can't drink. The pleasures of youth and love are gone. It was great while it lasted, but now that's over, and life isn't really living anymore.' Some of them go on about how their relatives treat them badly, and they'll give you a long list of all the terrible things old age has inflicted on them.

"But to me, Socrates, these people are blaming the wrong thing. If old age were the cause of their misery, then I'd feel the same way — and so would every other old person. But that's not my experience, and it's not the experience of others I've known. I remember a wonderful story about the poet Sophocles. Someone asked him, 'How's your love life, Sophocles? Are you still the man you were?' And he replied, 'Quiet! I'm delighted to have escaped that. It was like being chained to a raving lunatic.' I've thought about that many times since, and it still strikes me as beautifully put. Because old age does bring a great sense of calm and freedom. When the passions loosen their grip, it's exactly as Sophocles said — you're freed not from one mad master, but from many.

"The truth is, Socrates, the complaints about old age and about how relatives treat you — they all come from the same source: not old age itself, but a person's character. If you're naturally calm and at peace with yourself, you'll barely feel the weight of the years. But if you're the opposite sort of person, then youth and old age are equally miserable for you."

I was genuinely impressed, and I wanted to draw him out further. "Yes, Cephalus," I said, "but I suspect most people don't buy that when you say it. They think old age sits lightly on you not because of your temperament but because you're rich. As they say, wealth is quite the comforter."

"You're right — they don't buy it," he replied. "And there's something to what they say, but not nearly as much as they think. There's a story about Themistocles. A man from the tiny island of Seriphos was insulting him, saying he was only famous because he was an Athenian, not because of any personal merit. Themistocles shot back: 'True enough — if I'd been born in Seriphos, I wouldn't be famous. But you wouldn't be either, even if you'd been born in Athens.' The same thing applies here: a good person who's poor won't find old age easy. But a bad person who's rich won't ever have peace with himself either."

"Can I ask, Cephalus — did you mostly inherit your fortune, or did you make it yourself?"

"Make it? Socrates, let me tell you — I'm somewhere between my father and grandfather when it comes to moneymaking. My grandfather, who had my name, doubled and tripled what he'd inherited, ending up with roughly what I have now. But my father Lysanias brought the fortune down below its current level. I'll be satisfied if I leave these sons of mine not less but a little more than I received."

"The reason I asked," I said, "is that you seem fairly indifferent to money. That's usually a trait of people who've inherited their wealth rather than made it themselves. The self-made types develop a second love for their money — they adore it the way authors adore their own books or parents adore their children. On top of the natural love that everyone has for money because of what it can buy, they have this extra attachment to it as their own creation. That makes them terrible company. All they can talk about is how great wealth is."

"That's true," he said.

"Very true. But let me ask you something else: What do you think is the greatest benefit you've gotten from your wealth?"

"Something that most people probably wouldn't believe," he said. "But here's the thing, Socrates. When a man starts to think that death is coming for him, fears and worries creep into his mind that never bothered him before. The old stories about the underworld — about how people are punished there for what they've done in this life — used to seem ridiculous. Now they start to haunt him. Maybe it's the weakness of age, or maybe it's because he's getting closer to that other place and can see it more clearly. Either way, suspicions and terrors crowd in on him, and he starts going over his life, tallying up the wrongs he's done. And when a man finds that the total is large, he bolts awake in the middle of the night like a frightened child, and he's filled with dark foreboding. But for a man whose conscience is clean, as Pindar beautifully says, sweet hope is the kind nurse of his old age:

"'Hope,' he says, 'cherishes the soul of him who lives in justice and holiness. Hope is the nurse of his old age, the companion of his journey — hope, which is mightiest to sway the restless soul of man.'

"Those are wonderful words. And the great benefit of wealth — I don't say for every man, but for a good man — is this: it means he's never had to cheat or defraud anyone, intentionally or by accident. And when he departs for the next world, he's not terrified about offerings owed to the gods or debts owed to men. Wealth contributes enormously to this peace of mind. So weighing everything up, I'd say that for a man of good sense, this is the greatest advantage money can give."

"Well said, Cephalus," I replied. "But about this thing, justice — is it simply telling the truth and paying what you owe? Nothing more than that? And even that definition — doesn't it have exceptions? Suppose a friend lends me his weapons when he's perfectly sane, and then comes to ask for them back when he's lost his mind. Surely no one would say I should return them, or that it would be right to do so. And nobody would say I should always tell the truth to someone in that state either."

"You're absolutely right," he replied.

"Then telling the truth and paying your debts isn't a correct definition of justice."

"I'm afraid, Socrates, that I have to go now," said Cephalus. "I need to attend to the sacrifices. I'll hand the argument over to Polemarchus and the rest of you."

"Isn't Polemarchus your heir?" I said.

"He certainly is!" he answered, laughing, and went off to the sacrifices.

"All right then," I said, "you, the heir to this argument — tell me: what did Simonides say about justice that you think he got right?"

"He said that paying your debts is just," Polemarchus answered. "And I think he was right about that."

"Well, I'd hate to doubt a man as wise and inspired as Simonides. But his meaning — which is probably perfectly clear to you — is anything but clear to me. He certainly can't mean what we were just talking about: that I should return a deposit of weapons or anything else to someone who's out of his mind. And yet a deposit is clearly a debt."

"True."

"So when the person asking me for it isn't in his right mind, I shouldn't hand it over?"

"Certainly not."

"Then Simonides didn't mean to include that kind of case when he said paying debts is justice?"

"Certainly not. He thinks a friend should always do good to a friend, and never harm."

"I see — so returning a deposit of gold that would actually hurt the person receiving it, if the two parties are friends, isn't really repaying a debt. Is that what you think Simonides meant?"

"Yes."

"And what about enemies? Should they receive what we owe them too?"

"Absolutely," he said. "They should receive what's owed to them. And what an enemy owes another enemy is exactly what's appropriate — which is to say, something bad."

"So Simonides was speaking in riddles, the way poets do. What he actually meant was that justice is giving each person what's appropriate to them — and he called that a 'debt.'"

"That must have been his meaning," he said.

"By heaven! Then suppose we asked him: 'Simonides, what appropriate things does the skill of medicine give, and to whom?' What do you think he'd say?"

"Obviously that medicine gives drugs and food and drink to human bodies."

"And what appropriate things does the skill of cooking give, and to what?"

"Seasoning to food."

"Good. And what does the skill of justice give, and to whom?"

"Well, Socrates, if we follow the logic of the previous examples, then justice is the skill that gives benefits to friends and harm to enemies."

"That's what he means?"

"I think so."

"And who is best at doing good to friends and harm to enemies when they're sick?"

"A doctor."

"And when they're on a sea voyage, amid the dangers of the ocean?"

"A captain."

"Then in what kind of situation is the just person best at helping friends and harming enemies?"

"In war, I'd say. Fighting against the one and allying with the other."

"Fair enough. But when someone is healthy, there's no need for a doctor, is there?"

"No."

"And when someone isn't at sea, there's no need for a captain?"

"No."

"So in peacetime, is justice useless?"

"I wouldn't say that at all."

"You think justice is useful in peace as well as in war?"

"Yes."

"The way farming is useful for getting grain?"

"Yes."

"And shoemaking is useful for getting shoes?"

"Yes."

"Then what's the equivalent usefulness of justice in peacetime? What does it help you get?"

"It's useful in contracts, Socrates."

"By contracts you mean business partnerships?"

"Yes."

"But when you're playing a board game, who's the more useful partner — a just person or a skilled player?"

"The skilled player."

"And when you're laying bricks, who's more useful — a just person or a builder?"

"The builder, obviously."

"Then what kind of partnership is the just person better at than, say, a musician is at playing the harp?"

"A money partnership."

"Except when it comes to actually using money, Polemarchus. If you want to buy a horse, you'd want someone who knows horses, not someone who's just. And if you want to buy a ship, you'd want a shipbuilder or a captain. Right?"

"Apparently."

"So when is a just person the better partner for handling silver or gold?"

"When you need to keep a deposit safe."

"You mean — when the money isn't being used? When it's just sitting there?"

"Yes."

"So you're saying justice is useful when money is useless?"

"That seems to be where we've ended up."

"And if you want to keep a pruning hook safe, justice is handy. But when you want to actually use it, you need a gardener's skill?"

"Apparently."

"And you'd say justice is useful for keeping a shield or a lyre safe when you're not using them. But when you need to use them, you want a soldier or a musician?"

"Necessarily."

"So in general, justice is useful when things aren't being used, and useless when they are?"

"That seems to be the implication."

"Then justice doesn't amount to much, does it? But let's push further. Isn't the person who's best at landing a punch in a boxing match also the best at blocking one?"

"Yes."

"And the person most skilled at preventing disease is also the most skilled at causing it?"

"True."

"And the best person to guard a military camp is also the best person to infiltrate the enemy's?"

"True."

"So in general, whoever is good at guarding something is also good at stealing it?"

"I suppose that follows."

"Then if the just person is good at safeguarding money, he's also good at stealing it."

"That's where the argument seems to lead," he said.

"So the just person turns out to be a thief! You must have picked this up from Homer. He's fond of Odysseus' grandfather Autolycus, and says of him that 'he surpassed all men in theft and perjury.' So it seems you, Homer, and Simonides all agree: justice is a kind of theft — practiced, of course, for the benefit of friends and the harm of enemies. Isn't that what you were saying?"

"No — definitely not that! Though honestly I'm not sure what I was saying anymore. But I do still believe that justice means helping friends and harming enemies."

"All right, but let me ask: when you say 'friends' and 'enemies,' do you mean the people who actually are good or bad, or just the people who seem to be?"

"I'd think a person would love those they consider good and hate those they consider evil."

"But don't people make mistakes about this all the time? Don't many bad people seem good, and many good people seem bad?"

"That's true."

"So for those people, the good become their enemies and the bad become their friends?"

"Yes."

"And in that case, it would be right for them to help bad people and hurt good ones?"

"That seems to follow."

"But good people are just and wouldn't do wrong?"

"True."

"So by your argument, it's just to harm people who've done nothing wrong?"

"No, Socrates — that can't be right. The whole argument sounds immoral."

"Then maybe we should say we ought to do good to the just and harm to the unjust?"

"That sounds better."

"But think about the consequence. Many people are bad judges of character. They have friends who are terrible people and enemies who are actually good. In that case, they'd end up harming good people and helping bad ones — which is exactly the opposite of what we said Simonides meant."

"You're right," he said. "We should probably fix the error in how we're using the words 'friend' and 'enemy.'"

"What was the error?"

"We assumed that a friend is whoever seems good."

"And how should we fix it?"

"A true friend is someone who both seems good and actually is good. Someone who only seems good but isn't — that person only seems like a friend but isn't one. Same goes for enemies."

"So you're saying the good are our friends and the bad are our enemies?"

"Yes."

"And instead of our original version — 'do good to friends and harm to enemies' — we should say: 'Do good to friends who are truly good, and harm to enemies who are truly evil?'"

"Yes, that seems right to me."

"But should a just person harm anyone at all?"

"Absolutely — he should harm people who are both wicked and his enemies."

"When you harm a horse, does it get better or worse?"

"Worse."

"Worse in terms of what makes a horse excellent — not in terms of what makes a dog excellent?"

"Right — in terms of horse-excellence."

"And dogs that are harmed get worse in terms of dog-excellence, not horse-excellence?"

"Of course."

"And what about people? When they're harmed, don't they get worse in terms of what makes a human being excellent?"

"Yes."

"And isn't human excellence the same thing as justice?"

"Certainly."

"Then people who are harmed necessarily become more unjust?"

"That seems to follow."

"But can a musician use the art of music to make people unmusical?"

"Impossible."

"Or a horseman use his skill to make people bad at riding?"

"No."

"Then can the just, by means of justice, make people unjust? Can the good, through virtue, make people bad?"

"Absolutely not."

"Any more than heat can produce cold?"

"No."

"Or drought can produce moisture?"

"No."

"And the good can't harm anyone?"

"It seems not."

"And the just person is good?"

"Yes."

"Then harming anyone — friend or otherwise — isn't the act of a just person. It's the act of the opposite: an unjust person."

"I think what you're saying is absolutely true, Socrates."

"So if someone claims that justice means repaying debts — that a just person owes good to friends and evil to enemies — that person is not wise. It's simply not true, because we've shown that harming others can never be just."

"I agree," said Polemarchus.

"Then you and I are ready to join forces against anyone who tries to pin this saying on Simonides, or Bias, or Pittacus, or any other wise man?"

"I'm ready to fight at your side," he said.

"Want to know who I think really said it?"

"Who?"

"I think it was Periander, or Perdiccas, or Xerxes, or Ismenias the Theban — some rich, powerful man who was deeply impressed with his own power. He was the one who first declared that justice is 'doing good to your friends and harm to your enemies.'"

"That sounds exactly right," he said.

"Good. But if this definition of justice has also collapsed, what other one can we offer?"

Now, throughout this whole discussion, Thrasymachus had been trying to break in and seize control of the argument, but the others kept holding him back — they wanted to hear us finish. When Polemarchus and I reached a pause, though, he couldn't contain himself any longer. He gathered himself up and came at us like a wild animal going in for the kill. Polemarchus and I were genuinely terrified.

He bellowed at the entire room: "What is this nonsense, Socrates? Why are you two playing these little games, bowing and scraping to each other? I'm telling you — if you actually want to know what justice is, stop just asking questions. Stop showing off by tearing apart other people's answers. You know perfectly well it's easier to ask than to answer. Give your own answer. And don't tell me justice is 'duty' or 'advantage' or 'profit' or 'gain' or 'interest.' I won't accept that garbage. I want clarity. I want precision."

I was shaken by his outburst. I couldn't even look at him without trembling. Honestly, I think if I hadn't forced myself to look him in the eye first, I'd have been struck dumb. But I'd seen the fury building in him, so I managed to look at him before he spoke, and that meant I could reply.

"Thrasymachus," I said, with a slight quaver, "don't be so hard on us. If Polemarchus and I went wrong somewhere in the argument, it wasn't on purpose. If we were looking for a piece of gold, you wouldn't think we were deliberately fumbling around, ruining each other's chances of finding it. So why, when we're searching for justice — something worth far more than gold — would you accuse us of 'bowing and scraping' and not doing our best to find the truth? No, my friend, we're perfectly willing and eager. The problem is that we can't figure it out. Surely you experts who know all the answers should feel sorry for us, not angry."

"Ha!" he replied with a bitter laugh. "There it is — classic Socrates! I knew it. I told everyone in advance: whatever you ask him, he'll refuse to answer. He'll dodge, he'll play dumb, he'll pull out the irony — anything to avoid actually committing to a position."

"Well, you are a philosopher, Thrasymachus," I replied. "You know perfectly well that if you ask someone what numbers make twelve, but then say, 'Don't you dare answer six times two, or four times three, or three times four, or two times six — that sort of nonsense won't do for me!' — obviously nobody can answer your question. But what if the person said, 'Thrasymachus, what do you mean? If one of these answers you've banned happens to be the right one, am I supposed to give a wrong answer instead? Is that what you want?' How would you respond to that?"

"Oh, as if the two situations were anything alike!" he scoffed.

"Why shouldn't they be?" I replied. "And even if they're not perfectly alike, but only appear so to the person being asked — shouldn't he still give the answer he thinks is true, regardless of whether you or I forbid it?"

"So that's what you're going to do — give one of the answers I've banned?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if I did, once I've thought it through and one of them seems right."

"But what if I give you an answer about justice that's better than any of those?" he said. "What should happen to you then?"

"What should happen to me? What should happen to any ignorant person? Obviously, I should learn from the wise. That's what I'd deserve."

"How charmingly naive! But what about paying for the lesson?"

"I'll pay when I have the money," I said.

"But you do have money, Socrates!" Glaucon broke in. "And Thrasymachus, don't worry — we'll all chip in for Socrates."

"Right," said Thrasymachus, "and then Socrates will do what he always does: refuse to answer himself, wait for someone else to answer, and then tear their answer to pieces."

"My good man," I said, "how can anyone answer who admits he doesn't know and says so openly? And who, even if he has some half-formed thoughts of his own, has just been told by an authority like yourself not to voice them? The obvious move is for you to answer, since you claim to know what justice is and can explain it. Please, do us all a favor. I'd consider it a personal gift if you'd educate me, and I'm sure the rest of the company would be grateful too."

Glaucon and the others joined in my request. Thrasymachus was clearly dying to speak — he thought he had a brilliant answer and wanted to show it off. But first he pretended to insist that I should answer instead. Finally, he gave in and said, "Behold, the wisdom of Socrates! He won't teach anything himself. Instead he goes around learning from others and never even says thank you."

"That I learn from others," I replied, "is absolutely true. But that I'm ungrateful? That I completely deny. I don't have money, so I pay in praise — which is all I have. And you'll see soon enough how eager I am to praise anyone who speaks well. I expect you'll speak very well indeed."

"Then listen," he declared. "I say that justice is nothing other than the interest of the stronger. Well? Why aren't you praising me? Oh, of course — you won't."

"Give me a moment to understand you first," I said. "Justice, you say, is the interest of the stronger. Now what exactly do you mean by that, Thrasymachus? Surely you don't mean something like this: Polydamas the wrestler is stronger than us, and eating beef is in his interest because it builds his strength — therefore eating beef is also just and right for us, even though we're weaker?"

"That's disgusting, Socrates! You're deliberately twisting my words into the most damaging interpretation possible."

"Not at all, my good sir. I'm just trying to understand. I wish you'd be a little clearer."

"Well," he said, "you do know that different states have different forms of government — tyrannies, democracies, aristocracies?"

"Obviously."

"And in each state, the government is the ruling power?"

"Yes."

"And each type of government makes laws that serve its own interests. A democracy makes democratic laws. A tyranny makes tyrannical laws. An aristocracy makes aristocratic laws. And once they've made these laws, they declare to the people: 'This is justice — obeying our laws.' Anyone who breaks them gets punished as a lawbreaker and an unjust person. So that's what I mean: in every state, the principle of justice is the same — it's the interest of the established government. And since the government has the power, the only reasonable conclusion is that justice is everywhere the same thing: the interest of the stronger."

"Now I understand you," I said. "Whether you're right is what I need to figure out. But let me point out, Thrasymachus, that you've used the word 'interest' in your definition — the very word you told me I wasn't allowed to use. You've just added 'of the stronger.'"

"A trivial addition," he said.

"Maybe trivial, maybe not — we'll see. First we need to figure out if what you're saying is actually true. I agree that justice involves interest of some kind. But you add 'of the stronger,' and that's the part I need to examine. So let's proceed."

"Proceed."

"All right. You say it's just for subjects to obey their rulers?"

"I do."

"But are rulers infallible? Or do they sometimes make mistakes?"

"Of course they sometimes make mistakes."

"So when they make laws, sometimes they get it right and sometimes they get it wrong?"

"Sure."

"When they get it right, their laws serve their own interests. When they get it wrong, the laws go against their interests. You'd agree with that?"

"Yes."

"But their subjects are required to obey those laws — and that's what you call justice?"

"Yes."

"Then according to your own argument, justice isn't only obeying what serves the interest of the stronger — sometimes it's obeying what goes against their interest."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I'm just repeating what you said. Let's think about it. Haven't we agreed that rulers can be wrong about what's in their own interest? And also that obeying them is justice? Didn't we agree on both those points?"

"I suppose so."

"Then you've also agreed that justice sometimes goes against the interest of the rulers — the stronger. Because if justice means obeying the rulers' commands, and the rulers sometimes command things that hurt themselves, then — my wisest of men — how can you escape the conclusion that justice sometimes means the weaker are forced to do what injures the stronger?"

"Nothing could be clearer, Socrates," said Polemarchus.

"Sure — if you're going to be his cheerleader," said Cleitophon.

"He doesn't need a cheerleader," Polemarchus replied. "Thrasymachus admitted himself that rulers sometimes command things that aren't in their own interest, and that obeying those commands is justice."

"What Thrasymachus said," Cleitophon insisted, "is that doing what your rulers command is just."

"Yes, Cleitophon, but he also said justice is the interest of the stronger. And after admitting both of those things, he agreed that the stronger sometimes command things that hurt themselves. If both are true, then justice is the injury of the stronger just as much as the interest."

"But," said Cleitophon, "he meant the interest of the stronger is what the stronger thinks is his interest. That's what the weaker must do, and that's what he defined as justice."

"Those weren't his words," said Polemarchus.

"Never mind," I said. "If that's what Thrasymachus means now, let's go with it. Tell me, Thrasymachus — did you mean by justice what the stronger thinks is in his interest, whether it actually is or not?"

"Absolutely not!" he said. "Do you think I'd call someone 'the stronger' at the exact moment they're making a mistake?"

"Well, yes," I said. "I thought that's what you meant when you agreed that rulers aren't infallible."

"You argue like an informer, Socrates! When someone who's sick makes a mistake about his treatment, do you call him a doctor at the moment he makes that mistake? Or when someone makes an arithmetic error, do you call him a mathematician at that moment? Sure, we casually say 'the doctor made a mistake' or 'the mathematician miscalculated.' But strictly speaking, none of these experts make mistakes insofar as they truly are what we call them. They only err when their skill fails them — and at that point, they've stopped being experts. No craftsman, no sage, no ruler makes a mistake insofar as he is that thing. Everyone says 'the ruler erred,' and I was using that everyday way of speaking. But to be perfectly precise — since you love precision so much — the ruler, insofar as he truly is a ruler, never errs. And since he never errs, he always commands what's in his own interest. And the subject is required to carry out those commands. So, as I said from the start: justice is the interest of the stronger."

"Well, Thrasymachus! Do I really argue like an informer?"

"You certainly do," he said.

"You think I asked those questions deliberately to trip you up?"

"I know you did. But it won't work. You can't outwit me in debate, and you can't overpower me by brute force of argument."

"I wouldn't even try, my friend. But to prevent any misunderstanding between us going forward: when you talk about a ruler or a stronger person whose interest the weaker must serve — are you using 'ruler' in the popular, loose sense, or in the strict sense?"

"In the strictest possible sense," he said. "Now try to cheat and play the informer if you can! I'm asking no mercy. But you'll never be able to. Never."

"Do you really think I'm crazy enough to try to shave a lion?" I said.

"Well, you just tried, and it didn't go so well for you."

"Enough of these pleasantries," I said. "Let me ask you a real question. Take the physician in your strict sense — is he a healer of the sick, or a moneymaker?"

"A healer of the sick."

"And a captain — the true captain — is he a commander of sailors, or just another sailor?"

"A commander of sailors."

"The fact that he's on the ship doesn't make him a sailor. He's called a captain not because he sails, but because of his skill and his authority over the crew."

"True," he said.

"Now, every skill has an interest it serves?"

"Yes."

"And the whole point of a skill is to discover and provide for that interest?"

"That's the aim."

"And the interest of any skill is simply its own perfection — nothing else?"

"What do you mean?"

"Let me use an example. If you asked me whether the body is self-sufficient or has needs, I'd say: 'Obviously it has needs — it can get sick and need healing. That's why the art of medicine exists: to serve the body's interests.' Am I right?"

"Perfectly right."

"But does the art of medicine itself have any deficiency? Does any skill need some other skill to look after its interests, and that skill needs another, and so on forever? Or does each skill simply look after the interests of its subject matter? Because a skill, insofar as it's a genuine skill, is faultless and complete. Take the words in your precise sense and tell me: am I wrong?"

"You're right," he said.

"Then medicine doesn't serve the interests of medicine. It serves the interests of the body."

"True."

"And horsemanship doesn't serve the interests of horsemanship — it serves the interests of the horse. No skill serves itself, because it has no needs of its own. It serves only its subject."

"So it seems," he said.

"But surely, Thrasymachus, every skill has authority over its subject?"

He agreed to this, though grudgingly.

"Then no skill considers or commands what's in the interest of the stronger. It considers only the interest of the weaker — its subject."

He tried to dispute this too, but eventually gave in.

"Then," I continued, "no doctor, insofar as he's a doctor, considers his own good. He considers the good of his patient. Because we've agreed that the true physician is a ruler over human bodies, not a moneymaker."

"We have."

"And the captain, strictly speaking, is a ruler of sailors, not just a fellow sailor."

"Agreed."

"And such a captain will make decisions for the benefit of his sailors — not for his own benefit."

He gave a reluctant "yes."

"Then, Thrasymachus, no ruler of any kind, insofar as he is a ruler, considers or pursues his own interest. He always considers the interest of his subject — the person or thing under his care. Everything he says and does is directed toward that."

When we reached this point and everyone could see that his definition of justice had been demolished, Thrasymachus — instead of responding to the argument — said: "Tell me, Socrates, do you have a nanny?"

"What? Why would you ask something like that instead of answering?"

"Because she obviously lets you walk around with a runny nose and never wipes it. She hasn't even taught you the difference between a shepherd and a sheep."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you actually think that shepherds and cattle herders look after their animals for the animals' benefit and not for their own profit or their master's. You also imagine that real rulers — the ones who govern states — think about their subjects the way you'd think about sheep. That they aren't, day and night, studying how to benefit themselves. You're so completely lost when it comes to justice and injustice that you don't even realize that justice is actually someone else's good — the interest of the ruler and the stronger — and a loss for the person who obeys and serves. Injustice is the opposite: it rules over the truly simple and just. The unjust person is the stronger, and his subjects serve his happiness, not their own.

"Consider this, you impossibly naive Socrates. The just person always comes out behind the unjust. First, in private business: whenever they're partners, you'll find that when the partnership breaks up, the unjust person walks away with more and the just person with less. Second, in dealings with the state: when taxes come due, the just person pays more on the same income and the unjust person pays less. When there's something to be received, the just person gets nothing and the unjust person gets plenty. Or look at what happens when they hold office: the just person neglects his own affairs and takes other losses, and gains nothing from public service because he won't serve his friends in underhanded ways. His friends and relatives end up resenting him for that. Everything is reversed for the unjust person.

"I'm talking about injustice on the grand scale — that's where the advantage is clearest. And the clearest case of all is tyranny. A tyrant uses fraud and force to seize everything at once — sacred and profane, private and public. If you got caught doing any one of these crimes individually, you'd be punished and disgraced. People who commit these acts piecemeal are called temple robbers, kidnappers, burglars, swindlers, and thieves. But when a man not only steals the citizens' property but enslaves the citizens themselves? Instead of those ugly names, he gets called happy and blessed — not just by his own people, but by everyone who hears about it. The reason people condemn injustice isn't that they're afraid of committing it. They're afraid of being victims of it.

"So as I've shown, Socrates: injustice, when practiced on a large enough scale, has more strength, more freedom, and more power than justice. And as I said from the beginning, justice is the interest of the stronger, while injustice is what actually profits a man."

Having dumped this flood of words into our ears like a bathhouse attendant emptying a bucket of water over our heads, Thrasymachus made as if to leave. But the others wouldn't let him. They insisted he stay and defend what he'd said. I added my own plea.

"Thrasymachus, you remarkable man, you can't just toss a speech like that at us and walk away! Don't you owe us an explanation — or rather, don't you need to figure out whether it's even true? This is no small question we're trying to settle. We're asking how a person should live their entire life."

"Did I say otherwise?" he replied.

"You seem not to care at all about us, Thrasymachus — whether we live better or worse by not knowing what you claim to know is a matter of complete indifference to you. Come on, friend, don't keep it to yourself. There are a lot of us here, and we'll make it worth your while. I'll tell you frankly — I'm not convinced. I don't believe that injustice is more profitable than justice, even if you give it free rein to do whatever it wants. Suppose there is an unjust man who has the power to be unjust, through force or fraud — that still doesn't persuade me that injustice is the better deal. And there may be others here who feel the same way. So if we're wrong, convince us. Show us we're mistaken to prefer justice over injustice."

"And how am I supposed to convince you?" he said. "If what I've already said doesn't do it, what more can I do? Should I physically force the proof into your brain?"

"By Zeus, please don't! But at least be consistent. Or if you change your position, change it openly and don't try to slip it past us. Look what's happening here, Thrasymachus — let's go back to what you said before. You started by defining the true physician in the strict sense. But when you got to the shepherd, you dropped that precision. You said the shepherd fattens the flock not for the sheep's benefit, but like someone getting ready for a dinner party — or like a businessman raising stock for sale. But the art of shepherding, strictly speaking, cares only about the good of the sheep. The shepherd has only to provide what's best for them, since the skill's own perfection is already guaranteed as long as it does its job. And that's what I was saying about rulers too. The art of ruling, whether in public or private life, can only aim at the good of the subjects. You, on the other hand, seem to think that rulers actually enjoy being in power."

"I don't just think it," he said. "I know it."

"Then answer me this: why is it that in the case of lesser offices, nobody takes them willingly without pay? Isn't it because they know that governing benefits the subjects, not the governor? And let me ask you: aren't different skills different precisely because they have different functions? My distinguished friend, please say what you actually think, so we can make some progress."

"Yes, that's what makes them different," he said.

"And each skill gives us a particular good, not just any good? Medicine gives health, navigation gives safety at sea, and so on?"

"Yes."

"And the art of earning wages gives us pay. But we don't mix it up with other skills. You wouldn't say that navigation is the art of medicine just because a captain's health might improve on a sea voyage, would you?"

"Of course not."

"And if someone gets better while earning wages, you wouldn't call earning wages an art of medicine?"

"No."

"And you wouldn't call medicine the art of earning wages just because a doctor charges fees?"

"No."

"We've agreed that each skill's benefit is specific to that skill?"

"Yes."

"Then if all skilled practitioners share some common benefit, that benefit must come from some additional thing they all have in common?"

"It seems so."

"And that common benefit — the pay they receive — comes from their additional use of the wage-earning art, not from their own particular skill."

He agreed, reluctantly.

"So the pay doesn't come from the individual skills themselves. Medicine produces health. Building produces buildings. The wage-earning art — a separate art — produces pay. Each skill benefits its own subject. But would the practitioner get any benefit from practicing his skill if he weren't also paid?"

"I suppose not."

"But does he fail to benefit his subject when he works for free?"

"No — he still provides the benefit."

"Then here it is, Thrasymachus. No skill or form of government exists for its own benefit. As we said before, every skill governs and provides for the interests of its subjects — the weaker, not the stronger. It looks after the good of those under its care, not the good of the ruler.

"And that's why, my friend, no one willingly chooses to govern. No one willingly takes on the burden of straightening out other people's messes — not without compensation. Because a true practitioner of any art never acts in his own interest when he's doing his work. He always acts in the interest of his subject. That's why rulers need to be paid, in one of three ways: money, honor, or a penalty for refusing."

"What do you mean, Socrates?" asked Glaucon. "I understand money and honor. But what's this about a penalty being a form of payment?"

"You don't understand the payment that motivates the best people to rule? You do know that loving money and loving honor are both considered disgraceful?"

"Yes."

"That's why good people won't rule for money — they don't want to be called mercenaries for openly demanding payment, and they don't want to be called thieves for secretly enriching themselves from public funds. And they won't rule for honor either, because they're not ambitious. So there has to be a penalty to compel them. That's probably why seeking office eagerly, instead of waiting to be forced into it, has always been seen as shameful.

"And the greatest penalty for refusing to rule? Being governed by someone worse than yourself. That's what drives good people to take office — not because they want to, not because they expect to enjoy it, but because they can't find anyone better, or even equally good, to hand the job to. Imagine a city made up entirely of good people. Everyone would compete to avoid ruling, the way they now compete to get power. And that would prove once and for all that a true ruler doesn't naturally look out for his own interest — he looks out for his subjects' interest. Everyone who understood this would rather receive benefits than take on the trouble of governing.

"So I completely reject Thrasymachus' claim that justice is the interest of the stronger. But we can come back to that. What strikes me as much more important is his other claim: that the life of the unjust person is better than the life of the just person. Which is it, Glaucon? Which life would you choose?"

"I'd say the just life is more advantageous," he answered.

"Did you hear all the benefits of the unjust life that Thrasymachus listed?"

"I heard him. But he hasn't convinced me."

"Then should we try to show him he's wrong, if we can?"

"Absolutely."

"Well," I said, "if we match his speech with a speech of our own, listing all the advantages of being just, and then he responds, and then we respond, we'll end up having to count and measure the goods on each side. We'd need judges to decide. But if we proceed the way we've been going — making arguments, finding points of agreement — we can be our own judges and our own advocates at the same time."

"Agreed," he said.

"Which method do you prefer?"

"The second."

"All right, Thrasymachus," I said, "let's start from the top. You say perfect injustice is more profitable than perfect justice?"

"I do. And I've given my reasons."

"Then what do you think about them as character traits? Would you call one a virtue and the other a vice?"

"Let me guess — you'd call justice virtue and injustice vice?"

"What a charming idea! How likely, given that I've just argued injustice is profitable and justice isn't."

"Then what would you say?"

"The opposite."

"You'd call justice a vice?"

"No — I'd call it noble foolishness."

"And injustice — is that malice?"

"No. I'd call it good judgment."

"So in your view, unjust people are wise and good?"

"The ones who can pull off injustice on the grand scale, yes — the ones with the power to conquer cities and nations. Though you probably think I'm talking about pickpockets. Even petty theft has its advantages if you don't get caught. But that's small potatoes compared to what I'm describing."

"I understand what you mean, Thrasymachus. But I'm amazed that you'd rank injustice alongside wisdom and virtue, and justice with their opposites."

"That's exactly what I'm doing."

"Now that's a much tougher position. If you'd just said injustice is profitable while admitting it's still a vice — the way most people would — I could respond with conventional arguments. But since you're bold enough to claim that injustice is actually virtuous and wise, I expect you'll insist on it."

"You've guessed exactly right."

"Then I shouldn't hold back from examining this, as long as I believe you're being sincere. And I think you are, Thrasymachus — I think you really mean it and aren't just toying with us."

"Whether I'm serious or not, what difference does it make to you? Just deal with the argument."

"Fair enough. Then answer me this: does the just person try to gain an advantage over other just people?"

"Of course not — otherwise he wouldn't be the delightful simpleton he is."

"Would he try to gain an advantage in actions over what's just?"

"No."

"But what about the unjust? Would the just person claim he deserves more than the unjust person, or not?"

"He'd think it was fair, and he'd try — but he wouldn't succeed."

"That's not what I'm asking. My question is: does the just person want and claim more than the unjust, but not more than the just?"

"Yes, that's right."

"And what about the unjust person? Does he claim more than the just and try to get more than what's just?"

"Of course — he claims more than everyone."

"And the unjust person will also try to outdo other unjust people, to get more than all?"

"Yes."

"Let me put it this way. The just person doesn't try to get more than his like — only more than his unlike. The unjust person tries to get more than both his like and his unlike."

"Perfectly stated."

"And you say the unjust is wise and good, and the just is neither?"

"Right again."

"And the unjust resembles the wise and good, while the just resembles their opposites?"

"Naturally. Each person resembles what they're like."

"Fine. Now let me take a different approach. You'd agree that one person can be a musician and another not?"

"Yes."

"Which is wise and which is foolish?"

"The musician is wise, the non-musician foolish."

"And good insofar as he's wise, bad insofar as he's foolish?"

"Yes."

"Same for a doctor?"

"Same."

"Now, do you think a musician tuning a lyre would try to outdo or surpass another musician in how the strings are tightened?"

"No."

"But he would claim to surpass a non-musician?"

"Obviously."

"And a doctor prescribing treatment — would he try to outdo another doctor, or the practice of medicine?"

"No."

"But he would claim to surpass a non-doctor?"

"Yes."

"Think about this more broadly. Does any person with knowledge ever want to claim more than another person with knowledge, in the same domain? Wouldn't he say and do the same as any other knowledgeable person in the same situation?"

"I suppose that has to be right."

"And what about the ignorant person? Wouldn't he try to outdo both the knowledgeable and the ignorant?"

"Probably."

"And the knowledgeable person is wise?"

"Yes."

"And the wise is good?"

"Yes."

"So the wise and good person doesn't try to gain more than his like — only more than his unlike and opposite."

"It seems so."

"While the bad and ignorant person tries to gain more than both."

"Apparently."

"But Thrasymachus — didn't we agree that the unjust person tries to outdo both his like and his unlike?"

"We did."

"And the just person doesn't try to outdo his like, only his unlike?"

"Yes."

"Then the just person resembles the wise and good, and the unjust resembles the evil and ignorant."

"That seems to follow."

"And we agreed that each person is like what they resemble."

"We did."

"Then the just person has turned out to be wise and good, and the unjust person evil and ignorant."

Thrasymachus conceded all of this, but not the way I'm telling it now — smoothly and easily. He resisted every step. He was sweating profusely — it was a hot summer day — and the perspiration was streaming off him. And then I saw something I'd never seen before: Thrasymachus blushing.

Now that we'd established that justice is virtue and wisdom, and injustice is vice and ignorance, I moved to the next point.

"All right," I said, "that's settled. But weren't we also saying that injustice has power and strength? Do you remember, Thrasymachus?"

"I remember," he said. "But I don't accept what you've just argued, and I have plenty to say about it. If I did speak up, though, you'd accuse me of making speeches. So either let me say my piece, or if you'd rather keep asking questions, go ahead. I'll say 'very good,' the way people humor old women telling stories, and I'll nod 'yes' and 'no.'"

"Not if it goes against what you really think."

"Fine — I'll humor you, since you won't let me speak. What more do you want?"

"Nothing more. If that's how you want to do it, I'll ask and you'll answer."

"Go ahead."

"Then let me repeat my earlier question so we can examine the relationship between justice and injustice properly. It was claimed that injustice is stronger and more powerful than justice. But now that we've identified justice with wisdom and virtue, it's easy to show that justice is also stronger — since injustice is ignorance. Nobody could dispute that now.

"But I want to look at it from another angle, Thrasymachus. You'd agree that a state can be unjust? That it might try to enslave other states, or might already have enslaved them and hold many under its control?"

"Certainly," he said. "And the most perfectly unjust state would be the best at it."

"I know that's your view. But here's my question: can this conquering power exist without justice, or only with it?"

"If you're right that justice is wisdom, then only with justice. But if I'm right, then without it."

"I'm delighted, Thrasymachus, that you're actually engaging with the argument now — not just nodding yes and no."

"It's to humor you," he said.

"You're very kind. Now humor me a little more. Do you think a state, or an army, or a band of robbers, or a gang of thieves — or any group of people working toward an evil goal — could accomplish anything if they spent their time wronging each other?"

"Obviously not."

"But if they didn't wrong each other, they'd do better?"

"Certainly."

"Because injustice produces division, hatred, and infighting, while justice produces harmony and friendship. Isn't that right?"

"Let's say it is — I don't want to argue with you."

"How generous! But consider: if injustice produces hatred wherever it appears — among slaves, among free citizens, among anyone — won't it make them hate each other and fight, making them incapable of working together?"

"Yes."

"What if it arises between just two people? Won't they quarrel and become enemies — to each other and to just people?"

"They will."

"And what about a single individual? Does injustice lose its power when it's inside just one person?"

"Let's say it keeps its power."

"Then isn't the nature of injustice this: wherever it takes root — in a city, an army, a family, or any group — it first makes that body incapable of unified action, because it creates internal conflict and division. It makes the body its own enemy, and the enemy of everything that opposes it and of everything just. Isn't that true?"

"Yes."

"And in a single person, injustice does the same thing. It makes him incapable of action because he's at war with himself. And it makes him an enemy to himself and to just people. Right?"

"Yes."

"And surely, my friend, the gods are just?"

"Let's say they are."

"Then the unjust person will be an enemy of the gods, and the just person will be their friend."

"Go ahead and feast on your argument," he said. "I won't oppose you, or I'll upset the company."

"Then keep answering, and let me finish the meal. We've already shown that just people are wiser, better, and more capable of action, while unjust people can't even work together. And when we talk about unjust people acting together effectively, that's not strictly true either. If they were completely unjust, they'd have turned on each other long ago. There must have been some justice in them that kept them from destroying each other along with their victims. They were only half-villains. If they'd been whole villains — truly and completely unjust — they'd have been utterly incapable of accomplishing anything. That's the truth of the matter, not what you said at first.

"But whether the just also live better and happier lives than the unjust — that's another question we still need to examine. I think they do, based on what we've argued. But this isn't a trivial question. The stakes are enormous. We're talking about nothing less than how to live."

"Then proceed."

"I will. Tell me: would you say a horse has a function?"

"Yes."

"And the function of a horse, or anything else, is the thing that only it can do, or that it does better than anything else?"

"I don't follow."

"Let me explain. Can you see with anything other than your eyes?"

"No."

"Or hear with anything other than your ears?"

"No."

"Then we'd rightly call seeing and hearing the functions of those organs?"

"Yes."

"Now, you could cut a vine branch with a dagger or a chisel or plenty of other tools?"

"Sure."

"But nothing works as well as a pruning hook made for the job?"

"True."

"So we'd call that the function of the pruning hook?"

"Yes."

"Now you can see what I meant when I asked whether the function of a thing is what only it can do, or what it does better than anything else."

"I understand, and I agree."

"Good. Now, everything that has a function also has a corresponding excellence — the quality that lets it perform that function well. The eye has a function?"

"Yes."

"And an excellence?"

"Yes."

"The ear has a function?"

"Yes."

"And an excellence?"

"Yes."

"And the same for everything else?"

"Yes."

"Could the eyes perform their function well if they lacked their proper excellence and had a defect instead?"

"How could they?" he said. "You mean if they were blind?"

"I mean whatever their excellence is — I haven't gotten to that yet. I'm just asking a general question: does anything perform its function well through its proper excellence, and perform it badly through its defect?"

"Certainly."

"So ears deprived of their excellence can't perform their function?"

"Right."

"And the same applies to everything else?"

"I'd agree."

"Then consider: doesn't the soul have a function that nothing else can perform? Functions like directing, commanding, deliberating, and so on? Can these be assigned to anything other than the soul?"

"Nothing else."

"And what about living — isn't that a function of the soul?"

"Absolutely."

"And the soul has an excellence too?"

"Yes."

"Can the soul fulfill its functions well if it's deprived of its proper excellence?"

"It cannot."

"Then a soul with a bad quality must rule and direct badly, and a soul with a good quality must do these things well?"

"Necessarily."

"And we've agreed that justice is the excellence of the soul, and injustice its defect?"

"We have."

"So the just soul and the just person will live well, and the unjust person will live badly?"

"That's what your argument proves," he said.

"And the person who lives well is blessed and happy, while the person who lives badly is the opposite?"

"Obviously."

"Then the just person is happy, and the unjust person is miserable?"

"So be it."

"But being miserable isn't profitable — being happy is."

"Obviously."

"Then, my blessed Thrasymachus, injustice can never be more profitable than justice."

"Let this be your entertainment at the festival, Socrates," he said.

"And I have you to thank for it," I replied, "now that you've stopped snarling at me and become so pleasant. But I haven't been well entertained, and that's my own fault, not yours. I've been like a glutton at a banquet, snatching a taste of every dish as it comes out without properly enjoying any of them. Before we settled what justice actually is, I abandoned that question and rushed into whether justice is a virtue or a vice. Then when a new question came up — whether injustice is more profitable than justice — I couldn't resist chasing that one too. The result of this whole discussion is that I know nothing. Because as long as I don't know what justice is, I can hardly know whether it's a virtue or not, and I certainly can't know whether the just person is happy or unhappy.

Republic — Book II

I thought those words ended the discussion. But as it turned out, they were only the beginning. Glaucon — who's always the most combative person in any room — wasn't satisfied with Thrasymachus backing down. He wanted the fight to continue. So he turned to me.

"Socrates, do you actually want to convince us that being just is always better than being unjust? Or do you just want to seem like you've convinced us?"

I'd genuinely like to convince you, I replied — if I could.

"Well, you certainly haven't managed it. Let me ask you something. How would you categorize different kinds of good things? Aren't there some things we value purely for their own sake, regardless of consequences? Simple pleasures and enjoyments that make us happy in the moment, even if nothing comes from them?"

I agree there's a category like that, I said.

"And isn't there a second category — things like knowledge, sight, and health — that we value both for themselves and for what they produce?"

Certainly, I said.

"And wouldn't you recognize a third category too — things like physical training, medical treatment, and the various ways of making money? These things do us good, but we find them unpleasant. Nobody would choose them for their own sake. We only put up with them for the rewards and results they bring."

Yes, I said, there's that third category too. But why are you asking?

"Because I want to know which category you'd put justice in."

The highest one, I replied — among those goods that anyone who wants to be truly happy would value both for their own sake and for what they produce.

"That's not what most people think. Most people would put justice in the unpleasant category — the kind of thing you endure for the sake of your reputation and the rewards it brings, but that's inherently disagreeable and best avoided if you can get away with it."

I know that's how they think, I said. That's exactly the position Thrasymachus was pushing a moment ago, when he attacked justice and praised injustice. But I'm too thick-headed to be convinced by him.

"I want you to hear me out," Glaucon said, "and then we'll see whether we agree. Thrasymachus gave up too easily, as if you'd charmed him like a snake. But to my mind, the real nature of justice and injustice still hasn't been made clear. I want to set aside their rewards and consequences. I want to know what justice and injustice are in themselves — how they work inside the soul.

"So here's what I'll do, if you're willing. First, I'll lay out the common view of what justice is and where it comes from. Second, I'll show that everyone who practices justice does it reluctantly — out of necessity, not because it's actually good. And third, I'll argue that this attitude makes perfect sense, because the unjust person's life really is far better than the just person's — at least, that's what people say. Now, Socrates, I don't actually believe this myself. But I'm genuinely confused. My ears are ringing with arguments from Thrasymachus and countless others, and I've never once heard anyone defend justice in a way that truly satisfies me — defend it on its own terms, for what it is in itself. That's what I want to hear from you. So I'm going to argue the case for injustice as powerfully as I can, and the way I argue will show you exactly how I want to hear you argue back — praising justice and tearing injustice apart. What do you say? Will you go along with this?"

There's nothing I'd rather discuss, I said. What topic would a sensible person want to return to more often than this one?

"Wonderful," he said. "Then let me start, as I proposed, with the common view of what justice is and where it comes from.

"Here's what people say. Doing injustice is, by nature, a good thing. Suffering injustice is bad. But the pain of suffering injustice outweighs the pleasure of doing it. So after people have had enough experience of both — doing wrong and having wrong done to them — those who can't reliably avoid one while getting away with the other decide it's better to make a deal. They agree among themselves: nobody does injustice, and nobody suffers it. That's where laws and social contracts come from. Whatever the law commands, they call 'lawful' and 'just.'

"And that, they say, is the origin and nature of justice. It's a compromise — a middle ground between the best possible outcome, which is doing injustice and getting away with it, and the worst possible outcome, which is suffering injustice with no way to fight back. Justice sits in the middle. People don't embrace it because it's actually good. They tolerate it because they're not strong enough to get away with injustice. Any real man — anyone truly worthy of the name — would never agree to such a deal if he had the power to do whatever he wanted. He'd be insane to submit to it. That's the standard account, Socrates, of what justice is and where it comes from.

"Now, to show that people who practice justice do it only because they lack the power to be unjust, let's try a thought experiment. Imagine we give both the just person and the unjust person complete freedom to do whatever they want. Then let's follow them and see where their desires lead. We'll catch the just person red-handed, heading down the exact same road as the unjust person — following self-interest, which every creature naturally pursues as a good. It's only the force of law that drags people off this path and onto the road of justice.

"The kind of freedom I'm talking about would be something like the power that Gyges' ancestor supposedly had — Gyges, the forefather of Croesus the Lydian. According to the story, he was a shepherd working for the king of Lydia. One day there was a massive storm, and an earthquake ripped open the ground right where he was tending his flock. Amazed, he climbed down into the opening. Inside, among other wonders, he found a huge hollow bronze horse with doors in its side. He crouched down and peered in, and there inside was a dead body — larger than any human — wearing nothing but a gold ring on one finger. He pulled off the ring and climbed back out.

"Now, the shepherds had a regular meeting where they'd put together their monthly report for the king about the flocks. Gyges showed up at this meeting wearing the ring. While he was sitting among the others, he happened to turn the setting of the ring inward, toward his palm. Instantly, he became invisible. The other shepherds started talking about him as if he'd left the room. He was stunned. He touched the ring again and turned the setting outward — and reappeared. He tested it several times, and every time he got the same result: turn the setting inward, invisible; turn it outward, visible.

"Once he was sure of its power, he arranged to be chosen as one of the messengers sent to report to the king. When he arrived at the palace, he seduced the queen. With her help, he conspired against the king, murdered him, and seized the throne.

"Now imagine there were two such rings. Give one to the just person and one to the unjust person. No one on earth has an iron will strong enough to stay just under those circumstances. No one would keep their hands off other people's property when they could walk into any shop and take whatever they wanted. No one would resist walking into people's houses and sleeping with whoever they pleased, or killing anyone who got in their way, or freeing any prisoner they chose. With that ring, a person could live like a god among mortals.

"And here's the point: the just person would act exactly like the unjust one. They'd both end up doing the same things. This is powerful proof that nobody is just by choice — only by compulsion. Justice isn't truly good for the individual. Whenever people think they can get away with injustice, they're unjust. Deep down, everyone believes that injustice pays far better than justice. And anyone who argues the way I've been arguing would say they're right. Because think about it: if someone had this power of invisibility and never did a single wrong thing — never took what wasn't his — everyone who knew about it would think he was the most pathetic fool alive. They'd praise him to each other's faces, sure — keeping up appearances out of fear that they'd be victimized themselves. But privately? They'd think he was an idiot. So much for that.

"Now, to really judge the lives of the just and unjust persons, we need to isolate them completely. Here's how. Let the unjust person be perfectly unjust, and the just person be perfectly just. Strip away everything except their justice or injustice. Give each one the full equipment for their respective way of life.

"First, the unjust person. He should be like a master craftsman — like a brilliant pilot or surgeon who knows exactly what's possible and what isn't, who attempts only what he can pull off, and who recovers smoothly from any slip. The perfectly unjust person must commit his injustice flawlessly and never get caught. Getting caught means you're a failure — an amateur. The highest achievement of injustice is to have a spotless reputation while being completely corrupt. So give our perfectly unjust man total perfection. Let him commit the worst crimes while maintaining the greatest reputation for virtue. If he stumbles, let him recover. Let him be eloquent enough to talk his way out of anything, brave and strong enough to use force when needed, and rich and well-connected enough to buy whatever cooperation is required.

"Now place the just person beside him. A man of complete simplicity and nobility who wants, as Aeschylus says, not to seem good but to be good. Strip away the 'seeming.' Because if he seems just, he'll receive honors and rewards, and then we won't know if he's being just for the sake of justice itself or for the honors and rewards. So strip him bare. Dress him in nothing but his justice. Make him the opposite of the other man in every way. Let him be the best person alive — and let everyone think he's the worst. Let him be tested to the limit. Let him go through his entire life being just while seeming unjust. When both men have reached the absolute extreme — one of justice, one of injustice — then let's judge which of them is happier."

Good heavens, my dear Glaucon! I said. You're polishing these two characters for judgment like a sculptor buffing statues — first one, then the other.

"I'm doing my best," he said. "And now that we know what they look like, it's not hard to predict what kind of life awaits each one. Let me describe it — and if the description sounds harsh, Socrates, remember that these aren't my words. I'm putting them in the mouths of those who praise injustice over justice.

"Here's what they'll say: The just man — the one who's just but seems unjust — will be whipped, tortured, and chained. They'll burn out his eyes. And finally, after suffering every imaginable torment, they'll impale him. Then he'll understand that you should want to seem just, not actually be just.

"Those lines from Aeschylus apply far better to the unjust man than the just one. Because the unjust man deals in reality, not appearances. He doesn't want to seem unjust — he wants to be unjust. His mind, as the poet says:

"'Has soil deep and fertile, Out of which spring his prudent counsels.'

"First, because he's thought to be just, he holds power in the city. He can marry whoever he wants and give his children in marriage to whomever he pleases. He can do business with anyone, always to his own advantage, because he has no scruples about cheating. In every contest — public or private — he comes out on top. He grows rich at everyone else's expense. Out of his gains he can help his friends and crush his enemies. He can offer lavish sacrifices and magnificent gifts to the gods. He can honor the gods — or any person he chooses — far more generously than any just man can afford to. And so, naturally, the gods are more likely to favor him than the just man.

"That's how the argument goes, Socrates. Both gods and humans conspire to give the unjust man a better life than the just one."

I was about to respond to Glaucon when his brother Adeimantus jumped in.

"Socrates, you don't think that's the whole argument, do you?"

What else is there? I asked.

"The most important point hasn't even been mentioned," he said.

Well, I said, as the proverb goes, "let brother help brother." If Glaucon's missed anything, back him up. Although I have to confess, he's already said more than enough to knock me flat and leave me unable to defend justice.

"Nonsense," Adeimantus said. "But let me add something. There's another side to this argument about how people praise and condemn justice — one that Glaucon left out, and it's essential for making his point clear.

"Think about what parents and teachers always tell their children: 'Be just! Be good!' But why? Not for the sake of justice itself — for the sake of reputation. They want their children to seem just so they can land the political offices, the good marriages, and all the advantages Glaucon described. These people make even more of appearances than the others. They pile on the good opinion of the gods too, promising a shower of blessings that heaven supposedly rains down on the righteous. And they cite the poets as authorities. Hesiod says the gods make the oaks of the just:

"'Bear acorns at their summit, and bees in the middle; And the sheep bow down with the weight of their fleeces.'

"And Homer has a similar line about a righteous king:

"'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 heavy with fruit, And his sheep never fail to bear, and the sea gives him fish.'

"Musaeus and his son go even further in the rewards they promise the just. They take the righteous down to the underworld, seat them on couches at an eternal feast, and give them garlands on their heads — basically promising that the ultimate reward for virtue is getting to be drunk forever. Others extend the rewards even further, saying the descendants of the faithful and just will prosper for three or four generations. That's how they praise justice.

"As for the wicked — they bury them in mud in Hades and make them carry water in sieves. While they're still alive, they bring them to ruin and pile on all those punishments Glaucon described for the just man who seems unjust. That's all their imagination can produce — nothing else. That's their whole system: praise the one, condemn the other.

"But there's another angle, Socrates, that goes beyond the poets and shows up in ordinary conversation too. Everyone — absolutely everyone — agrees that justice and virtue are noble but painful and demanding, while the pleasures of vice are easy to come by and only condemned by law and social convention. People say dishonesty is usually more profitable than honesty. They're perfectly happy to call wicked men blessed and shower them with honors — in public and private — as long as they're rich and powerful. Meanwhile, they look down on anyone who's weak and poor, even while admitting these people are actually better human beings.

"But the strangest part of all is what they say about the gods. They claim the gods heap suffering and misery on many good people and reward the wicked with prosperity. Wandering priests and prophets show up at rich men's doors claiming they have powers granted by the gods — the ability to atone for any sin through rituals and festivals, to curse any enemy (just or unjust) with cheap spells and incantations. They say they can 'bind heaven' to do their bidding. And they cite the poets as proof. They quote Hesiod on how easy vice is:

"'Vice may be had in abundance without trouble; the way is smooth and her dwelling-place is near. But before virtue the gods have set toil.'

"And they quote Homer as evidence that the gods can be bribed:

"'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 smell of burning fat, when they have sinned and transgressed.'

"These prophets produce heaps of books attributed to Musaeus and Orpheus — supposedly descendants of the Moon and the Muses — and use them to convince not just individuals but entire cities that sins can be washed away through rituals and entertainments, whether you're alive or dead. These rituals for the dead they call 'mysteries,' and they promise to free us from punishment in the afterlife. But if we neglect them? Who knows what horrors await us.

"Now," Adeimantus continued, "consider this, my dear Socrates. When young people hear all of this — everything that gods and humans supposedly say about virtue and vice — how does it affect them? The smart ones especially — the ones who, like bees flitting from flower to flower, draw conclusions from everything they hear about how to live the best possible life. A young person like that would probably 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?'

"Because everything he's heard says this: if I'm actually just but don't seem just, there's no profit in it — only pain and loss. But if I'm unjust while maintaining a reputation for justice, the good life is mine. So since 'appearance tyrannizes over truth and is lord of happiness,' as the wise men say, I should devote myself entirely to appearances. I'll paint a picture of virtue around myself — a beautiful facade, a front door of respectability. But behind it I'll keep the cunning, crafty fox, as Archilochus, that wisest of poets, recommends.

"'But wait,' someone objects, 'it's hard to hide wickedness forever.' True, I'd reply — but nothing great is easy. Still, if we want to be happy, this is the path. For concealment, we'll set up secret societies and political clubs. There are teachers of persuasion who can train us to win over courts and assemblies. So partly through persuasion and partly through force, we'll take what we want and never pay the price.

"'But the gods can't be fooled, and they can't be forced.' Well — what if there are no gods? What if they don't care about humans? Then why worry about hiding anything? And even if they do exist and do care, everything we know about them comes from tradition and the poets — the very same poets who say the gods can be swayed by sacrifices and offerings. So let's be consistent and believe both claims, or neither. If the poets are right, then we should be unjust and simply offer sacrifices from our ill-gotten gains. If we're just, we might avoid divine punishment but we'll miss out on the profits of injustice. If we're unjust, we get to keep the profits, and as long as we pray hard enough after sinning, the gods will forgive us.

"'But there's an afterlife where we or our descendants will pay for our crimes.' Yes, my friend, but the mysteries and the atoning gods have great power — or so the mightiest cities tell us, backed up by the children of the gods themselves, their poets and prophets.

"So on what grounds, Socrates, should we choose justice over the worst kind of injustice? If we combine injustice with a convincing appearance of respectability, we'll thrive — with gods and men alike, in this life and the next. That's what every authority, human and divine, tells us.

"Knowing all this, Socrates, how can any person of intelligence or talent or wealth or power bring himself to honor justice — or even keep a straight face when someone else praises it? And if there is someone who can actually refute what I've said and prove that justice is best — well, that person won't be angry at the unjust. He'll be forgiving, because he knows that apart from those rare individuals who are born with a divine hatred of injustice, or who've actually learned the truth, nobody is just by choice. People condemn injustice only because they're too old, too weak, or too cowardly to practice it themselves. And you can prove this easily enough: give any of them the power to be unjust, and they will be — as fast as they can.

"The root of all this, Socrates, goes back to the very beginning of our argument, when my brother and I told you how astonished we are that none of justice's so-called defenders — from the ancient heroes down to the thinkers of our own time — has ever praised justice or condemned injustice on its own terms. Nobody has ever adequately described, in verse or prose, what justice and injustice actually do inside the soul — invisible to every human and divine eye. Nobody has shown that justice is the greatest good a soul can possess and injustice the greatest evil. If everyone had always said that — if we'd been taught from childhood that justice is what truly matters — we wouldn't need to guard against each other's wrongdoing. Everyone would be their own watchman, afraid of harboring injustice in their soul the way you'd be afraid of harboring a deadly disease.

"I'm sure Thrasymachus and others would say what I've been saying — and say it even more forcefully. They'd mangle the true nature of justice and injustice beyond recognition. But I'm speaking this forcefully, Socrates — and I'll be frank about why — because I want to hear you argue the opposite side. I don't just want you to prove that justice is superior to injustice. I want you to show what each of them does to the person who has it — what makes one a good thing and the other an evil — regardless of whether gods or humans can see it.

"And please, as Glaucon asked, strip away the reputations. Unless you remove each man's true reputation and replace it with the opposite, we'll say you're not really praising justice — just praising the appearance of it. We'll say you're secretly agreeing with Thrasymachus that justice is really the interest of the stronger, that it's someone else's good, and that injustice is what actually benefits the individual while harming the weaker.

"You've already said that justice belongs to the highest class of goods — those valued both for their results and, even more, for their own sake. Things like sight, hearing, knowledge, health — genuine goods, not merely conventional ones. So what I'm asking you to do is praise justice in exactly that way. Show us the essential good and evil that justice and injustice work in the people who possess them. Let other people praise the rewards and reputations. I can tolerate that sort of argument from them. But from you, Socrates — someone who's spent his whole life thinking about this question — I expect something better, unless you tell me otherwise.

"So prove to us not only that justice is better than injustice, but show what each of them does to its possessor — for good or evil — whether gods and men can see it or not."

I'd always admired the intelligence of Glaucon and Adeimantus, but hearing all this, I was truly delighted.

"Sons of an illustrious father," I said. "That admirer of Glaucon's put it well when he wrote those elegiac verses after you both distinguished yourselves at the battle of Megara:

"'Sons of Ariston, divine offspring of an illustrious hero.'

"That word 'divine' fits perfectly. There's something genuinely remarkable about being able to argue so powerfully for the superiority of injustice and still not be convinced by your own arguments. And I do believe you're not convinced — I can tell from your character. If I were judging only from your speeches, I'd be suspicious. But the more confident I am in your sincerity, the more I'm at a loss for what to say. I'm caught between two impossibilities. On one hand, I feel unequal to the task — and this is proven by the fact that my answer to Thrasymachus, which I thought proved justice's superiority, clearly didn't satisfy you. On the other hand, I can't refuse to help. I'd feel like a coward, standing by while justice is under attack and not lifting a finger to defend it. So I'd better do what I can."

Glaucon and the others begged me to keep going — to carry the investigation through to the end. They wanted the truth about justice and injustice: first, what each one actually is, and second, what advantages each one truly brings. I told them honestly that this would be an enormous undertaking, requiring sharp eyes.

"Since we're not exactly geniuses," I said, "let me suggest a method. Imagine someone with poor eyesight is asked to read tiny letters from far away. Then someone points out that the same letters exist somewhere else, written much larger. Wouldn't it be a stroke of luck to read the large letters first and then check whether the small ones are the same?"

"Absolutely," said Adeimantus. "But how does that apply to our question?"

I'll tell you, I said. Justice can be a quality of an individual, but it can also be a quality of an entire city. Right?

"True," he said.

And isn't a city bigger than an individual?

"It is."

Then justice in the larger thing should be larger and easier to see. So here's what I suggest: let's investigate justice first as it appears in a city, and then look for it in the individual — working from the larger to the smaller and comparing them.

"Excellent idea," he said.

And if we imagine a city being built from scratch, we should be able to watch justice — and injustice — come into being right along with it.

"I'd think so."

And once the city is complete, we'll have a better chance of finding what we're looking for?

"Much better."

But should we actually try to build one? I said. It's going to be a huge undertaking. Think about it.

"I've thought about it," said Adeimantus. "Go ahead."

All right. A city comes into existence, I said, because no one is self-sufficient. We all have many needs. Can you think of any other reason a city would be founded?

"No other reason."

So because we have many needs, and no single person can meet them all, we gather together — one person helping with this, another with that. When all these partners and helpers settle in one place, we call that settlement a city.

"True," he said.

And when they trade with each other, each person giving and receiving, they do it because they believe the exchange benefits them.

"Exactly."

Then let's build a city in our minds from the ground up, I said. And the true founder of any city is necessity — the mother of invention.

"Of course."

Now, the first and most essential need is food — the basic requirement of life and survival.

"Right."

The second is shelter, the third is clothing, and so on.

Now, how will our city meet these needs? We'll need at least one farmer, one builder, one weaver — and should we add a shoemaker? Maybe a few other people to provide for our physical needs?

"That works."

So the bare minimum for a city is four or five people.

Here's a question: should each person try to do everything for themselves? Should the farmer grow enough food for four people, spending four times the effort — and then also try to build his own house, make his own clothes, cobble his own shoes? Or is it better for each person to specialize?

Adeimantus thought each person should specialize and focus on producing one thing.

That's probably the better way, I said. And when you say that, it reminds me that we're not all alike. People have different natural talents suited to different kinds of work.

"Certainly."

And does a person do better work when they have many jobs, or just one?

"Just one."

And there's another point: work suffers when it's not done at the right time.

"True."

Because the work won't wait around for the worker to get to it. The worker has to follow the work and give it priority.

"He does."

So the conclusion is this: more things get produced, and the quality is better, and it's easier — when each person does the one thing they're naturally suited for, at the right time, without being distracted by other tasks.

"Absolutely."

That means we'll need more than four citizens. The farmer won't make his own plow or his other farming tools — not if they're going to be any good. Same with the builder and his tools. And the weaver and the shoemaker.

"True."

So carpenters, blacksmiths, and many other craftspeople will join our little city — which is already starting to grow.

And even when we add cowhands, shepherds, and other herders — so our farmers have oxen to plow with, our builders have draft animals, and our weavers and tanners have fleeces and hides — our city still won't be very big.

"That's true. But it won't be tiny either, with all these people in it."

Then there's the matter of location. It's practically impossible to find a place where nothing needs to be imported.

"Impossible."

So we'll need another class of people — traders who bring in whatever we need from other cities.

"We will."

But if our traders go empty-handed — with nothing the other city wants — they'll come home empty-handed too.

"Obviously."

So we need to produce not only enough for ourselves but a surplus — in the right quantity and quality — to trade with our suppliers.

"We do."

Which means more farmers and more craftspeople.

"Right."

Not to mention importers and exporters — merchants, as we call them.

"We'll need merchants."

And if goods are going to travel by sea, we'll need skilled sailors — and plenty of them.

"Yes, plenty."

Now, within the city itself, how will people exchange their goods? That was one of our main reasons for forming a community in the first place.

"They'll buy and sell, obviously."

So they'll need a marketplace and a currency for exchange.

Now, suppose a farmer or craftsman brings goods to market and nobody's there to trade with him. Should he just sit around in the marketplace instead of doing his work?

"Not at all. There will be people who see the need and set themselves up as shopkeepers. In well-organized cities, these tend to be people who aren't strong enough for other kinds of work. Their job is to stay in the marketplace, taking money from buyers and giving money to sellers."

So this need creates a class of retailers in our city. "Retailers" is the word we use for people who buy and sell in the marketplace, while "merchants" is what we call those who travel between cities. Right?

"Yes," he said.

And there's another class of workers — people who aren't really skilled enough for intellectual work but have strong bodies. They sell their labor and are called hired workers, since "hire" is the word for the price of their labor.

"Right."

So hired workers round out our population?

"Yes."

Well then, Adeimantus — is our city fully grown and complete?

"I think so."

So where does justice live in it? Where does injustice live? At what point in the city's growth did they appear?

"Probably in the way these citizens deal with each other," he said. "I can't imagine they'd show up anywhere else."

You're probably right, I said. Let's think it through and not shy away from the question.

Let's first consider how these citizens will live. They'll grow grain and make wine, build themselves houses, and make clothing and shoes. When they're housed, they'll work in summer mostly stripped down and barefoot, but bundled up in winter. They'll eat barley bread and wheat cakes, baked on mats of clean leaves. They'll recline on beds of yew and myrtle branches, feasting — they and their children — drinking wine they've made themselves, wearing wreaths on their heads, singing hymns to the gods, enjoying each other's company. And they'll be careful not to have more children than they can afford, keeping an eye on the dangers of poverty and war.

At this point Glaucon broke in. "So you're having them eat their bread without anything on it?"

True, I said — I forgot. Of course they'll have relishes. Salt, olives, cheese. They'll boil up roots and herbs the way country people do. For dessert we'll give them figs, chickpeas, and beans. They'll roast myrtle berries and acorns over the fire, drinking in moderation. Living this way, they can expect to reach old age in peace and good health, and pass on the same kind of life to their children.

"Yes, Socrates," Glaucon said, "and if you were building a city for pigs, wouldn't you feed them exactly the same way?"

Well, what would you have, Glaucon? I asked.

"The normal comforts," he said. "People who want to live decently expect to recline on couches, eat at tables, and have the kind of delicacies and desserts we enjoy nowadays."

Ah, I said — now I understand. We're not just examining how a city comes into being. We're examining how a luxurious city comes into being. And maybe that's not a bad thing, because in a luxurious city we might be more likely to find where justice and injustice take root. The true and healthy city, in my opinion, is the one I just described. But if you want to see a city running a fever, I'm happy to look at that too. I suspect many people won't be satisfied with the simple life. They'll want couches, tables, and fancy furniture. They'll want perfumes, incense, courtesans, and pastries — and not just one kind of each, but every variety. We'll have to go beyond the basic necessities I described — houses, clothes, shoes — and bring in painters and embroiderers. We'll need gold and ivory and all sorts of luxury materials.

"True," he said.

Then we'll have to expand our city. The original healthy city won't be big enough anymore. We'll need to fill it with a whole crowd of occupations that go beyond natural needs — hunters, actors, musicians, poets and their entourages of performers, dancers, producers. We'll need makers of all kinds of luxury goods, including fancy clothing. We'll need more servants too — tutors, nurses, nannies, hairdressers, barbers, pastry chefs, cooks. And we'll even need pig farmers, who weren't needed in the earlier version of our city but are needed now. Plus all kinds of livestock, for people who eat meat.

"Definitely."

And living this way, won't we need a lot more doctors than before?

"A lot more."

And the territory that used to be enough for the original population will be too small?

"Yes."

So we'll need to grab a slice of our neighbors' territory for pasture and farmland. And they'll want to grab a slice of ours — if they've also given themselves up to the unlimited pursuit of wealth, going beyond what they actually need.

"That seems inevitable, Socrates."

And then we'll go to war, Glaucon. Won't we?

"We will," he said.

Let's not settle yet whether war does good or harm. Let's just note this: we've discovered the origin of war. It comes from the same causes that produce almost every evil in cities, public and private alike.

"No doubt."

And our city will need to grow again — this time by adding a whole army. The army will go out and fight the invaders to protect everything and everyone we've been describing.

"Can't the citizens defend themselves?" he asked.

No, I said — not if we stick to the principle we all agreed on when we were building the city: that one person can't do many jobs well.

"That's true," he said.

And isn't warfare a skill?

"Certainly."

One that requires just as much training and dedication as shoemaking?

"Absolutely."

We didn't let the shoemaker also be a farmer or a weaver or a builder. We assigned him one job — the one he was naturally suited for — and let him focus on it his whole life so he'd do it well. Isn't it even more important that the work of a soldier be done well? Is war so simple that a person can be a warrior and a farmer at the same time? Nobody becomes a good chess player by playing as a hobby. No tool will make you a skilled fighter if you haven't been trained to use it and haven't devoted serious time to practice. You can't just pick up a shield one day and become a good soldier — whether as a heavy infantry fighter or any other kind of fighter.

"That's right," he said. "Tools that could teach their own use would be priceless."

And the higher the guardian's duties, I said, the more time, skill, training, and dedication they'll require.

"No question."

And won't a guardian need a natural aptitude for the job?

"Of course."

Then it's our task to select the natures best suited for guarding the city — if we can find them.

"It is."

It won't be an easy selection, I said. But we have to be brave and do our best.

Now — isn't a well-bred young guardian a lot like a well-bred dog when it comes to guarding and watching?

"What do you mean?"

I mean that both need to be sharp-eyed, fast enough to chase down anything they spot, and strong enough to fight it when they catch it.

"All those qualities are essential," he said.

And a guardian must be brave if he's going to fight well.

"Obviously."

But will anyone be brave without spirit? Haven't you noticed that spirit is irresistible? When spirit is present, every creature becomes absolutely fearless and unstoppable.

"I have."

So we know the physical qualities our guardian needs.

"Yes."

And the mental ones too — his soul must be full of spirit.

"Right."

But wait, I said. Won't people who are that spirited tend to be fierce — savage even — with each other and with everyone else?

"That's a real problem," he said. "Not easy to solve."

But they have to be dangerous to their enemies and gentle to their friends. Otherwise they'll destroy each other before any enemy gets the chance.

"True," he said.

So what do we do? I asked. Where do we find a nature that's both gentle and fiercely spirited? These seem like opposite qualities.

"They do."

And yet a guardian who lacks either one is no good. Being both seems impossible — which would mean being a good guardian is impossible.

"I'm afraid you're right," he said.

I felt stumped. But then I thought back over what we'd said.

My friend, I said — no wonder we're stuck. We've lost track of the comparison we started with.

"What comparison?"

There are natures that combine these opposite qualities. And you can find them in animals.

"Where?"

Our friend the dog is a perfect example. You know that a well-bred dog is perfectly gentle with people he knows but fierce with strangers.

"Yes, I know that."

So it's not impossible or unnatural to find a guardian who combines both qualities.

"Apparently not."

But wouldn't a proper guardian need more than just spirit? Wouldn't he also need to be something of a philosopher?

"A philosopher?" he said. "I don't follow."

The quality I'm talking about can actually be seen in dogs. It's remarkable.

"What quality?"

Well, a dog is hostile to any stranger he sees and friendly to anyone he knows — even if the stranger has never done him any harm and the friend has never done him any good. Hasn't that ever struck you as interesting?

"I never thought about it before," he said. "But now that you mention it — yes, absolutely."

And this instinct is actually quite charming. Your dog, you see, is a true philosopher.

"How so?"

Because he distinguishes friend from foe by one criterion only: knowledge. He knows one person and doesn't know the other. Any creature that determines what it likes and dislikes based on knowledge and ignorance must be a lover of learning. Don't you think?

"I suppose so."

And isn't the love of learning the same as the love of wisdom? And isn't the love of wisdom what 'philosophy' means?

"It is," he said.

So can we confidently say that a person who's going to be gentle with friends and acquaintances must be, by nature, a lover of wisdom and learning?

"We can."

Then the truly good and noble guardian of our city will need to combine philosophy, spirit, speed, and strength in a single nature.

"Absolutely."

So that's what our guardian looks like. Now — how should these people be raised and educated? Investigating this question might shed light on the bigger question driving our whole inquiry: how do justice and injustice grow up in cities? We don't want to leave anything important out, but we don't want to drag this on forever either.

Adeimantus said this investigation would be extremely valuable.

Then we can't give up, I said, even if it takes a while.

"Of course not."

All right then — let's spend some time telling stories. Our story will be the education of our heroes.

"Let's do it."

So what will their education look like? Can we do better than the traditional system? That has two parts: physical training for the body, and the arts for the soul.

"Right."

And should we start with the arts and move to physical training afterward?

"Sure."

When I say "the arts," I'm including literature. You understand?

"Yes."

And literature can be either true or false?

"Yes."

And we should train young people in both kinds — starting with the false?

"I don't understand what you mean."

You know how we start by telling children stories? Stories that are mostly fictional, though they contain some truth. We tell children stories before they're old enough for physical training.

"That's right."

That's what I meant when I said the arts should come before physical training.

"Makes sense."

And you know that the beginning of anything is the most important part — especially when you're shaping something young and impressionable. That's when character is being formed. That's when the deepest impressions are made.

"Exactly."

So should we just let children listen to any random stories invented by any random person? Should we let them absorb ideas that are, for the most part, the exact opposite of what we'd want them to believe when they grow up?

"Absolutely not."

Then the first order of business is to set up a review board for stories. The reviewers will approve the good stories and reject the bad ones. We'll instruct mothers and nurses to tell their children only the approved stories. Let them shape young minds with these stories even more carefully than they shape young bodies with their hands. Most of the stories currently in circulation will have to go.

"Which stories?" he asked.

You can see the problems in the major stories reflected in the minor ones, I said. They share the same spirit, the same patterns.

"Probably," he said. "But I still don't know which major stories you mean."

The ones told by Homer and Hesiod and the other great poets, I said. They've always been humanity's master storytellers.

"But which stories specifically?" he asked. "And what's wrong with them?"

The worst fault, I said — the fault of telling lies. And not just lies, but ugly lies.

"When do they do that?"

Whenever they give a false picture of what gods and heroes are really like. It's like a painter making a portrait that looks nothing like the person.

"Yes, that kind of thing is certainly objectionable. But which stories exactly?"

First and foremost, I said, there's that greatest of all ugly lies about the highest things — Hesiod's story of what Uranus did, and how Cronus took revenge on him. And then what Cronus' son did to him in turn. Even if these stories were true, they shouldn't be casually told to young, impressionable people. Ideally, they should be buried in silence. If they absolutely must be told, only a chosen few should hear them, in the strictest secrecy, after offering a sacrifice so rare and expensive that hardly anyone could afford it. That would keep the audience very small.

"Yes," he said, "those stories are deeply troubling."

And they're not to be repeated in our city, Adeimantus. A young man shouldn't be told that committing the most terrible crimes is perfectly normal — that even if he beats up his father for doing wrong, he's only following the example of the first and greatest of the gods.

"I completely agree," he said. "Those stories have no place being repeated."

And if we want our future guardians to consider fighting among themselves the most shameful thing possible, we should never breathe a word about wars in heaven, or gods plotting and battling each other. Those stories aren't even true. We should never tell the story of the giants' war, or embroider it on robes. We should stay silent about all those countless quarrels between gods and heroes and their friends and relatives. If we can get them to believe us, we should tell the young that fighting among citizens is sinful and has never happened. That's what old men and women should tell children from the very beginning. And when the children grow up, the poets should be required to tell the same kind of stories. But the story of Hephaestus chaining up his mother Hera? Or Zeus hurling him out of heaven for taking her side when Zeus was beating her? Or any of the battles of the gods in Homer? These must not be allowed into our city — whether people claim they have allegorical meaning or not. Young people can't tell the difference between allegory and literal truth. Whatever enters their minds at that age tends to become permanent and unchangeable. That's why it's so critical that the first stories young people hear should be models of good values.

"You're right," he said. "But if someone asks, 'Where are these model stories? What stories do you mean?' — what do we say?"

I said: You and I, Adeimantus, aren't poets at the moment. We're founders of a city. Founders need to know the general guidelines that poets should follow and the boundaries they shouldn't cross. But actually composing the stories isn't our job.

"Fair enough. But what are these guidelines?"

Something like this, I said: God must always be represented as he truly is, regardless of the form of poetry — whether epic, lyric, or tragic.

"Agreed."

And isn't God truly good? Mustn't he be portrayed that way?

"Certainly."

And nothing good is harmful?

"No."

And what isn't harmful doesn't cause harm?

"Of course not."

And what doesn't cause harm does no evil?

"Right."

And can something that does no evil be a cause of evil?

"Impossible."

Well then — the good is beneficial?

"Yes."

And therefore a cause of well-being?

"Yes."

So the good isn't the cause of everything. It's only the cause of what's good.

"Exactly."

Then God, if he's good, is not the author of everything — as most people claim. He's the cause of only a few things that happen to humans. Because the good things in human life are few, while the bad things are many. The good must be attributed to God alone. For the evils, we need to look for other causes — not God.

"That seems absolutely right," he said.

So we can't listen to Homer or any other poet who foolishly says that two jars

"'Lie at the threshold of Zeus, full of fates — one of good, the other of evil,'

"and that the person who gets a mixture from both

"'Sometimes meets with evil fortune, at other times with good,'

"but that the person who gets only the jar of evil —

"'Wild hunger drives him across the beautiful earth.'

"And we certainly can't accept the idea that 'Zeus distributes both good and evil to us.'

"If anyone claims that the breaking of oaths and treaties — which was actually the work of Pandarus — was orchestrated by Athena and Zeus, or that the gods' strife and conflict was instigated by Themis and Zeus, we won't approve it. And we won't let our young people hear Aeschylus say:

"'God plants guilt among men when he desires utterly to destroy a house.'

"If a poet writes about the sufferings of Niobe, or the house of Pelops, or the Trojan War, or any similar subject, we must either forbid him from saying these are the work of God, or — if they are God's work — he must explain them the way we're trying to here. He must say that what God did was just and right, and that those who were punished were better off for it. But we can't let a poet say that those who were punished are miserable and that God made them miserable. He can say the wicked are miserable because they need punishment and benefit from receiving it from God. But the claim that God, being good, is the author of evil to anyone — that must be strenuously denied. It must never be said or sung or heard, in verse or prose, by anyone — young or old — in any well-governed society. Such a story is self-destructive, contradictory, and impious."

"I agree," he said. "I'm ready to vote for that as law."

Then let this be our first principle about the gods, I said — a rule that our poets and storytellers must follow: God is not the author of all things, but only of what is good.

"That will do," he said.

Now, what about a second principle? What do you think about this: Is God a shape-shifter — a magician who appears sometimes in one form and sometimes in another, transforming himself into many shapes? Or does he deceive us with illusions of such changes? Or is he one single, unchanging being, forever fixed in his own true form?

"I'd need to think about that," he said.

Well, consider this, I said. If something changes, must the change be caused either by the thing itself or by something external?

"Necessarily."

And aren't things that are in the best condition also the least likely to be changed or disrupted by outside forces? Think about the human body: when it's healthiest and strongest, it's least affected by food and drink and exertion. The sturdiest plant is least affected by wind, heat, and similar forces.

"Right."

And the bravest and wisest soul is least disturbed or disrupted by any outside influence.

"True."

And the same principle applies to manufactured objects — furniture, houses, clothes. When they're well made, they hold up best against time and wear.

"Yes."

So everything that's in its best condition — whether by nature, by craft, or both — is least affected by change from outside.

"That seems right."

But God and everything divine is, in every way, perfect.

"Of course."

So God is the least likely of all beings to be changed by external forces.

"The least likely."

But might he change and transform himself?

"Obviously, if he changes at all, it has to be self-caused."

And would he change himself for the better or for the worse?

"If he changes at all, it can only be for the worse. We can't suppose he's lacking in either virtue or beauty."

Exactly right, Adeimantus. And given that — would anyone, god or human, deliberately make himself worse?

"Impossible."

Then it's impossible for God to want to change himself. Being the most beautiful and excellent thing conceivable, every god remains absolutely and forever in his own form.

"That follows necessarily," he said.

Then, 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, or introduce Hera in a tragedy disguised as a priestess collecting alms

"'for the life-giving daughters of Inachus, the river of Argos.'

"Let's have no more lies of that sort. And let's make sure mothers don't frighten their children, influenced by bad poetry, with stories about gods who 'wander about by night in the likeness of strangers and in all sorts of shapes.' We don't want them turning their children into cowards while blaspheming the gods.

"Heaven forbid," he said.

But, I said, even if the gods don't actually change, might they use magic and deception to make us think they appear in different forms?

"Maybe," he said.

Well — can you imagine God willingly lying, whether in word or deed, or projecting a false image of himself?

"I'm not sure," he said.

Don't you know, I said, that the true lie — if we can call it that — is hated by gods and humans alike?

"What do you mean?"

I mean this: no one willingly accepts deception in the truest and highest part of themselves, about the truest and highest matters. That's where everyone is most afraid of having a lie take root.

"I still don't follow," he said.

That's because you think I'm saying something deep, I replied. I'm saying something simple: being deceived in your soul about the way things really are — having falsehood lodged in the deepest part of yourself — that's what people hate most. Nobody wants that.

"Nobody," he agreed.

And this kind of ignorance in the deceived person's soul — this is what we can fairly call the "true lie." The lie in words is just a kind of copy, a shadow of the deeper deception in the soul. It's not the pure, original falsehood. Am I right?

"Perfectly right."

So the true lie is hated by gods and humans alike.

"Yes."

But lies in words — are they always hateful? Aren't they sometimes useful? When dealing with enemies, for example. Or when friends are about to do something crazy — lies can work like a kind of medicine to stop them. And in the old myths we were discussing — since we don't actually know what happened in ancient times, we make our fictions as close to the truth as possible and put them to good use.

"Very true," he said.

But can any of these reasons apply to God? Is God ignorant of ancient times and forced to resort to fiction?

"That would be ridiculous," he said.

So there's no place for a lying poet in our idea of God.

"None."

Maybe God lies because he's afraid of enemies?

"Inconceivable."

Or because he has friends who are foolish or insane?

"No fool or madman can be a friend of God."

So there's no reason whatsoever for God to lie?

"None."

Then the divine is absolutely incapable of falsehood.

"Absolutely."

God is perfectly simple and true in word and deed. He doesn't change. He doesn't deceive — not by signs, not by words, not in dreams, not in waking visions.

"That's exactly what I think," he said.

So you agree, I said, that this is the second principle for writing and speaking about the gods: the gods are not shape-shifters who transform themselves, and they don't deceive us in any way.

"I agree."

Then, even though we're great admirers of Homer, we won't admire the false dream Zeus sends to Agamemnon. And we won't praise those lines of Aeschylus where Thetis says Apollo sang at her wedding,

"'celebrating her fair offspring whose days were to be long and free from sickness. And when he had spoken of my lot as blessed by heaven in all things, he raised a song of triumph and cheered my soul. And I thought that the word of Phoebus, being divine and full of prophecy, could not fail. And now the very god who sang that song, the one who was present at the feast, the one who said all this — he is the one who has killed my son.'

"When a poet says things like that about the gods, we'll be angry. He won't get a chorus. We won't allow teachers to use such stories in educating the young. Our guardians must be true worshippers of the gods and, as far as humanly possible, like the gods themselves."

"I agree completely," he said. "I accept these principles, and I'll treat them as law."

Republic — Book III

So those are our principles of theology, I said. Some stories should be told and others shouldn't — at least not to our young people, if we want them to honor the gods, respect their parents, and value friendship with each other.

Yes, he said. And I think our principles are right.

But if they're going to be courageous, don't they need to learn other lessons too? Lessons that will take away the fear of death? Can anyone really be brave if they're terrified of dying?

Certainly not, he said.

And can someone be fearless of death — can they choose death in battle over defeat and slavery — if they believe the underworld is real and horrifying?

Impossible.

Then we need to take control of these storytellers too, the ones who talk about the afterlife. We should ask them not to simply trash-talk the world below, but to speak more positively about it. We need to tell them that their descriptions aren't true and will do real harm to our future warriors.

That will be our duty, he said.

Then, I said, we'll have to cross out a lot of offensive passages, starting with lines like this:

"I would rather be a serf on the land of a poor and landless man than rule over all the dead who have come to nothing."

We'll also have to cut the verse that tells us how Pluto was afraid:

"Lest the grim and squalid mansions which the gods abhor should be seen by both mortals and immortals."

And this one:

"Oh heavens! So there really is a soul and ghostly form in the house of Hades — but no mind at all!"

And this about Tiresias:

"To him even after death did Persephone grant a mind, that he alone should be wise; but the other souls are flitting shades."

And:

"The soul, flying from the limbs, went down to Hades, lamenting its fate, leaving behind its manhood and youth."

And:

"The soul, with a shrilling cry, passed like smoke beneath the earth."

And:

"As bats in the hollow of some mysterious cavern — whenever one of them drops out of the cluster and falls from the rock, they fly shrilling and clinging to one another — so did these souls hold together with shrilling cries as they moved."

And we'll have to ask Homer and the other poets not to be angry when we cut these and similar passages. It's not because they're bad poetry — they're not. It's not because they don't appeal to popular taste — they do. But that's exactly the problem. The greater the poetic power of these lines, the less suitable they are for the ears of boys and men who are supposed to be free — people who should fear slavery more than death.

Undoubtedly.

We'll also need to reject all those terrifying names that describe the underworld — Cocytus, Styx, "ghosts under the earth," "sapless shades," and every similar word that makes people shudder just hearing it. I'm not saying these horrible stories might not serve some purpose. But there's a real danger that our guardians will become too jumpy and soft because of them.

There is a real danger, he said.

Then we need to get rid of them.

We need a different and nobler kind of poetry instead.

And shall we go ahead and eliminate all the weeping and wailing of famous heroes?

They'll go with the rest.

But is it right to get rid of them? Think about it: our principle is that a good man won't think death is anything terrible for another good man who is his friend.

Yes, that's our principle.

So he won't grieve for his departed friend as though something terrible had happened?

He won't.

A man like that, as we've also said, is self-sufficient when it comes to his own happiness. He needs other people less than anyone.

True, he said.

And for that reason, losing a son or brother, or losing his fortune — these are the least terrible things that could happen to him.

So he'd be the least likely to grieve, and he'd bear any misfortune like that with the greatest calm.

Yes, he'd feel it far less than other people would.

Then we're right to eliminate the lamentations of famous heroes. We'll hand that kind of behavior over to women — and not even women of any real character — or to men of the lowest sort. That way, the people we're educating to be defenders of our country will be ashamed to act like that.

That's absolutely right.

So once again, we'll ask Homer and the other poets not to show us Achilles — the son of a goddess — first lying on his side, then on his back, then on his face, then jumping up and pacing in a frenzy along the shores of the barren sea, now scooping up sooty ashes with both hands and pouring them over his head, weeping and wailing in all the different ways Homer described. And they shouldn't depict Priam, kinsman of the gods, begging and groveling:

"Rolling in the dirt, calling out each man loudly by his name."

Even more urgently, we'll beg the poets not to portray the gods themselves weeping and saying:

"Alas! My misery! Alas! that I bore the bravest to my sorrow."

And if they absolutely must bring in the gods, they should at least not dare to misrepresent the greatest of them so badly that Zeus says:

"Oh heavens! With my own eyes I see a dear friend of mine chased round and round the city, and my heart is sorrowful."

Or:

"Woe is me, that fate decrees Sarpedon — dearest of men to me — should fall at the hands of Patroclus, son of Menoetius."

Because look, my dear Adeimantus — if our young people take these unworthy portrayals of the gods seriously, instead of laughing at them the way they should, hardly any of them will think that they, mere humans, are above such behavior. They won't feel any shame about it. Instead of having self-control, they'll be constantly whining and weeping over every little thing.

Yes, he said, that's absolutely true.

Yes, I replied. But it shouldn't happen — and that's what our argument has just proved. We need to stand by that conclusion until someone disproves it with a better one.

It shouldn't happen.

And our guardians shouldn't be prone to excessive laughter either. Because a fit of laughter, when it goes too far, almost always triggers a violent emotional swing in the other direction.

I believe that, he said.

So we shouldn't portray people of worth — even mere mortals — as overcome by laughter. And we certainly shouldn't allow that kind of portrayal of the gods.

Certainly not the gods, as you say, he replied.

So we won't tolerate Homer describing the gods like this:

"Inextinguishable laughter arose among the blessed gods, when they saw Hephaestus bustling about the mansion."

On your principles, we can't allow that.

On my principles, if you want to pin them on me. But whether they're mine or not, we definitely can't allow it.

Now, truth should be highly valued. If, as we were saying, a lie is useless to the gods but useful to humans only as a kind of medicine, then the use of that medicine should be restricted to doctors. Ordinary people have no business with it.

Clearly not, he said.

So if anyone gets the privilege of lying, it should be the rulers of the state. They may lie to enemies or to their own citizens when it serves the public good. But nobody else should touch it. For a private citizen to lie to the rulers is just as bad as — no, worse than — a patient lying to his doctor about his symptoms, or a sailor not telling the captain the truth about what's happening with the ship and crew.

Very true, he said.

So if the ruler catches anyone else in the state lying —

"Whether he be craftsman, priest, physician, or carpenter" —

he'll punish them for introducing a practice that's just as destructive to a state as it would be to a ship.

Absolutely, he said — if our vision of the state is ever put into practice.

Next: our young people need to be self-disciplined, don't they?

Certainly.

And aren't the main elements of self-discipline, broadly speaking, obedience to authority and self-control when it comes to physical pleasures?

Yes.

Then we'll approve of lines like Diomedes' command in Homer:

"Friend, sit still and obey my word."

And the verses that follow:

"The Greeks marched breathing prowess, in silent awe of their leaders."

And other sentiments like that.

But what about this line:

"You drunkard, with the eyes of a dog and the heart of a deer" —

and the words that follow? Would you say these, or any similar insults that private individuals supposedly hurl at their commanders — whether in verse or prose — are well spoken?

They are not.

They might get a laugh, but they don't promote self-discipline. So they're likely to do harm to our young men — wouldn't you agree?

Yes.

And then there's Odysseus — supposedly the wisest of men — saying that nothing in his opinion is finer than

"When the tables are full of bread and meat, and the cupbearer carries round wine drawn from the bowl and pours it into the cups."

Is it appropriate — does it encourage self-discipline — for a young person to hear words like that? Or the verse:

"The saddest of fates is to die of hunger"?

And what about the story of Zeus? While all the other gods and men were asleep, he alone was awake, making plans — but forgot every single one of them the instant he saw Hera, because he was so overwhelmed with lust that he wouldn't even go inside. He wanted to take her right there on the ground, declaring he'd never felt such desire before — not even when they first got together

"Without their parents knowing."

Or that other story about Hephaestus catching Ares and Aphrodite in a net because of the same kind of behavior?

I strongly agree, he said, that they shouldn't hear that kind of thing.

But stories of endurance — acts performed or described by famous men — those they should see and hear. Lines like:

"He struck his chest and rebuked his own heart: Endure, my heart — you've endured far worse than this!"

Absolutely, he said.

Next: we can't let them be bribe-takers or money-lovers.

Certainly not.

We shouldn't sing to them about

"Gifts persuading gods, and gifts persuading noble kings."

And we shouldn't praise Phoenix, Achilles' tutor, or say he gave good advice when he told Achilles to accept the Greeks' gifts and help them — but that without gifts he shouldn't give up his anger. We also won't believe or accept that Achilles himself was such a money-lover that he took Agamemnon's bribes, or that he wouldn't give back Hector's body until he was paid, but refused to do it for free.

Undoubtedly, he said, these aren't sentiments we can approve of.

I love Homer — I really do — so it pains me to say this. But attributing these feelings to Achilles, or believing they're really his, comes dangerously close to outright impiety. Just as little can I believe the story of his insolence toward Apollo, where he says:

"You've wronged me, you most detestable of gods. I'd pay you back, if only I had the power."

Or his defiance of the river-god, whose divinity he was ready to attack. Or his dedicating a lock of his hair to the dead Patroclus — hair that had already been consecrated to another river-god, Spercheius — and then actually going through with cutting it. Or the dragging of Hector's body around the tomb of Patroclus. Or the slaughter of captives on the funeral pyre. None of this can I believe. I won't let our citizens believe that Achilles — student of the wise Chiron, son of a goddess and of Peleus, the gentlest of men, third in descent from Zeus — was so out of his mind that he suffered from two contradictory vices at once: petty greed tainted with avarice, combined with arrogant contempt for gods and men.

You're quite right, he replied.

And let's equally refuse to believe — or allow to be repeated — the tale of Theseus, son of Poseidon, and Peirithous, son of Zeus, setting out to commit a terrible kidnapping. Or any other story of a hero or son of a god daring to do such awful, impious things as people nowadays falsely attribute to them. Let's force the poets to choose: either say these acts weren't committed by them, or say they weren't sons of gods. But the poets can't have it both ways. They can't claim someone is divine and also criminal. We won't have them persuading our young people that the gods cause evil, or that heroes are no better than ordinary men — because, as we've already proven, evil can't come from the gods.

Absolutely not.

And these stories are likely to have a terrible effect on anyone who hears them. Everyone will start excusing their own vices once they're convinced that the same kind of wickedness is constantly being committed by

"The kindred of the gods, the relatives of Zeus, whose ancestral altar stands high in the air on the peak of Mount Ida,"

and who still have

"The blood of gods flowing in their veins."

So let's put a stop to these tales, before they breed moral laziness in the young.

By all means, he replied.

Now, we've been deciding which kinds of subjects should and shouldn't be discussed. Let's make sure we haven't missed anything. We've already covered how gods, demigods, heroes, and the underworld should be treated.

What remains?

What should we say about human beings? That's clearly the part we haven't gotten to yet.

Clearly.

But we can't answer that question right now, my friend.

Why not?

Because, if I'm not mistaken, we'll have to say that poets and storytellers commit the most serious errors when they tell us that wicked people are often happy and good people miserable, that injustice pays off as long as you don't get caught, and that justice is a loss for the just person and a gain for everyone else. We'll forbid them from saying these things and command them to sing the opposite.

Of course we will, he replied.

But if you agree with me on that, then I'd say you've already conceded the fundamental principle we've been arguing for all along.

I accept that inference.

Whether such things should or shouldn't be said about human beings is a question we can't settle until we've figured out what justice actually is — and whether it's naturally beneficial to the person who has it, regardless of whether they appear just or not.

Very true, he said.

Enough about the subject matter of poetry. Now let's talk about style. Once we've covered that, we'll have dealt with both content and form.

I don't understand what you mean, said Adeimantus.

Then I'd better explain. Maybe I can make it clearer this way. You know that all storytelling and poetry is a narration of events — past, present, or future?

Certainly, he replied.

And narration can take three forms: straight narration, imitation, or a combination of the two.

That, he said, I don't quite understand either.

I'm worried I must be a terrible teacher, since I'm having so much trouble getting my point across. Like a bad speaker, let me take just a piece of the subject to illustrate what I mean. You know the opening lines of the Iliad, where the poet tells us that Chryses begged Agamemnon to release his daughter, and Agamemnon got furious with him, and then Chryses, having failed, called down the anger of Apollo on the Greeks? Now, up to the lines —

"And he prayed to all the Greeks, but especially the two sons of Atreus, the chiefs of the people" —

the poet is speaking in his own voice. He never pretends to be anyone else. But in what comes next, he takes on the character of Chryses. He does everything he can to make us believe the speaker isn't Homer at all, but the old priest himself. And the entire narrative of the events at Troy and in Ithaca and throughout the Odyssey is written in this double form.

And it remains a narrative both in the speeches the poet delivers in character and in the connecting passages?

Exactly.

But when the poet speaks in the person of another character, wouldn't you say he's adapting his style to match that person?

Yes.

And this adapting of himself to another person — whether through voice or gesture — is imitation. He's imitating the character he's playing.

Right.

So in that case, the poet's narrative proceeds by way of imitation.

But suppose the poet never hid himself — if he appeared as himself the whole time. Then there'd be no imitation, and his work would be pure, straight narration. Let me show you what I mean, so you don't say "I still don't get it." If Homer had said: "The priest came, carrying his daughter's ransom, to beg the Greeks — especially the kings — to give her back." And then, instead of speaking as Chryses, Homer had just continued in his own voice, it would have been straight narration, not imitation. It would have gone something like this — and I'm no poet, so I'll drop the meter:

"The priest came and prayed that the gods would let the Greeks capture Troy and return home safely. He begged them to give back his daughter and accept the ransom he'd brought, and to show respect to the god. The other Greeks were moved by this and agreed. But Agamemnon was furious. He told the priest to leave and never come back, or the god's staff and garlands wouldn't protect him. His daughter would never be released, he said — she'd grow old with him in Argos. He told the old man to go away and not provoke him, if he wanted to get home in one piece. The old man left in fear and silence. Once he was away from the camp, he called on Apollo by his many names, reminding the god of everything he'd done for him — building temples, making sacrifices — and praying that his devotion would be repaid, and that the Greeks would suffer for his tears through the god's arrows."

And so on. That way, the whole thing would be straight narrative.

I understand, he said.

Or you could imagine the opposite — leaving out all the connecting passages and keeping only the dialogue.

Yes, he said, I understand that too. You mean, like in a tragedy.

Exactly! Now you see what I was getting at. Poetry and storytelling fall into three types. First, there's the fully imitative kind — that's tragedy and comedy. Then there's the opposite kind, where the poet speaks only in his own voice — the dithyramb is the best example. And the third kind combines both — that's epic poetry, and various other forms. Do you follow?

Yes, he said, now I see what you meant.

Good. Now remember what I said earlier: we'd finished with the subject matter and could move on to style.

Yes, I remember.

What I was getting at is this: we need to decide about the imitative style. Should we allow our poets to narrate through imitation? If so, should they imitate everything, or only some things? And if only some things, which ones? Or should all imitation be banned entirely?

I suspect you're asking whether tragedy and comedy should be allowed into our state, he said.

Yes, I said, but it might go further than that. I really don't know yet — wherever the argument leads, that's where we'll go.

Let's go there, he said.

All right then, Adeimantus. Should our guardians be imitators? Or hasn't this already been answered by the principle we established earlier — that one person can only do one thing well? If they try to do many things, they'll fail at all of them.

And the same applies to imitation? Nobody can imitate many different things as well as they can imitate one.

So the same person can hardly play a serious role in life and also be an imitator of many other roles. Even two closely related forms of imitation can't be mastered by the same person. Didn't you just call tragedy and comedy both forms of imitation?

Yes, I did, and you're right that the same people can't succeed at both.

Any more than they can be both performers who recite poetry and actors on a stage.

And comic actors and tragic actors aren't the same people either. Yet all of these are forms of imitation.

They are.

And human nature, Adeimantus, seems to have been divided into even smaller specializations. People are just as incapable of imitating many things well as they are of doing many things well.

Very true, he replied.

So if we stick with our original principle — that our guardians should drop everything else and dedicate themselves entirely to maintaining freedom in the state, making that their craft and engaging in nothing that doesn't serve this purpose — then they shouldn't practice or imitate anything else. If they do imitate, they should imitate only what's appropriate to their role, starting from youth: courage, self-discipline, devotion, freedom, and qualities like these. But they shouldn't practice or become skilled at imitating anything degrading or base. The reason? Imitation has a way of becoming reality. Haven't you ever noticed how imitations, started in youth and continued through life, eventually harden into habits and become a second nature — shaping body, voice, and mind?

Yes, I certainly have, he said.

Then we won't allow our guardians — the people we say ought to be good — to imitate a woman, whether young or old, quarreling with her husband, boasting against the gods about how happy she is, or caught in grief, sorrow, or tears. And absolutely not a woman who's sick, in love, or in labor.

Very right, he said.

They must not play slaves — male or female — doing the work of slaves.

They must not.

And certainly not villains — cowards or anyone who does the opposite of what we've been describing. People who mock, insult, or abuse each other, drunk or sober, or who sin against themselves and their neighbors in any of the ways such people typically do. They shouldn't be trained to imitate the speech or behavior of people who are insane or wicked. Madness and vice are things to recognize, not to practice or imitate.

Very true, he replied.

They shouldn't imitate blacksmiths or other craftsmen, or rowers, or boatswains, or anyone like that.

How could they, he said, when they're not even allowed to think about those occupations?

And they can't imitate horses neighing, bulls bellowing, rivers murmuring, the ocean roaring, or thunder, or anything of that kind.

No, he said — if madness is forbidden, they can't imitate madmen either.

So what you're saying, I think, is that there's one style of narration a truly good person would use when they have something to say, and a very different style that someone of the opposite character and education would prefer.

And what are these two styles? he asked.

Here's what I think. When a just and good person, in the course of a story, comes to something said or done by another good person, they'll be happy to take on that role. They won't be embarrassed by this kind of imitation. They'll be most eager to play the good person when that character is acting wisely and firmly, and somewhat less when the character is overcome by illness, love, drink, or some other misfortune. But when they come to a character who is beneath them, they won't bother studying that person carefully. They'll disdain it. They might briefly assume that character when it's doing something good, but otherwise they'll be ashamed to play a role they've never practiced. Their mind revolts at it. They feel — except maybe as a joke — that it's beneath them.

That's what I'd expect, he replied.

So this kind of narrator will use a style like what we illustrated from Homer: a mix of imitation and narration, but with very little imitation and a great deal of narration. Do you agree?

Certainly, he said. That's the model this kind of speaker would naturally follow.

But there's another type. This person will narrate anything, and the worse they are, the fewer boundaries they'll respect. Nothing is beneath them. They'll imitate everything — not as a joke, but in dead earnest, in front of a huge audience. They'll do thunder, wind, hail, creaking wheels, pulleys, trumpets, flutes, pipes, and every kind of instrument. They'll bark like a dog, bleat like a sheep, crow like a rooster. Their entire art consists of vocal and physical imitation, with barely any narration at all.

That will be their style, he said.

So those are the two kinds of style.

And you'd agree that the first style is simple and changes only slightly. If you choose a harmony and rhythm that match its simplicity, the speaker stays pretty much the same throughout. They'll keep to one basic harmony — the changes aren't big — and use roughly the same rhythm.

That's quite true, he said.

The second style is the opposite. It requires every possible harmony and every kind of rhythm to match its constant changes.

That's perfectly true too, he replied.

And don't these two styles — plus a mixture of both — cover all poetry and every form of verbal expression? Everyone speaks in one or the other or both.

They cover everything, he said.

So which shall we allow in our state? All three? Only one of the two pure styles? Or the mixed?

I'd prefer to admit only the pure imitator of virtue, he said.

Yes, Adeimantus, but the mixed style is also very charming. And actually, the pantomimic style — the opposite of the one you chose — is the most popular with children, their caregivers, and the general public.

I don't deny it.

But you'd argue, I think, that such a style doesn't suit our state, where human nature isn't supposed to be divided or complicated. One person does one job.

Yes, completely unsuitable.

And that's why our state, and only our state, would have the shoemaker being just a shoemaker and not also a ship's captain, the farmer being just a farmer and not also a jury member, the soldier being just a soldier and not also a merchant — and the same for everything else.

True, he said.

So when one of these pantomimic artists shows up — someone so talented they can imitate absolutely anything — and offers to perform for us, we'll bow down before them. We'll honor them as someone sweet and wonderful and holy. But then we'll tell them, very politely, that there's no place for people like them in our state. The law won't allow it. We'll anoint their head with perfume and crown them with a garland of wool, and then we'll send them on their way to another city. Because for our own citizens' moral health, we'll employ the rougher, more austere kind of poet or storyteller — one who imitates only the speech of the virtuous and follows the guidelines we laid down when we first started designing our guardians' education.

We certainly will, he said, if we have the power.

So that, my friend, wraps up the part of artistic education that deals with stories and myths. We've covered both the content and the style.

I think so too, he said.

Next up: melody and song.

Obviously.

Everyone can already see what we ought to say about these, if we want to stay consistent with ourselves.

I'm afraid, said Glaucon with a laugh, that "everyone" doesn't quite include me. I can't say right now exactly what the rules should be — though I can probably guess.

Well, you can at least say this much: a song has three components — the words, the melody, and the rhythm. That much you know?

Yes, he said, I'll grant you that.

And the words in a song should follow the same rules as words that aren't set to music — the rules we've already established?

Yes.

And the melody and rhythm should match the words?

Of course.

We said earlier that we have no need for laments and sorrowful musical modes.

Right.

So which musical modes express sorrow? You're the musician — you tell me.

The mixed Lydian, he said, and the full-toned Lydian, and modes like those.

Then those have to go. They're no use even to women of strong character, let alone to men.

Agreed.

And drunkenness, softness, and laziness are completely inappropriate for our guardians.

Completely.

So which are the soft or drinking modes?

The Ionian, he replied, and the Lydian. They're called "relaxed."

Well, are those any use to warriors?

None whatsoever, he replied. So it looks like you're left with only the Dorian and the Phrygian.

I answered: I don't know much about musical theory, but here's what I want. I want one mode that's warlike — one that captures the voice of a brave person in the hour of danger and fierce determination, when they're facing wounds or death or some other disaster, and meeting every blow of fate with steady steps and firm resolve. And I want another mode for times of peace and freedom, when there's no crisis — when a person is trying to persuade a god through prayer, or another person through reason and advice, or on the other hand, when they're open to being persuaded themselves, yielding gracefully. A mode that shows someone who has achieved their goal through good judgment, not carried away by success, but acting with moderation and wisdom and accepting whatever comes. These two modes I want — the mode of necessity and the mode of freedom, the mode of courage and the mode of restraint, the mode of hardship and the mode of good fortune. Give me those and you can get rid of the rest.

And those, he replied, are exactly the Dorian and Phrygian modes I was just talking about.

Good. Then if these are the only modes we'll use in our songs and melodies, we won't need a huge range of notes or instruments that can play every possible scale.

I suppose not.

So we won't support the makers of those fancy triangular lyres and multi-stringed, elaborately tuned instruments.

Certainly not.

And what about flute-makers and flute-players? Will we let them into our state? Think about it — the flute is worse than all the stringed instruments combined when it comes to playing every possible harmony. Even those panharmonic instruments are just imitating what the flute does.

Clearly not.

So what's left? The lyre and the harp for use in the city, and the shepherds can have a pipe out in the country.

That's surely the conclusion our argument leads to.

And by the way, I said, preferring Apollo and his instruments over Marsyas and his instruments isn't exactly radical.

Not at all, he replied.

And by the dog of Egypt! Without even meaning to, we've been purifying the state — that same state we called luxurious not so long ago.

And wisely so, he replied.

Then let's finish the purification. After the musical modes come rhythms, and they should follow the same rules. We shouldn't go looking for complicated meters or every rhythm under the sun. Instead, we should figure out which rhythms express a courageous and well-ordered life. Once we've found them, we'll fit the beat and the melody to words of a matching spirit — not the other way around. What those rhythms are, you'll have to teach me, just as you taught me the modes.

But honestly, he replied, I can't really tell you. I know there are three basic principles from which metrical systems are built — just as there are four notes from which all harmonies are composed. That much I've observed. But which rhythms correspond to which kinds of lives — that I can't say.

Then we'll need to consult Damon on this. He'll tell us which rhythms express pettiness, arrogance, fury, or other vices, and which are reserved for the opposite qualities. I have a vague memory of him mentioning a complex Cretic rhythm, and a dactylic or heroic one, and arranging them in some way I don't quite follow — making the rises and falls of the foot equal, alternating between long and short. And I think he mentioned an iambic rhythm and a trochaic one too, assigning them different long and short values. In some cases he seemed to praise or criticize the movement of the foot as much as the rhythm itself — or maybe some combination. I'm not sure. But these are technical matters best left to Damon himself. Working through the details would take forever. Don't you think?

Absolutely, he said.

But there's one thing that isn't hard to see at all: grace or the absence of grace comes from good or bad rhythm.

Not hard at all.

And good rhythm naturally follows good style, while bad rhythm follows bad style. And harmony and discord similarly follow style. Our principle is that rhythm and harmony are shaped by the words, not the other way around.

Exactly, he said. They should follow the words.

And the words and the character of the style depend on the quality of the soul?

Yes.

And everything else follows from the style?

Yes.

Then beauty of style, harmony, grace, and good rhythm all depend on simplicity — and I mean the true simplicity of a mind and character that are genuinely well-ordered and good. Not that other kind of "simplicity" that's just a polite word for foolishness.

Very true, he replied.

And if our young people are going to do their work well, they need to pursue these qualities constantly?

They must.

And isn't every creative art full of these qualities — or their absence? Painting, weaving, embroidery, architecture, every kind of craftsmanship. Nature too — both animal and plant life — has grace or lacks it. Ugliness, discord, and awkward movement are close cousins of bad words and bad character, just as grace and harmony are the twin sisters of goodness and virtue.

That's absolutely true, he said.

But should our oversight stop with the poets? Should we only demand that they represent the image of goodness in their work, or else be banned from our state? Or should we extend the same control to other artists too? Should we prohibit sculptors, builders, and every kind of creative worker from depicting vice, indecency, vulgarity, or moral ugliness? Anyone who can't follow this rule should be barred from practicing their craft in our city. We don't want our guardians growing up surrounded by images of moral deformity — grazing in some toxic pasture, feeding day by day on poisonous weeds and flowers, bit by bit, until they've quietly built up a massive, festering corruption in their own souls.

Instead, let our artists be people gifted with the ability to see the true nature of beauty and grace. Then our young people will live in a land of health, surrounded by fair sights and sounds. Beauty will flow into their eyes and ears from every good work of art, like a health-giving breeze from a purer region. From their earliest years, it will gently draw their souls into harmony and sympathy with the beauty of reason, without them even knowing it.

There can be no nobler training than that, he replied.

And that's why, Glaucon, artistic education — education through rhythm and harmony — is the most powerful tool we have. Rhythm and harmony find their way deep into the inner places of the soul. They fasten onto it with tremendous force, bringing grace if the education is right, and the absence of grace if it's wrong. A person who has received this true inner education will have the sharpest eye for what's flawed or missing in art and in nature. With genuine good taste, they'll praise and welcome the good into their soul, absorb it, and become noble and good themselves. At the same time, they'll rightly criticize and reject what's bad — even in youth, before they can articulate the reason why. And when reason finally arrives, they'll recognize it like an old friend. They'll greet it with joy, because their education has made them familiar with it all along.

Yes, he said, I completely agree that our young people should be educated through the arts, for exactly these reasons.

It's like learning to read, I said. We were satisfied once we knew the letters of the alphabet — just a handful of letters — in all their different sizes and combinations. We didn't dismiss them as unimportant, whether they appeared in large print or small. We were eager to recognize them wherever we found them, because we knew we wouldn't truly be literate until we could.

Right.

And if we see the reflection of letters in water or in a mirror, we can only recognize them if we already know the letters themselves. The same art and study that taught us one teaches us both.

Exactly.

Well, in the same way, neither we nor the guardians we're educating will ever be truly educated in the arts until we can recognize the essential forms of self-discipline, courage, generosity, magnificence, and their kindred virtues — as well as their opposites — in every possible combination, wherever they appear. We can't dismiss them whether they show up in small matters or great. We need to believe they all belong to the same art and the same study.

Absolutely.

And when a beautiful soul harmonizes with a beautiful body, and the two are cast in the same mold — that's the most beautiful sight for anyone with eyes to see.

The most beautiful indeed.

And the most beautiful is also the most lovable?

That follows.

And the person with a harmonious soul will be most drawn to what's most beautiful and lovable. But they won't love someone whose soul is out of harmony.

True, he replied — at least not if the flaw is in the soul. But if it's merely a physical imperfection, they'll be patient with it and love the person just the same.

I see, I said, that you have — or have had — experience with this kind of thing. And I agree with you. But let me ask another question: does excessive pleasure have anything in common with self-discipline?

How could it? he replied. Excessive pleasure robs a person of their faculties just as much as pain does.

Does it have anything to do with virtue in general?

Nothing whatsoever.

What about indulgence and lack of self-control?

Those, it has everything to do with.

And is there any greater or more intense pleasure than sexual desire?

No — and none crazier, either.

But true love is a love of beauty and order — it's disciplined and harmonious.

Quite true, he said.

Then nothing wild or uncontrolled should come near true love?

Certainly not.

And wild, uncontrolled pleasure must never come near a lover and their beloved. Neither of them should have any part in it, if their love is genuine.

No indeed, Socrates. It must never come near them.

Then I suppose in the city we're founding, you'd make a law like this: a lover may show no more physical intimacy to their beloved than a father would show to a son, and only for a noble purpose, and only with the other person's consent. In all their interactions, this is the boundary. A lover should never be seen going further. If they do, they'll be judged guilty of vulgarity and bad taste.

I completely agree, he said.

So that's our discussion of the arts wrapped up, and it ends in the right place. Because where should education in the arts ultimately lead, if not to the love of beauty?

I agree, he said.

After the arts comes physical training. Our young people need that education next.

Of course.

Physical training, like artistic education, should begin in early youth and continue throughout life. Now here's my view — and I'd like to hear whether you agree — I don't think that a good body improves the soul through bodily excellence. I think it works the other way around: a good soul, through its own excellence, improves the body as much as possible.

Yes, I agree.

So once we've properly educated the mind, we can hand over the detailed care of the body to it. To keep things brief, I'll just sketch the general outlines.

Fair enough.

We've already established that guardians must not get drunk. Of all people, a guardian should be the last one to get so wasted they don't know where they are.

Right, he said — it would be ridiculous for a guardian to need another guardian to look after them.

Now, what about their diet? These men are in training for the greatest contest of all — aren't they?

Yes.

Would the typical athlete's training regimen work for them?

I'm afraid not, I said. Athletes' bodies are in a kind of drowsy condition, and their health is dangerously fragile. Have you noticed how these athletes sleep away their lives and get seriously ill if they deviate even slightly from their usual routine?

Yes.

So our warrior-athletes need a more refined kind of training. They have to be like watchful dogs, able to see and hear with the sharpest senses. During campaigns, they'll face constant changes in water and food, summer heat and winter cold. They can't afford to break down.

That's my view too.

The really excellent physical training is the twin sister of that simple artistic education we were just describing.

What do you mean?

I mean there's a kind of physical training that, like our approach to the arts, is simple and good — especially for military purposes.

Go on.

We can learn from Homer. He feeds his heroes on campaign with soldiers' food. They eat only roasted meat — no fish, even though they're camped on the shores of the Hellespont. And no boiled meat either. Roasting is the easiest method for soldiers — just light a fire. No hauling pots and pans around.

And I'm pretty sure Homer never mentions sweet sauces anywhere. He's not alone in banning them, either — every serious athlete knows that anyone who wants to stay in shape should avoid that kind of thing.

Yes, he said, they're absolutely right to avoid them.

Then I take it you wouldn't approve of fancy Syracusan dinners or the elaborate cuisine of Sicily?

I think not.

And if someone's trying to stay in peak condition, you wouldn't let them have a Corinthian girlfriend either?

Definitely not.

And you'd disapprove of the supposedly exquisite Athenian pastries?

Definitely.

All this fancy eating and living is comparable to music composed in every possible mode and rhythm. In music, complexity breeds moral looseness; in diet, it breeds disease. Simplicity in music produces self-discipline in the soul; simplicity in physical training produces health in the body.

Absolutely true, he said.

But when excess and disease multiply in a city, courthouses and hospitals start popping up everywhere. The lawyers and doctors start putting on airs, because everyone — not just the lower classes, but supposedly well-educated people too — is flocking to them.

True.

And isn't that the biggest possible proof of a bad and disgraceful education? When not only common workers but people who claim to be well-bred need expert physicians and lawyers because they can't manage their own health or their own disputes? Having to hand yourself over to other people as your lords and judges because you can't take care of yourself — isn't that shameful?

It's the most disgraceful thing of all, he said.

Would you call it "most"? I replied. Consider this: there's an even worse stage, where someone isn't just constantly in court — plaintiff one day, defendant the next — but is actually proud of it. They imagine they're a genius at dishonesty, able to twist and wriggle through every legal loophole, bending like a willow branch, dodging justice at every turn. And all for what? To gain some trivial point that isn't worth mentioning. They don't realize that organizing your life so you don't need a sleepy-eyed judge is a far higher and nobler achievement. Isn't that even more disgraceful?

Yes, he said, that's even worse.

And what about needing medical help — not for a wound or an epidemic, but because years of lazy living have filled your body with gases and fluids, like a swamp? Forcing the ingenious heirs of Asclepius to invent new names for your conditions — things like "flatulence" and "catarrh" — isn't that disgraceful too?

Yes, he said, those really are strange and ridiculous names for diseases.

The kind of names, I'd say, that didn't exist in Asclepius' day. Here's my evidence: in Homer, the hero Eurypylus, after being wounded, drinks a brew of Pramnian wine heavily sprinkled with barley meal and grated cheese — which is definitely inflammatory. Yet the sons of Asclepius at Troy don't scold the woman who gives him the drink, and they don't criticize Patroclus for treating the case this way.

That was certainly an extraordinary drink for a wounded man, he said.

Not so extraordinary, I replied, if you keep in mind that in the old days — before Herodicus — the medical profession didn't practice the kind of medicine we have now, which essentially coddles diseases along. Herodicus was a physical trainer with a sickly constitution. He figured out how to combine training regimens with medical treatment, and in doing so he invented a way to torture first himself, and then everyone else.

How so? he said.

He invented the art of dying slowly. He had a terminal illness that he constantly nursed along. Since recovery was out of the question, he spent his entire life as an invalid — unable to do anything except attend to his own body, in constant misery whenever he strayed the slightest bit from his routine. Through the wonders of medical science, he managed to drag his death out all the way to old age.

What a wonderful reward for his skill! he said.

Exactly the reward you'd expect, I said, for a man who never understood this: the reason Asclepius didn't teach his descendants these prolonged-care techniques wasn't ignorance or lack of experience. It was because he knew that in any well-run society, every person has a job to do and doesn't have the luxury of spending their whole life being sick. We can see this clearly with working people — but absurdly, we don't apply the same principle to the wealthy.

What do you mean? he said.

I mean this. When a carpenter gets sick, he asks the doctor for a quick, no-nonsense cure — an emetic, a laxative, cauterization, or surgery. Those are his remedies. If someone prescribes a long course of special diets and tells him to wrap up his head and lie around, he says right away that he doesn't have time to be sick and sees no point in a life spent nursing a disease instead of doing his work. He thanks the doctor, goes back to his regular life, and either gets better and carries on, or his body gives out and he dies. Either way, he's done with it.

Yes, he said, and for a man in his position, that's the right way to use medicine.

Because he has work to do, I said. What would his life be worth without it?

Exactly, he said.

But we don't say that about the rich man. He supposedly has nothing he needs to do.

That's the common assumption.

Then you've never heard the saying of Phocylides: "Once a man has a livelihood, he should practice virtue"?

Actually, he said, I think he should start somewhat sooner than that.

Let's not argue with Phocylides about it. Let's ask ourselves instead: is practicing virtue mandatory for the rich, or can they get by without it? And if it is mandatory, then doesn't this obsessive attention to health — which interferes even with a carpenter's ability to do his job — equally interfere with the practice of virtue?

Without a doubt, he replied. This excessive focus on the body, when carried beyond the basics of physical training, is absolutely hostile to the practice of virtue.

Exactly, I replied. And it's equally incompatible with managing a household, commanding an army, or holding public office. And what's most important of all, it's incompatible with any kind of study, thought, or self-reflection. You're always imagining you have a headache, always suspecting that philosophy is making you dizzy. Wherever this obsession takes hold, it completely blocks the practice and testing of virtue in the highest sense. A person is perpetually worried about their body.

That's very likely, he said.

So we can assume that our wise Asclepius only used his healing art on people who were basically healthy in constitution and habits but happened to have a specific illness. He cured these people with medicines and surgery and told them to go on living normally — because that served the interests of the state. But people whose bodies were thoroughly diseased? He wouldn't have attempted to cure them through long, drawn-out treatments of draining and refilling. He didn't want to prolong worthless lives or have weak fathers producing weaker sons. If someone couldn't live and function normally, Asclepius saw no point in treating them. Such a cure would be useless — both to the patient and to the state.

So you see Asclepius as a statesman, he said.

Obviously. And his sons confirm it. Remember, they were heroes at Troy, and they practiced medicine exactly the way I'm describing. When Pandarus wounded Menelaus, they

"Sucked the blood from the wound and sprinkled soothing remedies" —

but they never prescribed what Menelaus should eat or drink afterward, any more than they did for Eurypylus. The remedies were enough to heal anyone who was healthy and disciplined before being wounded — even if he happened to drink a bowl of Pramnian wine right after. But they wanted nothing to do with unhealthy, undisciplined patients whose lives were useless to themselves or anyone else. The art of medicine wasn't designed for them. Even if they'd been as rich as Midas, the sons of Asclepius would have refused to treat them.

They were very sharp, those sons of Asclepius, he said.

Naturally, I replied. But the tragedians and Pindar disagree with us. They admit Asclepius was the son of Apollo, but they also say he was bribed to heal a rich man who was dying, and that's why he was struck by lightning. But we — consistent with our earlier principles — won't believe both claims at once. If he was a god's son, he wasn't greedy. If he was greedy, he wasn't a god's son.

That all makes perfect sense, Socrates. But let me ask you something: don't we need good physicians in a state? And aren't the best doctors the ones who've treated the widest range of patients, healthy and unhealthy alike? And similarly, aren't the best judges the ones who've had experience with every kind of character?

Yes, I said, I want both good judges and good physicians. But do you know what I consider "good"?

Tell me.

I will. But notice that you're lumping together two very different things in the same question.

How so? he asked.

The best physicians, I said, are the ones who've had the most experience with disease — and ideally, they should have suffered from illnesses themselves, starting in youth. They don't heal the body with the body. If they did, we could never let them get sick. They heal the body with the mind. And a sick mind can't heal anything.

That's very true, he said.

But with judges, it's the opposite. A judge governs mind with mind. So a judge shouldn't have been raised among wicked people, immersed in every kind of crime from youth, just so they can quickly spot the crimes of others the way they'd spot their own diseases. No. An honorable mind that's going to form sound judgments should have no experience of evil habits in its youth. That's why good people, when they're young, often seem naive. They're easily taken in by dishonest people, because they have no model of evil in their own souls to compare against.

Yes, he said, they're far too easily deceived.

Exactly. That's why a judge shouldn't be young. They should have learned to recognize evil not from their own soul but from long observation of it in others. Knowledge should be their guide — not personal experience.

Yes, he said, that's the ideal judge.

Yes, I replied, and they'll be a good person too — which answers your original question. A person with a good soul is good. But that clever, suspicious character — the one who's committed crimes themselves and thinks they're a master of wickedness — seems brilliant when dealing with people like themselves. They take impressive precautions, because they judge others by their own standards. But put them in the company of virtuous people with the experience of age, and they look foolish. They're suspicious at all the wrong moments, because they have no internal pattern of honesty. Yet because bad people outnumber good ones and they encounter bad people more often, they think of themselves — and are thought by others to be — quite wise rather than foolish.

Very true, he said.

So the good and wise judge we're looking for isn't the criminal type. It's the other kind. Because vice can't understand virtue. But a virtuous nature, educated over time, will come to understand both virtue and vice. The wise person is the virtuous one — not the vicious one. That's my view.

And mine too, he said.

This is the kind of medicine and the kind of law you'll establish in your state. They'll serve the better natures, giving health to both soul and body. But those who are physically beyond help will be left to die. And those whose souls are corrupt and incurable — those they'll put to death themselves.

That's clearly the best outcome both for the patients and for the state.

And our young people, having been educated in that simple art form that inspires self-discipline, will be reluctant to go to court.

Right.

And the person schooled in the arts who follows the same path into simple physical training will have no use for medicine except in extreme emergencies.

I completely believe that.

The whole point of their exercises and physical hardships is to stimulate the spirited part of their nature, not to build up muscle mass. They're not like ordinary athletes, who eat and train just to get bigger.

Very right, he said.

And here's a crucial insight: the arts and physical training aren't really designed — as most people think — one for the soul and the other for the body.

Then what are they really for?

I believe, I said, that the teachers of both subjects mainly have in mind the improvement of the soul.

How can that be? he asked.

Have you ever noticed, I said, the effect on someone's mind when they're devoted entirely to physical training? Or the opposite effect when they're devoted entirely to the arts?

What effects? he said.

Excessive physical training produces a character that's hard and fierce. Excessive devotion to the arts produces one that's soft and weak.

Yes, he said, I'm well aware that pure athletes turn into brutes, while pure aesthetes are melted and softened more than is good for them.

Now, I said, that fierceness comes from the spirited element. When properly educated, it produces courage. But when overstimulated, it becomes hard and brutal.

I agree.

On the other hand, the philosophical temperament has a natural gentleness. When indulged too much, this becomes excessive softness. But when properly educated, it becomes genuine gentleness and moderation.

True.

We said our guardians need both qualities.

Yes.

And the two should be in harmony.

Absolutely.

A harmonious soul is both disciplined and courageous.

Yes.

An unharmonious soul is either cowardly or brutish.

Yes.

Now picture this: when someone gives themselves over entirely to the arts — when they let music pour through their ears day after day, those sweet and soft and melancholy tunes we were talking about, and they spend their whole life singing and humming — at first, their spirited element is tempered like iron in a forge. It becomes useful instead of brittle. But if they keep going, if they don't stop softening and soothing it, eventually they start melting it down. They dissolve their spirit and cut the sinews out of their soul, until they become a feeble warrior.

And if their spirit was naturally weak to begin with, this happens quickly. But if they had plenty of spirit to start with, the music weakens it and makes them volatile. The smallest thing sets them off. They flare up instantly and then burn out just as fast. Instead of having real spirit, they become irritable and touchy and impossible to deal with.

Now flip it around. Suppose someone does nothing but intense physical training — eats enormously, never touches the arts. At first, the high condition of their body fills them with pride and energy. They feel twice the person they used to be.

And then what? If they do nothing else — if they never have any contact with the arts, if not even a spark of curiosity or learning or thought or culture ever reaches them — then whatever intelligence they might have had grows weak and dull and blind. Their mind never wakes up. It never gets nourished. Their senses are never cleared of their fog.

True, he said.

They end up hating philosophy, uncivilized, never using the weapon of persuasion. They're like a wild animal — all violence and aggression, knowing no other way. They live in ignorance and squalor, with no sense of grace or decency.

That's exactly right, he said.

So it seems there are two fundamental principles in human nature — let's call them the spirited and the philosophical. And some god, I'd say, has given humanity two corresponding arts — not really for the body and soul separately, but for these two principles. The arts and physical training are meant to tune these two principles like the strings of an instrument, tightening or relaxing each until they're in proper harmony with each other.

That seems to be the idea.

And the person who blends the arts and physical training in the finest proportions, tempering them perfectly together in the soul — that person deserves to be called the true musician and the master of harmony, in a far deeper sense than someone who merely tunes the strings of a lyre.

You're quite right, Socrates.

And we'll always need someone like that in our state, if our system of government is going to last.

Yes — absolutely essential.

So those are our principles of nurture and education. Why go into detail about our citizens' dances, their hunting and field sports, their athletic and equestrian competitions? All of these follow naturally from the general principles we've established. Once you have the principles, the details aren't hard to work out.

I'm sure they won't be, he said.

Very good, I said. Then what's the next question? We need to decide who will rule and who will be ruled.

Clearly.

The older must rule the younger. That's obvious.

Yes.

And the best of the older must rule.

That's clear too.

The best farmers are the ones who are most devoted to farming, aren't they?

Yes.

And since we need the best possible guardians for our city, they must be the ones who are most devoted to guarding it?

Yes.

For that, they need to be wise and capable, and they need to genuinely care about the state.

Right.

And you care most about what you love, don't you?

Of course.

And you love most what you believe shares your interests — what you believe will do well when you do well and suffer when you suffer.

Exactly, he replied.

Then we need to select from among the guardians those who, throughout their entire lives, show the greatest determination to do what's good for the city, and the greatest unwillingness to do anything against its interests.

Those are the right people.

And they'll need to be tested at every stage of life, to make sure they hold onto this conviction and never — through force or manipulation — abandon their sense of duty to the state.

What do you mean by "abandon"? he said.

Let me explain. A person can lose a conviction in two ways: willingly or unwillingly. Willingly, when they discover they were wrong and learn something better. Unwillingly, when the truth is taken from them.

I understand the willing kind, he said. But the unwilling — I need to hear more about that.

Don't you see, I said, that people are unwillingly deprived of good things, but willingly let go of bad ones? And isn't being wrong about the truth a bad thing, while knowing the truth is good? So to think things are as they really are — that's to possess the truth.

Yes, he replied. I agree that people lose the truth against their will.

And isn't this involuntary loss caused by either theft, force, or enchantment?

I still don't understand, he said.

I'm afraid I'm being obscure, like the tragedians. By "theft" I mean that some people have their opinions slowly stolen from them — argument chips away at one group, and time erodes the other — without their realizing it. You get the idea?

Yes.

By "force" I mean people who change their minds because some pain or grief compels them to.

I understand that, he said. You're right.

And by "enchantment" I mean those who change their minds under the influence of either pleasure, which seduces them, or fear, which intimidates them.

Yes, he said. Everything that deceives could be called a kind of enchantment.

So, as I was saying, we need to find out who are the best guardians of their own conviction that the good of the state should be the guiding principle of their lives. We have to watch them from their youth and put them through tests designed to make them forget or be tricked into abandoning this conviction. The one who remembers, who isn't fooled — they're our pick. The one who fails — rejected. That's the method.

Yes.

There should also be physical hardships and suffering and competitive struggles, in which they'll have to prove the same qualities.

Absolutely, he replied.

And then, I said, we need to test them with enchantments — the third kind of trial. Just as people lead young horses into noise and confusion to see if they're easily spooked, we have to lead our young people through frightening situations and then through pleasurable ones. We have to test them more thoroughly than gold is tested in a furnace. If someone proves resistant to every kind of enchantment, if they carry themselves with nobility throughout, if they remain good guardians of themselves and of the education they've received — maintaining rhythm and harmony under every circumstance — then that person will be the most valuable asset both to themselves and to the state.

Whoever passes these tests at every age — as a child, as a teenager, as an adult — and emerges pure and proven, that person shall be appointed ruler and guardian of the state. They'll be honored in life and in death, and receive the most distinguished burial and memorials we can give. But anyone who fails — we reject them.

That's roughly how I think our rulers and guardians should be chosen and appointed. I'm speaking in general terms here, not with any claim to precision.

And speaking generally, I agree with you, he said.

In fact, it might be most accurate to call only this highest class "guardians" in the full sense — the ones who protect us against both foreign enemies and internal disorder, making sure no one inside has the desire, and no one outside has the power, to harm us. The younger ones we've been calling "guardians" up until now might be more properly called auxiliaries — supporters who enforce the decisions of the rulers.

I agree, he said.

Now then — how might we contrive one of those useful falsehoods we were talking about earlier? Just one magnificent lie that could, ideally, convince even the rulers themselves, or if not them, at least the rest of the city?

What kind of lie? he said.

Nothing new. Just an old Phoenician story — something the poets say has happened many times before in other places. Whether people believed it, who knows. It certainly hasn't happened in our time, and I'm not sure it could. It would take a lot of persuading.

You seem to be hesitating, he said.

You won't be surprised when you hear what I'm about to say, I replied.

Just say it. Don't be afraid.

All right, here goes — though I honestly don't know how to look you in the face or find the right words for this audacious fiction. I'll try to communicate it gradually. First to the rulers, then to the soldiers, then to the rest of the population.

Here's the story they'll be told: their youth was a dream. All the education and training we gave them — it only seemed to happen. In reality, the whole time they were being formed and nurtured in the womb of the earth. They themselves, their weapons, all their equipment — everything was crafted down there. When they were complete, the earth, their mother, sent them up to the surface. And so they're bound to care for their country as their mother and nurse, to defend her against attacks, and to regard their fellow citizens as brothers and sisters — children of the same earth.

You had good reason to be embarrassed about telling that lie, he said.

Yes, but there's more — I've only told you half.

"Citizens," we'll say to them in our tale, "you are all brothers and sisters. But the god who made you mixed different metals into your composition. Some of you have gold in your nature — these are fit to rule, and they'll be honored the most. Others have silver — these will be auxiliaries. Still others are made of bronze and iron — they'll be farmers and craftsmen. Generally, children will be made of the same metal as their parents. But since you all spring from the same source, a golden parent may sometimes have a silver child, or a silver parent a golden one.

"And the god commands the rulers — commands it above all else — that there is nothing they must guard more carefully than the mixture of metals in the children. If a child of gold or silver has bronze or iron mixed in, the rulers must not feel sorry for them. They must demote them to the rank of farmer or craftsman, as nature demands. And if children of craftsmen are born with gold or silver in them, those children must be raised to the rank of guardian or auxiliary. For there is a prophecy that the state will be destroyed when it is guarded by a man of bronze or iron."

That's the story. Is there any way we could make our citizens believe it?

Not the current generation, he replied. There's no way to pull that off. But their children might believe it. And their children's children. And eventually all the generations that follow.

I see the difficulty, I replied. Still, fostering this kind of belief would make people care more about the city and about each other. But enough — let's let this myth fly on the wings of rumor and move on.

Now let's arm our earth-born heroes and march them out under their rulers' command. Let them survey the land and pick the best spot — a place from which they can put down any rebellion within and defend against any enemy from outside. There let them make camp, and when they've settled in, let them sacrifice to the appropriate gods and set up their quarters.

Just so, he said.

And their quarters should protect them from winter cold and summer heat.

I suppose you mean houses, he replied.

Yes — but soldiers' houses, not shopkeepers'.

What's the difference? he said.

I'll try to explain. Imagine a shepherd who keeps watchdogs, but the dogs — through lack of training, or hunger, or some bad habit — turn on the sheep and attack them. They start acting like wolves instead of dogs. Wouldn't that be monstrous?

Absolutely monstrous, he said.

Then we need to take every precaution to make sure our auxiliaries — who are stronger than the citizens — don't turn into savage tyrants instead of being their friends and allies.

Yes, we should be very careful about that.

And wouldn't a truly good education be the best safeguard?

But they're already well educated, he said.

I can't be so sure about that, my dear Glaucon. What I am sure of is that they need to be properly educated, and that true education — whatever it turns out to be — will do the most to civilize them in their dealings with each other and with those they protect.

Very true, he replied.

And besides their education, any person of sense would agree that their living arrangements and possessions should be designed so as not to undermine their virtue as guardians or tempt them to prey on the other citizens.

Absolutely.

Then let's consider what their way of life should be, if they're going to live up to our vision.

First, none of them should own any private property beyond the bare minimum. They shouldn't have private houses or storerooms that anyone is barred from entering. Their food should be only what trained warriors — men of discipline and courage — need, nothing more. They should receive a set salary from the citizens, calculated to cover a year's expenses with nothing left over. They'll eat together in common mess halls and live communally, like soldiers in camp.

As for gold and silver — we'll tell them they already carry the divine metals inside them. The gods placed those metals in their souls, and they have no need for the human kind. It would be sacrilege to contaminate the divine gold within them by handling the mortal gold that circulates among ordinary people. That common metal has been the cause of countless unholy acts. Their own metal is pure. They alone, of all the citizens, are forbidden to touch or handle silver or gold, to live under the same roof with it, to wear it, or to drink from vessels made of it.

This will be their salvation. And they will be the salvation of the state.

But the moment they acquire private houses, land, or money, they'll stop being guardians and start being landlords and farmers. Instead of allies of their fellow citizens, they'll become enemies and tyrants. Hating and being hated, plotting and being plotted against, they'll spend their lives in far greater fear of enemies within than enemies without. And at that point, ruin — for themselves and for the state — will be just around the corner.

For all these reasons, then — isn't this how our state should be organized? Aren't these the right regulations for our guardians regarding their housing and everything else?

Yes, said Glaucon.

Republic — Book IV

At this point Adeimantus jumped in with an objection. "How would you respond, Socrates," he said, "if someone said you're making these guardians miserable? And that it's their own fault, too? The city technically belongs to them, but they get nothing out of it. Other people buy land, build big beautiful houses, furnish them with the finest things, make their own private sacrifices to the gods, entertain guests — and on top of that, as you just mentioned, they have gold and silver and everything else that's supposed to make a person happy. But your guardians? They're basically soldiers quartered in the city, standing watch like hired mercenaries."

Yes, I said — and you can add that they only get their meals, with no salary on top. They can't even take a vacation if they wanted to. They've got no money for a mistress or any other luxury that most people consider the whole point of being alive. You could pile on plenty of other charges like that.

"Right," he said. "Let's assume all of that's included in the objection."

You're asking what our answer would be?

If we stick to our original path, I said, I think we'll find the answer. Our response would be this: even as things stand, our guardians might very well be the happiest people alive. But that's not actually the point. We didn't build this city to make any one group disproportionately happy. We built it for the greatest happiness of the whole. We figured that in a city organized for the good of everyone, we'd be most likely to find justice — and in a badly organized city, injustice. Once we found them, we could decide which life is really happier. Right now, we're designing the happy city as a whole, not piece by piece, not to make a handful of people blissful.

In a minute, we'll look at the opposite kind of city. But here's an analogy. Imagine we were painting a statue, and someone came up and said: "Why aren't you using the most beautiful colors on the most beautiful parts? The eyes should be purple, but you've painted them black!" We'd have a perfectly fair answer: "Sir, you wouldn't want us to beautify the eyes to the point where they're no longer recognizable as eyes. We're trying to give each feature its proper proportion so the whole thing is beautiful."

Same principle here. Don't force us to attach some kind of happiness to the guardians that would make them anything but guardians. We could dress our farmers in royal robes, put gold crowns on their heads, and tell them to work the land only when they feel like it. We could let our potters lounge on couches, feast by the fire, pass the wine around, and keep the potter's wheel handy for whenever the mood strikes. We could make every class "happy" that way — and then, as you imagine, the whole city would be happy. But don't put that idea in our heads.

Because if we listen to you, the farmer won't really be a farmer anymore. The potter won't be a potter. Nobody will have a distinct role in the city. Now, when it comes to cobblers pretending to be something they're not, the damage is limited. But when the guardians of the laws and the government are only pretending to be guardians — when they're fake — watch how fast they turn the whole city upside down. They alone have the power to give the city order and happiness. We want our guardians to be genuine protectors, not destroyers of the city. Your objector is thinking of peasants at a festival having a great time, not citizens doing their duty. If that's what he means by happiness, we're talking about two completely different things — and what he's describing isn't really a city at all.

So here's the question we need to ask: when we appoint our guardians, should we maximize their individual happiness? Or does happiness belong to the city as a whole? If it's the latter — and it is — then guardians, auxiliaries, and everyone else must be encouraged to do their own work as well as they possibly can. The whole city will grow up in good order, and each class will receive the share of happiness that nature assigns to them.

"I think you're absolutely right," he said.

I wonder, I said, if you'll agree with something else that occurs to me.

"What's that?"

There seem to be two things that ruin the quality of any craft.

"What are they?"

Wealth, I said, and poverty.

"How so?"

Here's how it works. When a potter gets rich, do you think he'll keep putting the same care into his work?

"Definitely not."

He gets lazier and more careless?

"Yes."

And the result is he becomes a worse potter?

"Much worse."

But on the other hand, if he's so poor he can't afford the right tools and materials, his work suffers too. And he won't be able to train his sons or apprentices properly either.

"Certainly not."

So whether it's wealth or poverty, workers and their work both deteriorate?

"That's clear."

Here, then, I said, are new dangers for our guardians to watch out for — they'll creep into the city if no one's paying attention.

"What dangers?"

Wealth and poverty. One breeds luxury and laziness, the other breeds desperation and bad character, and both breed discontent.

"Very true," he replied. "But I still want to know, Socrates — how is our city going to fight a war? Especially against a rich and powerful enemy, when we've stripped ourselves of the sinews of war?"

There'd certainly be a problem fighting one such enemy, I replied. But what if there are two of them?

"How do you mean?" he asked.

First of all, I said, if it comes to a fight, our side will be trained warriors going up against an army of rich men.

"True," he said.

And Adeimantus — don't you think a single boxer who's perfected his craft could easily handle two well-fed gentlemen who've never trained?

"Hmm, not if they both came at him at once."

What if he could fall back, then turn and hit whichever one caught up first? And suppose he kept doing this in the blazing sun — couldn't an expert fighter take down more than one of these hefty amateurs?

"Sure," he said. "That wouldn't be surprising at all."

And rich men probably have an even bigger advantage in boxing technique than they do in actual military skill.

"Probably."

So we can assume our trained athletes could hold their own against enemies two or three times their number?

"I agree — I think you're right."

And here's another thought. Suppose that before engaging, our citizens send ambassadors to one of the two enemy cities with this message: "We have no gold or silver and we're not allowed to have any. But you do. So come fight on our side, and you can keep all the spoils from the other city." Who would choose to fight against lean, tough, battle-ready dogs when they could fight alongside those dogs against fat, tender sheep?

"Not likely anyone would," he said. "But there might be a danger — what if the wealth of many cities got concentrated into one? That could be a threat to our poor city."

How naive of you to call any of these other places a "city"!

"What do you mean?"

You should call them "cities," not "city" — plural, not singular. Because every one of them, no matter how small, is really divided into two: the city of the rich and the city of the poor. These two are at war with each other. And within each, there are even more factions. If you treat them as one unified force, you're completely missing the point. But if you play them as many — offering the wealth or power or people of one faction to the others — you'll always have plenty of allies and very few real enemies.

And our city, as long as it maintains the wise order we've established, will be the greatest of all cities. I don't mean in reputation or appearance, but in actual strength and truth — even if it has no more than a thousand defenders. You'll struggle to find a single city that's truly its equal, among Greeks or foreigners, though many will look as big or bigger.

"That's absolutely true," he said.

And what, I said, should be the best limit our rulers set for the city's size and territory? Beyond what point should they not expand?

"What limit would you suggest?"

I'd let the city grow only so far as it can remain unified. That, I think, is the right limit.

"Very good," he said.

So here's another directive for our guardians: keep the city neither too large nor too small, but one and self-sufficient.

"That's not such a difficult order," he said.

And here's one that's even easier, I said — something we mentioned before: the duty of moving the children of guardians down to a lower class when they're inferior, and promoting talented children from the lower classes up to the guardian ranks. The whole point is that each individual should be put to the work nature intended for them — one person, one job. That way each person is truly one and not many, and the whole city is one, not many.

"Yes," he said, "that's not so hard."

The rules we're laying down, my good Adeimantus, aren't really the great principles they might seem. They're all trifles — as long as you take care of the one thing that really matters. Though "great" might be the wrong word. Let's call it "sufficient."

"What would that be?" he asked.

Education, I said, and upbringing. If our citizens are well educated and grow into sensible people, they'll easily figure out all of these issues — and others I'm leaving out, like marriage, family life, and having children. These will all follow the general principle that friends hold all things in common, as the saying goes.

"That would be the best way to handle it."

Also, I said, a city that gets started on the right foot builds momentum like a wheel. Good upbringing and education produce good character, and good character, rooted in good education, produces even better results over time — the same way good breeding works in animals.

"Very possibly," he said.

So to sum up: this is the point our rulers must focus on above all else — that education in both the arts and physical training stays intact and doesn't get corrupted. They have to guard it with everything they've got. And when someone comes along quoting the poet —

"People always want the newest song the singers have to offer" —

they need to be careful. The worry isn't new songs but a new kind of song — a fundamental change in style. That kind of thing should never be praised or tolerated. Because any radical change in the style of music is full of danger to the entire city and should be prohibited. Damon says so, and I believe him completely. He says that when the style of music changes, the fundamental laws of the state always change with them.

"Yes," said Adeimantus. "You can add my vote to Damon's and yours."

Then our guardians, I said, must build the foundation of their fortress in music and the arts?

"Yes," he said. "The kind of cultural decay you're talking about creeps in so easily."

Yes, I replied — disguised as harmless entertainment. At first it seems completely innocent.

"Right," he said. "And it is innocent — except that little by little, this spirit of anything-goes finds a home. It seeps imperceptibly into habits and customs. From there it pushes outward, with greater force, into business dealings and contracts. From contracts it invades laws and constitutions, with complete recklessness, until finally, Socrates, it overthrows everything — public rights and private alike."

Is that really how it works? I said.

"That's what I believe," he replied.

Then, as I was saying, our young people need to be trained from the start in a more disciplined system. If their entertainment becomes lawless, and the young people themselves become lawless, they can never grow into responsible, virtuous citizens.

"Very true," he said.

And when they've made a good beginning in play, and through the arts have developed a habit of order — then this habit of order, so different from the chaotic play of others, will accompany them in everything they do. It becomes a principle of growth, and if anything in the city has fallen into disrepair, it raises it back up.

"Very true," he said.

When people are educated this way, they'll figure out the minor rules for themselves — the ones their predecessors completely neglected.

"What do you mean?"

I mean things like: when young people should be quiet around their elders, how to show respect by standing up for them, how to treat parents, what clothes to wear, how to style their hair, general conduct and manners. You'd agree?

"Yes."

But I don't think there's much point in legislating about this sort of thing. I doubt it's ever done effectively. Precise written rules about behavior rarely last.

"Impossible."

It seems, Adeimantus, that the direction education sends a person in determines the course of their whole life. Like attracts like, doesn't it?

"Absolutely."

Until eventually some final, decisive result is reached — which may be good, or may be the opposite of good.

"That can't be denied."

And that's why, I said, I won't attempt to legislate further on these matters.

"Naturally."

And what about the marketplace? The everyday dealings between people? Contracts with craftsmen? Cases of insult and injury? Filing lawsuits, appointing juries? And then there are things like market dues, harbor fees, and all the regulations for markets, policing, harbors, and so on. Good heavens — should we really stoop to legislating about every one of these details?

"I don't think so," he said. "Good people don't need these laws imposed on them. They'll figure out what rules they need on their own."

Yes, I said, my friend — if God preserves for them the laws we've already given them.

"And without divine help," said Adeimantus, "they'll go on forever making and revising their laws and their lives, always hoping they'll finally get it right."

You'd compare them, I said, to those invalids who have no self-control and refuse to give up their unhealthy habits?

Yes, I said — and what a delightful life they lead! They're always visiting doctors, making their ailments worse, and convinced they'll be cured by whatever remedy someone recommends.

"These cases are very common," he said, "with that kind of patient."

Yes, I replied. And the charming part is that they consider their worst enemy the person who tells them the truth — which is simply that unless they stop overeating and overdrinking and being lazy and indulgent, no drug, no surgery, no spell, no magic charm, no remedy of any kind will do them any good.

"Charming!" he replied. "I see nothing charming about getting furious at someone who tells you the truth."

These people, I said, don't seem to be in your good graces.

"Not at all."

And you wouldn't praise cities that act the same way? Because aren't there badly governed cities where the citizens are forbidden, under pain of death, to change the constitution — and yet whoever most sweetly flatters the people living under that regime, whoever indulges them and fawns on them and is cleverly skilled at anticipating and gratifying their whims, is hailed as a great statesman? Don't these cities look a lot like the patients I was just describing?

"Yes," he said. "They're just as bad. And I'm very far from praising them."

But don't you admire, I said, the sheer nerve and skill of these eager ministers of political corruption?

"I do," he said. "But not all of them. Some of them have been so swollen by public applause that they actually believe they're real statesmen. Those ones aren't much to admire."

What do you mean? I said. Have some sympathy for them. When a man can't measure, and a whole crowd of people who also can't measure tell him he's four cubits tall — how can he help believing them?

"Ha, no," he said. "Certainly not in that case."

Well then, don't be angry with them. They're as good as a comedy show — constantly tinkering with petty reforms like the ones I was describing, always convinced their legislation will put an end to fraud and cheating — not realizing they're cutting off the heads of a hydra.

"Yes," he said. "That's exactly what they're doing."

It seems to me, I said, that a true lawgiver won't bother with this kind of legislation — whether in a well-governed city or a badly governed one. In a bad city, these laws are useless. In a good city, they're unnecessary — most of them will flow naturally from our earlier arrangements.

"What, then," he said, "is left for us to do in the way of legislation?"

Nothing for us, I replied. But for Apollo, the god of Delphi, there remain the greatest, noblest, and most important matters of all.

"Which are those?"

The founding of temples and sacrifices, the whole system of worshipping gods, demigods, and heroes — and also the proper treatment of the dead, the rites we need to observe to keep the powers of the underworld on our side. These are things we don't understand ourselves, and as founders of a city, we'd be foolish to trust anyone but our ancestral god. He's the god who sits at the center of the earth, at its navel, and he interprets religion for all of humanity.

"You're right," he said. "We'll do as you suggest."

So then, son of Ariston — where, in the middle of all this, is justice? Now that we've made the city livable, light a candle and search. Get your brother and Polemarchus and the rest of our friends to help. Let's see if we can find justice somewhere in this city, and injustice too. Let's see how they differ from each other, and which one a person who wants to be happy should choose — whether gods and humans are watching or not.

"Nonsense," said Glaucon. "Didn't you promise to search for it yourself? You said it would be impious for you to abandon justice when she needs help."

I don't deny I said that, and since you're reminding me, I'll keep my word. But you have to join in.

"We will," he replied.

Good. I think we can find it this way. I'm going to start with the assumption that if our city is rightly ordered, it's perfectly good.

"That's certain."

And if it's perfectly good, it must be wise, courageous, temperate, and just.

"Clearly."

So whichever of these four virtues we find in the city, the ones we haven't found yet will be whatever's left over.

"Right."

It's like searching for one thing out of four. If you spot it right away, great — you're done. But if you identify the other three first, then the fourth must be whatever remains.

"Very true," he said.

And can't we apply the same method to these four virtues?

"Sure."

The first one that comes into view is wisdom. And I notice something peculiar about it.

"What's that?"

The city we've been building would be called wise because it has good judgment, wouldn't it?

"Yes."

And good judgment is clearly a form of knowledge. People don't make good decisions out of ignorance — they make them out of knowledge.

"Clearly."

But there are many kinds of knowledge in a city. There's the carpenter's knowledge — does that make the city wise?

"Of course not. That would only give it a reputation for good carpentry."

So a city shouldn't be called wise just because it has expertise in building wooden things?

"Certainly not."

Or bronze pots? Or any other specialized craft?

"None of them," he said.

And not farming either — that would just give it a name for agriculture?

"Right."

So here's the question, I said: Is there any knowledge in our newly founded city — held by any of the citizens — that doesn't just deal with one particular thing, but with the city as a whole? A knowledge that considers how the city can best manage its internal affairs and its relations with other cities?

"There certainly is."

And what is this knowledge? Who has it?

"It's the knowledge of the guardians," he replied. "The ones we were just describing as perfect guardians."

And what name does the city earn from having this kind of knowledge?

"The name of being wise and good in judgment."

And will our city have more of these true guardians or more blacksmiths?

"Far more blacksmiths," he replied.

In fact, won't the guardians be the smallest of all the classes that are identified by their particular expertise?

"By far the smallest."

So it's because of its smallest part — the knowledge that resides in the ruling and guiding class — that the entire city, constituted according to nature, will be wise. And this class, which alone possesses the knowledge worthy of being called wisdom, is naturally the smallest of all.

And that, I said, is how we've somehow discovered one of our four virtues — both what it is and where it resides in the city.

"And in my opinion," he replied, "it's been discovered quite satisfactorily."

Now, I said, there's no great difficulty in seeing courage — what it is and which part of the city gives it the name "courageous."

"How do you mean?"

Anyone who calls a city courageous or cowardly, I said, is thinking about the part that fights and goes to war on the city's behalf.

"No one," he replied, "would think of any other part."

The rest of the citizens might be brave or cowardly individually, but their personal courage or cowardice doesn't determine whether the city itself is one or the other.

"Certainly not."

The city is courageous because of a particular part of itself — the part that preserves, through every circumstance, the right beliefs about what should and shouldn't be feared. These beliefs were instilled through the education our lawgiver prescribed. And that's what I'd call courage.

"I'd like to hear that again," he said. "I'm not sure I fully understood."

I mean that courage is a kind of preservation.

"Preservation of what?"

Of the belief — taught through education under law — about what things are genuinely dangerous and what aren't. By "through every circumstance," I mean that a person holds on to this belief and doesn't lose it — not in the face of pleasure, not in pain, not under the influence of desire, and not when gripped by fear. Want me to give you an analogy?

"Please."

You know how dyers work, I said. When they want to dye wool a true sea-purple, they start by carefully selecting white wool. Then they go through an elaborate process of preparing and treating it so that the white will absorb the purple dye as deeply as possible. Once the wool is dyed this way, the color is permanent — no amount of washing, with harsh chemicals or without, can remove it. But when the wool hasn't been properly prepared? You know what happens — the color looks washed-out and ridiculous.

"Yes," he said. "I know that washed-out, pathetic look."

Now, I said, imagine that something similar is what we were doing when we selected our soldiers and educated them in music and physical training. We were designing a process to prepare them to absorb the dye of the laws as deeply as possible. We wanted their beliefs about what's dangerous — and every other belief — to become colorfast, so deeply set that nothing could wash them out. Not pleasure — which is a far more powerful solvent than any chemical. Not sorrow. Not fear. Not desire — the strongest solvents of all.

This power — this ability to preserve the true, law-given belief about what is and isn't really dangerous, through everything life throws at you — that's what I call courage. Unless you disagree?

"I don't disagree at all," he replied. "Because I think you mean to exclude the kind of uninstructed courage you find in animals or slaves — the sort that hasn't been shaped by education. That, in your view, isn't true courage, and it deserves a different name."

Exactly right.

"Then I accept your account of courage?"

Yes, I said — accept it as an account of civic courage, and you won't be far wrong. We can examine it more closely later if you like. Right now we're not hunting for courage — we're hunting for justice. And for that purpose, I think we've said enough about courage.

"Fair enough," he replied.

Two virtues are left to find in the city: temperance, and then justice — the one we're really after.

Now, can we find justice without dealing with temperance first?

"I don't know how we could," he said. "And I wouldn't want justice to come to light only at the cost of losing sight of temperance. So please — do temperance first."

Certainly, I replied. It would be wrong to refuse.

"Then let's hear it," he said.

All right. As far as I can see, temperance is more like a harmony or a symphony than the previous two virtues.

"How so?"

Temperance, I replied, is the ordering and controlling of certain pleasures and desires. That's curiously suggested by the expression "being master of yourself" — and you can find traces of the same idea throughout our language.

"True," he said.

But there's something funny about the phrase "master of yourself." The master is also the servant, and the servant is the master. The same person is on both sides.

"Right."

What the expression really means, I think, is this: within the human soul, there's a better part and a worse part. When the better part has the worse part under control, we say the person is "master of themselves" — and we mean it as praise. But when bad education or bad company lets the worse part — which is larger — overwhelm the better part — which is smaller — then we criticize the person and call them a "slave to themselves," undisciplined.

"That makes sense," he said.

Now look at our newly built city, I said. You'll find that it can rightly be called master of itself — if "temperance" and "self-mastery" mean the rule of the better part over the worse.

"Yes," he said, "I see that's true."

Let me also point out that the wild, uncontrolled pleasures and desires are generally found in children, women, slaves, and the lower, more numerous class of so-called free people.

"Certainly," he said.

Whereas the simple, moderate desires — the ones guided by reason, intelligence, and good judgment — are found only in a few people: the best born and best educated.

"True."

And both of these groups exist in our city. The unruly desires of the many are kept in check by the wisdom and disciplined desires of the few.

"I see that," he said.

So if any city deserves to be called master of its own pleasures and desires — master of itself — it's ours?

"Certainly," he replied.

And it can also be called temperate, for the same reasons?

"Yes."

And if there's any city where rulers and subjects agree on who should rule, that's our city too?

"Without a doubt."

And since this agreement exists, in which class does temperance reside? In the rulers or the subjects?

"In both, I'd say," he replied.

You see? We weren't far off when we guessed that temperance would turn out to be a kind of harmony.

"Why's that?"

Because temperance isn't like courage or wisdom, each of which sits in just one part of the city — one making it brave, the other making it wise. Temperance works differently. It spreads through the whole city, running through every note of the scale, producing a harmony between the weaker and the stronger and the middle — whether you measure strength in wisdom, power, numbers, wealth, or anything else. So we can rightly call temperance the agreement of the naturally superior and the naturally inferior about which one should rule — in cities and in individuals alike.

"I completely agree," he said.

Good, I said. Three out of four virtues discovered. The last one — the one that makes a city truly virtuous — must be justice. If only we knew what it was.

"Obviously."

The time has come, Glaucon! Like hunters, we need to surround the thicket and keep our eyes sharp, or justice will slip through our fingers and vanish. She's somewhere in here — no question. So keep watch, and if you spot her before I do, let me know.

"I wish I could!" he said. "But you'd be better off treating me as a follower with just enough eyesight to see what you point out. That's about the best I can do."

Then say a prayer with me and follow.

"I will — but you have to lead the way."

There's no path, I said, and the woods are dark and confusing. But we have to push on.

"Let's push on."

Wait — I saw something! I said. I think I see a track! I don't think the quarry is going to escape.

"Good news!" he said.

You know, I said, we're idiots.

"Why?"

Because the whole time — from the very start of our investigation, ages ago — justice was right at our feet, and we never saw it. Nothing could be more ridiculous. We're like people searching everywhere for something they're holding in their own hands. We were looking off into the distance instead of right in front of us, and that's why we missed it.

"What do you mean?"

I mean that we've actually been talking about justice for a long time now. We just didn't recognize what we were describing.

"Come on," he said. "You're taking too long to get to the point."

Fine, I said. Tell me if I'm right. Remember the principle we kept laying down at the very foundation of the city? That each person should practice one thing — the thing their nature is best suited for? Well, justice is this principle, or at least a part of it.

"Yes, we said that over and over."

And we also said that justice means doing your own work and not being a busybody. We said it many times, and we're not the only ones who've said it.

"We did."

So doing your own work, in a certain way, is justice. You know where I'm getting this?

"I can't say I do. But I'd like to hear."

Think about it. We've now identified three virtues in the city — wisdom, courage, temperance. What's left? What's the one remaining virtue that makes all the others possible and preserves them once they exist? Whatever it is, that's justice.

"That follows necessarily."

Now, if someone asked which of these four virtues contributes most to the excellence of the city — would it be the agreement between rulers and subjects? The preservation of correct beliefs about what's dangerous? The wisdom and vigilance of the rulers? Or this other quality I'm about to name — the quality found in everyone, children and adults, slave and free, craftsman and ruler and subject alike — the quality of each person doing their own job and not meddling with anyone else's? That last one might just be the most important.

"There would certainly be a difficulty choosing," he replied.

So the power of each individual in the city to do their own work competes with wisdom, temperance, and courage as a political virtue.

"Yes," he said.

And the virtue that enters into this competition is justice?

"Yes."

Let's look at it from another angle. When rulers settle lawsuits, what's the basic principle they're applying? Isn't it that no one should take what belongs to someone else, or be deprived of what's theirs?

"Yes, that's the principle."

Which is a just principle?

"Yes."

So from this perspective too, justice means having and doing what's your own, what belongs to you.

Now think about this. Suppose a carpenter starts doing a cobbler's work, or a cobbler does a carpenter's. They swap tools or duties, or the same person tries to do both jobs. Do you think that would cause serious harm to the city?

"Not really."

But when someone who was born to be a tradesman — lifted up by wealth or strength or connections or some other advantage — tries to force his way into the warrior class, or a warrior tries to push into the class of legislators and guardians without being qualified, and they swap roles and duties, or when one person tries to be tradesman, warrior, and guardian all at once — I think you'll agree that this kind of swapping and meddling is the ruin of the city.

"Absolutely."

So when the three classes meddle with each other's work and trade places, that's the greatest harm to the city. And it would be entirely fair to call it evildoing.

"Certainly."

And the greatest evildoing against your own city — wouldn't you call that injustice?

"Of course."

Then that's what injustice is. And the opposite — when tradesmen, auxiliaries, and guardians each do their own work — that's justice, and that's what makes the city just.

"I agree completely," he said.

Now, I said, let's not be too hasty about declaring victory. We need to test whether this same concept of justice, when applied to individual human beings, works the same way. If it does, we're home free. If not, we'll have to start over. So let's complete the original investigation. We began with the idea that if we could see justice clearly on a large scale — in the city — it would be easier to recognize in the individual. That large-scale example was the city, and we built the best one we could, knowing that justice would be found in a good city. Now let's take what we found and apply it to the individual. If the two match, excellent. If there's a difference, we'll go back to the city and test the theory again. By rubbing the two together, like flint and steel, we might strike a spark — and in that light, justice will be revealed. And once we see it clearly, we'll fix it in our souls.

"That's exactly the right approach," he said. "Let's do it."

I went on: When two things, one larger and one smaller, are called by the same name, are they alike or unlike in the respect that earns them that name?

"Alike," he replied.

So the just person, considered purely from the standpoint of justice, will be like the just city?

"Yes."

And we said the city is just when its three classes each do their own work. And we called it wise, courageous, and temperate because of certain other qualities and conditions in those same classes.

"True," he said.

So if the individual has these same three elements in their soul, we should expect to describe them in the same terms, for the same reasons.

"Necessarily," he said.

Well, here we go again, my friend — we've stumbled onto another easy question: does the soul have these three elements or not?

"Easy!" he laughed. "Hardly, Socrates. The proverb has it right: the good things are hard."

Very true, I said. And honestly, I don't think our current method is precise enough to get a truly rigorous answer. The correct method would be longer and more demanding. But we can still reach a conclusion that's on the same level as our earlier discussion.

"That's good enough for me," he said. "Under the circumstances, I'm quite content."

I'll take it too, I replied.

"Then don't lose heart," he said. "Keep going."

All right. We have to acknowledge, I said, that the same elements and traits that exist in the city also exist in each of us as individuals. Where else would they come from? It would be absurd to think that the quality of spiritedness in a city doesn't come from the individuals in it — like the Thracians, the Scythians, and northern peoples in general, who are known for it. The same goes for the love of learning, which is especially associated with our part of the world. Or the love of money, which you could fairly attribute to the Phoenicians and Egyptians.

"Exactly," he said.

That much is easy to understand.

"Certainly."

But here's the hard part. Do we learn with one part of our nature, get angry with another, and feel desire with a third? Or does the whole soul participate in each activity? That's the real difficulty.

"Yes," he said. "There lies the difficulty."

Let's try to settle whether these are the same or different.

"How?" he asked.

Here's the key principle: the same thing obviously can't do or experience opposite things at the same time, in the same part of itself, and in relation to the same object. So whenever we find this kind of contradiction in something that appears to be one thing, we'll know it's actually not one — it's multiple.

"Agreed."

For example — can the same thing be at rest and in motion at the same time, in the same respect?

"Impossible."

But let's be precise, I said, so we don't get tripped up later. Imagine a person standing still while moving their hands and head. You wouldn't say the whole person is both at rest and in motion simultaneously. You'd say one part is still while another part is moving.

"Right."

And if someone got really clever and objected that a spinning top, with its peg fixed to one spot, is both at rest and in motion at the same time — we wouldn't accept that either. The top isn't at rest and in motion in the same parts of itself. It has an axis and a circumference. The axis stands still; the circumference revolves. But if the axis starts leaning to the right or left, forward or backward — then we couldn't say it's at rest in any sense at all.

"That's exactly right," he said.

Good. So none of these clever objections will confuse us or make us believe that the same thing can simultaneously do or experience opposite things in the same respect.

"They certainly won't confuse me," he said.

Still, I said, to avoid having to refute every possible objection like this, let's just agree on the principle and move forward — with the understanding that if it turns out to be wrong, everything we build on it comes down.

"Yes," he said. "That's the best approach."

Now then — would you agree that assent and dissent, wanting and refusing, attraction and repulsion are all pairs of opposites? Whether you think of them as actions or experiences doesn't matter — they're opposites either way.

"Yes," he said. "They're opposites."

And hunger, thirst, and desires in general — and also wishing and wanting — all of these you'd put in the category of seeking and attracting? When someone desires something, their soul reaches for the thing it wants. When it wants something given to it, it nods assent, as if answering a question. Isn't that right?

"Yes."

And unwillingness, reluctance, and the absence of desire — wouldn't those go in the opposite category, the category of pushing away and rejecting?

"Of course."

Now, if we accept this about desire in general, let's focus on a specific class of desires. Let's take hunger and thirst — the most obvious examples.

"Let's," he said.

One is the desire for food, the other for drink?

"Yes."

Here's the crucial point: is thirst, purely as thirst, a desire for drink and nothing more? Not hot drink or cold drink, not a lot or a little, not any particular kind of drink — just drink? When thirst comes with fever, it adds a desire for cold drink. When it comes with chills, warm drink. When the thirst is extreme, you want a lot. When it's mild, a little. But thirst itself, stripped down to its essence, is simply the desire for drink, just as hunger is simply the desire for food.

"Yes," he said. "The pure desire is for the pure object, and the qualified desire is for the qualified object."

But I want to head off an objection. Someone might argue that nobody desires just "drink" — they desire good drink. And nobody desires just "food" — they desire good food. Because goodness is the universal object of desire, so thirst, being a desire, is necessarily thirst for something good.

"That objection might seem to have some force," he replied.

Still, I'd maintain this: when it comes to relative terms, some have qualities attached to both sides of the relation, while others are simple and have simple correlates.

"I'm not sure I follow."

Well, you know that "greater" is relative to "less"?

"Yes."

And "much greater" is relative to "much less"?

"Yes."

And "greater-at-some-point" to "less-at-some-point"? And "going-to-be-greater" to "going-to-be-less"?

"Certainly," he said.

The same goes for more and less, double and half, heavier and lighter, faster and slower, hot and cold — and all other pairs of correlatives?

"Yes."

And what about the sciences? Knowledge in general has a general object — let's call it "the knowable" or "what can be known." But a particular science has a particular kind of object. For example, the science of building houses is a specific kind of knowledge, distinct from other kinds, which is why we call it architecture.

"Right."

And it has this specific identity because it deals with a specific kind of object?

"Exactly."

The same goes for every other craft and science.

So here's what I was getting at with my point about relative terms. If one term of a relation is taken bare, the other is bare too. If one term is qualified, the other is qualified too. I don't mean that the related terms have to share the same quality — I'm not saying the science of health is itself healthy, or the science of disease is itself diseased. I'm saying that when science stops being "knowledge in general" and gets a specific object — in this case, health and disease — then the science itself becomes specific. It's no longer just "science" but "medical science."

"I understand perfectly," he said. "And I agree."

Now, wouldn't you say thirst is a relative term? It clearly relates to something —

"Yes — to drink."

And a specific kind of thirst relates to a specific kind of drink. But thirst taken by itself is neither for much nor little, neither for good nor bad, neither for any particular kind of drink — it's for drink, period.

"Absolutely."

So the soul of a thirsty person, insofar as that person is thirsty, simply wants drink. That's what it reaches for and strives to get.

"That's plain."

Now — if something pulls a thirsty soul away from drinking, that something must be different from the thirsty element that's drawing it toward drink like an animal to water. Because, as we established, the same thing can't simultaneously do opposite things with the same part of itself toward the same object.

"Impossible."

Just as you can't say that an archer's hands are pushing and pulling the bow at the same time. What's really happening is that one hand pushes while the other pulls.

"Exactly," he replied.

Now, can a person be thirsty and yet unwilling to drink?

"Yes," he said. "It happens all the time."

And what do we say about such a case? Isn't there something in the soul urging the person to drink, and something else forbidding it — something different from and stronger than the impulse to drink?

"I'd say so."

And the forbidding element comes from reason, while the element that urges and drives comes from bodily states and disorders?

"Apparently."

Then we can fairly conclude that these are two distinct things. The part we reason with, we'll call the rational element of the soul. The part that hungers and thirsts and feels the pull of every appetite — we'll call the irrational or appetitive element, the companion of indulgence and pleasure.

"Yes," he said. "That's a fair conclusion."

Good. So we've identified two distinct elements in the soul. But what about spirit — that fiery, passionate energy? Is it a third element, or is it really the same as one of the other two?

"I'd be inclined to say it's the same as desire," he said.

Well, I said, there's a story I once heard that I believe. It goes like this: Leontius, the son of Aglaion, was walking up from the Piraeus along the outside of the north wall when he noticed some corpses lying on the ground near the executioner's block. He felt a powerful desire to look at them, but at the same time he was disgusted and tried to turn away. For a while he struggled, covering his eyes. But finally the desire overpowered him. He forced his eyes open, ran up to the bodies, and cried: "There! Look your fill, you wretches! Feast your eyes on this beautiful sight!"

"I've heard that story too," he said.

The moral is this: anger and desire are two different things. They can go to war with each other.

"Yes," he said. "That's the point."

And haven't you noticed, in many other situations, that when a person's desires overpower their reason, they get angry at themselves? They curse the part of them that's dragging them along. In this inner civil war, their spirit sides with reason. But for spirit to take the side of desire against reason — I don't think you've ever observed that happening, in yourself or in anyone else.

"Certainly not," he said.

Think about it another way. When a person believes they've wronged someone else, the nobler they are, the less anger they feel at any punishment the wronged person inflicts on them — hunger, cold, any kind of suffering. They accept it as just, and their spirit refuses to be aroused against it.

"True," he said.

But when a person believes they're being wronged? Then they boil. Then they burn with indignation. They take the side of what they believe to be justice, and no amount of hunger or cold or suffering can break them. Their noble spirit refuses to quit until they either conquer or die — or until they hear the voice of reason, their inner shepherd, calling the dog back.

"That's a perfect analogy," he replied. "And it fits exactly with what we said earlier — in our city, the auxiliaries are like dogs that obey the voice of the rulers, their shepherds."

You understand me perfectly, I said. But there's one more point to consider.

"What's that?"

Spirit originally seemed like it might be a kind of desire. But now the opposite is clear — when the soul is in conflict, spirit lines up on the side of reason.

"Absolutely."

But the next question is: is spirit actually the same as reason — just another aspect of it? In that case, the soul would have only two elements, not three: the rational and the appetitive. Or is the soul like the city, which has three classes — tradespeople, auxiliaries, and rulers? Is there a third element in the soul — spirit — that naturally serves as reason's ally, unless it's been corrupted by bad upbringing?

"There must be a third," he said.

Yes, I replied — if spirit can be shown to be different from reason, the way we already showed it's different from appetite.

"But that's easily proved," he said. "You can see it even in young children. They're full of spirit practically from birth, but some of them never seem to develop reason at all, and most of them develop it only much later."

Excellent! I said. And you can see the same thing in animals — more evidence that you're right. And we can call on Homer again, who was quoted earlier:

"He struck his chest and rebuked his heart."

Homer clearly treats the faculty that reasons about better and worse as different from the unreasoning anger that's being rebuked by it.

"Very true," he said.

And so, after much tossing on the waves, we've finally reached land. We're fairly agreed: the same three elements that exist in the city also exist in the individual soul. Three in number.

"Yes."

Then the individual must be wise in the same way, and for the same reasons, as the city is wise?

"Certainly."

And the same quality that makes the city courageous makes the individual courageous? And both the city and the individual relate to all the other virtues in the same way?

"Necessarily."

And, Glaucon, the individual will be just in the same way the city is just?

"That follows absolutely."

And we certainly haven't forgotten that the city's justice consisted in each of the three classes doing its own work?

"Not likely to forget that," he said.

So we must remember that the individual is just when each element in their soul does its own proper work.

"Yes," he said. "We must remember that."

The rational element, being wise, should rule. It has responsibility for the care of the whole soul. And the spirited element should be its subject and ally. Isn't that right?

"Absolutely."

And as we were saying, the combined influence of education in the arts and in physical training will bring these two into harmony — strengthening and sustaining reason with fine ideas and learning, while calming and civilizing the wildness of spirit through harmony and rhythm.

"Exactly right," he said.

And these two, trained and educated in this way, having truly learned their proper roles, will govern the appetitive element — which is the largest part of the soul in each of us, and by nature the most insatiable. They'll keep watch over it, making sure it doesn't gorge itself on physical pleasures until it grows fat and strong and stops doing its own work — and instead tries to enslave and dominate the other parts, overturning the entire life of the person.

"Very true," he said.

Working together, reason and spirit will also be the best defense against external threats — one providing counsel, the other fighting under its commander's orders and bravely carrying them out.

"Yes."

And we call a person courageous when their spirit holds firm, through pleasure and pain alike, to what reason has identified as truly dangerous and truly safe?

"Right," he replied.

And we call a person wise when that small ruling element possesses the knowledge of what's best for each part and for the whole soul?

"Yes."

And we call a person temperate when all three elements are in friendly harmony — when the ruling element of reason and the two subordinate elements of spirit and appetite all agree that reason should rule, and none of them rebels?

"Certainly," he said. "That is the true account of temperance, whether in the city or the individual."

And surely, I said, we've explained again and again how and why a person will be just.

"That's very certain."

Does justice look any dimmer in the individual than it did in the city? Is it any different in form?

"There's no difference in my opinion," he said.

Because if any doubt lingers, a few everyday examples will clear it up.

"What kind of examples?"

Think about it: would a just person — or the citizen of a just city — be likely to steal a deposit of gold or silver that was entrusted to them? Can anyone imagine that?

"No one," he replied.

Would the just person commit sacrilege, theft, or betrayal — of friends or of country?

"Never."

Would they break an oath or violate an agreement?

"Impossible."

Would they commit adultery, dishonor their parents, or neglect their religious obligations?

"No."

And the reason for all of this is that each part of their soul is doing its own work — whether ruling or being ruled?

"Exactly."

So are you satisfied that what makes both people and cities just is this quality? Or do you think we need to look further?

"Not at all," he said. "I'm satisfied."

Then our dream has come true! Remember the hunch we had at the very beginning — that some divine power seemed to be guiding us toward a fundamental form of justice?

"Yes, absolutely."

And the division of labor — requiring the carpenter and the shoemaker and everyone else to do their own work — that was a kind of shadow or image of justice. That's why it was useful.

"Yes."

But true justice, we now see, isn't about external actions at all. It's about what's inside — about a person's true self and inner life. The just person doesn't let the different parts of their soul interfere with each other or do each other's work. They put their inner house in order. They become their own master, their own law. They achieve inner peace. When they've bound the three elements together — the highest and lowest and middle, like the highest, lowest, and middle notes of a scale, with all the intervals between — when they've woven all of this into one, and are no longer many but truly one, a perfectly harmonious and balanced person — then and only then do they act. Whether it's a matter of money, or health, or politics, or private business, they always call "just" and "good" whatever action preserves and strengthens this inner harmony. And the knowledge that guides such action they call wisdom. Whatever action breaks this harmony they call "unjust," and the mindset behind it they call ignorance.

"You've spoken the exact truth, Socrates."

Very well. If we were to say that we'd discovered the just person and the just city, and what justice is in each of them — we wouldn't be lying?

"Most certainly not."

Shall we say it, then?

"Let's say it."

Good, I said. Now we need to consider injustice.

Injustice must be a kind of civil war among the three elements — a meddling and interfering, a rising up of one part of the soul against the whole. It's the attempt of a subordinate to seize power it has no right to — a rebel against the rightful ruler, whose natural vassal it is. This confusion, this disorder — that's injustice. That's intemperance, cowardice, ignorance, and every form of vice.

"Exactly," he said.

And now that we know what justice and injustice really are, we can understand perfectly clearly what it means to act justly or unjustly, or to act unjustly.

"How so?" he said.

Because they're exactly like health and disease, but in the soul rather than the body.

"In what way?"

What's healthy causes health. What's unhealthy causes disease.

"Yes."

In the same way, just actions create justice in the soul, and unjust actions create injustice.

"That's certain."

Creating health means establishing the proper natural order among the parts of the body — each part governing and being governed as nature intends. Creating disease means establishing a condition that violates this natural order.

"Right."

And creating justice means establishing the proper natural order among the parts of the soul — each part governing and being governed as nature intends. Creating injustice means establishing a condition that violates this natural order.

"Exactly," he said.

So virtue is the health, the beauty, the well-being of the soul. And vice is its disease, its weakness, its deformity.

"Yes."

And good habits lead to virtue, while bad habits lead to vice?

"Yes."

So now the old question remains — the question of whether justice or injustice is more profitable. Which pays better: to be just and act justly and practice virtue, whether or not anyone sees you doing it? Or to be unjust and act unjustly, so long as you escape punishment?

"In my judgment, Socrates," he said, "the question has become ridiculous. We know that when the body's constitution is ruined, life isn't worth living — even with every food and drink available, every luxury, every kind of power. So how can life be worth living when the very essence of what makes us alive — the soul — is corrupted and destroyed? Even if a person could do anything they wanted, with the single exception that they couldn't cure their injustice or acquire justice? Given what we've now shown justice and injustice to be?"

Yes, I said — the question is ridiculous, as you say. But since we've climbed this high and can almost see the truth with our own eyes, let's not quit now.

"Certainly not," he replied.

Come up here, I said, and look at the many forms of vice — the ones worth examining, at least.

"I'm right behind you," he replied. "Go on."

From this height, I said, the argument looks like a tower from which we can survey the whole landscape. And what I see is this: virtue is one, but the forms of vice are countless. Four in particular deserve attention.

"What do you mean?"

I mean that there are as many types of soul as there are types of government.

"How many?"

Five types of government, I said, and five types of soul.

"What are they?"

The first, I said, is the one we've been describing. It can go by two names — monarchy or aristocracy — depending on whether power is held by one outstanding person or by several.

"True," he replied.

But I consider these two names to describe a single form. Because whether the rulers are one or many, as long as they've been trained the way we've described, the fundamental laws of the city will be maintained.

"That's true," he replied.

Republic — Book V

So that's the kind of city-state that's good and true, and the good and true person is cut from the same cloth. If this model is right, then every other form of government is wrong. The corruption shows up in four distinct varieties, affecting both the structure of the state and the character of individual souls.

What are they? Glaucon asked.

I was just about to explain the order in which I thought these four corrupt forms followed one another, when Polemarchus — who was sitting a little way off, just past Adeimantus — started whispering to him. He reached over, grabbed the shoulder of Adeimantus' cloak, and pulled him close. He leaned in and muttered something in his ear. I only caught the words: "Should we let him off, or what?"

Absolutely not, said Adeimantus, raising his voice.

Who are you refusing to let off? I asked.

You, he said.

Why me specifically? I asked again.

Because we think you're being lazy, he said. You're trying to cheat us out of a whole section of the argument — and it's an important one. You just breezed right past it, thinking we wouldn't notice. As if it's obvious to everyone that when it comes to women and children, "friends share everything in common."

And wasn't I right about that, Adeimantus?

Yes, he said, but what's "right" in this case — like everything else — needs to be explained. "Community" can mean a lot of things. So please, tell us what kind of community you mean. We've been waiting for you to say something about the family life of your citizens. How will they bring children into the world? How will they raise them? What exactly is this "community of women and children"? Because we're convinced that getting this right — or wrong — will have a massive impact on the state, for good or for evil. And now, since the question is still hanging, and you're already moving on to the next thing, we've decided — as you just heard — not to let you off the hook until you give us a full account.

You can count me in on that decision, said Glaucon.

And without further ado, said Thrasymachus, consider all of us equally agreed.

You have no idea what you're doing by attacking me like this, I said. What an argument you're dragging me into! I thought I'd finished, and I was relieved that you'd accepted what I said earlier without a fuss. Now you're asking me to go back to the very beginning. You don't realize what a hornet's nest of arguments you're stirring up. I saw this trouble coming, and I deliberately avoided it.

What do you think we came here for? said Thrasymachus. To dig for gold? Or to hear ideas discussed?

Sure, but there should be some limit to the discussion, I said.

Yes, Socrates, said Glaucon, and the only limit wise people set on discussions like these is an entire lifetime. But don't worry about us. Just take heart and answer the question your own way. What kind of community of women and children do you have in mind for the guardians? How should we handle the period from birth to education — which seems to need the most care? Tell us how these things will work.

My innocent friend, I said, the answer is anything but easy. It raises far more doubts than the conclusions we've already reached. You could question whether the plan is even practical. And even if it is, you could question whether it's actually for the best. That's why I'm hesitant to bring it up. I'm afraid our beautiful aspiration, my friend, might turn out to be nothing but a dream.

Don't worry, he said. Your audience isn't going to be hard on you. They're not hostile or skeptical.

I said: My good friend, I take it you're trying to encourage me with that.

Yes, he said.

Well, you're having the opposite effect. Your encouragement would've been just fine if I actually believed I knew what I was talking about. Declaring the truth to wise friends who care about you — that shouldn't make anyone nervous. But trying to work out an argument when you're nothing but a groping, uncertain inquirer — that's my situation — is a dangerous, slippery business. Not because I'm afraid of being laughed at. That would be childish. I'm afraid I'll stumble away from the truth on the very ground where I need the surest footing, and drag my friends down with me. I pray that Nemesis doesn't punish me for what I'm about to say. Because I genuinely believe that accidentally killing someone is a lesser crime than misleading people about beauty, goodness, and justice when it comes to laws. That's a risk I'd rather take among enemies than among friends. So you're doing me a great favor with your encouragement.

Glaucon laughed. Well then, Socrates, he said, if you and your argument do us any serious damage, consider yourself acquitted in advance of the homicide charge. You won't be held liable as a deceiver either. So take courage and speak.

Well, I said, the law does say that when a man is acquitted, he's free from guilt. And what holds in law might hold in argument too.

Then why should you hesitate?

All right, I replied. I suppose I have to retrace my steps and say what I probably should have said earlier, in its proper place. The men's part has been played out, and now it's the women's turn — which is perfectly natural. And I'm all the more willing to speak since you're inviting me to.

For people born and educated like our citizens, the only way to reach the right conclusion about the role of women and children is to follow the path we started on. We said the men were to be guardians and watchdogs of the community.

True.

So let's take it further. Suppose women are born and educated under the same — or nearly the same — conditions. Then we'll see whether the outcome fits our plan.

What do you mean? he asked.

Here's what I mean, put as a question. When it comes to dogs, do we divide them into males and females and only use the males for hunting and guarding, while the females stay home because bearing and nursing puppies is enough work for them? Or do both sexes share equally in all their duties, the only difference being that males are generally stronger and females weaker?

They share equally, he said. The only difference is in their relative strength.

But can you use different animals for the same job unless you breed and train them the same way?

You can't.

Then if women are going to have the same duties as men, they need the same education?

Yes.

And the education we assigned to the men was music and physical training.

It was.

Then women need to be taught music, physical training, and the art of war too — and they need to practice these skills alongside the men?

That's the logical conclusion, I suppose.

I'd expect, I said, that many of our proposals are going to seem ridiculous, since they're so unusual.

No doubt about that.

And you know what the most ridiculous thing will be? The sight of women exercising naked in the gymnasium alongside the men — especially the older women. They certainly won't be a vision of beauty, any more than those wrinkled, leathery old men who keep showing up at the gym despite everything.

Yes indeed, he said. By current standards, the whole idea would seem absurd.

But since we've committed to speaking our minds, I said, we can't be afraid of the comedians and their jokes about women's achievements in music and athletics — and especially about women wearing armor and riding horses!

Very true.

We've started, so we have to push through to the hard parts. We'll ask the wits to be serious for once in their lives and remind them of this: it wasn't that long ago that Greeks considered it shameful and ridiculous for a man to be seen naked. When the Cretans first introduced the custom of exercising nude, and then the Spartans followed, the comedians of that day must have had a field day with it.

But when experience proved that it was far better to strip down than to cover up, the jokes died away. What seemed laughable to the eye was overruled by what reason showed to be best. And this revealed something important: the only true fool is the one who laughs at anything other than what's genuinely foolish and wrong. The only standard worth measuring beauty by is the standard of what's good.

Very true, he said.

So first — whether we're being playful or serious — let's settle the fundamental question about women's nature. Is she capable of sharing in all men's activities, or only some, or none? And specifically, can she participate in warfare? That's the best way to begin, and it'll probably lead us to the fairest conclusion.

That's much the best approach.

Want to start by arguing against ourselves? That way the opposition's case won't go undefended.

Why not? he said.

All right. Let's put words into our opponents' mouths. They'll say: "Socrates and Glaucon, nobody even needs to refute you — you refuted yourselves. When you first founded your state, you laid down the principle that everybody should do the one kind of work suited to their own nature." And yes, if I remember correctly, we did say that. "And don't men and women have very different natures?" Of course they do, we'll reply. "Then shouldn't men and women be assigned different tasks, ones that match their different natures?" Certainly. "Then haven't you fallen into a serious contradiction? You just said that men and women, whose natures are completely different, should perform the same duties." — So what's our defense, my good friend, against someone who raises these objections?

That's not an easy question to answer on the spot, he said. I'm going to beg you to work out our side of the case.

These are exactly the objections, Glaucon, that I saw coming a long time ago. They're what made me afraid and reluctant to tackle the whole question of women and children in the first place.

By Zeus, he said, this isn't an easy problem.

It certainly isn't, I said. But here's the thing: whether you fall into a swimming pool or the middle of the ocean, you still have to swim.

True. So let's swim for it and hope that some dolphin — like the one that saved Arion — or some other miracle comes along to rescue us.

I suppose so, he said.

All right, let's see if there's a way out. We agreed that different natures should have different occupations, and that men's and women's natures are different. But now we're saying different natures should have the same occupations. That's the contradiction we're charged with.

Truly, Glaucon, I said, the art of contradiction is a powerful thing!

Why do you say that?

Because I think many people fall into it without meaning to. When they think they're reasoning, they're actually just arguing — because they can't properly define and divide the concept they're talking about. They end up chasing verbal distinctions in a spirit of combat rather than genuine inquiry.

Yes, he said, that happens all the time. But how does that apply to us?

Very directly. There's a real danger that we're falling into a purely verbal dispute.

How so?

We're fiercely insisting that different natures should have different occupations — and that's literally true. But we never stopped to consider what we actually mean by "sameness" and "difference" of nature. We never asked: same or different in what respect? When we assigned different pursuits to different natures, we didn't define our terms.

No, he said. We never did.

I said: suppose, by way of illustration, we asked whether bald men and hairy men have opposite natures. If we agree they do, then if bald men are good cobblers, we'd have to forbid hairy men from cobbling — and vice versa.

That would be absurd, he said.

Yes — absurd. And why? Because when we built our state, we never meant that every conceivable difference in nature should matter. We only meant the differences relevant to a particular pursuit. A natural-born physician and another natural-born physician have the same nature in the relevant sense.

True.

Even if one is bald and the other has hair?

Exactly.

But a physician and a carpenter have different natures — in the relevant sense?

Certainly.

So, I said, if men and women turn out to differ in their fitness for some particular skill or pursuit, we should assign that pursuit to whichever sex is better at it. But if the only difference is that women bear children and men beget them, that by itself doesn't prove that women are different from men in the kind of education they should receive. We'll continue to maintain that our guardians and their wives should have the same training.

Very true.

Next, we'll challenge our opponent: tell us, in which civic skill or pursuit does the nature of a woman differ from a man's?

That's a fair question.

And maybe he'll say — just as you might — that it's hard to give a good answer off the cuff, but that with a little thought it's not so difficult.

Yes, perhaps.

So let's invite him to think along with us. Maybe we can show him that there's nothing about women's nature that would disqualify them from governing.

By all means.

Let's put it to him: when you said someone was naturally gifted or ungifted for something, what did you mean? Didn't you mean that one person picks things up easily while another struggles? That one person, with a little training, can figure out far more than the other can after years of study? That one person's body works with their mind while another's fights against it? Aren't these the kinds of differences between the naturally gifted and the ungifted?

No one would deny that.

And can you name a single human pursuit in which the male sex doesn't have all these advantages over the female to a higher degree? Should I waste time talking about weaving and baking and making preserves — the areas where women really do seem to excel, and where it's completely ridiculous for a man to outperform them?

You're right, he said. As a general rule, one sex is far superior to the other in almost everything. Many individual women are better than many individual men at particular things — but on the whole, what you say is true.

Then here's the point, my friend: there's no special aptitude for government that belongs to a woman because she's a woman, or to a man because he's a man. Natural abilities are distributed across both sexes equally. Women can pursue all the same occupations as men — though in every case, they're generally the weaker sex.

So should we impose all our requirements on men and none on women?

That would be ridiculous.

One woman has a gift for medicine; another doesn't. One is naturally musical; another has no ear for it.

True.

And one woman is a natural athlete and warrior, while another hates physical exercise and combat?

True.

And one woman is a philosopher, and another is an enemy of philosophy. One has spirit and courage; another doesn't.

That's also true.

Then some women will have the temperament of a guardian, and others won't. Wasn't that exactly how we selected the male guardians — by differences of this kind?

It was.

Men and women alike possess the qualities that make a good guardian. They differ only in degree — in their relative strength or weakness.

True.

And those women who have these qualities should be selected as companions and colleagues of men who have similar qualities — men they resemble in ability and character?

Certainly.

And shouldn't the same natures pursue the same activities?

They should.

Then we've come full circle: there's nothing unnatural about assigning music and physical training to the wives of the guardians. The argument is consistent both in what's useful and what's possible.

Certainly not unnatural.

The law we enacted is in harmony with nature, not against it. It's the current practice — which bars women from these things — that actually violates nature.

That appears to be true.

We set out to determine two things. First: are our proposals possible? Second: are they beneficial?

Yes.

And we've established that they're possible?

Yes.

Now we need to establish that they're genuinely beneficial?

Yes.

You'd agree that the same education that makes a good male guardian will make a good female guardian, since their original natures are the same?

Yes.

Let me ask you something.

Go ahead.

Would you say all men are equal in ability, or are some better than others?

Some are better.

And in the state we're building, which do you think are more excellent — the guardians who've been raised under our system, or the cobblers who've been educated in cobbling?

What a ridiculous question!

You've made my point, I said. Well then — aren't our guardians the best of all our citizens?

By far the best.

And won't their wives be the best women?

Yes, by far.

And can anything be better for a state than having its men and women be as excellent as possible?

Nothing.

And this is exactly what music and physical training, applied as we've described, will accomplish?

Exactly.

So our proposal isn't just possible — it's supremely beneficial to the state?

Yes.

Then let the guardian women strip — for their excellence will be all the clothing they need — and let them share in the hardships of war and the defense of their country. In distributing the workload, give the lighter duties to the women, since they're the weaker sex. But in everything else, their responsibilities are the same. And the man who laughs at naked women exercising for the best of reasons? In his laughter, he's plucking

"a fruit of unripe wisdom,"

and he doesn't know what he's laughing at or what he's doing. Because this is, and always will be, the truest saying: what is useful is noble, and what is harmful is base.

Very true.

So here's one wave we've survived. We made the rule that guardian men and women should share all their duties, and the argument hasn't drowned us. In fact, it's been entirely consistent in showing that this is both practical and beneficial.

Yes, said Glaucon, that was a pretty big wave.

You won't think so, I said, when you see what's coming next.

Go on. Let me see.

The next law, I said — the one that follows from everything we've built so far — goes like this: "The wives of our guardians are to be held in common. Their children are to be held in common. No parent will know their own child, and no child will know their parent."

Yes, he said, that's a much bigger wave than the first one. Its practicality and its benefit are both far more questionable.

I don't think anyone could dispute the enormous benefit of shared wives and children, I said. The real question — the one that'll be hotly debated — is whether it's actually possible.

I think plenty of doubts can be raised about both, he said.

So you're saying the two questions are linked, I replied. I was hoping you'd grant me the utility and let me escape from fighting on two fronts. Then I'd only have to defend the possibility.

Nice try, but I caught you, he said. You'll have to defend both.

All right, I said, I accept my fate. But grant me one small indulgence. Let me feast my mind on a daydream, the way people do when they're out walking alone. Before they've figured out how to get what they want — that's a detail they don't bother with — they just assume it's already theirs and move on to the fun part: planning what they'll do once their wish comes true. It's a habit that doesn't do much for a mind that wasn't very productive to begin with. But I'm starting to lose heart, and I'd like — with your permission — to set aside the question of possibility for now. I'll assume the plan is feasible and move on to examining how the rulers will carry it out in practice, and I'll show that nothing could be more beneficial to the state and the guardians. We'll tackle those questions first, and then — if you're willing — we'll come back to whether it's possible.

Go ahead, he said. I have no objection.

First, I think that if our rulers and their auxiliaries are going to live up to their titles, the auxiliaries need to be willing to obey, and the rulers need to have the authority to command. The guardians must obey the laws themselves and embody their spirit in whatever details are left to their judgment.

That's right, he said.

You, I said — as their lawmaker — having already selected the men, will now select the women and give them to the men as partners. The women should be as similar as possible in natural ability. They'll all live in common houses and eat at common meals. None of them will own anything privately. They'll be together, train together, and exercise together at the gymnasium. And naturally, inevitably, they'll be drawn to sleep with each other — "necessity" isn't too strong a word, I think?

Not geometrical necessity, he said, but a different kind — the kind that lovers know. And that kind is far more powerful and persuasive than any theorem.

True, I said. But Glaucon, this part — like everything else — has to be conducted in an orderly way. In a city of the blessed, reckless sexual license is unholy, and the rulers won't allow it.

Yes, he said. It shouldn't be permitted.

Then clearly the next step is to make marriages as sacred as possible. And the most sacred marriages will be the most beneficial ones.

Agreed.

But how do we make them most beneficial? Here's a question for you, Glaucon, because I've seen the dogs and fine-bred birds you keep at your house. Tell me — have you ever paid attention to their breeding?

What about it specifically?

Well, first: even though they're all from good stock, aren't some better than others?

Yes.

And do you breed from all of them equally, or do you select the best?

From the best.

And do you breed from the oldest or the youngest, or from those in their prime?

From those in their prime.

And if you didn't breed carefully, wouldn't your dogs and birds deteriorate badly?

Yes.

And the same goes for horses and other animals?

Absolutely.

Good heavens, my dear friend! I said. What incredible skill our rulers will need — if the same principle applies to human beings!

Of course the same principle applies, he said. But why would that require any special skill?

Because, I said, our rulers will frequently need to use deception and manipulation for the good of their citizens. We agreed earlier that such methods, used like medicine, can be justified.

And we were right to say that.

And this "medicinal" approach will come up a lot when it comes to marriage and reproduction.

How so?

Here's the principle we've already established, I said. The best men should be paired with the best women as often as possible, and the inferior with the inferior as rarely as possible. The children of the first group should be raised, while those of the second should not — if we want to keep the flock in top condition. And all of this must be kept secret from everyone except the rulers, or the guardian class will erupt in rebellion.

We should establish regular festivals, I said, where we bring the brides and grooms together. There'll be sacrifices and wedding songs composed by our poets. The number of marriages will be left to the rulers' discretion — their goal is to keep the population stable. They'll need to factor in wars, diseases, and other threats, so the state stays neither too large nor too small.

Certainly, he said.

We'll also need to design some clever lottery system, so that on each occasion, the less worthy partners will blame their bad luck — not the rulers.

Naturally, he said.

And I think our bravest and best young men, in addition to their other honors and rewards, should have more opportunities to be with women. Their courage is a reason in itself, and such men should have as many children as possible.

True.

The proper officials — whether male or female, since women hold offices too — will take the offspring of the best parents to a special nursery, where they'll be cared for by nurses living in a separate quarter. But the children of inferior parents, or any deformed children born to the better ones, will be quietly disposed of in some undisclosed place, as they should be.

Yes, he said, if we want to keep the guardian breed pure.

The nurses will handle the feeding. They'll bring mothers to the nursery when they're full of milk, but they'll take every precaution to make sure no mother recognizes her own child. Other wet-nurses can be hired if more are needed. They'll also see to it that nursing doesn't go on too long. As for night feedings and all that drudgery — the nurses and attendants will handle it.

You're making motherhood pretty easy for the guardian women, he said.

As it should be, I replied. But let's press on with our plan. We said the parents should be in the prime of life.

Yes.

And what counts as "the prime"? Something like twenty years for a woman and thirty for a man.

Which specific years?

A woman should begin bearing children for the state at twenty and continue until forty. A man should begin at twenty-five — once he's passed the point where his energy peaks — and continue until fifty-five.

Yes, he said. For both sexes, those are the years of peak physical and mental vitality.

Anyone older or younger than these limits who takes part in the public breeding program will be committing an unholy and unjust act. Their child — if it sneaks into existence — will have been conceived without the blessings of the sacrifices and prayers that the priestesses, priests, and the whole city offer at every wedding, praying that each new generation will be better and more useful than their good and useful parents. Instead, their child will be the offspring of darkness and uncontrolled desire.

Very true, he said.

The same law applies to anyone within the prescribed age range who sleeps with a woman of childbearing age without the rulers' approval. We'll say he's foisting an illegitimate child on the state — uncertified and unsanctioned.

Very true.

These rules apply only to people of breeding age. After they've passed that age, men and women are free to be with whomever they choose — except that a man can't be with his daughter or granddaughter, or his mother or grandmother. And women can't be with their sons, fathers, grandsons, or grandfathers. All of this is permitted on one strict condition: any pregnancy that results must be terminated. If a child somehow makes it to birth, the parents must understand that it cannot be raised.

That's reasonable enough, he said. But how will they know who their fathers, daughters, and other relatives are?

They won't — not really. Here's how it will work: from the date of a wedding festival, the groom will call all children born in the seventh or tenth month afterward "his sons" and "his daughters," and they'll call him "Father." He'll call their children his grandchildren, and they'll call his generation "grandfathers" and "grandmothers." Everyone born during the same period when their parents were together will call each other brothers and sisters — and as I said, they'll be forbidden to marry. One exception: if the lottery falls in their favor and the oracle at Delphi gives its approval, siblings may marry.

Quite right, he said.

So that's the plan, Glaucon — the community of wives and families for the guardians. Now, shall we have the argument show that this arrangement is consistent with everything else in our system, and that nothing could be better?

Yes, certainly.

Let's start with a basic question: what should be the chief aim of a lawmaker? What's the greatest good for a state, and what's the greatest evil? Then we'll see whether our proposals have the stamp of the good or the evil.

By all means.

Can there be any greater evil than discord — division where unity should reign? Or any greater good than the bond of unity?

There cannot.

And isn't there unity when the citizens share their pleasures and pains — when they all celebrate the same joys and grieve over the same sorrows?

Definitely.

But what happens when feelings become private and fragmented? When half the city rejoices and the other half is plunged in grief over the exact same event? That's when a state falls apart.

Exactly.

And these divisions typically stem from disagreements over two little words: "mine" and "not mine," "his" and "not his."

Precisely.

And isn't the best-governed state the one where the greatest number of people use "mine" and "not mine" to refer to the same things?

Absolutely.

The one that most closely resembles an individual organism? Think about it: when you stub your finger, the whole body — organized around the soul as its center, unified under its governing power — feels the hurt and sympathizes with the injured part. That's why we say "I have a pain in my finger." The same goes for any part of the body, whether it's suffering pain or experiencing relief.

Very true, he said. And I agree: the best-ordered state comes closest to this kind of shared feeling.

So when anything good or bad happens to any citizen, the whole state will treat it as its own experience — rejoicing together or grieving together?

Yes, he said. That's what will happen in a well-governed state.

It's time to go back to our own state, I said, and see whether it — or some other model — best reflects these principles.

Like every state, ours has rulers and subjects.

Yes.

All of whom call each other "citizens."

Yes.

But in other states, what else do the people call their rulers?

In most states, they call them "masters." In democracies, they just call them "rulers."

And in our state? What do the people call the rulers, besides "fellow citizens"?

They call them "saviors" and "helpers," he said.

And what do the rulers call the people?

Their "providers" and "supporters."

And in other states?

"Slaves."

And what do rulers in other states call each other?

"Fellow rulers."

And in ours?

"Fellow guardians."

Now, in other states, could you find a ruler who'd call one colleague "my friend" and another "a stranger with no connection to me"?

Yes, all the time.

And the "friend" is the one he has a personal interest in, while the "stranger" is the one he doesn't?

Exactly.

But would any of our guardians ever think of a fellow guardian as a stranger?

Certainly not. Everyone they meet will be regarded as a brother, a sister, a father, a mother, a son, a daughter — or a descendant or ancestor of one of these.

Excellent, I said. But let me push further: will these be family ties in name only, or will they be lived out in every action? For instance, will the word "father" carry with it the actual care, respect, and obedience that the law demands toward a father? Will the violator of these duties be seen as an impious and unjust person — one unlikely to receive much good from either gods or humans? Will these be the messages ringing in the children's ears from every citizen about those they're told are their parents and kin — or not?

These exactly, he said. Anything else would be ridiculous — using the words of family with the lips while ignoring them in practice.

So in our city, the language of harmony and unity will be heard more than anywhere else. As I described before, when anything happens to one citizen — good or bad — the universal refrain will be: "this is happening to me."

Yes.

And we said that when people think and speak this way, they'll share their pleasures and pains?

Yes, and rightly so.

And they'll have a common interest in the same things — each referring to those things as "mine" — and sharing this common interest, they'll share a common experience of happiness and sorrow?

Yes, far more than in any other state.

And the reason for this — above and beyond the general structure — will be the community of wives and children among the guardians?

That's the main reason.

And we agreed that this unity of feeling is the greatest good for a state, comparing a well-ordered state to a body whose parts all share in pleasure and pain together?

We did, and we were right.

Then the community of wives and children is clearly the source of the greatest good for our state.

That follows.

And this fits perfectly with our earlier principle — that the guardians should have no houses, no land, no private property. Their pay is their food, provided by the other citizens. No private luxuries. We intended them to be true guardians.

Right, he said.

Both the community of property and the community of families make them truer guardians. They won't tear the city apart by fighting over "mine" and "not mine" — with each man dragging his private acquisitions into a separate house where he keeps a separate wife and children and nurses private joys and private sorrows. Instead, all of them will be affected, as far as possible, by the same pleasures and pains, because they all share the same convictions about what's near and dear to them. They'll all pull in the same direction.

Certainly, he said.

And since they own nothing but their own bodies, lawsuits and complaints will virtually cease to exist. They'll be free from all the quarrels that money, children, and family connections create.

Of course.

There won't even be assault charges among them. We'll establish the principle that it's honorable and right for equals to defend themselves against equals — making self-defense a duty.

Good, he said.

And here's another benefit: if someone has a grudge against another, they'll settle it right there and then, instead of letting it fester into something dangerous.

True.

The older guardians will be responsible for disciplining the younger.

Yes.

And the young will never strike or mistreat an elder — unless a magistrate orders it. And they won't disrespect their elders in any other way, either. Two powerful guardians will prevent it: shame and fear. Shame at laying hands on someone they regard as a parent. Fear that the others — who are brothers, sons, and fathers — will come to the injured person's defense.

That's true, he said.

So in every way, the laws will keep the citizens at peace with each other?

Very much so.

And if the guardians never quarrel among themselves, there's no danger of the rest of the city being divided against them or against each other.

None whatsoever.

I'd almost rather not mention the petty annoyances they'll be rid of — they're beneath our notice. Things like the poor flattering the rich. The stress and anxiety of raising a family, borrowing money, scrimping and saving, handing cash over to wives and servants to manage. The thousand little miseries that come with all of this. Everyone knows what they are, and they're not worth cataloguing.

Yes, he said. You don't need eyes to see them.

Free from all of these, our guardians will live a life more blessed than even Olympic victors.

How so? I said. The Olympic champion is considered happy based on only a fraction of the blessings our citizens will enjoy. Our guardians have won a far more glorious victory, and they receive far more complete support from the public treasury. Their victory is nothing less than the salvation of the entire state. Their crown is the fullness of everything life requires. While they live, they receive their country's gratitude. When they die, they receive an honorable burial.

Yes, he said. Glorious rewards indeed.

Do you remember, I said, how earlier in our discussion someone — who will remain nameless — accused us of making our guardians miserable? They had nothing, while they could have had everything. We replied that if the occasion arose we'd revisit the question, but for now we were focused on making the guardians truly guardians, and building the state for the happiness of the whole, not just one class.

Yes, I remember.

Well? Now that the life of our guardians turns out to be far nobler and better than Olympic victors' — does it even compare to the life of cobblers, or farmers, or any other workers?

Certainly not.

But I should repeat what I said before: if any guardian tries to be happy in a way that makes him stop being a guardian — if, infected by some foolish notion of happiness, he tries to seize everything in the state for himself — then he'll learn how wise Hesiod was when he said: "half is more than the whole."

If he came to me for advice, I'd tell him: stay where you are, when this is the life being offered to you.

You agree, then, I said, that men and women should share a common way of life — common education, common children? That they should guard the citizens together, whether in the city or at war? That they should keep watch and hunt together like dogs? That women should share in everything as far as they're able? That in doing this, they'll be doing what's best, and they won't be violating the natural relationship between the sexes — they'll be preserving it?

I agree, he said.

The remaining question, I said, is whether this kind of community is actually possible among humans — as it is among other animals — and if so, how?

You've anticipated exactly what I was going to ask.

As far as war goes, I said, there's no difficulty in seeing how they'll manage.

How?

They'll go on campaigns together, obviously, and bring along any children strong enough to watch — just the way the children of craftsmen observe their parents at work long before they take up the craft themselves. The children won't just watch, either. They'll help out and make themselves useful in war, serving their fathers and mothers. Haven't you noticed how potters' children watch and help at the wheel for a long time before they're allowed to touch it?

Yes, I have.

And should potters be more careful about giving their children experience than our guardians?

The idea is ridiculous, he said.

There's also this: the presence of their own children will be the greatest motivation for the parents to fight bravely — just as it is with other animals.

That's true, Socrates. But if they lose — and defeat happens a lot in war — the children will be lost along with the parents. The state might never recover.

True, I said. But would you never let them take any risk at all?

I'm not saying that.

Then if they're going to face risk at some point, shouldn't it be at a time when — if things go well — they'll be the better for it?

Obviously.

Whether or not future soldiers observe war in their youth is hugely important — important enough to justify some risk.

Agreed.

So our first step is to let the children watch battles — while making sure they're kept safe. Then everything will be fine.

Right.

Their parents aren't blind to the risks of war. They'll know, as far as human foresight allows, which campaigns are safe and which are dangerous.

Yes, that can be assumed.

They'll bring the children along on the safe ones and keep them away from the dangerous ones?

Yes.

And they'll put them under the command of experienced veterans who'll serve as guides and teachers?

Exactly right.

Still, I said, the dangers of war are unpredictable. There's always an element of chance.

True.

So against unexpected danger, we need to give the children wings — so they can fly to safety if things go wrong.

What do you mean? he asked.

I mean we need to put them on horseback from an early age. Once they've learned to ride, we'll take them on horseback to observe the fighting. The horses shouldn't be spirited war-horses, but the fastest and most manageable ones we can find. That way they'll get an excellent view of the work that'll someday be theirs. And if danger comes, they just follow their older leaders and escape.

I think you're right, he said.

Now, what about the rules of war? How should soldiers treat each other and their enemies? Let me start with a proposal: any soldier who abandons his post or throws away his weapons or shows any other kind of cowardice should be demoted to the rank of laborer or farmer. What do you think?

Absolutely.

And anyone who lets himself be taken prisoner can be given as a gift to his captors. He's their rightful catch — let them do whatever they want with him.

Agreed.

But what about the hero who distinguishes himself? First, he should be honored by every one of his young comrades on the field. Each of them should crown him in turn. Does that sound right?

Yes.

And each should shake his hand?

I agree to that too.

But you probably won't agree with my next proposal.

What is it?

That he should kiss — and be kissed by — each of them.

Absolutely! said Glaucon. I'd go even further: while the campaign lasts, no one whom he wants to kiss should be allowed to refuse him. That way, if any soldier is in love — with a young man or a woman — he'll have extra incentive to win the prize of valor.

Excellent, I said. We've already established that the bravest men will get more marriage opportunities and will be chosen for pairing more often than others, so they'll have the most children.

True.

And there's another way to honor brave young men, following Homer's example. He tells us Ajax was rewarded after his heroic performance with a long serving of prime beef — a fitting tribute to a hero in his prime, being both an honor and a source of strength.

Very true, he said.

Then Homer will be our guide here. At sacrifices and similar occasions, we'll honor the bravest — whether men or women — with hymns and the other honors we mentioned, plus

"seats of honor, and prime cuts of meat, and full cups of wine."

And while we honor them, we train them.

Excellent, he said.

And when a soldier dies gloriously in battle — shall we say he's joined the golden race?

Absolutely.

Don't we have Hesiod's word for it that when members of the golden race die, they become

"holy spirits upon the earth, protectors of good, guardians over mortal men"?

Yes, and we accept his authority.

We'll consult the oracle about how to bury these divine and heroic figures, and what special honors they should receive. And we'll do as the oracle commands?

By all means.

And for all time to come, we'll treat their graves with the reverence due to heroes. The same honors will go to anyone judged exceptionally good, whether they die in battle, of old age, or by any other means.

Very right, he said.

Now — how should our soldiers treat their enemies?

In what respect?

First, slavery. Should Greeks enslave other Greeks? Or should they spare them — and encourage other Greeks to do the same — keeping in mind that the whole Greek world could someday fall under barbarian domination?

Sparing them is infinitely better.

Then no Greek should be enslaved by our citizens. That's a rule they'll follow and recommend to all other Greeks.

Certainly, he said. That way they'll unite against the barbarians instead of destroying each other.

What about stripping the dead? After a victory, should the winners take anything beyond the enemy's armor? Doesn't the habit of looting create an excuse for cowards to avoid battle? They skulk around the corpses pretending to do their duty, and many an army has been lost to this greed.

And isn't there something petty and mean about robbing a corpse? Something small-minded about making an enemy of a dead body when the real enemy has fled, leaving only his gear behind? It's like a dog that can't reach the person who threw the stone, so it snarls at the stone instead.

Very like a dog, he said.

So we must not strip the dead or prevent their burial.

Yes, we absolutely must not.

And we won't dedicate captured weapons in temples — especially not Greek weapons — if we care about maintaining good relations with other Greeks. In fact, there's reason to fear that offering spoils taken from fellow Greeks would be a pollution, unless a god specifically commands it.

True.

And what about devastating Greek territory and burning Greek houses? What should the policy be?

I'd love to hear your view, he said.

Both should be forbidden, I think. The victors should take only the year's harvest and nothing more. Want to know why?

Please.

I think there's a meaningful difference between "discord" and "war" — and it goes beyond just the words. One refers to what's internal and domestic; the other to what's external and foreign. Internal conflict is discord; only external conflict is war.

That's a very good distinction.

And I'd add that the Greek world is united by blood and friendship, and is fundamentally alien and foreign to the barbarians.

Very true.

So when Greeks fight barbarians, or barbarians fight Greeks, that's war — they're natural enemies. But when Greeks fight Greeks, it's a sickness. Greece is in a state of disorder and discord, because Greeks are natural friends.

Yes.

Consider this: when such a conflict occurs and a city is split in two, if both sides burn each other's farms and destroy each other's homes, how terrible that seems! No true patriot would tear apart their own motherland. There might be some justification for the victors taking the defeated side's crops, but even then, both sides should recognize that peace is coming eventually — they can't fight forever.

Yes, he said. That's a better attitude than total war.

Won't the city we're founding be a Greek city?

It should be.

And its citizens will be good and civilized?

Very civilized.

And they'll love Greece? They'll think of it as their homeland and share in the common temples?

Most certainly.

So any conflict among Greeks they'll regard as a family quarrel — mere discord, not war?

Certainly not war.

They'll quarrel like people who expect to reconcile someday?

Yes.

They'll use friendly correction, not enslavement or destruction. They'll be reformers, not enemies.

Exactly.

Being Greeks themselves, they won't devastate Greek land or burn Greek homes. They won't assume that every man, woman, and child in a hostile city is their enemy. They know that the guilt of war always lies with a few people, not the many. For all these reasons, they'll be unwilling to ravage fields and demolish houses. Their hostility will last only until the many innocent people force the guilty few to make amends.

I agree, he said. That's how our citizens should treat their Greek enemies. Against barbarians, they should fight the way Greeks currently fight each other.

Then let's add this to our guardians' code: they shall not devastate Greek land or burn Greek houses.

Agreed. And I think we'd also agree that these rules, like all our previous ones, are excellent.

But, Socrates, I have to say — if you keep going like this, you'll completely forget the other question you pushed aside at the beginning of this discussion: Is this whole system even possible? And if so, how? I'm perfectly willing to acknowledge that your plan, if it could be carried out, would do all sorts of good for the state. I'll even add what you've left out: your citizens would be the bravest warriors on earth. They'd never break ranks, because they all know each other and call each other "father," "brother," and "son." If the women fight alongside them — whether in the front lines or in reserve — as a terror to the enemy and as reinforcements when needed, they'd be absolutely invincible. And I fully acknowledge all the domestic advantages, too — as many as you'd like to name. But since I grant all of this, we don't need to talk about it anymore. Let's assume this state exists and move to the real question: Is it possible? How?

The minute I stop to catch my breath, you attack, I said. I've barely survived the first two waves, and you don't seem to realize that the third one — the biggest and heaviest — is about to crash over me. When you see and hear it, you'll be a lot more sympathetic. You'll understand why I was afraid and reluctant to state and examine a proposal this extraordinary.

The more you stall, he said, the more determined we are. Tell us how this state is possible. Now.

Let me start, I said, by reminding you how we got here. We came looking for justice and injustice.

True. But what of it?

Just this: if we discover what justice is, will we demand that the just man be absolutely and perfectly just in every detail? Or will we be satisfied with an approximation — a degree of justice closer to the ideal than what we find in other people?

The approximation will be enough.

Good. Because we've been investigating the nature of perfect justice and perfect injustice as ideals — models we can look at to judge our own happiness and misery by how closely we resemble them. We weren't trying to prove that these ideals could actually exist in practice.

True.

Would a painter be any worse at his art because, after creating a portrait of a perfectly beautiful person, he couldn't prove that such a person actually existed?

Not at all.

Well, weren't we creating the ideal of a perfect state?

We were.

And is our theory any less valid because we can't prove such a state could actually come into being?

Surely not.

That's the truth. But if you want me to try to show how — and under what conditions — this state is most likely to become real, I'll need you to grant me the same things you granted before.

What things?

Are ideals ever perfectly realized? Doesn't every word express more than the fact? Doesn't reality always, necessarily, fall short of the theory? What do you say?

I agree.

Then don't insist that I prove the actual state will match the ideal in every respect. If we can show how a city might be governed in a way that comes close to what we've described, you'll have to admit we've found the possibility you demanded. Isn't that enough?

Yes, it is.

Then let me try to identify what single flaw in existing states causes them to be governed so badly, and what's the smallest change that could bring a state into this better form. Ideally, one change. If not, two. If not, as few and as minor as possible.

Agreed, he said.

I think, I said, that there's one single change that could transform a state — though it's neither small nor easy. But it is possible.

What is it?

Now I come face to face with what I've been calling the greatest wave. But the words will be spoken, even if the wave breaks and drowns me in ridicule and contempt. Listen carefully.

Speak, he said.

I said: Unless philosophers become kings, or the kings and princes of this world acquire the spirit and power of philosophy — unless political greatness and wisdom are united in the same person, and all those lesser natures who chase one while ignoring the other are forced to step aside — cities will never be free from their afflictions. Nor will the human race. Only then will this state of ours have any chance of coming to life and seeing the light of day.

This, my dear Glaucon, is the thought I've been afraid to utter, because I knew how utterly outrageous it would sound. People have a hard time accepting that there's no other path to happiness — for individuals or for states.

Socrates, said Glaucon, do you realize what you've just said? That kind of statement is going to make a lot of very respectable people — figuratively speaking — rip off their coats, grab the nearest weapon, and charge at you full speed, ready to do serious damage. If you don't prepare a defense and get ready to fight, they're going to "slice you to ribbons with their sharp wits." And I'm not joking.

You're the one who got me into this, I said.

And I was right to do it. But don't worry — I'll do everything I can to help you out of it. All I can offer is goodwill, good advice, and maybe — just maybe — the ability to answer questions better than someone else. Not much, but it's all I've got. With that kind of backup, you'd better do your best to show the skeptics you're right.

I should try, I said, since you're offering such generous support. If we're going to have any chance of escaping the mob, we need to explain exactly what we mean when we say philosophers should rule. We need to make clear which natures are born for philosophy and leadership, and which are born to follow rather than lead.

Then let's have the definition, he said.

Follow me, I said, and I hope I can explain this clearly enough.

I'm sure you remember — so I won't belabor the point — that a true lover, if he deserves the name, loves the whole of what he loves, not just a part.

Actually, I don't understand. Could you remind me?

I said: I'd expect that response from someone else, but a man of your romantic experience really ought to know this. Every young person in the bloom of youth stirs something in a true lover's heart — they all seem worthy of his affection. Isn't that how you treat attractive people? One has a snub nose — you call his face "charming." Another has a hooked nose — you say he has a "regal" look. Someone with a nose that's neither? He has "perfect proportions." Dark-skinned? "Manly." Fair? "A child of the gods." And that pale complexion some people call "honey-gold" — who do you think invented that term if not a lover, making up pretty words because he can forgive anything on the face of youth? In short, there's no excuse you won't make, nothing you won't say, to avoid losing a single flower that blooms in the springtime of youth.

If you want me to play the authority on love for the sake of the argument, he said, I'll go along with it.

And what about lovers of wine? Same pattern, isn't it? They'll seize any excuse to drink any wine at all.

True.

And ambitious men? If they can't command an army, they'll settle for commanding a squad. If the truly important people won't honor them, they'll accept flattery from nobodies — but they must have honor of some kind.

Exactly.

So let me ask again: when we say someone desires a whole class of things, we mean they desire all of it — not just some?

Yes, the whole class.

Then may we say this about the philosopher: he's a lover not of part of wisdom, but of all of it?

Yes, all of it.

And someone who dislikes learning — especially a young person who can't yet tell what's worth knowing and what isn't — we wouldn't call him a philosopher or a lover of knowledge. Just as we wouldn't call someone who refuses food "hungry" — we'd say he has a bad appetite.

Very true.

But someone who has a taste for every kind of knowledge, who's eager to learn and never satisfied — that person we can fairly call a philosopher?

Glaucon said: in that case, you'll find a lot of strange people qualifying as philosophers. The lovers of spectacles, for example — they're delighted to learn new things, so they'd have to count. And the musical enthusiasts — a bizarre bunch to find among philosophers. They're the last people on earth who'd willingly attend a philosophical discussion. But they run around to every festival of Dionysus, town or country, determined to hear every chorus. They've practically rented out their ears. Are we going to call all of these people — and everyone with similar hobbies, and all the practitioners of minor crafts — philosophers?

Certainly not, I said. They're only an imitation.

Then who are the true philosophers? he asked.

Those who are lovers of the vision of truth, I said.

That sounds right, he said, but what do you mean by it?

I'd have trouble explaining it to just anyone. But I'm sure you'll grant me this.

What?

That since beauty and ugliness are opposites, they're two distinct things.

Of course.

And since they're two, each of them is one?

Yes, that follows.

The same goes for justice and injustice, good and evil, and every other quality. Taken individually, each is one. But through their various combinations with actions, bodies, and each other, each appears to be many.

Right.

And this is the distinction I'm drawing between the lovers of spectacle — the practical, art-loving crowd — and the people I'm talking about, who alone deserve the title "philosopher."

How so?

The lovers of sights and sounds, I said, are fond of beautiful tones, colors, shapes, and all the things crafted from them. But their minds can't grasp the nature of Beauty itself — absolute Beauty.

That's true.

And how few are those who can reach the vision of Beauty itself!

Very few.

Now consider: someone who recognizes beautiful things but doesn't recognize Beauty itself — who, even when someone tries to lead him to it, can't follow — is such a person awake or dreaming? Think about it. Isn't dreaming precisely this: mistaking the likeness for the real thing, whether you're asleep or awake?

I'd certainly say that person is dreaming.

But take the opposite case — someone who recognizes that Beauty itself exists, who can distinguish the Form from the things that participate in it, who doesn't confuse the particular things with the Form or the Form with the particular things — is that person awake or dreaming?

He's wide awake.

And wouldn't we say that the mind of the one who knows has knowledge, while the mind of the one who merely believes has opinion?

Yes.

But what if the person with mere opinion gets upset and challenges us? Can we soothe him somehow, gently win him over, without letting on that there's something seriously wrong with his thinking?

We should certainly try.

All right, let's figure out what to say to him. We'll start by assuring him that if he does know something, we're happy for him — no one's trying to take anything away. But we'd like to ask him a question. Does a person who knows something know something real, or something unreal? (You answer for him.)

He knows something real.

Something that is, or something that is not?

Something that is. Because how could something that doesn't exist be known?

So we're confident — from every angle we can examine it — that what fully and completely is can be fully and completely known, while what absolutely is not is absolutely unknowable?

Completely confident.

Good. But what if there's something that both is and is not — something whose nature lies between pure being and absolute non-being?

Then it would fall between the two.

And if knowledge corresponds to being, and ignorance necessarily corresponds to non-being, then for this in-between thing, we'd need to find a corresponding in-between faculty — something between knowledge and ignorance, if such a thing exists?

Yes.

Do we recognize the existence of opinion?

Of course.

Is it the same faculty as knowledge, or different?

Different.

So opinion and knowledge deal with different subject matter, corresponding to their different capacities?

Yes.

Knowledge deals with what is — with being — and knows it for what it is. But before I go further, let me set up a framework.

What kind of framework?

I'll start by defining "faculties" as a class. Faculties are the powers in us — and in all things — that enable us to do what we do. Sight and hearing, for example, are faculties. Is that clear?

Perfectly clear.

Here's my view about them. I can't see a faculty — it has no color, no shape, no physical feature I can use to tell one from another. The only way I can distinguish between faculties is by looking at two things: what they deal with, and what they produce. If two faculties deal with the same subject and produce the same result, I call them the same. If they differ in either, I call them different. How about you?

Same.

Now — would you say that knowledge is a faculty? Or would you put it in some other category?

It's a faculty — the most powerful of all faculties.

And is opinion also a faculty?

Certainly. It's the faculty by which we form opinions.

But you acknowledged earlier that knowledge and opinion aren't the same thing?

Of course — how could any reasonable person confuse something infallible with something that makes mistakes?

Exactly. So we're both quite sure they're distinct.

We are.

And if they're distinct faculties, they must deal with distinct subjects?

Necessarily.

Knowledge deals with being — with what is real — and knows its nature?

Yes.

While opinion simply... opines?

Yes.

Does opinion know the same things knowledge knows? Is the subject of opinion identical to the subject of knowledge?

Impossible, he said. We just proved that if faculties are different, their subjects must be different too. Since opinion and knowledge are clearly different faculties, their subjects can't be the same.

So if being is the subject of knowledge, then something else must be the subject of opinion?

Yes, something else.

Is non-being the subject of opinion? But wait — can there even be an opinion about what doesn't exist? Think about it: when someone has an opinion, isn't it always an opinion about something? Can you have an opinion about nothing?

Impossible.

So someone who has an opinion has an opinion about some one thing?

Yes.

But non-being isn't "some thing" — it's, properly speaking, nothing?

Right.

And we said that ignorance necessarily corresponds to non-being, and knowledge to being?

Correct.

So opinion deals with neither being nor non-being?

Neither.

Then it can't be either knowledge or ignorance?

It seems not.

But does it go beyond either of them? Is it clearer than knowledge or darker than ignorance?

Neither.

Then opinion strikes you as darker than knowledge but brighter than ignorance?

Yes — and not by a small margin.

And it falls between them?

Yes.

Then opinion is intermediate?

Without question.

But weren't we saying earlier that if something turned out to both be and not be at the same time, it would lie in the interval between pure being and absolute non-being? And that the faculty corresponding to it would be neither knowledge nor ignorance, but something between them?

Yes.

And we've now found something between them — what we call opinion?

We have.

So what remains is to find the object that participates equally in being and non-being — that can't properly be called either one purely — and when we find it, we can rightly call it the subject of opinion. We'll assign the extremes to the extreme faculties and the middle to the middle one.

Exactly.

With all this established, here's what I'd say to the gentleman who denies that Beauty itself exists — who believes only in the multiplicity of beautiful things — the lover of sights who can't stand being told that Beauty is one, or that Justice is one, or that anything has a single nature. I'd say to him: "My good friend, of all these beautiful things, is there even one that won't also appear ugly from some angle? Of all these just things, is there one that won't also seem unjust? Of all these holy things, one that won't also seem unholy?"

No, he said. They inevitably appear both beautiful and ugly, just and unjust, holy and unholy.

And things that are double — can't they equally be called half? Doubles of one thing, halves of another?

Exactly.

And things we call great, small, heavy, light — won't they always be as rightly described by the opposite term?

True. Each of them will always be both.

Then can any of these many particular things be said to be this rather than not to be this?

They're like those trick riddles people tell at dinner parties, he said, or the children's puzzle about the eunuch throwing something at the bat — what did he throw it with, and what was the bat sitting on? These individual things are like that: riddling, ambiguous. You can't pin them down as being or not being, or as both, or as neither.

Then what do we do with them? I asked. Where can we put them except between being and non-being? They're clearly not more real than being or more unreal than non-being.

That's exactly right.

So it seems we've discovered that the many conventional beliefs people hold about beauty and everything else are tossing around in some zone halfway between pure being and pure non-being.

We have.

And we agreed earlier that anything of this kind would be the subject of opinion, not knowledge — caught and held by the intermediate faculty.

That's what we said.

So those who see many beautiful things but never see Beauty itself — who can't follow a guide who points the way to it — who see many instances of justice but never Justice itself — these people have opinions but not knowledge?

That's certain.

But those who see the absolute and eternal and unchanging — they have knowledge, not merely opinion?

That can't be denied either.

The first group loves and embraces the objects of opinion. The second loves and embraces the objects of knowledge. And the first group — remember? — are the ones who delight in sweet sounds and beautiful sights but refuse to acknowledge the existence of absolute Beauty.

Yes, I remember.

Then are we wrong to call the first group lovers of opinion rather than lovers of wisdom? Will they be angry with us for describing them this way?

I'll tell them they shouldn't be angry. No one should be angry at what's true.

But those who love the truth in each and every thing — those are the ones who deserve to be called lovers of wisdom. Philosophers.

Republic — Book VI

And so, Glaucon, after a long and winding road, the true philosophers and the fakes have finally come into view.

I don't think there was a shorter route, he said.

I suppose not, I said. Though I do think we'd have gotten a clearer picture of both if we'd been able to focus on just this one question, without all the other issues still waiting for us — questions anyone who wants to understand how the just life differs from the unjust life has to work through.

What's the next question? he asked.

The one that follows naturally, I said. Since only philosophers can grasp what's eternal and unchanging, while people who wander among shifting, unstable things are not philosophers — which group should rule our state?

And how do we decide that? he asked.

Whichever group is better at guarding the laws and institutions of our state — let them be our guardians.

There's no question, I said, that a guard who needs to keep watch over something should have eyes rather than no eyes?

No question at all.

And wouldn't you say that people are basically blind if they have no knowledge of what each thing truly is — no clear pattern in their souls — and can't look at absolute truth the way a painter looks at a model? If they can't refer back to that original to set the standards for beauty, goodness, and justice in this world — or guard and preserve those standards once they're set — wouldn't you call such people blind?

That's pretty much their condition, he replied.

So should we make these people our guardians, when there are others who match them in experience, who are just as virtuous in every way, and who also know the truth of each thing?

There's no reason to reject people who have this greatest of all great qualities, he said. They should always have first place — unless they fall short in some other respect.

Then let's figure out, I said, how they can combine this quality with the others.

By all means.

First, as we said at the start, we need to understand the philosopher's nature. And once we agree on that, I think we'll also see that these qualities can come together in one person — and that only people who have them all should rule the state.

What do you mean?

Let's start with this: philosophical minds are always drawn to the kind of knowledge that reveals eternal reality — the kind that doesn't shift with the tides of creation and destruction.

Further, I said, let's agree that they love all of true reality. They won't voluntarily give up any part of it, whether great or small, more prestigious or less — just like we said about lovers and ambitious people.

And if they're going to be what we described, is there another quality they need?

What quality?

Truthfulness. They'll never willingly let falsehood into their minds. They'll hate it. They'll love the truth.

Yes, that can safely be said of them.

"Can be" isn't strong enough, my friend. Say "must be." Because anyone who's passionately in love with something can't help loving everything that's connected to it.

Right, he said.

And is anything more closely connected to wisdom than truth?

How could there be?

Can the same person love wisdom and love falsehood?

Never.

So the true lover of learning must desire all truth, from his earliest years onward.

But then, as we know from experience, when someone's desires flow strongly in one direction, they're weaker in others — like a stream diverted into another channel.

Someone whose desires are channeled toward knowledge in all its forms will be absorbed in the pleasures of the mind. He'll barely feel bodily pleasures — if he's a genuine philosopher and not a fraud.

That's absolutely certain.

A person like that is bound to be self-controlled, not greedy. The things that drive other people to chase and hoard money have no hold on him.

There's another test of the philosophical nature we need to consider.

What's that?

There shouldn't be any pettiness in their soul. Nothing is more hostile to a mind that's always reaching for the whole of things, both divine and human, than small-mindedness.

Exactly right, he replied.

So how could someone with true greatness of mind — someone who contemplates all of time and all of existence — think that human life is such a big deal?

Or fear death?

Then cowardice and pettiness have no place in real philosophy?

None at all.

And someone who's well-balanced, not greedy, not petty, not a braggart, not a coward — could such a person ever be unjust or difficult to deal with?

Impossible.

So when you're looking at whether someone has a philosophical soul, even in youth, watch for this: are they just and gentle, or rude and antisocial?

There's another thing we should check.

What?

Whether they enjoy learning. Because nobody loves what causes them pain and frustration and barely any progress.

Certainly not.

And if someone is forgetful — if nothing they learn sticks — won't they end up like an empty jar?

Definitely.

They'll struggle in vain and end up hating themselves and the whole pointless exercise.

So a forgetful soul can't be counted among genuine philosophers. The philosopher must have a good memory.

And an unbalanced, ungraceful nature can only tend toward what's out of proportion.

Undoubtedly.

And do you think truth is closer to proportion or to disproportion?

To proportion.

So besides all these other qualities, we need a naturally well-proportioned and graceful mind — one that's drawn instinctively toward the true nature of each thing.

Now, don't all these qualities we've listed go together? Aren't they all necessary for a soul that's going to fully and perfectly participate in reality?

Absolutely necessary, he replied.

And wouldn't a pursuit that requires all these gifts — a good memory, quick learning, nobility, grace, and kinship with truth, justice, courage, and self-control — wouldn't that be a blameless pursuit?

Even the god of jealousy himself couldn't find fault with it, he said.

And to people like this, I said — once they've been perfected by years and education — and only to them, would you entrust the state.

Here Adeimantus broke in and said: Nobody can argue with what you're saying, Socrates. But here's what happens when you talk like this. Your listeners get a strange feeling. They sense they're being led astray at each step of the argument — a little nudge here, a little nudge there — because they're not skilled enough at asking and answering questions to push back in the moment. These little concessions pile up, and by the end of the discussion they find themselves completely overturned. All their former beliefs are upside down. It's like an amateur chess player who gets cornered by a stronger opponent — boxed in with no moves left. That's what happens here: they're boxed in by this game played with words instead of pieces. But the whole time, they feel they're actually right. Look — anyone listening could say: "Sure, I can't match you move for move in this argument. But when I look at the facts, I can see that the people who pursue philosophy — not just dabbling in it as part of their education when they're young, but making it their life's work into their later years — most of them turn into total oddballs, if not outright scoundrels. And even the best of them are made useless to society by the very studies you're praising so highly."

Well, I said, do you think the people who say this are wrong?

I can't tell, he replied. But I'd like to know what you think.

Here's my answer: I think they're completely right.

Then how can you say that cities will never be free from trouble until philosophers rule — when you admit that philosophers are useless?

You're asking a question, I said, that can only be answered with a parable.

Ah yes, Socrates — and parables are something you're definitely not accustomed to using, he said with a grin.

I see you're quite enjoying watching me wrestle with this, I said. But listen to the parable, and then you'll be even more amused by how thin my imagination is. Because the way the best people are treated in their own states is so terrible that nothing else compares to it. To make my case, I have to use a story — something stitched together from many pieces, like those mythical creatures you see in paintings, half-goat and half-stag.

Imagine a fleet of ships — or just one ship, really. The captain is taller and stronger than anyone else on board. But he's a bit deaf, a bit near-sighted, and his knowledge of navigation is about as limited as his eyesight. The sailors are fighting with each other over who should steer. Every single one of them thinks he has the right to take the helm, even though none of them has ever learned navigation and none of them can point to a teacher or a time when they studied it. In fact, they'll tell you navigation can't be taught — and they're ready to cut to pieces anyone who says it can.

So these sailors crowd around the captain, begging and pleading for him to hand over the helm. When they don't get their way and someone else does, they kill their rivals or throw them overboard. Then they drug the noble captain with wine or some narcotic — knock his senses out — stage a mutiny, take control of the ship, and help themselves to all the supplies. Eating, drinking, partying — they sail along exactly the way you'd expect.

And here's the key: the guy who's cleverest at getting the captain to hand over the ship — whether through persuasion or force — they call him "sailor," "pilot," "expert seaman." Anyone who isn't in on the scheme they call a useless daydreamer.

What they can't even begin to imagine is this: that a real navigator has to study the seasons, the sky, the stars, the winds — everything that belongs to his craft — if he's actually going to be qualified to command a ship. And that he'll steer it whether the others like it or not. The very idea that you could combine real expertise with actual authority over the helm — it's never crossed their minds. It's not part of their world.

Now, on a ship in this state of mutiny — run by these mutineers — how do you think the true navigator will be regarded? Won't they call him a stargazer? A windbag? A waste of space?

Of course, said Adeimantus.

Then you hardly need me to spell out the meaning of this parable, I said. You can see how it describes the philosopher's relationship to the state.

Take this story to the person who's surprised that philosophers get no respect in their cities. Explain it to him, and help him see that it would be far more surprising if they did.

And tell him this: he's right that the best philosophers are useless to society. But tell him to blame that uselessness on the people who refuse to use them — not on the philosophers themselves. It's not natural for a navigator to beg the sailors to let him steer. That's not how it works. And the old saying that "the wise should go knocking on the doors of the rich" — the clever person who came up with that was lying. The truth is: when you're sick, whether you're rich or poor, you go to the doctor. And when you need to be governed, you go to the person who knows how to govern. A ruler who's worth anything doesn't beg his subjects to be ruled by him. No — the rulers we have now are a different breed entirely. They're exactly like those mutinous sailors. And the real helmsmen — they're the ones the sailors dismiss as stargazers and good-for-nothings.

Precisely, he said.

So for these reasons, and among people like these, philosophy — the noblest pursuit of all — isn't likely to be respected by the opposing crowd. But the worst damage to philosophy isn't done by its opponents. It's done by its own so-called followers — the same people your critic was talking about when he said that most philosophers are total rogues and even the best are useless. And I agreed with him.

Yes?

And now we've explained why the good ones are useless?

True.

Then shall we go on to show that most of them getting corrupted is also inevitable — and that this isn't philosophy's fault either?

By all means.

Let's go back to our description of the true philosophical nature, taking turns asking and answering. Truth, as you'll remember, was his guiding star. He followed it always and in everything. If he didn't, he was a fraud who had nothing to do with real philosophy.

Yes, that's what we said.

Well, that one quality alone already puts him completely at odds with what people generally think of philosophers, doesn't it?

It certainly does, he said.

And don't we have a right to say in his defense that the true lover of knowledge is always striving toward what really is? That's his nature. He won't rest among the shifting multitude of particular things — which are only appearances. He pushes on. His desire stays sharp and unblunted until he reaches knowledge of the true nature of each thing, grasping it through the part of his soul that's fitted for such contact. And through that contact — drawing near to what truly is, merging with it — he gives birth to understanding and truth. Only then does he truly live and grow. Only then does his striving end.

Nothing could be a more accurate description, he said.

And will the love of lies be any part of a philosopher's nature? Won't he utterly despise falsehood?

He will.

And when truth leads the way, we can't expect anything bad from the company it keeps?

Impossible.

Justice and a healthy mind will come along, and self-control will follow right behind.

True, he replied.

And I don't need to line up the philosopher's virtues again — you'll remember that courage, greatness of spirit, quickness of mind, and a good memory were all part of his natural gifts. You objected that while nobody could deny all this in theory, anyone who looked at the actual people being described would see that some of them are clearly useless and most are thoroughly bad. That led us to ask why so many turn out badly. And that question brought us right back to defining what a true philosopher really is.

Now we need to examine how philosophical natures get corrupted. Why are so many ruined, and so few preserved? I'm talking about the ones we called useless but not wicked. And after that, we'll look at the pretenders — the people who imitate philosophy without being worthy of it. Through their inconsistency, they bring universal disgrace on philosophy and on all genuine philosophers.

What are these corrupting forces? he asked.

I'll try to explain. Everyone would agree that a nature with all the qualities we listed for a philosopher — that's a rare plant. You don't see it often among people.

Rare indeed.

And think of how many powerful forces there are to destroy it!

What forces?

Here's the strangest part: the philosopher's own virtues — courage, self-control, and the rest — every one of these admirable qualities actually works to corrupt and distract the soul that possesses them from philosophy.

That is strange, he replied.

Then add in all the so-called good things in life — beauty, wealth, physical strength, powerful family connections, political influence. You get the idea. These also have a corrupting and distracting effect.

I understand, he said. But I'd like to hear you be more precise about what you mean.

Grasp the principle as a whole, I said, and you'll see it clearly. Then all these earlier points won't seem strange at all.

How? he asked.

Think about it this way. With any seed or young plant — whether it's a plant or an animal — the better its natural quality, the more sensitive it is to bad conditions. The wrong soil, the wrong climate, the wrong nourishment — these hurt the strongest specimens the most. Because what's truly harmful is always a worse enemy to what's genuinely good than to what's mediocre.

That makes sense.

So the finest natures, when they end up in bad conditions, suffer more damage than average ones. The contrast is greater.

And wouldn't you say, Adeimantus, that the most gifted minds, when they get a bad education, turn out the worst? Great crimes and pure evil don't come from weak natures. They come from powerful ones that have been ruined. A feeble nature never produces anything truly great — either good or evil.

I think you're right about that.

So our philosopher follows the same pattern. He's like a plant: give him the right nourishment and he'll grow into every kind of excellence. But plant him in hostile soil, and he becomes the most poisonous weed of all — unless some divine power rescues him.

Now here's a question: do you really think, as people constantly claim, that young people get corrupted by Sophists? That a few private teachers do all the damage? Aren't the people making these complaints the biggest Sophists of all? Don't they educate everyone — young and old, men and women alike — and mold people exactly to their specifications?

When does this happen? he asked.

Whenever the crowd gathers together — at an assembly, a court hearing, a theater, an army camp, or any public gathering — and there's a great uproar. They cheer some things and boo others, wildly overdoing both. They shout and clap, and the walls and the whole place echo back the noise of their approval and disapproval, doubling it.

In a moment like that, what happens to a young person's heart? What kind of private education could possibly hold up against the flood of popular opinion? Won't he be swept away? Won't he end up adopting whatever the crowd calls good and bad? Won't he do what they do, become what they are?

Yes, Socrates, he said. He'd have no choice.

And yet, I said, there's an even greater force I haven't mentioned.

What's that?

The gentle persuasion of fines, property seizure, or death — which these popular educators, the public, use when their words aren't enough.

Yes, they certainly do. And they don't hold back.

So what private Sophist, what individual teacher, could possibly compete against all that?

None, he replied.

No, I said. Even to try would be insane. There never has been, and never will be, a different kind of character produced when virtue comes only from the training that public opinion provides. I'm speaking of human virtue only, my friend — we'll set aside anything more than human, as the saying goes. Because let me tell you: in the current state of politics, anything that's saved and turns out well is saved by the power of God. That's no exaggeration.

I completely agree, he replied.

Then let me take it one step further.

What are you going to say?

This: all those paid teachers — the ones the public calls Sophists and treats as enemies — they don't actually teach anything except the public's own opinions. The opinions formed in assemblies. That's their entire wisdom. It's as if someone were studying the moods and appetites of a huge, powerful beast that they're responsible for feeding. They'd learn exactly how to approach the animal, when it's dangerous and when it's gentle, what its different sounds mean, and what tones of voice — when someone else makes them — soothe or provoke it.

And suppose this person, after years of studying the beast, called this knowledge "wisdom" and organized it into a system and started teaching it — even though they had no real understanding of what any of these moods and desires actually are. They just label whatever the beast likes "good" and whatever it dislikes "bad." They call the beast's habits "just" and "noble" — having never understood what justice and nobility truly are, never grasped the enormous difference between what the beast happens to want and what's genuinely good. By heaven — wouldn't that be a remarkable educator?

Remarkable indeed.

Now tell me: is there any difference between this person and someone who thinks wisdom consists of figuring out what the masses approve of — whether in painting, music, or politics? Because when someone mingles with the crowd and puts their work before the public for judgment — when they make the masses their critics — they're forced to produce whatever the crowd praises. And the reasons people give for why something is good or honorable — have you ever heard any that weren't utterly ridiculous?

No, and I don't expect to.

You see the truth of what I'm saying? Then consider this: will the masses ever be brought to believe in absolute beauty — beauty itself — rather than the many beautiful things? Or in the absolute reality of any quality, rather than the many particular instances?

Never.

Then the masses can never be philosophical?

Impossible.

Which means philosophers will inevitably be criticized by the public?

Inevitably.

And by the individuals who hang around the mob and try to please them?

Obviously.

Given all this, do you see any way for the philosopher to be preserved in his calling? Remember what we said about him — that he had quickness and memory and courage and greatness of mind. We agreed these were the philosopher's natural gifts.

Now, won't someone like this be first among his peers in everything from childhood on — especially if his body matches his mind?

Certainly, he said.

And as he gets older, his friends and fellow citizens will want to use him for their own purposes?

No question.

They'll throw themselves at his feet with requests. They'll flatter him and fawn over him, because they want to lock in the power he'll someday possess.

That happens a lot, he said.

And what will someone like this do in such circumstances — especially if he's a citizen of a great city, rich, well-born, tall, and handsome? Won't he swell with limitless ambitions? Won't he start thinking he can run the affairs of Greeks and foreigners alike? Won't he puff himself up with vanity and empty pride?

He absolutely will.

Now, while he's in this state, suppose someone approaches him gently and tells him the truth: that he's a fool, that he needs to get real understanding, and that it can only be gotten through hard work. Do you think he'll listen easily? Under those conditions?

Not a chance.

And even if someone — through natural goodness or inborn common sense — manages to open his eyes a little, humbles himself, and lets philosophy take hold of him, what will his friends do? They'll see that they're about to lose the advantages they were counting on from his influence. Won't they do and say anything to stop him? Won't they try everything — private schemes, public lawsuits — to keep him from his better nature and to destroy his teacher's influence?

Without a doubt.

How could such a person ever become a philosopher?

He couldn't.

So we were right when we said that the very qualities that make someone a philosopher can actually divert him from philosophy — if he gets the wrong education. Just as much as wealth and all those other so-called blessings can.

We were absolutely right.

So that, my excellent friend, is how the ruin happens — how the natures best suited for the noblest pursuit get destroyed. And these natures, remember, are rare to begin with. This is the class that produces both the greatest evil and the greatest good for states and individuals — depending on which direction the current carries them. But a small nature never does anything truly great, whether to individuals or to states.

That's very true, he said.

And so philosophy is left abandoned, her marriage incomplete. Her rightful partners have deserted her. While they go off living false, unworthy lives, other people — seeing that she has no one to protect her — move in and dishonor her. They're the ones who produce all those accusations you mentioned: that some of philosophy's followers are worthless, and most deserve the harshest punishment.

That's certainly what people say.

And no wonder! Think of the mediocre little people who spot this territory lying open — a field full of impressive-sounding names and grand titles. Like prisoners escaping jail who duck into a temple for sanctuary, these people leap from their petty trades into philosophy. And the ones who make the jump are probably the cleverest at their own shabby crafts. Because even in her degraded condition, philosophy retains a dignity that no trade can match. And that attracts plenty of people whose natures are defective — whose souls are stunted and deformed by years of menial work, just as their bodies are bent by their trades.

Isn't that unavoidable?

Aren't they just like a bald little tinker who's just gotten out of debtor's prison and come into a fortune? He takes a bath, puts on a new suit, decks himself out like a bridegroom — and goes off to marry his master's daughter, left poor and without protectors?

A perfect comparison.

And what kind of children will come from marriages like that? Won't they be low-quality and illegitimate?

There's no question.

And when people who are unworthy of education attach themselves to philosophy — a discipline far above them — what kind of ideas and opinions do they produce? Won't they generate nothing but sophistry — things that sound clever but have nothing genuine in them, nothing truly wise?

No doubt about it, he said.

So, Adeimantus, the genuine disciples of philosophy are just a tiny remnant. Maybe someone noble and well-educated, kept in philosophy's service by exile, who remains devoted to her because there's nothing around to corrupt him. Or maybe some great soul born in a small city, who looks down on local politics and ignores them. A gifted few might come from other professions that they rightly despise, and find their way to philosophy. And some are held back from leaving philosophy by something like my friend Theages' situation — everything in his life tempted him away from philosophy, but poor health kept him out of politics, so philosophy kept him. My own case — my inner sign, my divine voice — is hardly worth mentioning. It's been given to very few, if anyone, before me.

The people who belong to this small group have tasted how sweet and blessed a thing philosophy is. They've also seen enough of the madness of the masses. They know that virtually no politician is honest. They know there's no champion of justice they could fight alongside and survive. They're like someone who's stumbled into a pack of wild animals. They won't join in the savagery, but they can't fight the whole pack alone. They'd be killed before they could do any good for the city or their friends. So they calculate: they'd just be throwing their life away for nothing.

And so they hold their peace. They go their own way. They're like someone who ducks under a wall for shelter while a storm of dust and sleet rages past, driven by the wind. They watch the rest of humanity drowning in wickedness, and they're content just to keep their own life clean and free of injustice — and to depart, when the time comes, at peace and in good hope.

Yes, he said, and that would be no small accomplishment before they go.

A great accomplishment — but not the greatest. Not unless they find a state that suits them. Because in a state that truly fits, a philosopher would grow to his full stature and become the savior of his country as well as himself.

I think we've now explained sufficiently why philosophy has such a bad reputation. We've shown that the charges against her are unjust. Is there anything else you want to say about that?

No, nothing more on that subject, he replied. But I'd like to know: which of the governments that exist now do you think is suitable for philosophy?

None of them, I said. And that's exactly my complaint — not a single existing government is worthy of the philosophical nature. That's why it gets warped and corrupted. It's like an exotic plant sown in foreign soil: it loses its character and degenerates into something else entirely. But if philosophy ever found a state as perfect as she is, then you'd see that she truly is divine — and that everything else, human natures and institutions alike, is merely human.

And now I know you're about to ask: what is that perfect state?

No, he said. You're wrong. I was going to ask a different question: is it the state we've been building in this discussion, or some other one?

Yes, I replied — ours, in most respects. But remember, I said earlier that there would always need to be some living authority in the state who holds the same vision of the constitution that guided you as you were laying down the laws.

That was said, he replied.

Yes, but not satisfactorily. You all kept raising objections that showed the discussion would be long and difficult. And what still remains is the hardest part.

What's left?

The question of how philosophy can be practiced in a way that doesn't destroy the state. Because all great ventures involve risk. "The good is hard," as they say.

Still, he said, let's clear this up. Then we'll be done.

It won't be lack of will that holds me back, I said — only lack of ability, if anything. But you can judge my eagerness for yourselves. And notice how boldly I'm about to declare that states should pursue philosophy in a completely different way than they do now.

How so?

Right now, I said, the students of philosophy are too young. They're barely out of childhood, and they squeeze in philosophy around the practical business of making money and running a household. Even the ones considered most philosophical — when they get within sight of the really difficult part, meaning dialectic — they drop out. Later in life, if someone invites them to a lecture, they might go and consider it a big event. But they think philosophy is a side hobby, not their real business. And when they get old, their philosophical light goes out more completely than the sun of Heraclitus — because unlike his sun, it never reignites.

What should they do instead? he asked.

Exactly the opposite. When they're young, their studies and whatever philosophy they learn should be age-appropriate. During this period, as they're growing toward adulthood, the main focus should be on their bodies — building the physical foundation they'll need in the service of philosophy. As they mature and their minds ripen, intensify the training of their souls. And when their physical strength fades and they're past the age for military and civic duties — then let them roam free in philosophy and do nothing else of consequence. That is, if they're going to live well in this life and crown it with the same happiness in the next.

You really are serious about this, Socrates! he said. I believe you. But I suspect most of your audience will resist you even more fiercely — Thrasymachus least of all.

Don't start a fight between Thrasymachus and me, I said. We've just become friends — though really, we were never enemies. I'll keep trying until I either win him over, or at least do something useful that will serve him in some future life, when he encounters these same arguments again.

That's not exactly around the corner, he said.

It's nothing compared to eternity, I replied. But I'm not surprised the masses won't believe any of this. They've never seen what we're describing made real. What they've seen is a contrived imitation of philosophy — words artificially strung together — not a natural unity like what we're building here. They've never seen a human being who has been perfectly shaped, as far as humanly possible, into the likeness of virtue — both in word and in deed — ruling a city that reflects the same ideal. Not one such person, let alone many. Have they?

No, they haven't.

And they've rarely, if ever, heard the kind of free and noble discourse that comes from people who are genuinely pursuing truth for its own sake — with every power they have — rather than arguing for the sake of winning, the kind that only produces opinions and quarrels, whether in courts of law or in casual conversation.

They're strangers to that kind of talk, he said.

And this is what we foresaw. This is why truth forced us to say — however reluctantly — that neither cities nor individuals will ever be free from trouble until the small class of philosophers we described (the ones we called useless but not corrupt) are somehow compelled to take charge of the state — whether they want to or not — and until the state is compelled to obey them. Or until the current rulers, or their sons, are struck by a genuine, divinely inspired love of true philosophy. That either of these is impossible — I see no reason to believe that. If it were, we'd deserve to be laughed at as idle dreamers. Am I wrong?

You're not wrong.

Because if, in the endless course of time past — or right now, in some distant land beyond our knowledge — the perfected philosopher has been or is being compelled by some higher power to take charge of a state, then we're ready to insist, to the death, that this constitution of ours has existed, does exist, and will exist — whenever the spirit of philosophy reigns supreme. There's no impossibility here. It's difficult, certainly — we freely admit that.

I agree with you, he said.

But the multitude doesn't? I asked.

Probably not, he replied.

My friend, I said, don't attack the multitude. They'll change their minds — if instead of picking fights with them, you gently soothe them and remove their prejudice against education. Show them what philosophers truly are. Describe their character and their way of life, just as we've been doing. Then people will see that this isn't the kind of person they imagined. If they see philosophers in this new light, they'll form a completely different opinion. Who could be hostile to someone who loves them? Who that is gentle and free from envy could be jealous of someone without a jealous bone in their body? Let me answer for you: a few harsh people might still resist, but not the majority.

I quite agree, he said.

And don't you also think that the hostility most people feel toward philosophy comes from the pretenders? The ones who barge in uninvited and spend their time attacking people, picking fights, finding fault — always making the conversation about persons instead of ideas? Nothing could be less fitting for a philosopher.

It's completely unbecoming.

Because, Adeimantus, someone whose mind is fixed on true reality has no time to look down at the petty affairs of human life, or to get caught up in envy and malice and fighting with people. His eye is always directed toward things that are fixed and unchanging — things that neither harm each other nor are harmed, but exist in perfect order, governed by reason. He imitates these things. He tries to make himself like them, as much as he can. Or do you think it's possible to spend time in the company of something you admire without becoming like it?

Impossible.

So the philosopher, holding company with the divine order, becomes orderly and divine himself — as far as human nature allows. Though of course he'll still be criticized.

And if he's ever called upon to take what he sees in that higher realm and stamp it onto human nature — into individuals and communities alike — do you think he'll be a clumsy craftsman of justice, self-control, and every civic virtue?

Anything but clumsy.

And if the world comes to see that what we're saying about him is true, will they be angry at philosophy? Will they refuse to believe that no state can be happy unless its designers are artists who follow the divine pattern?

They won't be angry — if they understand, he said. But how exactly would these philosopher-artists go about their work?

They'll start by taking the state and the character of its people, as if it were a canvas, and wiping it clean. That's no easy task. But this is what sets them apart from every other kind of legislator: they won't touch either individual or state, and they won't write a single law, until they've either found or created a clean surface.

They'd be right to do that, he said.

Having cleared the canvas, they'll start sketching the outline of the constitution.

And as they work, I imagine they'll keep looking back and forth — up at absolute justice, beauty, and self-control, and down at the human copy they're creating. They'll mix and blend the elements of human life to produce the image of a true human being, guided by that quality which Homer — when he saw it in people — called "the form and likeness of God."

Very true, he said.

They'll erase one trait and paint in another, over and over, until they've made human character as close to godlike as it can possibly be.

No painter could produce a more beautiful picture, he said.

Well, I said, are we beginning to persuade those people who were rushing at us with pitchforks? The ones who were furious that we'd hand the state over to a "painter of constitutions"? Are they calming down a little, now that they've heard all this?

Much calmer — if they have any sense.

Because what objection is left? Will they deny that the philosopher loves truth and reality?

That would be unreasonable.

Or that his nature, as we've described it, is akin to what's highest and best?

They can't deny that either.

Or that such a nature, given the right conditions, won't produce someone perfectly good and wise — if anyone ever could be? Would they rather trust the people we rejected?

Surely not.

Then will they still be angry when we say that until philosophers rule, states and individuals will know no rest from trouble — and that the ideal state we've imagined will never become real?

I think they'll be less angry.

Shall we say they're not just less angry, but actually won over? That out of pure shame, if nothing else, they've come around?

By all means, he said.

Good. Then let's take it as settled. Now, will anyone deny that the sons of kings or princes might be born with philosophical natures?

No one would deny that.

And if such children were born, will anyone claim they'd inevitably be corrupted? Even we admit they'd be hard to save. But in the entire course of time, not a single one could survive? Who would dare say that?

Who indeed!

But look, I said — one would be enough. One philosopher with a city willing to obey him, and he could bring into reality the ideal state that everyone now considers impossible.

Yes, one is enough.

If the ruler established the laws and institutions we've described, it's surely possible that the citizens would be willing to obey.

Entirely possible.

And is it really so miraculous that others might approve of what we approve?

I think not.

And we've already shown, in everything we've discussed, that all of this — if it could be achieved — would be the best possible arrangement.

We have.

So the conclusion is: our laws, if enacted, would be the best — and enacting them, though difficult, is not impossible.

Agreed.

And so, with great effort, we've reached the end of one subject. But more remains. How will the saviors of our constitution be produced? Through what studies and pursuits? And at what ages should they take up each one?

I realize I was being clever earlier when I skipped over the tricky business of women, children, and the appointment of rulers — I knew these ideas would provoke hostility and would be hard to achieve. But that cleverness didn't actually help, because I had to discuss them anyway. The women and children question is settled. But the question of rulers needs to be tackled fresh.

We said, you'll remember, that rulers must be lovers of their country, tested by pleasures and pains, who never lose their patriotism through hardship, danger, or any crisis. Anyone who failed the test was to be rejected. But the person who came through pure every time — like gold refined in fire — was to be made ruler and given honors in life and after death. That's roughly what we said, before the argument turned aside and veiled her face, not wanting to stir up the question we're now facing.

I remember perfectly, he said.

Yes, my friend. I hesitated before to say what I must now say boldly: the perfect guardian must be a philosopher.

Let that be affirmed, he said.

And don't expect there to be many of them. The gifts we said were essential rarely grow together in one person. They usually come in fragments.

What do you mean?

Think about it. Quick intelligence, sharp memory, cleverness, mental agility — these qualities don't often come paired with a high-spirited, magnanimous temperament. People who have that kind of mental firepower tend to be restless and impulsive. Stability goes right out the window.

Very true, he said.

On the other hand, those steady, reliable natures you can count on — the ones who are immovable in battle, unshakeable by fear — they're equally immovable when it comes to learning. They go torpid. They yawn and fall asleep over any intellectual work.

That's true too.

But we said both sets of qualities were necessary for anyone who'd receive the higher education and share in governing.

We did.

And this combination is rare?

Very rare.

So the candidate must be tested not only in the labors, dangers, and pleasures we mentioned before, but also in many fields of study — to see whether the soul can handle the highest knowledge, or whether it'll break down under the strain, the way some people break down in physical training.

Yes, he said. You're right to test that. But what do you mean by "the highest knowledge"?

You may remember, I said, that we divided the soul into three parts and distinguished the natures of justice, self-control, courage, and wisdom.

If I'd forgotten that, he said, I wouldn't deserve to hear any more.

And do you remember the qualification we made before that discussion?

What qualification?

We said that seeing these virtues in their full perfection required a longer and more difficult path. At the end of that road, they'd appear clearly. But we could sketch out a rough version that was consistent with what we'd discussed so far. You all said that was good enough, and so we proceeded — in a way that seemed to me rather imprecise. But whether you were satisfied, that's your call.

Yes, he said. The others and I thought you gave us a fair account.

But my friend, I said, in matters like these, any account that falls short of the whole truth isn't really a fair measure. Nothing incomplete is the measure of anything. Though people are often content to stop there, thinking they've searched far enough.

That's not uncommon when people are lazy, he said.

Yes, I said. And that's the last fault a guardian of the state and its laws should have.

So the guardian, I said, must take the longer road. He must work just as hard at learning as at physical training. Otherwise he'll never reach the highest knowledge — the one that truly belongs to him.

Wait, he said. Is there knowledge higher than justice and the other virtues?

Yes, I said. And even the virtues themselves — we shouldn't settle for a rough sketch. We need the finished painting. It's absurd to lavish infinite care on trivial things to make them precise and clear, but then not think the most important truths deserve the same effort.

A noble thought! But you can't expect us not to ask: what is this highest knowledge?

Go ahead and ask, I said. But I'm sure you've heard the answer many times before. Either you don't understand me, or — more likely — you're just being difficult. Because you've often heard me say it: the Form of the Good is the highest knowledge. It's what makes everything else useful and beneficial. You can hardly be unaware that I was about to bring this up. And without it — as I've said before — no other knowledge or possession is worth anything. Do you think it does any good to possess everything in the world if you don't possess the Good? Or to understand everything except beauty and goodness?

Certainly not.

And you know that most people say the Good is pleasure, while the more sophisticated ones say it's knowledge?

Yes.

And you also know that the knowledge crowd can't explain what they mean. They end up having to say it's "knowledge of the Good."

How ridiculous! he said.

Very ridiculous, I said. They scold us for not knowing what the Good is, then turn around and explain it to us by using the word "good" — as if we suddenly know what that means when they say it.

Exactly.

And the pleasure camp is just as confused. They're forced to admit that some pleasures are bad.

Which means they're admitting that the same things are both good and bad.

Obviously.

So this question is tangled with enormous difficulties.

It is.

And here's something else: many people are willing to do, have, and appear to be what's just and honorable — even when it's not real. But when it comes to the Good, nobody is satisfied with appearances. Everyone wants the real thing. Appearances are worthless here.

Very true, he said.

So the Good — this thing that every soul pursues, this thing that is the goal of everything we do, this thing we sense is out there even though we can't quite pin down what it is, can't feel as certain about it as we do about other things, and end up losing whatever value those other things had because of our ignorance — should the best people in our state, the ones we entrust with everything, really be kept in the dark about something this important?

Absolutely not, he said.

I'm sure, I said, that a guardian who doesn't understand how justice and beauty are also good won't be much of a guardian. And I suspect that without knowing the Good, no one will truly understand justice and beauty at all.

That's a shrewd suspicion.

And if we have a guardian with this knowledge, our state will be perfectly ordered?

Of course, he replied. But tell me — do you think this supreme principle, the Good, is knowledge, or pleasure, or something else entirely?

Ha, I said. I knew a man of your refined taste wouldn't be satisfied with other people's opinions on this.

True, Socrates, he said. But someone who's spent a lifetime studying philosophy shouldn't always be quoting other people's views and never stating his own.

Well, does anyone have the right to speak with certainty about what he doesn't know?

Not with certainty, he said. But he can say what he thinks, as a matter of opinion.

And haven't you noticed, I said, that all opinions without knowledge are flawed? The best of them are blind. Do you think people who hold true beliefs but lack understanding are any different from blind people who happen to be walking down the right road?

And would you prefer what's blind and crooked and base, when others can offer you brightness and beauty?

Please, Socrates, said Glaucon, don't turn away now — not when you're so close to the finish line. If you can give us an explanation of the Good like the ones you gave us for justice, self-control, and the other virtues, we'll be satisfied.

Yes, my friend, and I'd be more than satisfied. But I'm afraid I'll fall flat on my face, and my clumsy enthusiasm will make me look ridiculous. No — let's not try to say what the Good actually is, at least not right now. That's more than I can manage. But I'm willing to tell you about the child of the Good — its offspring, the thing most like it. If you want to hear about that.

By all means, he said. Tell us about the child, and you can stay in our debt for the parent.

I do wish, I replied, that I could pay you the full account — the parent, not just the offspring. But take this as interest on the loan. Just be careful that I don't accidentally pay you in counterfeit, though I have no intention of deceiving you.

We'll be careful. Go ahead.

Good. But first I need to remind you of something we've discussed before — and on many other occasions.

What's that?

The old story: there are many beautiful things and many good things — many instances of each kind. We use the word "many" to describe them all.

True, he said.

And then there's beauty itself and goodness itself. For each thing that comes in many instances, there's a single Form — one unifying idea — which we call the essence of each.

Yes.

The many particulars are seen but not known. The Forms are known but not seen.

And what organ do we use to see visible things?

Sight, he said.

And we use hearing for sounds, and our other senses for their objects?

Of course.

But have you ever noticed that sight is by far the most elaborate and expensive of all the senses — the most complex piece of craftsmanship?

No, I never thought about that.

Well, think about this. Does hearing need some third element — something beyond the ear and the sound — for hearing to work?

No, nothing.

And the same is true of most, if not all, the other senses. They don't require any such addition?

Certainly not.

But sight is different. You do realize that even when you have eyes and there are colors to be seen, without some third element you won't see a thing?

What do you mean?

Think about it. You have eyes with the power of sight. Colors are there in front of you. But unless a third thing is present — something specifically designed for this purpose — the eyes will see nothing and the colors will remain invisible.

What is this third thing?

The thing you call light, I replied.

Right, he said.

So the bond between sight and visibility is something noble and extraordinary — far more precious than the bonds linking the other senses. Because light is no small thing.

No, he said. Far from it.

And which of the gods in the sky would you say is the lord of this power? Whose light is it that makes the eyes see perfectly and makes visible things appear?

The same one you and everyone else would name, he said. The sun.

Now consider the relationship between sight and the sun. The eye isn't the sun. Neither is the power of sight itself.

No.

But of all the sense organs, the eye is the most sun-like.

By far.

And the power the eye possesses — isn't it a kind of gift dispensed by the sun?

Yes.

So the sun isn't sight itself. But it's the source of sight — the thing that sight recognizes and depends on.

True, he said.

Now here's what I want you to understand: the sun is what I call the child of the Good. The Good produced the sun in its own likeness. What the Good is in the intelligible world — in relation to thought and the objects of thought — the sun is in the visible world, in relation to sight and the objects of sight.

Can you be a little more specific? he said.

You know, I said, that when you look at things in dim light — by moonlight or starlight — your eyes see poorly. They seem almost blind. No clarity at all.

Right.

But when you look at things the sun shines on, they see clearly. Sight is sharp and vivid.

Of course.

Now think of the soul the same way. When the soul rests on what's illuminated by truth and reality, it perceives, it understands, it's radiant with intelligence. But when it turns toward what's dim — the twilight zone of things that come into being and pass away — it can only form opinions. It fumbles around. One moment it thinks one thing, the next moment another. It seems to have no intelligence at all.

That's exactly how it is.

Now, the thing that gives truth to what's known and gives the knower the power to know — that is what I call the Form of the Good. It's the cause of knowledge and truth, insofar as truth is something we can know. And beautiful as both truth and knowledge are, you'll be right to think the Good is something even more beautiful than either. Just as light and sight are like the sun but aren't the sun, so knowledge and truth are like the Good but aren't the Good. The Good holds an even higher place of honor.

What an extraordinary beauty that must be, he said — if it produces both knowledge and truth but surpasses them in beauty! You surely don't mean pleasure?

God forbid, I replied. But consider the analogy from another angle.

What angle?

The sun doesn't just make things visible. It also gives them growth, nourishment, and existence — though the sun itself isn't existence.

Right.

In the same way, the Good doesn't just give things the power to be known. It gives them their very being and reality — though the Good itself isn't being. It surpasses being in dignity and power.

Glaucon burst out laughing: By the light of heaven — that's beyond anything!

That's your fault, I said. You made me say what I think.

And please keep going, he said. At the very least, finish the comparison with the sun — if there's anything left.

Oh, there's a great deal left, I said.

Then don't leave anything out, however small.

I'll do my best, I said. But I suspect a lot will have to be left out.

I hope not, he said.

Then picture this: two realms, two ruling powers. One presides over the intelligible world, the other over the visible world. I won't say "heaven" — I don't want you to think I'm playing word games. Do you have this distinction clearly in mind? The visible and the intelligible?

I do.

Good. Now imagine a line divided into two unequal sections. Divide each section again in the same ratio. The two main divisions represent the visible and the intelligible. Now compare the subdivisions in terms of clarity.

In the visible realm, the first and lower section consists of images — shadows, reflections in water, reflections on smooth and polished surfaces, and everything of that kind. Do you follow?

Yes, I follow.

The second section of the visible includes the actual things that cast those shadows and reflections — animals, plants, and everything that's made.

Got it.

Would you agree that these two sections differ in their degree of truth? That the image stands to the original as opinion stands to knowledge?

Absolutely.

Now consider how the intelligible realm is divided.

How?

Like this: in the lower section, the soul uses the objects from the visible realm as images. It works from assumptions — hypotheses — and instead of moving upward to a first principle, it moves downward toward a conclusion. In the higher section, the soul moves beyond hypotheses to a principle that stands above all assumptions. It doesn't use images at all. It proceeds through the Forms themselves, using only the Forms.

I don't quite follow, he said.

Let me try again. You'll understand better after some examples. You know that students of geometry, arithmetic, and the related sciences start by assuming certain things — odd and even numbers, various types of angles and figures, and so on. These are their hypotheses. They take them as given, obvious, needing no justification. They don't bother explaining them to themselves or anyone else. Starting from these assumptions, they work step by step until they reach a consistent conclusion.

Yes, he said, I know that.

And you know that although they draw visible figures and reason about them, they're not really thinking about those particular drawings. They're thinking about the ideal square, the ideal diagonal — the Forms that can only be seen with the mind's eye. The shapes they draw are just tools, images. What they're really after are the originals that only thought can grasp.

That's true.

This is what I meant by the lower section of the intelligible. The soul is forced to use hypotheses in its investigation. It can't rise above them to a first principle. Instead, it uses physical objects — which are themselves just copies of things at a higher level — as stepping-stones. These objects are treated as relatively clear and valuable compared to the shadows and reflections below them.

I understand, he said. You're talking about geometry and the mathematical sciences.

Exactly. Now, by the higher section of the intelligible, I mean what reason itself achieves through the power of dialectic. Here, hypotheses aren't treated as starting points — they're treated as what they really are: hypotheses, stepping-stones, launching pads into a realm that lies beyond all assumptions. Reason ascends to the first principle of everything. And once it grasps that principle, it follows the chain of what depends on it, descending step by step back to a conclusion — without ever relying on anything visible or sensory. It moves through Forms alone, from Forms to Forms, and ends in Forms.

I understand you, he replied — though not perfectly, because what you're describing sounds like an enormous undertaking. But I take your point: the knowledge that dialectic provides, in the realm of pure being, is clearer than the knowledge produced by the mathematical sciences. Those sciences work from hypotheses, and while their objects are grasped by understanding rather than by the senses, because they start from assumptions instead of ascending to a first principle, the mathematicians don't exercise the highest kind of reason — even though their objects would be fully knowable if a first principle were added. I think you'd call this mathematical kind of thinking "understanding" rather than "reason" — something between mere opinion and the highest knowledge.

You've grasped my meaning perfectly, I said. And now, corresponding to these four sections of the line, assign four states of mind. Reason for the highest. Understanding for the second. Belief for the third. And perception of images — conjecture — for the lowest. Arrange them in order, and recognize that each has a degree of clarity proportional to the degree of truth possessed by its objects.

I understand, he replied. I agree, and I accept your arrangement.

Republic — Book VII

And now, I said, let me paint you a picture of what it means to be enlightened — and what it means to be in the dark.

Imagine human beings living in an underground cave. The cave has a long entrance open to the light, stretching the full length of the cavern. The people have been there since childhood, with their legs and necks chained so they can't move. They can only look straight ahead. The chains prevent them from turning their heads.

Behind them and above them, a fire is blazing at some distance. Between the fire and the prisoners, there's a raised walkway, and along it runs a low wall — like the screen that puppet-show performers put in front of themselves, the one they use to show their puppets over.

Can you picture this?

I can, he said.

Now picture people walking along behind that wall, carrying all sorts of objects that stick up over the top — statues, figures of animals, tools, all kinds of things made of wood and stone and other materials. Some of the carriers are talking. Others are silent.

You've described a strange scene, he said, and strange prisoners.

They're just like us, I replied. Think about it: these prisoners — could they see anything of themselves or of each other except the shadows that the fire throws on the wall in front of them?

How could they? he said. They've never been allowed to move their heads.

And the objects being carried behind them — they'd only see the shadows of those too?

Yes, he said.

And if the prisoners could talk to each other, wouldn't they assume that the names they gave to the shadows referred to the actual things passing by?

Naturally.

And suppose the cave had an echo that bounced sounds off the wall they were facing — whenever one of the people walking behind them spoke, wouldn't the prisoners be convinced the voice was coming from the shadow itself?

Absolutely, he replied.

For these prisoners, I said, truth would be literally nothing but shadows.

Without question.

Now watch what happens when a prisoner is set free and forced to confront reality.

Picture it: one of them is suddenly unchained. He's forced to stand up, turn around, and walk toward the fire. Every movement hurts. The glare is blinding. He can barely make out the real objects whose shadows he'd been watching his whole life.

And then imagine someone tells him: "Everything you saw before was an illusion. Now you're closer to reality. You're looking at actual things, and your vision is clearer than it's ever been."

What do you think he'd say? And imagine his guide is pointing to each object as it passes, demanding he name them — wouldn't he be completely confused? Wouldn't he think the shadows he used to see were more real than the objects being shown to him now?

Much more real, he said.

And if he were forced to look directly at the fire itself, wouldn't his eyes burn with pain? Wouldn't he turn away and retreat to the things he could actually see — the shadows — convinced that they were clearer and more real than anything this person was trying to show him?

Yes, he said.

And now imagine he's dragged out of the cave entirely. Picture it: someone grabs him and hauls him up the steep, rough passage — doesn't let go, doesn't stop — and drags him all the way out into the sunlight.

Wouldn't he be furious? Wouldn't his eyes be flooded with light, so dazzled he couldn't see a single one of the things that people up here call real?

Not at first, he said. Not right away.

No. He'd need time to adjust. At first, the easiest things to look at would be shadows. Then reflections — images of people and objects in water. After that, the objects themselves. Then he'd find it easier to gaze at the night sky — the moon, the stars, the vast glittering heavens — than to look at the sun or sunlight during the day.

Naturally.

And last of all, he'd be able to look at the sun itself. Not its reflection in water or on some other surface, but the sun — in its own place in the sky, as it actually is.

Yes.

And then he'd start reasoning about it. He'd figure out that this is the source of the seasons and the years, that it governs everything in the visible world, and that it's the ultimate cause of everything he and his fellow prisoners had ever seen — in a way, the cause of the shadows themselves.

Obviously, he said. He'd see the sun first, and then work out its significance.

And when he thought back to the cave — to his old home, and to the so-called "wisdom" of the place, and to his fellow prisoners — don't you think he'd feel lucky about how much his life had changed? Don't you think he'd pity them?

Deeply.

Now, suppose the prisoners had a tradition of giving honors to whoever was quickest at spotting the shadows as they passed, and whoever was best at remembering the order — which ones came first, which followed, which appeared together — and whoever could make the best predictions about what shadow was coming next. Do you think our freed man would envy these honors? Would he want to compete for prizes with the champion shadow-watchers? Or would he feel like Homer's hero and prefer to

"be a poor servant of a poor master"

and endure anything rather than go back to seeing the world the way they see it and living the way they live?

Yes, he said. I think he'd rather suffer anything than go back to that life.

Now imagine this, I said. Suppose he went back down into the cave and took his old seat. Coming suddenly out of the sunlight, wouldn't his eyes be filled with darkness?

Of course, he said.

And if he had to compete again with the prisoners who'd never left — compete at identifying and measuring the shadows — while his eyes were still adjusting, before his vision had settled (and it could take quite a while to get used to the dark again), wouldn't they ridicule him? Wouldn't they say he'd gone up and come back down with ruined eyes, and that the journey wasn't even worth attempting? And if anyone tried to set another prisoner free and lead him up to the light — if they could get their hands on that person, wouldn't they kill him?

No question, he said.

Now, Glaucon, I said, you need to connect this whole allegory to what we said before. The cave — that's the world we see with our eyes. The firelight inside it — that's the sun in our sky. And the journey upward, the ascent into the world above — that's the soul's rise into the realm of understanding, the intelligible world. That's my belief, anyway, for whatever it's worth — whether it's right or wrong, only God knows. But here's what I think: in the world of knowledge, the Form of the Good appears last of all, and it takes real effort to see it. But once you do see it, the conclusion is inescapable — this is the source of everything beautiful and right. In the visible world, it produces light and the sun that gives us light. In the intelligible world, it's the direct source of truth and reason. Anyone who wants to act wisely — whether in private life or in politics — must keep their eyes fixed on this.

I agree, he said, as far as I can follow you.

Then you shouldn't be surprised, I said, that people who've reached this vision don't want to come back down and deal with ordinary human affairs. Their souls are always straining toward the upper world. They want to stay there. And that's perfectly natural — if our allegory means anything at all.

Yes, perfectly natural.

And here's something else that shouldn't surprise you: if someone comes back from contemplating divine realities and stumbles around in the human world, making a fool of himself — if his eyes are still blinking, still adjusting to the darkness, and he's forced to argue in courtrooms or other public places about shadows, or about images of shadows, about justice as imagined by people who've never seen justice itself — should we really be surprised that he looks ridiculous?

Not at all, he replied.

But anyone with sense, I said, would remember that there are two kinds of blindness, from two different causes: coming out of the light into the dark, or coming out of the dark into the light. The same is true of the mind's eye, not just the body's. When you see someone whose vision is confused and weak, don't rush to laugh. First ask: has this soul come from a brighter life and been blinded by the unfamiliar darkness? Or has it come from deeper ignorance into greater light and been overwhelmed by the brilliance? You'd consider the first person fortunate, and pity the second. Or if you did want to laugh, there'd be more reason to laugh at the soul coming up from below into the light than at the one coming back down from the light into the cave.

That's a very fair distinction, he said.

And if I'm right, I said, then certain so-called educators must be wrong when they claim they can put knowledge into a soul that doesn't have it — like putting sight into blind eyes.

They do say exactly that, he replied.

But our argument shows something different. The power to learn, the capacity for knowledge — it's already there in everyone's soul. The whole soul just needs to be turned around, away from the world of becoming and toward the world of being — the way the whole body has to turn for the eye to move from darkness to light. The instrument of knowledge can't be turned by itself. The whole soul has to make the journey, learning gradually to bear the sight of reality — and ultimately, the brightest and best of all reality: the Good.

Yes.

And there must be some skill — some art — that can make this turning happen as efficiently as possible. Not an art of implanting sight. The sight is already there. It's just been pointed the wrong way, looking away from the truth.

Yes, he said. There must be such an art.

Now, the other so-called virtues of the soul — they're a lot like physical qualities. Even if you don't have them naturally, you can develop them through habit and practice. But wisdom is different. Wisdom has something divine in it. It never loses its power. It all depends on which direction it's pointed. Turned one way, it's useful and beneficial. Turned the other way, it's harmful and destructive.

Haven't you ever noticed this about clever rogues? Look at the sharp gleam in their eyes. Their intelligence is perfectly fine — their little souls see their way to their goals with perfect clarity. They're not blind at all. But their keen vision has been drafted into the service of evil, and the more clever they are, the more damage they do.

Very true, he said.

But imagine if these same natures had been cut free from the pleasures that weigh them down — the cravings for food, drink, and physical pleasure that hang on us like lead weights from birth, dragging the soul's gaze downward. If they'd been freed from all that and turned in the opposite direction, they'd see truth just as sharply as they now see the things they've chosen to pursue.

Very likely.

And here's another thing, I said — really a necessary conclusion from everything we've said: neither the uneducated, who've never seen truth, nor those who are allowed to spend their whole lives in study, will make good leaders. The first group fails because they have no single guiding star, no unifying aim to direct everything they do, public or private. The second group fails because they won't lift a finger voluntarily — they think they've already arrived at the Islands of the Blessed and can't be bothered with the real world.

Very true, he replied.

So here's our job, I said — as founders of this city. We have to compel the best minds to reach the knowledge we've said is the greatest of all. They must keep climbing until they arrive at the Good. But once they've made it to the top and seen what they need to see, we can't let them do what they'd naturally want to do.

What do you mean?

I mean stay up there. We can't allow that. They have to go back down into the cave, back among the prisoners, and share in their work and their life — honors and all, whether those honors are worth anything or not.

But isn't that unjust? he said. We'd be giving them a worse life when they could have a better one.

You've forgotten again, my friend, I said. The law isn't concerned with making any one class in the city exceptionally happy. It aims at happiness for the whole city. It holds the citizens together through persuasion and necessity, making each group share its benefits with the others. When the law produces people like this in the city, it doesn't do so in order to let them go wherever they please. It creates them to serve as a binding force — to hold the city together.

True, he said. I had forgotten.

Think about it, Glaucon. There won't be any injustice in requiring our philosophers to care for others and watch over them. We can explain it to them like this:

"In other cities, philosophers grow up on their own, without any help from the government. They're self-taught. And since they owe nothing to a state that never supported them, it's fair enough that they feel no obligation to serve it. But you — we brought you into the world to be leaders. Leaders of yourselves and leaders of the whole city. We've given you a better and more complete education than philosophers anywhere else receive. You're equipped to play a double role. So each of you, when your turn comes, must go back down to the cave where everyone else lives. Get used to the dark again. Once your eyes adjust, you'll see ten thousand times better than the people who live there permanently. You'll recognize every shadow for what it is, and know what real thing casts it, because you've seen beauty itself, justice itself, goodness itself. And so our city will be governed in waking reality, not in a dream — unlike most cities today, where leaders fight each other over shadows and grab for power, thinking that's the ultimate prize. The truth is, the best-governed city is always the one whose rulers are least eager to rule. And the worst-governed city is the one whose rulers want power the most."

Exactly right, he replied.

And do you think our students will refuse? When they hear this, will they turn down their share of political duty — especially since they get to spend most of their time together in the light of philosophy?

Impossible, he answered. They're just people, and the commands we're giving them are just. There's no doubt that each one will take office as a solemn duty — the opposite of how rulers behave today.

Yes, my friend, I said. And that's the key. You have to offer your future rulers a life that's better than political power. Only then will you have a well-governed city. Because only in a city like that will the rulers be truly rich — not in gold and silver, but in the things that make for a genuinely good life: virtue and wisdom. But if people come to politics poor and starving for personal advantage — if they think public office is where they'll find the real goods in life — good government becomes impossible. They'll fight over power, and the resulting civil war will destroy them and the whole city with them.

Absolutely true, he replied.

And the only life that properly looks down on political ambition is the life of true philosophy. Do you know of any other?

No, I really don't, he said.

And the people who govern shouldn't actually love the task. Because if they do, rival lovers of power will fight them for it.

No question.

So who should we compel to be guardians? The people who are wisest about governing and who would govern best, but who also have a different kind of life — a life better and more honorable than political life.

Exactly, he replied. Those are the ones. And I'd choose them myself.

Good. Then shall we figure out how to produce such guardians — how to bring them from darkness into light, the way some people are said to have ascended from the underworld to the realm of the gods?

By all means, he replied.

And this journey, I said, isn't a simple flip — like turning over a game piece. It's the turning of a soul from a day that's barely better than night to the true day of being. That ascent from below — that's what we're calling true philosophy.

Right?

So we need to ask: what kind of knowledge has the power to make this happen? What kind of study draws the soul from becoming to being?

And something else just occurred to me: remember, our young people are supposed to be warrior-athletes too.

Yes, that was established.

Then this knowledge we're looking for needs an additional quality.

What quality?

It has to be useful in war.

Yes, if possible.

Now, there were two parts to the education we set up earlier, weren't there?

There was physical training, which deals with the body — its growth and decay. So that falls under the world of becoming and change.

Right. So that's not what we're looking for.

What about music and the arts? They were part of our earlier program too.

Music, he said — as you'll remember — was the counterpart of physical training. It shaped the guardians through habit: harmony made them harmonious, rhythm made them rhythmical. But it didn't give them knowledge. The stories, whether fictional or true, had their own elements of rhythm and harmony. But there was nothing in music that pointed toward the kind of truth you're talking about now.

You remember that perfectly, I said. Music really doesn't have what we need. But then what subject does? Because we also ruled out all the practical crafts as too lowly.

Right, he said. But if we've excluded music, physical training, and the practical crafts, what's left?

Well, I said, if there's nothing specifically left from our earlier curriculum, we'll have to find something universal — something that cuts across all fields.

Like what?

Something that every art, every science, every kind of thinking makes use of. Something everyone has to learn as a basic part of education.

What is it?

The humble skill of telling one from two from three. In a word: number and calculation. Don't all arts and sciences depend on these?

Yes.

Including the art of war?

Absolutely.

You know, it's pretty funny when Palamedes shows up in the tragedies and proves that Agamemnon was a ridiculously incompetent general. Did you ever notice? Palamedes claims he invented numbers and used them to organize the ships and arrange the army at Troy — which implies they'd never been counted before. Meaning Agamemnon apparently couldn't count his own feet! What kind of general can't count?

A very strange one, he said, if that's really true.

So can we agree that a soldier needs to know arithmetic?

Absolutely, he said. He has to understand it to manage his troops at all. In fact, he has to understand it to be a human being.

Good. Now, do you see this subject the same way I do?

How do you see it?

I think arithmetic is exactly the kind of study we're looking for — one that naturally leads the mind to think, but that has never been properly understood or used. Its real purpose is to draw the soul toward being.

Can you explain what you mean? he said.

I'll try, I said. And I want you to think along with me. Tell me whether you agree or disagree as I work through which kinds of knowledge have this pulling-upward power — so we can be sure arithmetic is one of them.

Go ahead, he said.

Here's what I mean. Some things we perceive don't push the mind to think further, because our senses handle them just fine. But other things — our senses give us such contradictory information about them that the mind absolutely has to step in and investigate.

You're talking about optical illusions, he said — things that look different at different distances, or tricks of light and shadow.

No, I said, that's not what I mean at all.

Then what?

What I mean is this: some perceptions don't produce contradictions. The sense experience is consistent, so the mind isn't provoked to think. But others are inherently contradictory — the sense gives you opposite information at the same time — and that's what forces thought into action. Let me illustrate.

Here are three fingers — a little finger, a ring finger, and a middle finger.

All right.

Assume you're looking at them up close. Now here's the key point.

What is it?

Each of them is equally a finger — whether you look at the one in the middle or on the end, whether it's light or dark, thick or thin. It makes no difference. A finger is a finger. In these cases, the mind isn't compelled to ask, "Wait — what is a finger?" because sight never suggests that a finger is anything other than a finger.

True.

So there's nothing here that provokes or stimulates thought.

No, he said.

But what about their size — their bigness and smallness? Can sight handle that on its own? Does it matter that one finger is in the middle and another on the end? And what about touch — can it reliably tell you thick from thin, hard from soft? Don't all our senses work the same way here? The sense that registers hardness is the same sense that registers softness. And what it reports to the soul is that the very same thing feels both hard and soft.

You're exactly right, he said.

And the soul has to be puzzled by this, doesn't it? What does the sense of touch mean when it says something is both hard and soft? What does the sense of weight mean when it says something is both light and heavy?

Yes, he said. These messages are puzzling, and the soul needs to figure them out.

Exactly, I said. And this is where the soul naturally calls in reinforcements — calculation and thought. It wants to determine whether it's dealing with one thing or two.

Right.

And if it turns out to be two things, then each of them is one, and distinct.

Yes.

And if each is one and both are two, the soul will conceive of them as separate. Because if they weren't separate, it could only think of them as one.

Correct.

The eye saw both big and small, but all jumbled together. They weren't distinct.

Right.

But the thinking mind — trying to bring clarity to this confusion — was forced to do the opposite: to look at big and small as separate things, not blurred together.

True.

And isn't that where the question first arises: "What is bigness?" and "What is smallness?"

Exactly.

And that's how the distinction between the visible world and the intelligible world first emerges.

Yes.

That's what I was getting at before: some impressions provoke thought — the ones that present opposite qualities simultaneously. Others don't.

I understand, he said. I agree.

So which category do unity and number belong to?

I'm not sure, he replied.

Think about it, I said. Use what we just worked out. If "one" could be grasped perfectly well by sight alone — or by any sense — it wouldn't draw the mind toward being. Like the finger example: the mind isn't provoked. But when the senses present contradictions — when the same thing appears to be one and also many, the opposite of one — then thought wakes up. The soul gets restless, starts searching, and asks: "What is absolute unity?" This is how the study of the one has the power to turn the mind toward the contemplation of true being.

And this certainly happens with the number one, he said — we see the same thing as both one and infinitely many.

Right, I said. And what's true of one must be true of all numbers.

Yes.

And all arithmetic and calculation deal with number?

Obviously.

And they seem to lead the mind toward truth?

Yes, remarkably so.

Then arithmetic is exactly the kind of knowledge we're looking for. It has a double use: the soldier needs it to organize his troops, and the philosopher needs it to rise above the sea of change and grasp true being. The philosopher must be a mathematician.

True.

And our guardian is both soldier and philosopher.

Exactly.

So arithmetic is a subject our laws should require. And we must convince the future leaders of our city to study it — not as hobbyists, but until they can grasp the nature of numbers with pure thought alone. Not for buying and selling, like merchants and shopkeepers, but for war and for the soul itself — because it's the easiest path from the world of becoming to the world of truth and being.

Excellent, he said.

And you know, I said, now that we're discussing it — what a beautiful subject arithmetic is! It serves our purposes in so many ways, as long as you pursue it like a philosopher and not a shopkeeper.

How do you mean?

Arithmetic has an immensely elevating effect on the mind. It forces the soul to reason about abstract number and resists any attempt to drag in visible or tangible objects. You know how real mathematicians react if you try to divide the unit itself? They laugh at you. If you try to split it, they multiply it right back — making sure the one stays one and never disintegrates into fractions.

Very true.

Now imagine someone asked them: "Friends, what are these marvelous numbers you're reasoning about? You insist each unit is perfectly equal to every other, completely uniform, absolutely indivisible — what kind of numbers are these?" What would they say?

They'd say they're talking about numbers that can only exist in thought.

You see? This kind of knowledge truly deserves to be called necessary — it requires the use of pure intelligence to grasp pure truth.

Yes, that's unmistakable.

And have you noticed something else? People with a natural talent for calculation tend to be quick learners in every other subject too. Even people who aren't naturally sharp become much quicker after mathematical training, even if they get nothing else from it.

Very true, he said.

And it's hard to find a more demanding subject. Few others come close.

I agree.

So for all these reasons, arithmetic is the kind of knowledge our best minds should be trained in. It must not be neglected.

Then let's make it our first required subject. And next — should we look at the closely related science?

You mean geometry?

Exactly.

Well, he said, the parts of geometry relevant to warfare are obviously important. Setting up camp, occupying positions, closing up or extending a line of troops, executing maneuvers in battle or on the march — a general who knows geometry will be far better at all of it than one who doesn't.

True, I said, but for all that, you only need a little geometry — or arithmetic, for that matter. The real question is about the higher, more advanced geometry: does it help the soul see the Form of the Good? Because that's our test. Everything that compels the soul to turn toward that place — where the fullest perfection of being exists, which the soul must see by any means possible — that's what concerns us.

True, he said.

So: if geometry forces us to contemplate being, it's relevant. If it only deals with becoming, it isn't.

Agreed.

But here's the thing — anyone with even a basic knowledge of geometry knows that the way geometers actually talk is completely at odds with this lofty view.

How so?

They're always going on about practical operations — "squaring this," "extending that," "applying one thing to another" — as if the whole point were hands-on construction. They confuse the necessities of geometry with the needs of everyday life. But the real object of the entire science is knowledge — knowledge of what eternally is.

Certainly, he said.

Then we need to acknowledge something further?

What?

That the knowledge geometry aims at is knowledge of the eternal — not of anything that comes into being and passes away.

That, he replied, is easy to grant. It's true.

Then, my noble friend, geometry draws the soul toward truth. It creates the spirit of philosophy. It lifts up what we've shamefully allowed to sink down.

Nothing is more likely to have that effect.

Then we must insist as strongly as possible that the citizens of your beautiful city learn geometry. And the subject has side benefits too.

Like what? he said.

The military advantages you mentioned, for one. And in every field, as experience shows, someone who's studied geometry is infinitely quicker than someone who hasn't.

Infinitely, he agreed.

So geometry is our second subject?

Let's make it so, he replied.

And shall we make astronomy the third?

I'm strongly in favor, he said. Understanding the seasons, months, and years is as essential for a general as it is for a farmer or a sailor.

I'm amused, I said, by your concern about what people will think. You're so worried about looking like you're promoting useless studies! The truth is — though it's hard to get people to believe it — that every person has an eye of the soul. When this eye gets dimmed and ruined by other pursuits, these studies purify it and rekindle it. And that eye is worth more than ten thousand physical eyes, because it's the only one that can see truth.

Now, there are two kinds of people in the world: those who'll hear this and feel it as a revelation, and those who'll dismiss it as complete nonsense because they can't see any profit in it. You'd better decide right now which group you're talking to. Or, more likely, you'll say you're mainly doing this for your own sake — though you certainly won't begrudge others whatever benefit they get from it.

I'd prefer, he said, to carry on mainly for my own benefit.

Then let me back up, I said, because we've gotten the order wrong.

What mistake? he said.

After plane geometry, we jumped straight to astronomy — solids in motion — instead of first studying solids themselves. After the second dimension should come the third: the study of cubes and three-dimensional depth.

You're right, Socrates. But so little is known about that field.

For two reasons, I said. First, no government supports the research, so it doesn't get the energy it deserves — and the problems are genuinely hard. Second, students can't learn it without a guide. And guides are almost impossible to find. Even if you found one, the students as they are now — too arrogant — wouldn't listen to him. But if the state itself championed these studies and gave them prestige, students would flock to them, and the research would advance through continuous, dedicated effort. Even now, neglected and diminished as these studies are — with none of their practitioners able to explain their purpose — they still push forward by sheer natural charm. It wouldn't be surprising at all if, with state support, they blossomed into something magnificent.

Yes, he said. There is a remarkable charm in them. But I don't quite follow the change in order. You started with plane geometry —

Yes, I said.

— then put astronomy next, and now you're stepping back?

Exactly. I was in too much of a hurry. The embarrassing underdevelopment of solid geometry — which should naturally come next — made me skip past it and jump to astronomy, which is really the study of solids in motion.

True, he said.

So let's assume solid geometry will flourish once the state supports it, and move on. Astronomy is our fourth subject.

The right order, he replied. And now, Socrates — since you scolded me earlier for praising astronomy for the wrong reasons — let me try again in your spirit. I think everyone must see that astronomy forces the soul to look upward and leads us from this world to a higher one.

Everyone except me, I said. I don't see that at all.

What would you say, then?

I'd say that the way most people elevate astronomy into philosophy actually makes us look downward, not upward.

What do you mean? he asked.

You, I replied, have a charmingly lofty notion of what it means to study "things above." I bet you think that if someone threw his head back and studied the decorations on a ceiling, you'd say he was using his mind, not just his eyes. Maybe you're right and I'm a fool. But in my view, the only knowledge that makes the soul look upward is knowledge of being — of the invisible and eternal. Whether someone is gaping up at the sky or squinting down at the ground, if they're trying to learn some fact of the physical world, I deny they can truly learn — because nothing in the physical world is the proper object of knowledge. Their soul is looking downward, not upward, no matter which way their body is tilted — even if they're floating on their back in the ocean studying the sky.

I deserve that rebuke, he said. But then how should astronomy be studied, if not the way it's currently done?

I'll tell you, I said. The starry sky we see is beautiful — the most beautiful and perfect of all visible things. But precisely because it's visible, it falls infinitely short of the true reality: the true motions, the true speeds and true slownesses, moving in true number and true geometric figures. These can only be grasped by reason and intelligence — not by sight.

True, he replied.

So we should use the visible sky as a model — a pattern pointing toward that higher knowledge. Its beauty is like the beauty of diagrams drawn by a master artist: a skilled geometer would admire the artistry but would never dream of finding actual mathematical truth in them — the true equal, the true double, the true proportion.

No, he replied. That would be ridiculous.

A real astronomer would feel the same way looking at the stars. He'd admire the beauty of the heavens and recognize that their creator fashioned them as perfectly as visible things can be fashioned. But he'd never imagine that the physical ratios — night to day, day to month, month to year, star to star — could be eternal and perfectly exact. They're material, they're visible, and it would be absurd to obsess over pinning down their exact truth.

I completely agree, he said, now that you put it that way.

Then in astronomy, as in geometry, I said, we should work with problems and let the physical heavens be. Only then will we properly use the mind's natural gift for reason. Only then will the study be truly worthwhile.

That, he said, would demand far more from astronomers than what they do now.

Yes, I said. And everything else in our program will need the same kind of elevation, if our legislation is to be worth anything. But can you think of any other suitable study?

Not off the top of my head, he said.

Well, I said, motion doesn't come in just one form. It comes in many. Two of them are obvious — even to minds like ours. Others might require a sharper intelligence.

Which two?

The one we've been discussing — astronomy — is the first. The second is its counterpart.

What's that?

Think about it this way, I said. As the eyes are designed for astronomy, so the ears are designed for the study of harmony. These are sister sciences — the Pythagoreans say so, and we agree with them. Right, Glaucon?

Yes, he replied.

And since it's a complex subject, I said, we should go and learn from the Pythagoreans. They can tell us about the further applications of these sciences. But through all of this, we must never lose sight of our real goal.

Which is?

The perfection that all knowledge ought to reach — and that our students must attain and not fall short of. The same thing applies in harmonics as in astronomy. The teachers of harmony — just like the astronomers — waste their labor when they limit themselves to what can be heard.

By heaven, yes! he said. It's practically a comedy watching them. They talk about their "condensed intervals" and lean in close to the strings, practically pressing their ears against them like people trying to eavesdrop through a wall. One faction claims they can detect a note between two others and have found the smallest possible interval, the basic unit of measurement. The other faction insists the two notes sound the same. Both groups put their ears ahead of their minds.

You mean, I said, those experts who torture the strings and rack them on the pegs. I could extend the metaphor — talk about the accusations they level against the strings, the charges of being too eager or too reluctant to sound — but I'll spare you. What I mean is that these people aren't the ones I'm talking about. I'm talking about the Pythagoreans, the ones we said we'd consult about harmony. Because even they make the same mistake as the astronomers: they study the numbers in the harmonies they can hear, but they never get to the real problems — they never ask why some numbers are inherently harmonious and others aren't.

That, he said, sounds like superhuman knowledge.

Useful knowledge, I replied — if you pursue it for the sake of the beautiful and the Good. Pursued in any other spirit, it's useless.

Very true, he said.

And here's the crucial point, I said. All of these studies are valuable only when they reach the stage where they connect with each other — when you can see how they relate to one another and to the nature of being. Pursued in isolation, they're not worth much.

I believe it, he said. But you're describing an enormous project, Socrates.

What — the prelude? I said. Don't you realize that all of this is just the prelude? Just the warm-up before the main performance? Surely you wouldn't say a skilled mathematician is automatically a dialectician?

Certainly not, he said. I've hardly ever met a mathematician who could actually reason.

Then can people who can't give and receive reasons have the kind of knowledge we're demanding?

Impossible.

And here, Glaucon, I said, we've finally arrived at the main theme — the hymn of dialectic itself. It belongs to the realm of pure thought, but our image of sight will help us understand it. Remember how we described sight gradually ascending — first looking at shadows, then reflections, then real objects, and finally the sun itself? That's what happens in dialectic. When a person sets out to discover what each thing truly is, using reason alone, without any help from the senses, and keeps going through sheer intelligence until they grasp what the Good itself is — they've reached the summit of the intellectual world, just as the person who sees the sun has reached the summit of the visible world.

Exactly, he said.

And this journey — this is what you'd call dialectic?

Yes.

Now think about the allegory again. The prisoners are freed from their chains. They're turned from shadows to the shapes that cast them, and then to the firelight. They're brought up out of the cave into the sunlight. At first they can't look at the animals, plants, and sunlight directly — they can only see reflections in water, divine shadows of real things, not the shadows of shadow-images cast by a fire that's itself only an image compared to the sun. This entire process — the power of the studies we've described to lift the soul's highest faculty to the contemplation of what's best in all of existence — is comparable to raising the body's keenest sense to the sight of the brightest thing in the physical world.

I agree with what you're saying, he replied, though it's hard to accept — and yet, from another angle, hard to deny. Still, this isn't something we can settle in one conversation. We'll need to come back to it again and again. So for now, let's assume our conclusion holds, and move from the prelude to the main theme. Tell me: what is the nature of dialectic? What are its divisions? And what paths lead to it? Because those paths lead to our final destination — the place where the journey ends and the traveler can rest.

Dear Glaucon, I said, you won't be able to follow me all the way there — though I'd do my best. If you could, you'd see not just an image but the truth itself, or at least what I believe to be the truth. Whether it actually is the truth, I won't venture to say. But something like truth — of that, I'm confident.

No doubt, he replied.

And I have to remind you: only dialectic can reveal this truth, and only to someone who has mastered the earlier studies.

You can be as confident of that as of anything.

And no one could seriously argue that there's any other method that can systematically determine what each thing truly is, in its own nature. All the other arts are concerned with human desires and opinions, or with making and maintaining physical things. As for the mathematical sciences — geometry and the rest — they do have some contact with true being, as we said. But they're only dreaming about reality. They can never see it with waking eyes, because they rely on assumptions they can't examine or justify. When you don't know your own starting point, and your conclusion and every step in between is built on things you don't fully understand — how can you call that patchwork of convention real knowledge?

You can't, he said.

Dialectic, then — and dialectic alone — goes straight to the first principle. It's the only discipline that does away with assumptions in order to reach solid ground. When the eye of the soul is literally buried in the muck, dialectic gently draws it upward. And it uses the disciplines we've been discussing as helpers and assistants in this work of conversion. We call them "sciences" by custom, but they really deserve a different name — something between opinion and true knowledge. Earlier, we called this level "understanding." But why argue over names when we have such important realities to consider?

Why indeed, he said, as long as the name expresses the idea clearly enough.

So we're satisfied, as before, with four divisions: two for intellect and two for opinion. The first division is knowledge; the second is understanding. The third is belief; the fourth is perception of shadows. Opinion deals with the world of becoming; intellect deals with the world of being. And the proportion runs:

As being is to becoming, so is intellect to opinion.

And as intellect is to opinion, so is knowledge to belief, and understanding to the perception of shadows.

But the further subdivision of these categories — that would take us far too long.

As far as I can follow, he said, I agree.

And would you also agree, I said, that the dialectician is someone who grasps the essence of each thing? And someone who can't do this — who can't grasp the essence and can't explain it to others — to that degree lacks real understanding?

How could I deny it? he said.

And the same goes for the Good. Unless someone can define the Form of the Good through rational argument — can separate it from everything else, as if in battle, fighting through every objection, determined to test it by reality rather than by opinion, and never stumbling at any step — unless they can do all that, you'd say they don't really know the Good, or any other good thing. If they grasp anything at all, it's only a shadow, apprehended through opinion rather than knowledge. They're sleepwalking through this life, and before they ever wake up here, they'll arrive in the world below and fall asleep forever.

I'd agree with every word of that, he said.

And surely you wouldn't let the children of your ideal city — if it ever becomes real — you wouldn't let your future rulers be like posts standing in the ground, with no reason in them, given authority over the most important matters?

Certainly not.

Then you'll make a law requiring them to receive the kind of education that equips them for the highest skill of all: the skill of asking and answering questions.

Yes, he said. You and I together will make that law.

Dialectic, then, as you'd agree, is the capstone of all the sciences. It stands above them all. No other study can properly be placed higher. The nature of knowledge can go no further.

I agree, he said.

But we still need to decide: who gets this education, and how it's to be structured?

Yes, clearly.

You remember how we chose our rulers before?

Of course, he said.

We should choose the same kind of people. The steadiest. The bravest. And, as far as possible, the best-looking. But beyond noble and spirited temperaments, they need to have natural gifts that suit this kind of education.

And what gifts are those?

Mental sharpness. The ability to learn quickly. Because intellectual work exhausts the mind more than physical training exhausts the body. The labor is entirely the mind's own — it can't be shared with the body.

Very true, he replied.

And they need excellent memories. They have to be tireless and love hard work in every form. Otherwise they'll never endure the combination of intense physical training and intense intellectual study that we're going to demand.

They'll certainly need natural gifts, he said.

And here's the problem with philosophy today: the people studying it aren't the right people. That's what I said before, and it's why philosophy has fallen into disgrace. Her true children should be the ones taking her hand — not pretenders.

What do you mean?

First, a student of philosophy must not be lame in their effort — energetic in some areas and lazy in others. You know the type: someone who loves the gym, loves hunting, loves all physical activity, but hates the work of learning, listening, and investigating. Or the reverse: someone brilliant with books but sluggish about everything else.

Absolutely, he said.

And regarding truth — isn't a soul equally crippled if it hates deliberate lying and can't stand it when others lie, but tolerates ignorance in itself and doesn't mind wallowing in the muck of not-knowing, like a pig in the mud, without any shame at being caught out?

Absolutely.

And regarding self-control, courage, generosity, and every other virtue — we need to carefully distinguish the genuine from the counterfeit. Because when individuals and states lack this discernment, they unwittingly choose as rulers or friends people who are defective in some essential virtue — who are, in a sense, crippled.

Very true, he said.

We need to be careful about all of this. If the people we introduce to this vast system of education and training are sound in body and mind, justice herself will have no complaint against us. We'll be the saviors of the state. But if we select the wrong people, the result will be the exact opposite — and we'll drown philosophy in an even greater flood of ridicule than she endures now.

That would be shameful, he said.

It certainly would, I said. Though I may be making myself a bit ridiculous right now, getting so worked up.

How so?

I forgot we were just having a conversation and got a little too passionate. When I looked at philosophy and saw how shamefully she's been trampled, I couldn't help feeling angry at the people responsible. My anger made me too intense.

It didn't seem that way to me, he said. I was listening.

Well, it felt that way to me. But here's an important point: in our earlier selection we chose older men. We can't do that here. We can't listen to Solon when he says you can learn many things as you grow old — you can't learn much better than you can run. Youth is the time for extraordinary effort.

Then arithmetic and geometry and all the foundational subjects that prepare for dialectic should be introduced in childhood — but not as compulsory drudgery.

Why not?

Because a free person shouldn't learn anything like a slave. Physical exercise done under compulsion doesn't harm the body. But knowledge forced into the mind won't stick.

True.

So don't use force, I said. Let early education be a kind of play. That way you'll also be better able to discover each child's natural ability.

That's a very sensible approach, he said.

And you remember that we said the children should be taken to observe battles from horseback — brought close, when it was safe, and given a taste of war, like young hunting dogs getting their first taste of blood?

Yes, I remember.

The same principle applies across the board. In every area — physical challenges, lessons, danger — whoever shows the most natural ability should be placed on a select list.

At what age?

When their required physical training is over. Those two or three years of intensive athletics are basically useless for anything else — sleep and exercise are enemies of learning. And physical performance is itself one of the most important tests we put them through.

Certainly, he replied.

After that, at age twenty, the selected group will be promoted. The subjects they learned without any particular order during childhood will now be drawn together. They'll begin to see how these disciplines relate to each other and to the nature of reality.

Yes, he said. That's the only kind of knowledge that truly lasts.

And it's also the ultimate test of dialectical talent, I said. The person who can see things as a connected whole is a natural dialectician. The one who can't, isn't.

I agree.

These are the things you need to watch for. The students who show the greatest ability in this kind of synthesis — and who are also the steadiest in learning, in military duty, and in every other responsibility — when they reach thirty, you select them from the larger group, elevate them to even greater honors, and test them through dialectic to see which of them can let go of their eyes and their other senses and travel with truth toward being itself.

And here, my friend, you need to be very careful.

Why so careful?

Don't you see the damage dialectic has already done?

What damage? he said.

Its students are infected with lawlessness.

True, he said.

But is it really so surprising? Can you make allowances for them?

What kind of allowances?

Think of it this way, I said. Imagine a boy raised in a wealthy family — a big, important family surrounded by flatterers. When he grows up, he discovers that the people he calls his parents aren't really his parents. But he can't find out who his real parents are. Can you guess how he'd behave toward the flatterers and his supposed parents — first while he still believes they're his family, and then after he learns the truth? Or should I guess for you?

Please do.

While he's still in the dark, I think he'd respect his father and mother and supposed relatives more than the flatterers. He'd be less likely to neglect them, less likely to say or do anything against them, less likely to disobey them on important matters.

That makes sense.

But once he discovers the truth, his respect for them would fade. He'd become more attached to the flatterers. Their influence would grow. He'd start living by their rules, spending time with them openly. And unless he had an unusually good character, he'd stop caring about his supposed parents and relatives altogether.

That's all very likely. But how does this apply to students of philosophy?

Like this. We all grow up with certain principles about justice and honor. We were raised under their authority. We obey them and respect them — like parents.

True.

But there are also opposing forces — pleasures that flatter and attract the soul. People with any decency resist these and continue following the principles they were raised with.

Yes.

Now, along comes the spirit of questioning. Someone asks: "What is honorable? What is just?" The young person answers the way they were taught. But then arguments come at them from every direction, refuting their answers, turning them inside out — until they're driven to believe that what they called honorable is no more honorable than dishonorable, and what they called just is no more just than unjust. And the same for everything else they once valued. What happens then?

They'll obviously stop respecting and obeying those principles.

And when they no longer think those principles are honorable or natural — but haven't yet found the truth — what life will they turn to? The one that flatters their desires, naturally.

Naturally.

From law-keeper to lawbreaker.

Inevitably.

This, I said, is perfectly natural for students of philosophy as I've described them — and, as I said, very understandable.

Yes, he said. And pitiable, too.

And this is exactly why we need to be so careful about introducing dialectic to our thirty-year-olds.

Yes.

One essential precaution: they must not taste dialectic too young. You've probably noticed how young people behave when they first discover argument. They treat it like a game. They argue for the fun of it. They imitate the people who refute them by refuting everyone in sight — like puppies that love nothing more than pulling and tearing at anyone who comes near.

Yes, he said. They love nothing better.

And after they've won many arguments and lost many, they quickly end up believing in nothing at all. As a result, both they and philosophy itself get a terrible reputation with everyone else.

Too true, he said.

But an older person won't fall into this trap. They'll model themselves on someone who's genuinely searching for truth rather than someone who's arguing for sport. Their greater maturity will bring honor to the pursuit instead of disgracing it.

Very true.

And wasn't this exactly why we insisted that students of philosophy must have orderly, stable temperaments — not just anyone who wanders in?

Exactly.

Now suppose, I said, that the study of philosophy replaces physical training and continues intensively for twice as long. Will that be enough?

Would you say six years or four? he asked.

Let's say five, I replied. After that, they have to go back down into the cave. They must hold military commands and whatever other offices are appropriate for young people. This gives them real-world experience, and it tests whether they'll stay true when pulled in every direction by temptation — or whether they'll flinch.

And how long does this stage last?

Fifteen years, I answered. And when they reach fifty — those who have survived and distinguished themselves in every test, in every field of knowledge and every kind of action — the time has finally come. They must raise the eye of their soul to the universal light that illuminates all things. They must gaze upon the Good itself. And using it as a pattern, they must spend the rest of their lives ordering the city, its citizens, and themselves. They'll devote most of their time to philosophy, but when their turn comes, they'll take on the burden of political leadership and govern for the public good — not as though they're performing some grand heroic act, but simply as a duty. They'll train the next generation to be like themselves, leave them as guardians in their place, and then depart to the Islands of the Blessed. The city will honor them with public memorials and sacrifices — as demigods, if the oracle at Delphi approves, or at the very least as blessed and divine beings.

You've sculpted some beautiful rulers, Socrates — like a master sculptor.

And rulers of both sexes, Glaucon. Don't imagine that anything I've said applies only to men. It applies equally to women, insofar as their natures are capable.

You're right, he said, since we decided they'd share in everything equally with men.

Well then, I said — would you agree that what we've said about the city and its government isn't just a daydream? It's difficult, yes, but not impossible — though only in the way we've described: when true philosopher-kings are born in a city, one or more of them, who despise the honors that people currently value — considering them petty and worthless — who prize justice above all things, who regard it as the greatest and most essential of all values, who serve it faithfully, and who are prepared to strengthen and elevate its principles as they set their own city in order.

And how would they begin?

They would send every citizen over the age of ten out into the countryside. Then they would take charge of the children — children untouched by the habits of their parents — and raise them according to their own principles and laws. The principles we've been describing. This is the quickest and easiest way for the city and its constitution to achieve happiness, and for the nation that adopts this constitution to flourish.

Yes, he said. That would be the best way. And I think, Socrates, that you've given an excellent account of how such a constitution might actually come into being — if it ever does.

Then we've said enough about the perfect city, I said, and about the kind of person who embodies it. It's not hard to see what that person would look like.

Not hard at all, he replied. And I agree with you — nothing more needs to be said.

Republic — Book VIII

And so, Glaucon, we've arrived at the conclusion that in the ideal state, wives and children are to be shared in common. Education, warfare, peacetime pursuits — all shared. And the best philosophers and the bravest warriors are to be their kings.

That, Glaucon replied, has been agreed.

Yes, I said. And we've further agreed that the rulers, once appointed, will settle their soldiers in communal housing of the kind we described — nothing private, nothing individually owned. And about their property, you remember what we decided?

Yes, he said. No one was to have any of the ordinary possessions that most people have. They were to be warrior-athletes and guardians, receiving from the other citizens nothing but their maintenance — no annual salary — and they were to look after themselves and the entire state.

True, I said. And now that we've finished this part of the discussion, let's find the point where we got sidetracked, so we can pick up the original thread.

There's no difficulty there, he said. You were implying then, just as you are now, that you'd finished describing the state. You said such a state was good, and that the man who corresponded to it was good too — even though, as it turns out, you had even better things to say about both the state and the individual. And you said that if this was the true form of government, then all the others were flawed. Of those flawed forms, you said there were four main types, and that their defects — along with the defects of the individuals who correspond to them — were worth examining. Once we'd seen all the types and agreed on which was the best and which the worst, we were going to ask whether the best was also the happiest and the worst the most miserable. I asked you what the four forms of government were, and then Polemarchus and Adeimantus jumped in. You started over, and that's how we ended up where we are now.

Your memory, I said, is perfect.

Then, like a wrestler, he replied, you need to get back into the same position. Let me ask the same questions, and you give me the answer you were about to give me then.

I will, if I can, I said.

I'd particularly like to hear about those four constitutions you mentioned.

That question is easy to answer, I said. The four governments I was talking about, at least the ones with clear names, are: first, the Cretan and Spartan system, which is universally admired; second, what's called oligarchy — that one gets much less approval and is riddled with problems; third, democracy, which naturally follows oligarchy but is very different from it; and finally tyranny, the great and notorious form, which differs from all the rest and is the fourth and worst disorder a state can suffer. I can't think of any other constitution with a truly distinct character. There are hereditary lordships and petty principalities that are bought and sold, and various other intermediate forms. But these are hard to classify and can be found among Greeks and non-Greeks alike.

Yes, he replied, we certainly hear of many strange forms of government out there.

You know, I said, that governments are as varied as the people who make them up, right? There have to be as many types of the one as there are of the other. We can't suppose that states are made of oak and rock rather than human beings — the human characters in them tip the scale and pull everything else along.

Yes, he said. States are what their people are. They grow out of human character.

Then if there are five types of constitution, there must be five types of individual mind as well?

Certainly.

We've already described the man who corresponds to aristocracy — the one we rightly call just and good.

We have.

Then let's move on to the inferior types: the competitive, ambitious man who corresponds to the Spartan system; then the oligarchic man, the democratic man, and the tyrannical man. Let's set the most just person side by side with the most unjust, and once we see them clearly, we'll be able to compare how happy or miserable each one is — the person who lives a life of pure justice versus the person who lives a life of pure injustice. That will complete our investigation. And then we'll know whether we should pursue injustice, as Thrasymachus recommended, or whether we should follow the argument and choose justice instead.

Absolutely, he said. We have to do this.

Shall we follow our old method, which we adopted for the sake of clarity — starting with the state first and then moving to the individual? We'll begin with the government of honor. I don't have a name for it other than "timocracy" — or maybe "timarchy." We'll compare it with the corresponding individual, then consider oligarchy and the oligarchic man, then turn to democracy and the democratic man. And finally, we'll visit the city of tyranny and look into the tyrant's soul, and try to reach a solid conclusion.

That approach sounds excellent, he said.

First, then, I said, let's ask how timocracy — the government of honor — arises out of aristocracy, the government of the best. One thing is clear: all political revolutions start with divisions within the ruling power itself. A government that's truly united, no matter how small, can't be overthrown.

Very true, he said.

So how will our city be destabilized? How will the two classes — the auxiliaries and the rulers — come into conflict, either with each other or within their own ranks? Shall we, like Homer, call upon the Muses to tell us "how discord first arose"? Shall we imagine them putting on a mock-serious tone, teasing us like children while pretending to be deadly earnest?

How would they address us? he asked.

Something like this: "A city built on these principles can hardly be shaken. But since everything that has a beginning also has an end, even a constitution like yours won't last forever. Eventually it will dissolve. And here's how that dissolution works: In plants that grow from the earth and in animals that walk upon it, fertility and barrenness of both soul and body follow cycles. These cycles are short for short-lived creatures and long for long-lived ones. But when it comes to human fertility and the right time for bearing children, all the wisdom and education of your rulers won't be enough. The proper timing will escape them, no matter how smart they are. They'll bring children into the world at the wrong moment.

"Now, what's divinely born has a cycle governed by a perfect number. But the cycle of human birth is governed by a number involving first increases by squaring and cubing, producing three intervals and four terms of similar and dissimilar numbers, numbers that wax and wane, all made commensurate and harmonious with each other. The base of three, combined with four, when multiplied by five and raised to the third power, yields two harmonies. The first is a square — one hundred times a hundred. The other is an oblong figure with one side equal to the first, made up of a hundred squares on the near-rational diagonal of five (seven squared is forty-nine, times a hundred makes forty-nine hundred), each reduced by one — or alternatively, reduced by two perfect squares of the irrational diagonal — plus a hundred cubes of three (twenty-seven hundred). Adding these gives eight thousand. This number represents a geometric figure that governs good and bad births.

"When your guardians don't understand this law and bring brides and grooms together at the wrong time, the children won't be gifted or fortunate. The best of them will still be appointed as successors, but they'll be unworthy of their parents' positions. When they take power as guardians, they'll start neglecting us — the Muses. First they'll undervalue the arts and education. Then gymnastic training will decline too. And so your young people will become less cultivated. The next generation of rulers will lack the ability to test the different metals in your population — the gold, silver, bronze, and iron races, as Hesiod described them. Iron will get mixed with silver, bronze with gold. The result will be inequality, imbalance, and irregularity, which always and everywhere breed hatred and war. This, the Muses declare, is the origin of discord — wherever it arises. And that is their answer to us."

Yes, he said, and we can assume they're telling the truth.

Well, of course they are, I said. How can the Muses speak falsely?

And what do the Muses say next? he asked.

When discord arose, I said, the two races were pulled in opposite directions. The iron and bronze types fell to acquiring money, land, houses, gold, and silver. But the gold and silver types, who didn't care about money and had true riches in their own nature, gravitated toward virtue and the old ways. There was a struggle between them. In the end, they compromised: they divided the land and houses among individual owners, and they enslaved the people they'd previously protected as free citizens — turning them into subjects and servants. From then on, the rulers devoted themselves to war and to keeping watch over their new subjects.

I think you've got the origin of the change exactly right, he said.

And this new government that emerges — it'll be a form halfway between oligarchy and aristocracy?

Yes.

That's how the change happens, I said. But after the change, how will they proceed? Obviously, since the new state is a middle ground between oligarchy and the ideal state, it'll partly resemble one and partly the other, with some features all its own.

True, he said.

In the honor paid to rulers, in the warrior class keeping away from farming, crafts, and trade, in the practice of communal meals, in the emphasis on physical training and military preparation — in all these ways, the new state will look like the old one.

Yes.

But in being afraid to let philosophers hold power — because the kind of simple, earnest philosophers they need no longer exist, replaced by people of mixed and complicated character — and in turning instead to spirited, less intellectual types who are naturally built for war rather than peace, and in prizing military tactics and strategy, and in waging wars without end — in these ways, the new state will have its own distinctive character.

Yes, I said. And men of this type will be greedy for money, like people in oligarchies. They'll have a fierce, secret craving for gold and silver, which they'll hoard in hidden vaults and private strongboxes — little nests for their treasures — where they'll spend lavishly on their wives or on anyone else they please.

That's absolutely right, he said.

And they're tight-fisted in public because they have no legitimate way to acquire the money they're obsessed with. They'll spend other people's money on their desires, sneaking their pleasures and running from the law like children running from their father. They were raised not by persuasion but by force, because they neglected the true Muse — the companion of reason and philosophy — and honored physical training over education.

Without a doubt, he said, the government you're describing is a mixture of good and evil.

There is a mixture, I said. But one thing stands out above all: the spirit of competition and ambition. And that comes from the dominance of the spirited element in these people.

Exactly, he said.

So that's the origin and character of this state, sketched in outline. A more detailed picture isn't necessary — a sketch is enough to show the type of the most just and the most unjust. Going through every possible state and every type of person would be an endless task.

Very true, he replied.

Now what kind of man corresponds to this form of government? How did he come into being, and what's he like?

I think, said Adeimantus, that in his competitive spirit, he's not unlike our friend Glaucon.

Maybe, I said. He might be like Glaucon in that one respect. But in other ways he's very different.

How so?

He'd be more assertive and less educated, though still a friend of culture. He'd be a good listener but no great speaker. Someone like this tends to be harsh with slaves — unlike the truly educated person, who has too much self-respect for that. He'd be courteous to free citizens and remarkably obedient to authority. He loves power and honors, and claims the right to rule — not because he's articulate or has any other intellectual qualification, but because he's a soldier who's proven himself in battle. He's also a lover of athletics and hunting.

Yes, he said, that's the character type that matches timocracy.

When he's young, a man like this will look down on money. But as he gets older, he'll be more and more attracted to it, because there's a streak of greed in him. He isn't single-mindedly devoted to virtue, because he's lost his best guardian.

Who was that? asked Adeimantus.

Philosophy, I said — tempered with the arts. Philosophy is the only thing that takes up residence in a person's soul and protects their virtue throughout life.

Good, he said.

So that's the timocratic young man, I said, and he's the mirror of the timocratic state.

Exactly.

Here's how he comes into being. He's often the young son of a brave father who lives in a badly governed city. His father refuses the honors and offices and avoids the courts and all public controversy. He's ready to give up his rights rather than deal with the hassle.

And how does the son turn out?

It starts when he hears his mother complaining that her husband has no position in the government, which means she has no standing among the other women. She sees her husband isn't especially interested in money, and instead of battling it out in the courts or the assembly, he takes whatever comes his way calmly. She notices that he's always lost in his own thoughts and treats her with considerable indifference. All of this annoys her, and she tells her son that his father is only half a man and much too easygoing — plus all the other complaints women are so fond of rehearsing.

Yes, said Adeimantus, they give us plenty of those, and the complaints are just like the women who make them.

And you know, I said, that the old family servants chime in too, talking privately to the boy in the same vein. If they see someone who owes the father money or is mistreating him in some way, and the father won't pursue it, they tell the boy that when he grows up, he should stand up to people like that and be more of a man than his father. Step outside, and he hears and sees the same thing everywhere: people who mind their own business are called simpletons and get no respect, while the busybodies are honored and applauded.

The result? The young man hears all of this, sees his father's way of life up close, compares him to others, and gets pulled in two directions. His father waters and nourishes the rational part of his soul, but everyone else encourages the spirited and appetitive parts. He's not bad by nature, but he's been keeping bad company. Caught between these opposing forces, he settles on a middle ground: he surrenders the kingdom within himself to the middle principle — competitiveness and passion — and becomes arrogant and ambitious.

You've described his origin perfectly, he said.

Then we now have the second form of government and the second type of character, I said.

We do.

Next, let's look at another man who, as Aeschylus says, "is set against another state" — or rather, following our plan, let's start with the state.

By all means.

I believe oligarchy comes next.

And what kind of government do you call oligarchy?

A government based on property qualifications — where the rich hold power and the poor are shut out.

I understand, he replied.

Should I start by describing how the change from timocracy to oligarchy happens?

Yes.

Well, I said, you don't need much insight to see how one turns into the other.

How?

The piling up of gold in private hands is what ruins a timocracy. People invent illegal ways to spend their money. What do they or their wives care about the law?

Not much, he said.

And then one person, seeing another getting rich, tries to outdo him. Before long, the whole population becomes obsessed with money.

That sounds right.

And the richer they get, the more they value wealth and the less they value virtue. When you put riches and virtue on a scale, one always rises as the other falls.

True.

And the more a state honors wealth and wealthy people, the more it dishonors virtue and the virtuous.

Clearly.

And people cultivate whatever is honored and neglect whatever isn't.

Obviously.

And so, in the end, instead of loving competition and glory, they become lovers of trade and money. They honor and admire the rich, put them in charge, and look down on the poor.

That's what they do.

Then they pass a law that sets a minimum amount of property as the qualification for citizenship. The threshold is higher or lower depending on how exclusive the oligarchy is. Anyone whose property falls below the line is cut off from any share in government. They enforce these changes by force of arms — or by intimidation, if that does the trick first.

Very true.

And that, broadly speaking, is how oligarchy gets established.

Yes, he said. But what are the characteristics of this system, and what are the defects we were talking about?

First, I said, think about the nature of this property qualification. What would happen if we chose ship captains based on their wealth, and refused to let a poor man steer even if he were the best pilot?

You mean they'd wreck the ship, he said.

Yes. And isn't the same true of governing anything?

I'd imagine so.

Including a city?

Especially a city, he said — since governing a city is the greatest and hardest task of all.

So that's the first major flaw of oligarchy.

Right. And here's another one just as bad.

What's that?

The inevitable split: an oligarchic state isn't one state but two — a state of the rich and a state of the poor, living in the same place, constantly conspiring against each other.

That's at least as bad, he said.

And here's another ugly feature: for the same reason, they can't wage war effectively. Either they arm the common people, in which case they're more afraid of their own soldiers than of the enemy, or they don't call them up, in which case they go into battle as the oligarchs they are — too few to fight, just as they're too few to govern. And on top of that, their love of money makes them unwilling to pay for a war.

How disgraceful!

And remember what we said before: under this kind of system, the same people end up doing everything — farming, trading, fighting — all at once. Does that seem right to you?

Not at all.

There's yet another evil — maybe the worst of all — and this state is the first where it appears.

What is it?

A man can sell everything he owns, and someone else can buy it all up. After the sale, the seller goes on living in the city, but he's no part of it anymore. He's not a tradesman, not a craftsman, not a cavalryman, not a soldier — just a poor, helpless creature.

Yes, he said, that's an evil that first shows up in this kind of state.

And oligarchy certainly doesn't prevent it. You get both extremes — enormous wealth and utter poverty — side by side.

True.

But think about this: back when this man was wealthy and spending freely, was he actually any more useful to the city? He seemed to be part of the ruling class, but in truth he was neither ruler nor subject. He was just a spendthrift.

Exactly, he replied. He seemed to be a ruler, but he was just burning through his money.

Can we say he's like a drone in a house — the way a drone is a plague in the hive?

Exactly, Socrates.

And God has made the flying drones all stingless, Adeimantus. But the walking drones — the human kind — come in two varieties. Some are stingless, and some have terrible stings. The stingless ones end up as paupers in their old age. The ones with stingers? They become the criminal class.

Very true, he said.

So here's a rule: wherever you find paupers in a state, you can bet that nearby, hidden away, there are also thieves, pickpockets, temple robbers, and criminals of every kind.

Right.

And in oligarchies, do you find paupers?

Yes, he said. Almost everyone who isn't a ruler is a pauper.

Then we can safely say there are plenty of criminals too — armed and dangerous rogues that the authorities keep in check by force?

Certainly.

And we'd attribute the existence of such people to lack of education, bad upbringing, and a corrupt constitution?

Yes.

Such, then, is the nature of oligarchy and such are its evils. And there may be many more besides.

Very likely.

Then let's move on from oligarchy — the government where rulers are chosen for their wealth. Let's consider the nature and origin of the individual who corresponds to this state.

By all means.

Doesn't the timocratic man turn into the oligarchic man something like this?

How?

The timocratic man has a son. At first, the son emulates his father and follows in his footsteps. But then one day he watches his father crash against the state like a ship on a hidden reef. Everything is lost. His father might have been a general or some other high-ranking officer who gets dragged into court on trumped-up charges by informers and is either put to death, exiled, or stripped of his citizenship and all his property.

That's very plausible, he said.

The son has witnessed all of this. He's ruined. Fear has taught him to knock ambition and passion headfirst off the throne of his soul. Humbled by poverty, he turns to moneymaking and, through penny-pinching, hard labor, and miserly savings, he scrapes together a fortune. Don't you think he'll then seat the greedy, acquisitive part of himself on that empty throne and let it play king — decked out in crown and chain and sword?

Absolutely, he replied.

And once he's enthroned the desire for money, he makes reason and spirit sit on the ground like slaves, one on each side. He won't let reason think about anything except how to turn a little money into more money. And he won't let spirit admire or aspire to anything except wealth and wealthy people — nothing matters but getting rich and figuring out how to get richer.

Of all transformations, he said, none is faster or more certain than the conversion of an ambitious young man into a greedy one.

And the greedy man, I said — that's the oligarchic type?

Yes, he said. At least, the individual he evolved from is like the state that oligarchy evolved from.

Let's see if they really resemble each other.

First: they both place supreme value on wealth?

Yes.

And both are stingy and hardworking. The oligarchic man satisfies only his bare necessities and won't spend a penny on anything else. He suppresses all other desires as unprofitable.

Right.

He's a shabby character who pinches pennies on everything and builds up his nest egg. The masses actually admire this type. Isn't he a true mirror of the state he represents?

I think so, he said. At any rate, money is the supreme value for both the man and the state.

You'll notice he's not a cultivated person, I said.

No, he said. If he were, he'd never have made a blind god the director of his life's chorus, or given Wealth the place of highest honor.

Excellent! I said. But consider this: precisely because he lacks cultivation, he harbors drone-like desires inside him — the kind a pauper or a criminal would have — desires that are forcibly kept down by his general self-discipline.

You want to know where to find proof of his hidden corruption?

Where should I look?

Watch what happens when he's put in charge of an orphan's estate, or any situation where he has a great opportunity to cheat.

Ah.

Then you'll see clearly enough. In his ordinary dealings, where his reputation for honesty is on the line, he keeps his bad impulses in check — but not because he's genuinely convinced they're wrong, and not because he's tamed them through reason. It's purely out of necessity and fear. He's scared of losing what he has.

Exactly.

In fact, my friend, whenever he gets a chance to spend someone else's money, you'll find those drone-like desires alive and well inside him.

Yes, he said, and strong ones too.

So this man is at war with himself. He's two people, not one. But generally, his better desires manage to prevail over his worse ones.

True.

For these reasons, he'll be more respectable than most people. But the true virtue of a soul that's unified and harmonious? That will be far away and will never come near him.

I'd expect so.

And the miser makes an embarrassing competitor whenever there's a prize to be won or some other public honor at stake. He won't spend his money on the contest for glory — too afraid of waking up his expensive appetites and calling them in as allies. He fights with only a fraction of his resources, oligarch-style, and typically loses the prize but keeps his money.

That's exactly right.

So can we still doubt that the miser and the moneymaker is the perfect match for the oligarchic state?

No doubt at all.

Next comes democracy. We still need to examine how it originates and what it looks like. Then we'll examine the democratic man and put him up for judgment.

That's our method, he said.

Well, I said, how does the change from oligarchy to democracy happen? Isn't it something like this? The whole goal of oligarchy is to get as rich as possible — an insatiable desire.

Go on.

The rulers know their power depends on their wealth. So they refuse to pass laws restraining the extravagance of the spendthrift youth — because they profit from their ruin. They lend them money at interest and buy up their estates, getting richer and more powerful in the process.

Of course.

Now, here's something you can't get around: the love of wealth and the spirit of self-discipline can't coexist in the same state to any significant degree. One or the other has to give way.

That's pretty clear.

So in oligarchies, thanks to the spread of recklessness and extravagance, even people from good families often end up bankrupt.

Yes, that happens a lot.

And yet they stay in the city. There they are — bitter, armed, and dangerous. Some are in debt, some have lost their citizenship, some are in both predicaments at once. They hate the people who acquired their property. They hate everyone else too. They're itching for revolution.

That's exactly right.

Meanwhile, the moneylenders stoop as they walk and pretend not even to notice the people they've already ruined. They sink their stingers — that is, their money — into the next unsuspecting victim, collecting interest upon interest, breeding a whole family of returns from the original sum. And so they multiply both drones and paupers throughout the state.

Yes, he said, there are plenty of both — that's for certain.

The crisis flares up like a fire, and they refuse to put it out — either by limiting how people can use their own property, or by another remedy.

What other remedy?

The next best thing, and one that has the advantage of forcing citizens to watch their character: make a rule that everyone enters into voluntary contracts at their own risk. There'd be far less predatory lending, and the evils we've been talking about would shrink dramatically.

Yes, they would.

But as things stand, the rulers — driven by the motives I've described — treat their subjects badly. Meanwhile, they and their allies, especially the young men of the ruling class, live in luxury and idleness, both physically and mentally. They do nothing and can't resist either pleasure or pain.

Right.

They care only about making money and are as indifferent to genuine virtue as any pauper.

Completely indifferent.

Now picture what happens when these rulers and their subjects come face to face. Maybe they're traveling together, or on a pilgrimage, or serving as fellow soldiers or sailors. And in a moment of actual danger — where the poor can't be looked down on — what does the tough, sun-weathered poor man think when he's standing next to some pale, soft, overfed rich man, watching him wheeze and flounder? How can he avoid the obvious conclusion: "People like him are only rich because nobody has the guts to take their money"? And when they meet in private, won't they say to each other, "Our so-called leaders are useless"?

Yes, he said, I'm well aware that's exactly how they talk.

And just as a diseased body only needs the slightest push from outside to fall ill — and sometimes breaks down even without any external trigger — the same is true of a weakened state. The smallest provocation can bring on full-blown crisis. One faction brings in allies from an oligarchic state, the other from a democratic one, and the city falls sick and goes to war with itself — sometimes even without any external cause at all.

Yes, certainly.

And then democracy is born. The poor conquer their opponents. They slaughter some, banish others, and give the rest an equal share of freedom and political power. Offices are typically filled by lottery.

Yes, he said, that's how democracy comes about — whether by armed revolution or because fear drives the other side to withdraw.

Now, what's their way of life? What kind of government do they have? Because as the government is, so the man will be.

Clearly, he said.

First of all: aren't they free? Isn't the city overflowing with freedom and free speech — a place where you can say and do whatever you want?

That's what they say, he replied.

And where there's that kind of freedom, every individual can obviously arrange his own life however he pleases.

Obviously.

So in this kind of state you'll find the greatest variety of human types.

You will.

This, then, is probably the most beautiful of all states — like a multicolored garment spangled with every kind of flower. Just as women and children find a riot of colors the most charming thing in the world, plenty of people will look at this state — spangled with every kind of character and way of life — and declare it the most beautiful of all.

Yes, my good sir, he said. And there's no better place to go shopping for a government.

Exactly! Because of the freedom that reigns there, you'll find a complete assortment of constitutions on display. Anyone who wants to found a state — the way we've been doing — should visit a democracy the way you'd visit a bazaar. Browse the selection and pick out whatever suits you. Then go home and build your state.

He'll certainly have plenty of models to choose from, he said.

And there's no requirement, I said, for you to govern in this state, even if you're perfectly capable of it. No requirement to be governed, unless you feel like it. No requirement to go to war when the rest go to war, or to keep the peace when others keep the peace, unless that's what you want. And if some law forbids you from holding office or sitting on a jury, you can go right ahead and hold office and sit on juries anyway, if the mood strikes you. Isn't this way of life, for the moment, supremely delightful?

For the moment, yes, he said.

And isn't their leniency toward convicted criminals sometimes quite charming? Have you noticed how, in a democracy, people who've been sentenced to death or exile just stick around and walk the streets? They parade around like heroes, and nobody notices or cares.

Yes, he replied, I've seen many such cases.

And look at the easygoing spirit of democracy, I said — the way it just doesn't care. It tramples on all those noble principles we laid down so solemnly when we were founding our city. We said that no one — except someone with exceptional natural gifts — could ever become a truly good person without being surrounded by beauty from childhood and making it a lifelong study. Democracy kicks all of that aside without a second thought. It doesn't care about the background or training of its politicians. Someone claims to be a friend of the people? Good enough — give him honors!

Yes, she is of noble spirit, he said.

These and other similar features are what define democracy: a charming form of government, full of variety and disorder, handing out a kind of equality to equals and unequals alike.

We know her well, he said.

Now let's consider what kind of individual matches this system — or rather, as we did with the state, let's first consider how he comes into being.

Very good, he said.

Doesn't it go like this? He's the son of the miserly oligarchic father, who trained him in his own habits.

Right.

And like his father, he keeps his spending urges under control by force — the desires that are about spending money rather than making it, the ones we call unnecessary.

Yes.

For the sake of clarity, shall we define which pleasures are necessary and which are unnecessary?

Let's do that.

Necessary pleasures are the ones we can't get rid of, and whose satisfaction actually benefits us. We're right to call them necessary, because nature has made us want things that are both beneficial and essential — we can't help it.

We're not wrong to call them necessary.

No, we're not.

And the desires we can get rid of — if we train ourselves from youth — whose presence does no good and in some cases does harm? If we call all of these unnecessary, wouldn't that be right?

Perfectly right.

Let's pick an example of each kind, so we have a clear picture.

Good idea.

The desire for basic food — plain food and simple seasonings, enough for health and strength — that's necessary, isn't it?

I'd say so.

The pleasure of eating is necessary in two ways: it's good for us, and it's essential for staying alive.

Right.

But condiments are only necessary insofar as they're good for health.

True.

And the desire that goes beyond this — for fancier food and luxuries, desires that could be trained out of a person in youth, and that are harmful to both body and soul in the pursuit of wisdom and virtue — those we can fairly call unnecessary?

Absolutely.

And can't we say that the unnecessary desires are the ones that drain money, while the necessary ones actually help us produce it?

Yes.

And the same goes for sexual desires and all other pleasures?

It does.

And the drone we were talking about — he's the one bloated with unnecessary desires and pleasures, enslaved to them. While the person governed only by necessary desires is the thrifty oligarchic type?

Exactly.

Now let's see how the democratic man grows out of the oligarchic one. Here's how it usually works, I suspect.

Tell me.

A young man has been raised the way we described — in a crude, penny-pinching household. Then he gets a taste of the drones' honey. He falls in with fierce, clever people who can supply him with every kind of pleasure and variety. That's the moment the oligarchic principle inside him starts transforming into the democratic one, don't you think?

Inevitably.

And just as the city changed through an alliance of outside forces with one faction inside, the young man is changed by a class of desires invading from outside to support the desires already within him — like calling to like, kin helping kin.

Absolutely.

And if there's any force that supports the oligarchic principle inside him — a father's influence, perhaps, or relatives who advise and scold him — then a kind of civil war breaks out in his soul, faction against faction. He goes to war with himself.

That's how it has to be.

Sometimes the democratic forces retreat, and some desires die out while others are banished. A spirit of self-restraint enters the young man's soul, and order is restored.

Yes, he said, that does sometimes happen.

But then, after the old desires have been driven out, new ones spring up — desires that are related to the old ones. And because the father figure in him doesn't know how to educate them properly, they grow fierce and multiply.

Yes, he said, that's usually what happens.

These desires draw him back to his old companions. They breed and multiply in secret.

Right.

Eventually they seize the citadel of the young man's soul, which they find empty — vacant of real learning, solid pursuits, and honest ideas, the things that stand guard in the minds of people the gods truly favor.

Nothing better could stand guard, he agreed.

And in their place, false and boastful ideas and pretensions march up and take over.

No doubt about it.

And so the young man returns to lotus-eater land, setting up camp there for all the world to see. If his friends send reinforcements to the oligarchic part of him, those self-important pretensions slam the gates shut. They won't let the rescue party in. They won't even listen to the fatherly advice of older men who try to counsel him privately. There's a battle, and the pretensions win. Then modesty — which they rename "stupidity" — is thrown out in disgrace. Self-control — which they call "cowardice" — is dragged through the mud and banished. Moderation and disciplined spending? "Provincial" and "small-minded," they say. And with the help of a mob of worthless appetites, they drive them all beyond the border.

Yes, he said, with enthusiasm.

And when they've emptied and swept clean the soul of their new recruit — this young man being initiated into their grand mysteries — the next step is to bring in the replacements. In marches arrogance, calling itself "good breeding." Anarchy, calling itself "freedom." Wastefulness, calling itself "magnificence." Shamelessness, calling itself "courage." They come with garlands on their heads and a whole parade behind them, singing their own praises.

That's exactly how it goes.

And so the young man passes out of his original nature — the one trained in the school of necessity — and into the freedom and excess of useless, unnecessary pleasures.

Yes, he said, the transformation is obvious.

After this, he lives on, spending his money and time and energy on unnecessary pleasures just as much as necessary ones. If he's lucky, and doesn't go completely off the rails, then once the wild years pass and the fever of youth cools down, he might let some of the banished virtues back in. He won't surrender entirely to their replacements. He'll try to find a balance, giving himself over to whichever pleasure shows up first — and when he's had enough of that one, he moves on to the next. He doesn't look down on any of them. He treats them all equally.

Very true, he said.

And he refuses to listen to any voice of reason. If someone tells him that some pleasures come from good and noble desires, and others from base ones, and that he should cultivate the first kind and resist the second — he just shakes his head and says they're all the same, one's as good as another.

Yes, he said, that's exactly how he is.

Right, I said. He lives day to day, indulging whatever appetite strikes him. One day he's drinking heavily and listening to music. The next day he's on a water-only diet, trying to lose weight. Then he takes up exercise. Then he does nothing at all, loafing around and ignoring everything. Then he's living the life of a philosopher. Often he's into politics, jumping up and saying and doing whatever pops into his head. If he admires a soldier, he's off in that direction. If it's a businessman — then that's his new thing. His life has no order, no discipline, no governing principle. And he calls this scattered existence joy and freedom and happiness. So he goes on.

Yes, he replied — his life is all liberty and equality.

Yes, I said. His life is colorful and multifaceted, a sampler of every kind of life. He's the match for that beautiful, multicolored state we described. Many men and women will take him as their role model, and many constitutions and ways of living are contained within him.

Exactly.

Then let him stand as the representative of democracy. He truly deserves the name: the democratic man.

That's his place, he said.

Last of all, I said, comes the most beautiful pair — man and state alike: tyranny and the tyrant. These we still have to examine.

Quite true, he said.

Tell me, my friend: how does tyranny arise? That it has a democratic origin is obvious.

It is.

And doesn't tyranny spring from democracy in much the same way that democracy springs from oligarchy — after a fashion?

How so?

The goal that oligarchy set for itself, and the principle on which it ran, was the accumulation of wealth — am I right?

Yes.

And it was the insatiable desire for wealth — along with the neglect of everything else for the sake of moneymaking — that destroyed oligarchy?

True.

And democracy has its own supreme value, and it's the insatiable craving for that value which ultimately destroys it.

And what's that value?

Freedom, I replied. In a democracy, you'll hear that freedom is the state's greatest glory — and that it's the only kind of state where a truly free person would want to live.

Yes, they say that constantly.

So here's what I was getting at: it's the insatiable desire for freedom, combined with the neglect of everything else, that destabilizes democracy and creates the demand for tyranny.

How?

When a democracy that's thirsting for freedom gets bad leaders presiding over the feast, and drinks too deeply of the strong wine of liberty, then — unless the rulers are extremely accommodating and pour a generous glass — the people call them to account and punish them, branding them as cursed oligarchs.

Yes, he replied, that's a common occurrence.

And meanwhile, I said, the people insult loyal citizens by calling them willing slaves and nobodies. They want subjects who act like rulers and rulers who act like subjects. These are the people democracy praises and honors, in public and private alike. In such a state, isn't it inevitable that freedom expands without limit?

Of course.

And by degrees, I said, this anarchy seeps into private homes and even infects the animals.

What do you mean?

I mean that the father gets accustomed to lowering himself to his sons' level and being afraid of them, and the son puts himself on equal footing with his father, having no respect or reverence for either parent. That's his freedom. The immigrant is equal to the citizen, and the citizen to the immigrant, and the foreigner is just as good as either.

Yes, he said, that's how it goes.

And those are just the major symptoms, I said. There are plenty of minor ones: in this kind of society, teachers fear and flatter their students, and the students despise their teachers and tutors. Young and old are treated exactly the same. The young compete with the old in word and deed, and old people stoop to the level of the young, trying to be witty and entertaining, terrified of being thought harsh or authoritarian. They adopt the manners of the young.

Absolutely true, he said.

And the ultimate extreme of popular freedom is when slaves — bought and paid for, male or female — are every bit as free as the person who purchased them. And I nearly forgot to mention the liberty and equality between men and women.

Well, Aeschylus would say, why not speak the word that's rising to our lips?

That's what I'm doing, I replied. And I'll add that you'd never believe — unless you'd seen it yourself — how much more freedom animals have under a democracy than under any other form of government. The dogs really do become like their mistresses, as the proverb says. And the horses and donkeys strut around with all the rights and dignities of free citizens, bumping into anyone who doesn't get out of their way. Everything is just about bursting with liberty.

When I take a walk in the country, he said, I experience exactly what you're describing. You and I have dreamed the same dream.

And above all, I said, as the crowning result of all this — see how sensitive the citizens become. They bristle at the slightest hint of authority. Eventually, as you know, they stop caring about the laws entirely, written or unwritten. They absolutely refuse to have anyone over them.

Yes, he said, I know that all too well.

This, my friend, I said, is the fine and glorious beginning from which tyranny springs.

Glorious indeed, he said. But what's the next step?

The same disease that destroyed oligarchy destroys democracy too — only magnified and intensified by all that freedom. Too much of anything tends to produce a violent swing in the opposite direction. It happens with the seasons, with plants, with animals — and above all, with forms of government.

The excess of freedom, whether in states or in individuals, seems to lead inevitably to an excess of slavery.

Yes, he said, that's the natural progression.

So tyranny naturally grows out of democracy, and the most extreme form of tyranny and slavery grows out of the most extreme form of freedom.

Just as we'd expect.

But that wasn't really your question, I think. You wanted to know what disease, common to both oligarchy and democracy, ruins them both.

Exactly, he replied.

Well, I said, I was referring to that class of idle spendthrifts — the bolder ones being leaders and the more timid ones followers. They're the drones we compared them to earlier, some stingless and some with stingers.

A perfectly apt comparison.

These two types are the plague of every city they infest — like phlegm and bile in the body. A good doctor and lawgiver, like a wise beekeeper, should keep them out if at all possible. And if they've somehow gotten in, they should be cut out — cells and all — as quickly as possible.

Yes, absolutely, he said.

Now, to see what we're dealing with more clearly, let's imagine that democracy is divided — as it actually is — into three classes. The first: freedom creates even more drones in a democracy than there were in the oligarchy.

True.

And in a democracy, they're far more powerful.

How so?

Because in an oligarchy, they're shut out of office and kept on the margins, so they can't train or build strength. But in a democracy, they're practically the entire ruling power. The most aggressive ones do the talking and the acting, while the rest sit buzzing around the speaker's platform, shouting down anyone on the other side. In democracies, the drones run almost everything.

Exactly right, he said.

Then there's a second class that's always separating itself from the mass.

What's that?

The orderly, businesslike types. In a nation of merchants, they're inevitably the richest.

Naturally.

They're the most squeezable, and they produce the most honey for the drones.

Of course, he said — there's not much to squeeze out of people who have nothing.

And this rich class is called the drones' feeding ground.

Pretty much, he said.

The third class is the common people — those who work with their own hands, stay out of politics, and don't have much. When they come together, they're the largest and most powerful class in a democracy.

True, he said. But the masses are rarely willing to show up unless they get a taste of honey.

And don't they get their share? I said. Their leaders strip the rich of their property and distribute it to the people — while making sure to keep the biggest portion for themselves.

Yes, he said, that's the extent of the people's share.

And the people whose property is seized are forced to defend themselves in front of the assembly as best they can.

What else can they do?

And then, even if they have no desire for revolution, they get accused of plotting against the people and sympathizing with the oligarchs.

True.

And the end result: when the people — not from their own judgment but because they've been deceived by informers — try to do them wrong, then at last these men are driven to become oligarchs in reality. They didn't want to be. But the drones' stinging torments them until it breeds revolution.

That is exactly what happens.

Then come the impeachments, the trials, the prosecutions of one side by the other.

Yes.

And the people always find some champion to put forward, someone they elevate and build up into greatness.

Yes, that's their way.

This — and nothing else — is the root from which a tyrant grows. When he first appears on the scene, he comes as a protector.

Yes, that's perfectly clear.

How does a protector begin to turn into a tyrant? Clearly, it's when he does what the man in the legend of the Arcadian temple of Zeus Lycaeus is said to do.

What legend?

The story goes that whoever tastes the entrails of a single human victim, minced up with the entrails of other sacrificial animals, is destined to become a wolf. Haven't you heard it?

Yes.

In the same way, the people's protector — with the mob at his disposal — doesn't hold back from shedding the blood of his fellow citizens. He drags people to court on false charges and has them killed, tasting the blood of his own people with unholy lips. Some he destroys, others he exiles, hinting all the while at debt cancellation and land redistribution. After all this, isn't his fate sealed? He must either be killed by his enemies or transform from man to wolf — that is, become a tyrant.

Inevitably.

This is the man who begins to organize a faction against the wealthy.

Yes.

He might be driven out for a time, but he comes back — in spite of his enemies — a full-grown tyrant.

Obviously.

And if they can't expel him or get him publicly condemned, they conspire to have him assassinated.

Yes, he said, that's their usual approach.

And then comes the famous request for a bodyguard — the classic move of every aspiring tyrant who's gotten this far in his career. "Don't let the people's champion be taken from us!" they cry.

The people eagerly agree. All their fears are for him. They have none for themselves.

And when a wealthy man sees all this — a man who's already been accused of being an enemy of the people — then, my friend, as the oracle said to Croesus:

"By the pebbled shores of Hermus he flees and doesn't pause, and isn't ashamed to be a coward."

Quite right too, he said. If he stopped to be ashamed, he'd never get the chance again.

If he's caught, he dies.

Yes.

And our protector — he's not exactly "larding the plain" with his bulk anymore. He's overthrown many rivals and now stands tall in the chariot of state, reins in hand. No longer a protector. A tyrant absolute.

No doubt, he said.

And now, I said, let's consider the happiness of this man and the state that produces a creature like him.

Yes, he said, let's do that.

At first, in the early days of his power, he's all smiles. He greets everyone he meets. Him, a tyrant? Perish the thought! He's making promises left and right, in public and in private. He's freeing debtors, distributing land to the people and his supporters. He wants to seem so kind, so good to everybody.

Of course, he said.

But once he's dealt with his foreign enemies — through conquest or treaty — and has nothing to fear from outside, then he's always stirring up some war or other. The people need a leader, after all.

Naturally.

And there's another purpose: keep them impoverished by taxes so they're too busy scraping by to plot against him.

Right.

And if anyone is suspected of having dangerous thoughts about freedom and resisting his authority? He has a perfect excuse for destroying them — just put them on the front lines of whatever war he's started. For all these reasons, the tyrant must always be getting up a war.

He must.

And now he starts to become unpopular.

Inevitably.

Some of the people who helped put him in power — men of influence — start speaking their minds, to him and to each other. The bolder ones throw his actions in his face.

That's to be expected.

And the tyrant, if he means to hold on to power, has to get rid of all of them. He can't stop until he has no friend or enemy left who's worth anything.

Obviously.

He must keep a sharp eye out: who is brave? Who is high-minded? Who is wise? Who is wealthy? Lucky man — he's the enemy of all of them. He has to find pretexts against them, whether he wants to or not, until he's purged the state.

Yes, he said — a fine purge that is.

The reverse of the purges doctors perform, I said. Doctors remove the worst and leave the best. He removes the best and leaves the worst.

He has no choice, he said, if he wants to stay in power.

What a blessed choice, I said — to be forced to live surrounded by worthless people who hate him, or not to live at all!

Yes, he said, that's his choice.

And the more detestable his actions are to the citizens, the bigger bodyguard he'll need and the more fanatical their loyalty has to be.

Naturally.

And who are these loyal supporters? Where will he find them?

They'll come flocking on their own, he said, if he pays them.

By the dog! I said. More drones! Every variety, from every corner of the world.

Yes, he said.

But won't he also want to recruit locally?

How?

He'll take citizens' slaves away from them, free the slaves, and enlist them in his bodyguard.

Absolutely, he said. And they'll be his most loyal troops.

What a blessed creature this tyrant is! He's killed off his real friends and replaced them with this crew.

That's exactly his situation.

And these new citizens he's created admire him and keep him company, while the decent people hate him and avoid him.

Of course.

There's real wisdom in tragedy, I said, and Euripides is a great tragedian.

Why do you say that?

Because he wrote the pregnant line: "Tyrants are made wise by keeping company with the wise." And by "the wise," he clearly meant the kind of people the tyrant surrounds himself with.

Yes, he said, and Euripides also praises tyranny as godlike, along with many other things. The other poets do the same.

And that's precisely why, I said, the tragic poets will forgive us — and anyone else who lives the way we've described — if we don't admit them into our state. They're the cheerleaders of tyranny.

Yes, he said, the smart ones among them will forgive us, I'm sure.

Meanwhile, they'll go on touring other cities, hiring beautiful, powerful voices, and pulling those cities toward tyranny and democracy.

No doubt.

And they get paid for it and receive great honors — the highest honors coming from tyrants, naturally, and the next highest from democracies. But the further they climb up our constitutional hierarchy, the more their reputation fades, as if they run out of breath.

True.

But we're getting off track. Let's get back to the point: how is the tyrant going to maintain that splendid, ever-growing, ever-changing army of his?

If there are sacred treasures in the city, he said, the tyrant will confiscate and spend them. And as long as the fortunes of his convicted enemies hold out, he can keep the taxes on the people relatively low.

And when those run out?

Then obviously, he said, he and his drinking companions — male and female — will be supported out of his father's estate.

Ah, I said. You mean the people — who gave him life — will have to support him and his friends?

Yes, he said. They won't have a choice.

But what if the people get angry? What if they say that a grown son shouldn't be supported by his father — it should be the other way around? "We didn't bring you into existence," they'll say, "and set you up in power just so that when you got big, we'd become the servants of our own servants and support you and your rabble of lackeys and hangers-on. We put you in power to protect us — to liberate us from the rich and the so-called aristocrats. Now we're telling you and your friends to get out, just as any father might throw out a riotous son and his disreputable crew."

By heaven, he said, then the people will discover what kind of monster they've been nurturing. And when they try to drive him out, they'll find that they're weak and he's strong.

Wait — you don't mean the tyrant would actually use violence against the people? Would he really beat his own father if the old man resisted?

Yes, he said. After he's disarmed him first.

Then the tyrant is a parricide, I said, and a cruel guardian of his aged parent. And this is what real tyranny looks like — there can be no mistake about it now. As the saying goes: the people, trying to escape the smoke of submission to free men, have fallen into the fire of enslavement to slaves. Instead of the abundant but reasonable freedom they had before, they've put on the harshest and most bitter uniform of slavery — slavery to their own slaves.

True, he said.

Well then, I said, can't we fairly say that we've given a thorough enough account of how tyranny arises from democracy, and what tyranny looks like once it's arrived?

Yes, he said, quite thorough enough.

Republic — Book IX

Last of all comes the tyrannical man. We still need to ask: how does he develop out of the democratic man? And how does he live — happily or miserably?

Yes, said Adeimantus, he's the only one left.

There's a preliminary question, though, I said, that we still haven't fully answered.

What question?

I don't think we've done a thorough enough job of sorting out the nature and number of our appetites, I said. Until we get that right, the whole inquiry will stay muddled.

Well, he said, it's not too late to fix that.

Very true, I said. Here's the point I want to nail down. Some of our unnecessary pleasures and appetites are, I believe, downright lawless. Everyone seems to have them, but in some people they're kept in check by the laws and by reason — the better desires win out, and those lawless urges either vanish entirely or become few and feeble. In other people, though, they're stronger and more numerous.

Which appetites do you mean? he asked.

The ones that wake up when the rational, human, ruling part of the soul is asleep, I said. That's when the wild beast inside us — stuffed with food and drink — shakes off sleep, rouses itself, and goes looking for ways to satisfy its cravings. And in that state, there's no imaginable act of madness or depravity — not even incest, or any other unnatural act, or killing a parent, or eating forbidden food — that this creature won't be ready to commit. It has completely abandoned shame and reason.

Absolutely true, he said.

But when a person is healthy and self-disciplined — when, before going to sleep, he's stirred up his rational mind and fed it with good thoughts and careful reflection, when he's given his appetites neither too much nor too little but just enough to quiet them down so they won't interfere with the higher part of the soul — leaving that higher part free, in pure solitude, to reach out and grasp some truth it hasn't yet understood, whether about the past, present, or future — and when he's also calmed the spirited part, so he's not going to bed angry at anyone — when a person has settled both irrational elements and roused the third, which is reason, before falling asleep — then, as you know, he comes closest to grasping truth and is least likely to be plagued by wild, lawless visions.

I completely agree, he said.

I've gotten sidetracked here, I said. But the main point I want to make is this: in all of us — even in good people — there's a lawless, wild-beast nature that shows itself in sleep. Does that seem right to you? Do you agree?

Yes, I agree.

Now, remember the character we gave the democratic man, I said. He was raised from childhood under a stingy father who only valued the money-making appetites and looked down on the unnecessary ones — the ones that exist just for fun and entertainment.

Right, he said.

Then he fell in with a more sophisticated, pleasure-loving crowd, rushed headlong into their indulgent lifestyle as a reaction against his father's tightfistedness, and eventually — being a better person than the people who corrupted him — settled somewhere in the middle. He led a life of what he considered moderate enjoyment, not one of crude slavish appetites. That's how the democratic man emerged from the oligarchic one.

Yes, he said, that was and still is our view.

Now, I said, imagine years have passed. Picture this man having a son, raised according to his father's principles.

I can picture him, he said.

And imagine the same thing happening to the son that happened to the father. He gets dragged into a completely lawless lifestyle, which his tempters call "perfect freedom." His father and his father's friends side with his moderate desires, while the other side rallies behind the extreme ones. And as soon as these crafty manipulators — these tyrant-makers — realize they're losing their grip on him, they cook up a plan: they plant in him a master passion to lord it over all his idle, reckless appetites. A sort of enormous winged drone — that's the only image that really captures it.

Yes, he said, that's the only adequate image.

And when his other appetites come buzzing around this drone — surrounded by clouds of incense and perfume, garlands and wine and every pleasure of a dissolute life — they feed and fatten the sting of desire they've implanted in him until it grows to its full monstrous size. Then this lord of the soul, with Madness as captain of his bodyguard, breaks out into a frenzy. If he finds any decent opinions or healthy impulses still forming inside him, if there's any trace of shame left, he destroys them all. He purges himself of every shred of self-control and floods his soul with imported madness.

Yes, he said, that's exactly how the tyrannical man comes into being.

And isn't this why love has been called a tyrant since ancient times? I asked.

I wouldn't be surprised, he said.

Furthermore, I said, doesn't a drunk also have the spirit of a tyrant in him?

He does.

And a person who's mentally unhinged will imagine he can rule not just over other people but even over the gods?

He absolutely will.

So the tyrannical man, in the fullest sense, comes into being when a person — whether by nature or by habit or by both — becomes drunk, lustful, and mad. Isn't that right, my friend?

That's right.

So that's the man and that's his origin. Now — how does he live?

Go ahead, he said — as the joke goes, "you tell me."

Here's what I imagine, I said. Next come the parties and orgies and revels and call girls — the whole package. Love is the tyrant ruling the house of his soul, directing everything.

Of course, he said.

Yes — and every day and every night, new desires spring up, fierce and demanding. They have a lot of needs.

They certainly do, he said.

Whatever income he has gets spent fast.

True.

Then come the debts, the selling off of his property.

Right.

And when he's got nothing left, all those desires crowded into their nest like young ravens start crying out for food. He's driven on by them, goaded especially by Love itself — which is their captain, so to speak — and he's in a frenzy, looking for anyone he can rob or swindle to feed them.

Yes, that's exactly what happens.

He has to get money somehow, or the agony is unbearable.

Right.

And just as in his own soul the newer pleasures muscled out the older ones and stole their share, so now — being younger — he'll feel entitled to a bigger share than his father and mother. If he's already burned through his own inheritance, he'll help himself to theirs.

No doubt.

And if they refuse to hand it over, he'll try cheating and deceiving them first.

Of course.

And if that fails, he'll use force to take it.

Probably.

And if the old man and woman fight back — what then, my friend? Will this creature feel any guilt about tyrannizing his own parents?

I wouldn't feel comfortable at all about what he'd do to them, he said.

But, by the gods, Adeimantus — for the sake of some newfound fling who means nothing to him, would he really hit his own mother, the woman who raised him, who's been his closest companion all his life? Would he make her take second place to this newcomer under the same roof? And for some fresh-faced young thing who's totally dispensable, would he do the same to his shriveled old father, the earliest and most essential of his friends?

Yes, he said, I believe he would.

What a blessing, I said, to have a tyrannical son.

A real blessing, he agreed.

First he drains his parents' resources. When those run out and his appetites are swarming in the hive of his soul, he breaks into houses, robs travelers at night, and cleans out temples. Meanwhile, those old beliefs he held as a child — his judgments about right and wrong — are overthrown by the new opinions that have been set free, opinions that serve as the bodyguard of Love and share its reign. In his democratic days, when he was still subject to the laws and to his father, these lawless impulses were only unleashed in his dreams. But now that Love rules him absolutely, he becomes in waking life what he used to be only rarely, in sleep. There's no murder too foul, no act too horrific, no forbidden thing too taboo. Love is his tyrant, living in royal lawlessness inside him, and being itself a kind of king, it drives him — the way a tyrant drives a state — to every reckless act that can feed itself and its mob of associates, whether those associates came in from outside through bad influences, or whether he let them loose from within, bred from the same corruption. That's the picture of his life, isn't it?

Yes, exactly, he said.

Now, I said, if there are only a few people like this in a city and the rest of the population is sensible, they go off and serve as bodyguards or mercenaries for some other tyrant who needs soldiers for a war. And if there's no war, they stay home and commit all sorts of petty crimes.

What kind of crimes? he asked.

Oh, you know — theft, burglary, pickpocketing, mugging, temple robbery, kidnapping. If they happen to be good speakers, they become informers, commit perjury, and take bribes.

A nice little list of evils, he said — even if the criminals are few.

"Little" is relative, I said. Compared to the harm a full-blown tyrant inflicts on a state, all these crimes don't come within a thousand miles. But here's what happens: when this noxious breed multiplies and they become aware of their numbers, assisted by the mindless enthusiasm of the people, they look among themselves and pick the one whose soul is most tyrannical, and they make him their tyrant.

Yes, he said — he'd be the most qualified for the job.

If the people submit, fine. But if they resist him — well, he started by beating his own father and mother, didn't he? Now, if he has the power, he'll beat his fatherland the same way. He'll bring in his young cronies and put them in charge. He'll keep his dear old country — or motherland, as the Cretans call it — in subjection to these new masters. And that's the endpoint of all his passions and desires.

Exactly.

And here's how these people behave when they're still private citizens, before they get power, I said. They surround themselves entirely with flatterers and yes-men. If they need something from somebody, they'll grovel and fawn and profess all kinds of affection. But once they've gotten what they want, they don't know you anymore.

That's so true, he said.

They spend their whole lives as either masters or servants, never as friends. The tyrant never gets a taste of true freedom or genuine friendship.

Never.

And wouldn't we be right to call such people treacherous?

Absolutely.

And utterly unjust — if our understanding of justice was correct?

It was perfectly correct, he said.

Let's sum up the worst man in a single sentence, I said: he's the waking reality of what we dreamed.

That's him.

And this is the man who, being by nature the most tyrannical, ends up actually ruling. The longer he lives, the more of a tyrant he becomes.

That's certain, said Glaucon, taking his turn to answer.

Now then, I said — won't the man who's been shown to be the most wicked also be the most miserable? And won't the one who has tyrannized longest and most completely be the most continuously and truly miserable — whatever the general public might think?

Yes, inevitably, he said.

And isn't the tyrannical man like the tyrannical state, the democratic man like the democratic state, and so on for the others?

Of course.

And as state compares to state in virtue and happiness, so does person compare to person?

Certainly.

Then how does our original city — the one governed by a king — compare in virtue to a city under a tyrant?

They're polar opposites, he said. One is the very best, the other the very worst.

I won't ask which is which, I said — that's obvious. But let me ask: do you make the same judgment about their happiness and misery? And let's not be intimidated by the spectacle of the tyrant — he's just one man, maybe with a few lackeys around him. We need to go into every corner of the city and look around thoroughly before we give our verdict.

A fair proposal, he said. And everyone can see that a tyranny is the most wretched form of government and a kingship the happiest.

And when we judge the men themselves, I said — shouldn't I ask for a judge who can really see into human nature? Someone who isn't like a child, dazzled by the tyrant's impressive public facade. Let our judge be someone who has lived alongside this man, who has watched him in his daily life and his family relationships — where the costume comes off — and who has also seen him in moments of public danger. That person can tell us whether the tyrant is happy or miserable compared to other people.

That's a very fair request, he said.

Shall I assume we ourselves are competent judges? I asked. That we've encountered such a person? Then we'll have someone to answer our questions.

By all means.

Good. Then follow me, I said. Keep the parallel between individual and state in mind. Look at them side by side, and tell me what you see.

What do you mean? he asked.

Starting with the state, I said: would you say a city under a tyrant is free or enslaved?

No city could be more completely enslaved, he said.

And yet you can see that there are free men as well as masters in such a state?

Yes, I see that — a few. But the people as a whole, including the best of them, are miserably degraded and enslaved.

Then if the man is like the state, I said, the same must hold true for him. His soul is full of meanness and servility. The best elements in him are enslaved, and the small part that rules is also the worst and most deranged.

Inevitably.

And would you say the soul of such a person is free or enslaved?

The soul of a slave, in my opinion.

And the state under a tyrant is utterly incapable of doing what it really wants?

Utterly incapable.

And the soul under a tyrant — I'm speaking of the soul as a whole — is the least capable of doing what it desires. There's a constant goad driving it on, and it's full of confusion and regret.

Of course.

Is the city under a tyrant rich or poor?

Poor.

And the tyrannical soul — always poor and never satisfied?

True.

And isn't such a state — and such a person — always full of fear?

Yes, indeed.

Is there any state where you'd find more weeping and sorrow and groaning and pain?

Definitely not.

And is there any person in whom you'd find more of this kind of misery than in the tyrannical man — consumed by his passions and desires?

Impossible.

So it was because you considered all this, I said, that you judged the tyrannical state to be the most miserable of states?

And I was right, he said.

You certainly were, I said. But now look at the tyrannical man himself and tell me what you think.

I say he's the most miserable of all men, by far.

There, I said, I think you're starting to go wrong.

What do you mean?

I don't think he's quite reached the peak of misery yet.

Then who's more miserable?

Someone I'm about to describe.

Who?

The person with a tyrannical nature who has the added misfortune of actually becoming a public tyrant — who doesn't just live privately but is forced to rule.

Based on what we've said, I'd guess you're right, he said.

Yes, I replied. But in an argument this important, we shouldn't guess. This is the biggest question there is — the question of good and evil.

Very true, he said.

Let me offer an illustration, I said, that might shed some light.

What's your illustration?

Think about the wealthy individuals in cities who own a large number of slaves. They're like tyrants in miniature — they both have people under them. The only difference is the tyrant has more.

Yes, that's the difference.

Now, you know these slave-owners live securely and have nothing to fear from their slaves?

What would they fear?

Nothing. But do you see why?

Yes — because the whole city stands behind each individual. If the slaves tried anything, every citizen would come to the owner's defense.

Exactly, I said. But now imagine this. Some god picks up one of these owners — a man with fifty or more slaves, along with his wife, children, and all his property — and drops him in the wilderness. No free citizens around to help him. Wouldn't he be terrified that his slaves would kill him and his whole family?

He'd be absolutely terrified, he said.

At that point, he'd be forced to start flattering some of his own slaves, wouldn't he? Making promises, offering freedom, doing all sorts of things against his will. He'd end up groveling before his own servants.

It would be the only way to save himself, he said.

And now suppose the same god surrounded him with neighbors who refuse to tolerate anyone being master over another — people who would kill him if they caught him playing the master.

That makes it even worse, he said. He'd be completely surrounded and watched by enemies.

And isn't that exactly the kind of prison the tyrant is trapped in? He's the kind of person we described — stuffed with fears and appetites of every variety. His soul is greedy and hungry, and yet he alone, of all the people in the city, is never allowed to travel or to see the things that other free people want to see. He lives holed up in his palace like someone hiding indoors, jealous of any citizen who goes abroad and sees the world.

Absolutely true, he said.

So add all these evils together, I said. The man who's badly governed within himself — the tyrannical man you just declared to be the most miserable — will be even more miserable when he doesn't get to live privately but is forced by fortune to become an actual tyrant. He has to be master of others when he isn't even master of himself. He's like a sick or paralyzed man forced to spend his life, not resting at home, but fighting and competing with other men.

Yes, he said, that comparison is dead-on.

His condition is utterly wretched, isn't it? And the actual tyrant leads a worse life than even the man you said was the worst?

Certainly.

Here's the truth about him, whatever people may think: the real tyrant is the real slave. He has to practice the most degrading flattery and servility. He's a sycophant to the vilest people. His desires can never be satisfied — he always wants more than he has. If you know how to examine his whole soul, he's the truly poor man. His entire life is consumed by fear. He's wracked by convulsions and anguish, just like the state he mirrors. And surely the mirror holds?

Perfectly, he said.

And on top of all that, I said — as we mentioned before — power makes him worse. He becomes more jealous, more faithless, more unjust, more friendless, more godless. He's the host and patron of every vice. The result? He's supremely miserable, and he makes everyone around him miserable too.

No sensible person would disagree, he said.

All right, I said. Now, like the announcer at a theater contest who calls for the final verdict — you be the judge. Rank them in order: who's happiest, who's second, and so on down the line. There are five of them — the royal, the timocratic, the oligarchic, the democratic, and the tyrannical.

Easy, he said. They come on stage like competing choruses, and I rank them by virtue and vice, happiness and misery, in the order they appear.

Shall we hire a herald, I said, or shall I announce the result myself? "The son of Ariston has judged that the best and most just man is also the happiest — and he is the one who is most kingly, who rules over himself. And the worst and most unjust man is also the most miserable — and he is the one who is the greatest tyrant over himself and over his city."

Make the announcement yourself, he said.

And shall I add: "whether or not gods and men can see it"?

Add it, he said.

Good. That's our first proof, I said. And here's a second one that might carry some weight.

What is it?

The second proof, I said, comes from the nature of the soul. We divided the soul into three parts, just as we divided the state. I think this division gives us another way to demonstrate the point.

How so?

It seems to me that three kinds of pleasure correspond to these three parts of the soul — along with three kinds of desire and three governing principles.

What do you mean? he asked.

There's one part of the soul we learn with, I said. Another part we get angry with. And the third part — it has so many forms we couldn't give it a single name, so we just called it the appetitive part, because of the sheer intensity of its desires for eating, drinking, sex, and other physical pleasures. We also called it money-loving, because money is the main tool for satisfying those desires.

Right, he said.

If we said this part's loves and pleasures were all about gain, we'd have a neat label for it, and we could accurately describe it as the gain-loving or money-loving part.

I agree.

And the spirited part — isn't it entirely focused on ruling, conquering, and winning fame?

It is.

Would "competitive" or "honor-loving" work as a label?

Perfectly.

And everyone can see that the part devoted to knowledge is always striving toward truth, and cares far less about money or fame than either of the other two.

Much less.

So "wisdom-loving" and "knowledge-loving" are the right names for it?

Of course.

Now, in some people's souls, one of these parts is dominant; in others, a different one takes charge. Depending on which part rules?

That's right.

So we can say there are three types of people: lovers of wisdom, lovers of honor, and lovers of gain?

Exactly.

And three types of pleasure — one for each?

Certainly.

Now, I said, if you asked each of these three types which life is pleasantest, each would praise his own. The money-maker will say that the pleasures of honor or learning are worthless next to the pleasure of making a profit — unless they actually bring in money.

True, he said.

And the honor-lover — what does he think? Doesn't he consider the pleasure of making money to be vulgar, and the pleasure of learning — unless it wins you distinction — to be just smoke and nonsense?

He does.

And what about the philosopher? I asked. How do you think he rates the other pleasures compared to the pleasure of knowing the truth, of always learning, of living close to that kind of joy? Doesn't he think the other pleasures are, at best, necessary — things he could do without if he didn't have to have them?

There's no doubt about that, he said.

So when the pleasures of each type are in dispute, I said — when the question isn't which life is more honorable or better, but simply which is more pleasant and less painful — how do we decide who's right?

I really don't know, he said.

Well, think about it, I said. What should the criterion be? Isn't it experience, wisdom, and reason?

Nothing could be better, he said.

Then consider this: of the three types, who has the most experience of all the pleasures? Has the lover of gain tasted the pleasure of knowing truth more than the philosopher has tasted the pleasure of gain?

The philosopher has a huge advantage, he said. He's been tasting the other pleasures since childhood — everyone has. But the lover of gain hasn't tasted — and even if he wanted to, could hardly have tasted — the sweetness of understanding reality.

So the philosopher beats the money-lover in experience, because he has a double share, I said.

A very large advantage, he said.

And what about compared to the honor-lover? Has the philosopher experienced the pleasure of being honored more or less than the honor-lover has experienced the pleasure of knowing truth?

Well, he said, all three types receive honor when they achieve their goals. The rich man, the brave man, and the wise man all have their admirers. So they've all experienced the pleasure of honor. But the unique delight of contemplating reality — that belongs to the philosopher alone.

So in experience, I said, the philosopher judges best of the three?

By far.

And he's the only one who also has wisdom?

Yes.

And the tool we need for making this judgment — reason — it doesn't belong to the money-lover or the honor-lover, does it? It belongs to the philosopher.

Of course.

What tool?

Reason. And reasoning is the philosopher's specialty.

Correct.

Now, I said — if wealth and profit were the right criterion, then the money-lover's praise and blame would be most trustworthy.

Sure.

And if the criterion were honor, victory, and courage, the honor-lover's judgment would be best.

Obviously.

But since the criteria are experience, wisdom, and reason —

The only possible conclusion, he said, is that the pleasures approved by the philosopher are the truest.

So we arrive at this result, I said: the pleasure of the rational part of the soul is the most pleasant of the three, and the person in whom reason rules lives the most pleasant life.

Without question, he said. The wise man speaks with authority when he approves of his own life.

And which life and which pleasure does this judge rank second?

Obviously the soldier's — the honor-lover's. His pleasures are closer to the philosopher's than the money-maker's are.

And last place goes to the lover of gain?

Obviously, he said.

So twice now, I said, the just man has defeated the unjust in this contest. Here comes the third round — and this one, in the spirit of the Olympic games, is dedicated to Zeus the Savior. Listen: a wise voice whispers in my ear that no pleasure except the philosopher's is entirely real and pure. All the others are just shadows. And this, surely, will be the greatest and most decisive victory of all.

Yes, the greatest. But explain what you mean.

I'll work it out, I said, and you answer my questions along the way.

Go ahead.

Tell me, I said — isn't pleasure the opposite of pain?

It is.

And isn't there a neutral state that's neither pleasure nor pain?

There is.

A kind of resting point for the soul, in between the two — is that what you'd call it?

Yes.

Now, you know what people say when they're sick?

What?

That there's nothing more pleasant than being healthy. But they never realized health was the greatest pleasure until they got sick.

Yes, I know, he said.

And you've heard people in terrible pain say there's nothing more pleasant than the pain stopping?

I have.

And there are many other cases, I said, where people in distress praise the mere absence of pain — the simple relief of not suffering anymore — as the greatest pleasure imaginable.

Yes, he said — at those moments, they're content just to be at rest.

And when pleasure stops, I said, that same resting state will feel painful to them?

I suppose so, he said.

So the neutral state — the midpoint — becomes both pleasure and pain?

It seems that way.

But can something that's actually neither become both?

I wouldn't think so.

And both pleasure and pain are real motions of the soul, aren't they?

Yes.

But didn't we just establish that the neutral state is rest — not motion — lying between the two?

We did.

Then how can it be right to consider the absence of pain as pleasure, or the absence of pleasure as pain?

It can't.

So this is an illusion, not reality, I said. The resting state appears pleasant in contrast with pain, and painful in contrast with pleasure. But tested against genuine pleasure, these appearances don't hold up. They're not real pleasures — they're a kind of trick.

That follows from the argument, he said.

And here's something to convince you that pleasure isn't merely the absence of pain, I said. Look at pleasures that have no pain preceding them.

Like what? Where do I find them?

There are plenty, I said. Take the pleasures of smell, for example. They can be incredibly intense, they arrive without any prior pain, and when they fade, they leave no pain behind.

That's very true, he said.

So let's not be fooled into thinking that pure pleasure is just the ending of pain, or that pain is just the ending of pleasure.

Agreed.

Still, I said, the pleasures that reach the soul through the body — the more intense, dramatic ones — are mostly of this type. They're fundamentally reliefs from pain.

That's true.

And doesn't the same apply to the anticipation of future pleasures and pains?

Yes.

Want an illustration?

Sure.

Imagine, I said, that the world has an upper region, a lower region, and a middle region.

OK.

Now, if someone were carried from the lower region to the middle, wouldn't he think he was going up? And standing in the middle, looking down at where he came from, wouldn't he believe he was already in the upper region — if he'd never actually seen the true upper world?

Of course, he said. How could he think otherwise?

But if he were carried back down, he'd correctly believe he was descending?

Naturally.

And all of this confusion would come from his ignorance of what the upper, middle, and lower regions really are?

Obviously.

Then can you be surprised, I said, that people who've never experienced truth have distorted views about all sorts of things — including pleasure and pain and the space between? When they're pulled toward pain, they genuinely suffer, and that suffering is real. But when they're pulled away from pain toward the neutral zone, they're absolutely convinced they've reached the summit of pleasure. They're like people who've never seen white and think gray is the opposite of black. They're comparing pain with the absence of pain, instead of comparing it with genuine pleasure. Can you blame them?

Not at all, he said. I'd be much more surprised if things were different.

Now think about it this way, I said. Hunger, thirst, and similar states — aren't they a kind of emptiness in the body?

Of course.

And ignorance and foolishness — aren't they a kind of emptiness in the soul?

Definitely.

And food fills the one, just as wisdom fills the other?

Right.

Now, which filling is more real — being filled with something that has more genuine existence, or with something that has less?

Obviously, with what has more existence.

So which category of things has a greater share of pure reality, in your judgment? The category that includes food and drink and physical nourishment? Or the category that includes true belief, knowledge, understanding, and every kind of excellence? Here's how to think about it: which has a more genuine existence — something that's connected to what's eternal, immortal, and true, and is that kind of thing itself and is found in that kind of thing? Or something connected to what's changing and mortal, and is itself changing and mortal?

What's connected to the eternal is far more real, he said.

And does the essence of the eternal participate in knowledge to the same degree that it participates in existence?

Absolutely.

And in truth to the same degree?

Yes.

And whatever has less truth will also have less genuine existence?

Necessarily.

So in general, I said, the things that serve the body have less truth and less reality than the things that serve the soul?

Much less.

And isn't the body itself less real than the soul?

Yes.

So whatever is filled with something more real — and is itself more real — is more genuinely filled than something filled with less real things and is itself less real?

Of course.

And if there's pleasure in being filled with what naturally belongs to you, then whatever is more truly filled with more real things will experience a truer and more genuine pleasure. While whatever partakes of less reality will be filled less truly and reliably, and will experience a less real, more illusory pleasure.

That's beyond question, he said.

So those who have no acquaintance with wisdom and virtue, who spend all their time gorging and gratifying themselves — they go down to the lower level and back up to the middle, and wander around in that range their whole lives. But they never pass into the true upper region. They never look up. They never rise to be genuinely filled with what's genuinely real. They never taste pure, lasting pleasure. Like cattle, they go through life with their eyes always looking down, their heads bent toward the ground — or rather, toward the dinner table. They eat, they breed, and in their insatiable greed for more, they kick and butt each other with hooves and horns made of iron, killing each other because they can never be satisfied. Because they're trying to fill themselves with what isn't substantial — and the part of themselves they're trying to fill isn't substantial either.

Socrates, said Glaucon, you're describing the lives of most people like some kind of oracle.

Their pleasures are always mixed with pain, I said — how could they not be? They're mere shadows and reflections of the real thing, colored by contrast in a way that exaggerates both the light and the dark. So they plant insane desires in the minds of fools, and people fight over them the way Stesichorus says the Greeks fought over the phantom of Helen at Troy — in total ignorance of the truth.

Something like that is inevitable, he said.

And won't the same be true of the spirited element? I asked. Won't the person who pursues honor and ambition and competition and anger without reason or intelligence — who chases fame and victory and the satisfaction of his rage for their own sake — end up in the same predicament?

Yes, he said. The same applies to the spirited element.

Then can we confidently say this? I asked. When the lovers of money and the lovers of honor pursue their pleasures under the guidance and in the company of reason and wisdom — when they chase and win the pleasures that wisdom directs them to — they'll have the truest pleasures available to them, the best they can attain, because they're following truth. And these will be the pleasures that are most naturally their own, if what's best for each person is also what's most natural.

It absolutely is, he said.

And when the whole soul follows the wisdom-loving part, with no internal rebellion, then each part does its own job justly and enjoys the best and truest pleasures available to it.

Exactly right.

But when either of the other two parts takes over, it fails to find its own real pleasure and forces the other parts to chase a pleasure that's alien and false.

Yes.

And the farther something is from wisdom and reason, the stranger and more illusory its pleasures become?

Exactly.

And what's farthest from reason is also farthest from law and order?

Obviously.

And we showed that the lustful and tyrannical desires are the farthest from reason?

Much the farthest.

While the kingly and disciplined desires are the closest?

Yes.

So the tyrant lives at the greatest distance from true, natural pleasure, and the king at the least?

Necessarily.

Which means the tyrant lives the most unpleasant life, and the king the most pleasant?

Inevitably.

Now — would you like to know the exact measure of the gap between them? I asked.

Tell me, he said.

There appear to be three pleasures, I said — one genuine and two counterfeit. The tyrant goes even beyond the counterfeit ones. He's fled the territory of law and reason entirely and taken up residence among slave pleasures that serve as his satellites. The extent of his inferiority can only be captured in a mathematical figure.

How do you mean?

I'm assuming, I said, that the tyrant is three steps removed from the oligarch, with the democrat in the middle.

Yes.

So his image of pleasure, if our argument is right, is three times removed in truth from the oligarch's pleasure?

Yes.

And the oligarch is himself three steps removed from the king — since we're counting the royal and aristocratic as one?

He is third.

So the tyrant is removed from true pleasure by a number that is three times three?

Obviously.

The shadow of tyrannical pleasure, then, expressed as a linear number, gives us nine. Lay that out as a plane figure.

Right.

And if you raise the power — turn the plane figure into a solid — it's easy to see how vast the gap becomes.

Yes, he said. A mathematician would have no trouble.

So working from the other direction — if you measure the distance between the king and the tyrant in truth of pleasure — when you complete the calculation, you'll find the king lives seven hundred and twenty-nine times more pleasantly, and the tyrant seven hundred and twenty-nine times more painfully.

What an extraordinary calculation! he said. The distance between the just and the unjust in pleasure and pain is simply enormous.

And yet it's a true calculation, I said — and a number that has a real connection to human life, since it corresponds to days and nights and months and years.

Yes, he said, human life is certainly measured in those terms.

Then if the good and just person surpasses the evil and unjust one by this much in pleasure, just imagine how infinitely greater his superiority will be in grace of life, in beauty, and in virtue.

Immeasurably greater, he said.

Good, I said. Now that we've reached this point in the argument, let's go back to the claim that started all this. Someone said that injustice is profitable for the perfectly unjust man who has a reputation for justice. Wasn't that the claim?

Yes, it was.

Well then, I said, now that we've established the true power and quality of justice and injustice, let's have a little conversation with this person.

What should we say to him? he asked.

Let's build an image of the soul, I said, so he can see with his own eyes what he's really arguing for.

What kind of image?

Something like those composite creatures from ancient mythology — the Chimera or Scylla or Cerberus — those monsters where two or more different natures are fused into one.

Right, he said. Those are the old stories.

Good. Now sculpt in your mind a creature with many heads — a ring of heads of every kind of beast, tame and wild, which it can generate and transform at will.

That would take quite an artist, he said. But since imagination is more flexible than wax, consider it done.

Now make a second form — a lion. And a third — a human being. The lion should be smaller than the many-headed beast, and the human smaller than the lion.

That's easier, he said. Done.

Now join the three into one creature.

Done.

And mold an outer shell around them in the shape of a single human being, so that anyone who can't see inside and only sees the exterior would think it was just one creature — a person.

Done, he said.

Now, I said, let's talk to the man who claims injustice is profitable and justice is not. What he's really saying is this: it's profitable to feed and strengthen the many-headed monster and the lion, but to starve and weaken the human being inside. The human gets dragged around helplessly by the other two. Instead of getting them to work together in harmony, the unjust man lets them fight and bite and devour each other.

That's exactly what the defender of injustice is saying, he agreed.

The defender of justice, on the other hand, says: do everything in your power to give the inner human being the most control over the whole creature. Let him tend the many-headed beast like a farmer — cultivating and nourishing the gentle qualities, keeping the wild ones from growing. Let him make the lion his ally, and then care for all three parts together, making them friends with one another and with himself.

Yes, he said, that's exactly what the defender of justice would say.

So from every angle — whether you're looking at pleasure, honor, or practical advantage — the defender of justice is right and speaks the truth. The defender of injustice is wrong, ignorant, and doesn't know what he's talking about.

Completely right, from every angle.

Come now, I said, let's try reasoning gently with this person, since he's not wrong on purpose. "My friend," we'll say, "what do we think noble and ignoble things really are? Isn't the noble whatever subjects the beast to the human — or rather, to the divine in the human? And the ignoble whatever enslaves the human to the beast?" He can hardly deny that, can he?

Not if he takes my advice, said Glaucon.

Then on this view, I said, how could it possibly profit anyone to get money by doing injustice — if the result is enslaving the best part of himself to the worst? If he'd never sell his own son or daughter into slavery for any amount of money — especially not to cruel, vicious masters — then why would he ruthlessly sell his own divine element into bondage to the most godless and contemptible part of himself? Isn't that an even worse deal? Eriphyle took a necklace as the price of her husband's life, but this man is taking a bribe to bring about an even worse ruin — the ruin of his own soul.

Far worse, said Glaucon. I'll answer for him.

And isn't the intemperate person criticized precisely because the huge, many-headed monster in him is given too free a rein?

Yes.

And aren't pride and bad temper condemned when the lion and serpent element grows disproportionately strong?

Yes.

And luxury and softness are condemned because they relax and weaken that same spirited element, turning it into a coward?

Exactly.

And flattery and meanness are condemned when a person subordinates the spirited lion to the anarchic monster, and for the sake of money — which is never enough — trains the lion from its youth to become a monkey instead?

True, he said.

And why are menial occupations and manual labor looked down on? Isn't it only because they imply a natural weakness in the higher element? The person can't control the creatures within him, so he has to cater to them. His whole study is how to keep them happy.

That seems to be the reason, he said.

And so, I said, because we want such a person to be governed by the same principle that governs the best person, we say he should be the servant of the best — the person in whom the divine rules. Not because servitude is bad for the servant, as Thrasymachus supposed, but because it's better for everyone to be ruled by divine wisdom. Ideally, that wisdom dwells within the person himself. If not, it should be imposed from outside — so that we all, as far as possible, live under the same government, as friends and equals.

True, he said.

And that's obviously what the law aims at, I said. It's the ally of everyone in the city. And it's what we see in the way we raise children — we refuse to let them be free until we've established inside them a kind of constitution, a governing principle analogous to the city's own. We cultivate the best element in them and set up a guardian and ruler in their hearts that mirrors our own. Only then do we set them free.

Yes, he said, the purpose of the law is clear.

So from what angle, I asked, on what grounds, could anyone argue that a person profits from injustice or excess or any kind of base behavior — when these things make him worse, even if they bring him money or power?

From no angle at all, he said.

And what does a person gain if his injustice goes undetected and unpunished? The undetected criminal only gets worse. The one who gets caught and punished has the brutal part of his nature tamed and civilized, the gentler part set free. His whole soul is refined and ennobled by acquiring justice, self-control, and wisdom. And that's worth more than anything the body gains from beauty, strength, and health — in the same proportion that the soul is more valuable than the body.

Absolutely, he said.

So the person of intelligence, I said, will devote his whole life to this goal. First, he'll value the studies that shape his soul in this way, and disregard the rest.

Clearly, he said.

Second, I said, he won't abandon his body to mindless, irrational pleasure. Health itself won't be his primary goal. He won't care about being strong or handsome or healthy for its own sake — unless it contributes to self-control. His aim will always be to tune the body in a way that preserves the harmony of the soul.

Certainly, he said — if he's truly devoted to the inner music.

And the same principle of harmony and order will govern how he acquires wealth, I said. He won't let himself be dazzled by what the world thinks is impressive, piling up riches to his own destruction.

No, he said.

He'll keep his eye on the city within himself, I said, making sure nothing goes wrong — no excess and no deficiency. That's the principle by which he'll manage his property, earning and spending according to his means.

Exactly.

And for the same reason, he'll welcome and enjoy whatever honors are likely to make him a better person. But any honors — public or private — that would disturb his inner order, he'll avoid.

Then he won't go into politics, he said.

By the dog of Egypt, he will! I said. In the city that's truly his — the one within — he'll absolutely be a statesman. But in the city where he was born? Maybe not — unless some divine chance intervenes.

I understand, he said. You mean the city we've been building in our argument, the one that exists only in ideas. I don't believe it exists anywhere on earth.

But perhaps, I replied, there's a pattern of it laid up in heaven, which anyone who wants to can look at — and looking at it, set his own house in order. Whether it actually exists somewhere, or ever will exist, doesn't really matter. He'll live by the principles of that city and no other.

I think that's right, he said.

Republic — Book X

Of all the many excellent features in our ideal state, there's none I'm happier about — now that I think it over — than our rule about poetry.

Which rule? he asked.

The ban on imitative poetry. It's something that absolutely shouldn't be allowed in. I see that far more clearly now that we've distinguished the different parts of the soul.

What do you mean?

This is just between us — I wouldn't want word getting back to the tragedians and the rest of the imitation crowd — but I don't mind telling you: all poetic imitation is poison for the listener's mind. The only antidote is knowing what it really is.

Explain what you mean by that, he said.

All right. I'll tell you, even though I've had an awe and love of Homer since I was a boy — and even now the words catch in my throat. He's the great captain and teacher of that whole brilliant tragic company. But a person shouldn't be honored above the truth. So I'll say what I have to say.

Go ahead, he said.

Then listen — or better yet, answer my questions.

Ask away.

Can you tell me what imitation actually is? Because I honestly don't know.

Well, if you don't know, Glaucon said, I'm certainly not going to.

Why not? A duller eye sometimes spots things before a sharper one.

Maybe so, he said. But with you here, even if I had some faint idea, I wouldn't have the nerve to say it. Why don't you take the lead?

Fair enough. Let's start the way we usually do. Whenever a number of individual things share the same name, we say there's a corresponding Form — an Idea — behind them. You follow me?

I do.

Let's take any common example. There are beds and tables in the world — plenty of them, right?

Right.

But there are only two Forms — one of the bed, one of the table.

True.

And the craftsman who makes either one builds his bed or table according to the Form. That's how we'd put it. But no craftsman actually makes the Forms themselves. How could he?

He couldn't.

Now here's an interesting artist. Tell me what you think of him.

Who?

Someone who makes everything that every other craftsman makes.

What an extraordinary person!

Wait — it gets better. This is someone who can make not just every kind of tool, but plants and animals too, including himself and everything else — the earth and sky, the gods, everything in heaven and under the earth. He makes it all.

He must be some kind of wizard, Glaucon said.

Oh, you're skeptical? Think about it. Are you saying there's no such maker? Or do you see that, in a certain sense, you could make all these things yourself?

How?

It's easy, actually. There are plenty of ways. The quickest is to grab a mirror and spin it around. In no time you've "made" the sun, the sky, the earth, yourself, other animals, plants — everything we just mentioned. Right there in the mirror.

Sure, he said. But those would just be appearances. Not real things.

Exactly, I said. Now you're getting somewhere. And the painter is that kind of maker too — a creator of appearances. Isn't he?

Of course.

Now, I suppose you'll say what the painter creates isn't real. And yet there's a sense in which the painter creates a bed too.

Yes, he said. But not a real bed.

And what about the actual bed-maker? Didn't we say he doesn't make the Form — the essence of what a bed really is — but only a particular bed?

We did.

So if he doesn't make what truly exists, he doesn't make real existence — only something that resembles it. And if someone claimed that the bed-maker's product or any other craftsman's product has full reality, they'd be stretching the truth.

Philosophers would certainly say so, he replied.

No wonder, then, that the craftsman's work is only a dim reflection of the truth.

Now let's use these examples to figure out what the imitator really is.

Go ahead.

Here are three beds. First, there's the one that exists in nature — made by God, I think we can say, since no one else could be the maker.

Right.

Second, there's the one the carpenter makes.

Yes.

And third, the painter's bed.

Right.

So there are three kinds of beds and three artists responsible for them: God, the carpenter, and the painter.

Yes, three.

Now, God — whether by choice or necessity — made one bed in nature. Just one. Two or more such ideal beds have never existed and never will.

Why not?

Because if he'd made even two, there would still have to be a third behind them — the Form that both of them embody. And that would be the real bed, not the other two.

That's true, he said.

God knew this. He wanted to be the real maker of a real bed — not just a particular maker of a particular bed. So he created one bed that is, by its very nature, unique.

That's what we'd say.

So should we call God the natural author or maker of the bed?

Yes, he said. Since he created it through the natural process of creation — he's the author of this and everything else.

And the carpenter — he's also a maker of the bed?

Yes.

But would you call the painter a maker or creator?

Certainly not.

Then what is he, in relation to the bed?

I think, he said, we'd fairly call him an imitator of what the others make.

Good. So you'd call the person who's three steps removed from nature an imitator?

Yes.

And the tragic poet is an imitator too. So like all imitators, he's three times removed from the king and from the truth.

It seems so.

We're agreed about the imitator, then. But what about the painter — does he imitate the things that exist in nature, or the things craftsmen create?

The latter.

And does he imitate them as they are, or as they appear? There's still that question.

What do you mean?

I mean: look at a bed from different angles — from the side, straight on, from any point of view — and the bed looks different each time. But the bed itself hasn't actually changed.

That's right, he said. The difference is only in how it appears.

So here's my question: is painting designed to imitate things as they really are, or as they appear? Is it an imitation of reality or of appearance?

Of appearance.

Then the imitator is a long way from the truth. He can produce everything precisely because he only touches lightly on a small part of each thing — and that part is just an image. Take an example: a painter will paint a cobbler, a carpenter, or any other craftsman without knowing anything about their actual work. And if he's skilled enough, he can show his painting of a carpenter to children or naive people from across the room, and they'll think they're looking at a real carpenter.

Certainly.

And here's the lesson, my friend: whenever someone tells us they've met a person who knows all the crafts and everything else — who knows every single thing with greater precision than any specialist — we should assume this informant is a simple soul who got taken in by some magician or imitator. He thought the person was all-knowing because he himself couldn't tell the difference between knowledge, ignorance, and imitation.

So when we hear people claiming that the tragedians — Homer at their head — know all the arts and all things human, virtue as well as vice, and divine matters too, on the grounds that a good poet can only write well about things he truly understands, we should stop and consider: maybe these people were fooled by imitators. They saw the poets' works and forgot these were just imitations three times removed from truth — things that can be produced without any real knowledge at all, because they're only appearances, not realities. Or maybe these admirers are right, and poets really do know the things they seem to speak about so well?

That's a question worth examining, he said.

Here's a test. If someone could create the real thing and the image, would he devote his life to making images? Would he make imitation the ruling principle of his life, as if he had nothing better in him?

I'd say not.

The real artist who actually knew what he was imitating would care about realities, not copies. He'd want to leave behind real works, many and fine, as his memorial — and instead of writing speeches praising heroes, he'd rather be the hero that others praise.

Yes, he said. That would bring far more honor and reward.

So let's put the question to Homer directly. We won't ask him about medicine or the other subjects his poems only mention in passing — whether he cured anyone like Asclepius, or founded a school of medicine like the Asclepiads. But we do have a right to ask about the biggest, noblest subjects in his poetry: military strategy, politics, education. "Friend Homer," we'll say, "if you're really only two steps from truth when it comes to human excellence — not three, not just an image-maker — if you can tell what makes people better or worse in public and private life, then tell us: which city was ever better governed thanks to you? Sparta's good government comes from Lycurgus. Many other cities credit other reformers. But what city claims you as its benefactor? Italy and Sicily boast of Charondas. We Athenians have Solon. Who claims Homer?" Is there any city he could name?

I don't think so, said Glaucon. Not even the Homeridae — Homer's own followers — make that claim.

Well, is there any war on record that he led to victory, or where his advice was decisive?

No.

Any invention of his — some practical device for daily life or the arts, like those of Thales of Miletus or Anacharsis the Scythian or other ingenious men?

Nothing whatsoever.

Fine — if Homer never served the public, was he at least a private guide and teacher? Did he have devoted followers in his lifetime — people who loved his company and passed down a "Homeric way of life" the way Pythagoras did? Pythagoras was so beloved for his wisdom that his followers are still famous today for the discipline he established.

Nothing like that is recorded, Glaucon said. In fact, Socrates, Homer's companion Creophylus — whose very name, "Child of Flesh," always gets a laugh — might be ridiculed even more for his stupidity, given that Homer was supposedly neglected by him and by everyone else during his own lifetime.

Yes, I said. That is the tradition. But can you imagine, Glaucon, that if Homer had really been able to educate and improve people — if he'd had genuine knowledge instead of just being an imitator — he wouldn't have attracted crowds of devoted followers who honored and loved him? Think about it: Protagoras of Abdera and Prodicus of Ceos and a whole swarm of others only have to whisper to their contemporaries, "You'll never manage your household or your city unless you put us in charge of your education" — and this brazen pitch works so well that people practically carry them on their shoulders out of sheer devotion. Is it really believable that Homer's contemporaries — or Hesiod's — would have let either of them wander around as traveling performers if they'd actually been able to make people better? Wouldn't they have clung to them like gold and begged them to stay? And if the master insisted on traveling, wouldn't the students have followed him everywhere until they'd learned everything they could?

Yes, Socrates, I think that's exactly right.

Then we have to conclude that all these poetic figures, starting with Homer, are imitators. They copy images of virtue and everything else, but they never reach the truth. The poet is like the painter we described: he creates a likeness of a cobbler without understanding anything about cobbling, and the picture fools people who know even less than he does and judge by colors and surfaces alone.

In the same way, the poet uses words and phrases to paint over the various crafts. He understands them just well enough to imitate them. And other people, who are as ignorant as he is and who judge only by his words, think he speaks brilliantly about cobbling or military strategy or anything else — as long as he says it in meter with harmony and rhythm. Such is the natural magic of melody and rhythm. You've probably noticed what a pathetic figure poets' tales cut when you strip away the music and recite them as plain prose.

I have, he said.

They're like faces that were never truly beautiful — just young and fresh. Once the bloom of youth fades, you see what was really there.

Here's another point. The imitator — the image-maker — knows nothing about true existence. He only knows appearances. Agreed?

Let's nail this down properly. No half-explanations.

We'd say the painter can paint reins and a bit?

Yes.

And the leather-worker and the blacksmith can make them?

Yes.

But does the painter know the right form of the bit and reins? Hardly. Even the craftsmen who make them don't fully know. Only the horseman — the one who actually uses them — knows their proper form.

True.

And can't we say the same about everything? There are always three arts involved: one that uses a thing, one that makes it, and one that imitates it.

Yes.

And the excellence or beauty or rightness of any tool, any living thing, any action — isn't it always relative to the use for which it was designed?

It is.

Then the user must have the greatest experience with each thing, and he's the one who tells the maker what's good and bad about it. A flute-player tells the flute-maker which flutes play well, how they should be built, and the maker follows his instructions.

Right.

So the one who knows speaks with authority about whether flutes are good or bad, while the maker, trusting the user, does as he's told.

Yes.

The maker, then, will have correct belief about the quality of what he makes — he gets it from the person who actually knows, by being told. But the user will have actual knowledge.

Right.

Now — will the imitator have either? Will he know from using the thing whether his painting is correct or beautiful? Will he even have correct belief from being required to work with someone who knows and who tells him what to paint?

Neither one.

So the imitator will have neither knowledge nor correct belief about whether his imitations are good or bad?

It seems not.

What a brilliant state of intelligence the imitator must be in regarding his own creations!

The very opposite of brilliant, he said.

And yet he'll keep right on imitating — without knowing what makes anything good or bad. He'll just imitate whatever looks good to the ignorant crowd.

So far, then, we're pretty well agreed: the imitator has no knowledge worth mentioning of what he imitates. Imitation is nothing but a kind of game — a sport. And the tragic poets, whether they write in iambic or heroic verse, are imitators of the highest order.

Yes.

Now tell me: hasn't imitation been shown to deal with things that are three times removed from the truth?

It has.

And which part of a person does imitation appeal to?

What do you mean?

Let me explain. A body that's large when seen up close appears small from a distance. Right?

Right.

And the same stick looks straight in the air and bent in water. Colors create illusions that make concave things look convex. Our minds are full of this kind of confusion. And that's the very weakness that the arts of illusion exploit — conjuring, tricks of light and shadow, and all sorts of clever devices that work on us like magic.

True.

But then the arts of measurement and counting and weighing come to the rescue — and there's the beauty of them. The apparent greater-or-less, the heavier-or-lighter, no longer rules us. Calculation and measurement and weight take over.

They do.

And that must be the work of the rational, calculating part of the soul?

It must be.

But here's the thing: when this rational part measures carefully and concludes that some things are equal, or that one thing is bigger or smaller than another, it often finds itself contradicted by appearances.

Yes.

But we said it's impossible for the same faculty to hold opposite opinions about the same thing at the same time.

We did.

So the part of the soul that contradicts measurement can't be the same as the part that trusts measurement.

No.

And the part that trusts measurement and calculation is the better part of the soul.

Of course.

And the part that opposes them is one of the soul's inferior elements.

Yes.

This is exactly where I was heading. Painting and imitation in general — when they do their own proper work — are far removed from truth. They're the companions and friends of a part of us that's equally far removed from reason. They have no true or healthy purpose.

Imitation is an inferior thing that mates with an inferior part of the soul and produces inferior offspring.

And this isn't limited to sight. It extends to hearing too — to what we call poetry.

Probably so.

But let's not rely on an analogy with painting. Let's examine directly whether the part of the mind that poetry appeals to is good or bad.

By all means.

Here's how we can frame it. Imitation imitates people in action — doing things voluntarily or under compulsion. In these actions they think things have gone well or badly, and they feel joy or sorrow accordingly. Is there anything beyond that?

No.

But in all these situations, is a person consistent within himself? Or is there the same kind of internal conflict we saw with sight — where the same person holds contradictory views about the same things? Actually, I don't need to raise this again. We already established that the soul is full of thousands of such contradictions at any given moment.

We did, he said. And we were right.

Yes. But there's something we left out that we need to address now.

What's that?

We said that a good person who suffers misfortune — losing a son or something else they treasure — will bear the loss with more composure than most people.

We did.

But will he feel no grief at all? Or should we say that while he can't help grieving, he'll keep his grief in check?

The second, he said. That's more accurate.

Now tell me: when will he be more likely to fight against his grief — when others are watching, or when he's alone?

He'll fight it much harder when people can see him.

When he's by himself, he'll say and do plenty of things he'd be ashamed to be caught doing.

That's true.

What restrains him is reason and principle. What pushes him toward grief is the raw feeling of loss.

Yes.

And when a person is pulled in two opposite directions about the same thing, we said that necessarily implies two different principles within him.

It does.

One is ready to follow the law's guidance.

How so?

The law says that patience in suffering is best. We shouldn't give way to grief, because we never really know whether such events are good or evil. Nothing is gained by impatience. And no human misfortune is ultimately of great importance. Besides, grief gets in the way of the one thing we need most at such moments.

What's that? he asked.

Taking counsel about what's happened. When the dice have fallen, we should arrange our affairs the way reason says is best. We shouldn't be like children who've taken a tumble — clutching the spot where it hurts and wasting time wailing. Instead, we should train the soul to apply a remedy as quickly as possible: pick up what's fallen, heal what's hurt, replace the crying with the art of recovery.

Yes, he said. That's the right way to meet what fortune throws at us.

And the higher principle — reason — is ready to follow that approach.

It is.

While the other principle — the one that dwells on our suffering and can never get enough of lamentation — we can fairly call irrational, useless, and cowardly.

We can.

Now here's the key. This emotional, rebellious part — it gives the imitator a wealth of material to work with. But the wise, calm temperament — steady and even-keeled — that's hard to imitate, and hard for an audience to appreciate, especially a big, mixed crowd at a public festival. They've never experienced that kind of composure. It's alien to them.

That's right.

So the imitative poet, the one who wants to be popular, isn't naturally drawn to the rational part of the soul, and his art isn't designed to please it. He'll prefer the passionate, volatile temperament — because that's easy to imitate.

Clearly.

And now we can place the poet right next to the painter. He resembles the painter in two ways: first, his creations have a lesser degree of truth; and second, he appeals to a lesser part of the soul. So we're justified in refusing to admit him into a well-ordered state. He awakens and nourishes the emotional part of the soul and starves the rational part. It's like a city where the criminals are put in charge and the good citizens are pushed aside. The imitative poet does the same thing inside a person's soul: he indulges the irrational part — the part that can't tell bigger from smaller, that calls the same thing great one moment and small the next. He's a manufacturer of images, as far from the truth as you can get.

But we haven't even brought the heaviest charge yet. The real power of poetry — its ability to corrupt even good people. And there are very few who escape the harm. That's genuinely frightening.

It certainly is, he said, if the effect is really what you say.

Listen and judge for yourself. When the best of us listen to Homer or one of the tragedians portraying some hero in the grip of grief — drawing out his sorrows in a long speech, or weeping and beating his chest — you know what happens. We love it. We surrender to sympathy. We're enraptured. We praise the poet who moves us most as truly excellent.

Of course, I know.

But when grief strikes us personally — you've noticed this too — we take pride in the opposite response. We want to be quiet and stoic. That's what we consider manly. The behavior we found so delightful in the theater — the weeping and wailing — we'd now consider the behavior of a woman.

Very true, he said.

So can it really be right to admire someone else for doing what we ourselves would despise and be ashamed of?

No, he said. That certainly isn't reasonable.

Actually, I said, it is quite reasonable — from one angle.

What angle?

Think about it. When misfortune strikes, we feel a natural hunger to relieve our pain through weeping and lamentation. That's the appetite that reason holds in check in our own lives. But in the theater, it's somebody else's suffering. Our better nature — not fully trained by reason or habit — lets the sympathetic part off its leash, because the grief belongs to another person. The spectator tells himself there's no shame in pitying someone who claims to be a good man and is crying about his troubles. The pleasure feels like a pure gain. Why be uptight and lose both the enjoyment and the poem?

But hardly anyone stops to think about this: the evil we absorb from other people's suffering seeps into us. Feed the feeling of pity on fictional sorrow, and when real sorrow comes, you'll find it much harder to hold back.

How true! he said.

And the same goes for comedy, doesn't it? There are jokes you'd be embarrassed to tell yourself. But when you hear them on the comic stage — or even in private conversation — you laugh and enjoy them without any disgust. It's exactly the same mechanism as with pity. There's a part of you that wants to play the clown, which you'd kept under control because you were afraid of looking foolish. But once you've let it loose in the theater, before you know it, you've become the comedian at home — without even realizing it.

Absolutely true.

And the same applies to lust, anger, and all the other passions — desire, pain, pleasure — the ones that accompany every human action. Poetry feeds and waters the passions instead of drying them up. It lets them rule, when they ought to be ruled. If human beings are ever going to grow in happiness and virtue, these feelings need to be controlled, not indulged.

I can't deny it, he said.

Therefore, Glaucon, whenever you run into one of Homer's admirers — someone insisting that Homer was the educator of all Greece, that he's essential reading for anyone who wants to manage their life properly, that you should study him again and again and organize your whole existence according to his teachings — be warm and respectful to such people. They're good folks, as far as their understanding goes. And we can acknowledge that Homer is the greatest of poets and the first of the tragic writers. But we have to be firm: hymns to the gods and praises of great men are the only poetry our state can allow. The moment you go further — the moment you let in the honeyed Muse, whether in epic or lyric verse — then pleasure and pain become the rulers of your city, instead of law and reason, which all of humanity has always recognized as supreme.

That's absolutely right, he said.

So now that we've returned to the subject of poetry, let that be our defense for the judgment we reached earlier — for sending poetry away from our state. Reason demanded it. But so she won't accuse us of being harsh or philistine, let's acknowledge something: there's an ancient quarrel between philosophy and poetry. The poets have taken plenty of shots — "the yelping hound howling at her master," "mighty in the vain talk of fools," "the mob of sages who think they know better than Zeus," "the subtle thinkers who are really just beggars." And there are countless other signs of this old war. Even so, let's tell our sweet friend poetry and her sister arts: if she can only prove she has a right to exist in a well-ordered state, we'll welcome her back gladly. We're well aware of her charms. But we can't betray truth for charm's sake. I'm guessing, Glaucon, that you feel her pull as much as I do — especially when she speaks through Homer?

Very much so, he said.

Then shall we allow her to return from exile — on one condition? That she mount a defense of herself, in verse or any other form?

Yes.

And we'll also grant permission to her defenders — those who love poetry without being poets themselves — to make her case in prose. Let them show not just that she's delightful, but that she's useful — to cities and to human life. And we'll listen with open hearts. Because if this can be proved, we'd certainly be the winners. It would be wonderful if poetry were beneficial as well as beautiful.

No question, he said.

But if the defense fails — well, my dear friend, then we'll have to do what people do when they're in love with someone who isn't good for them. They pull back. It hurts. But they do it. We too are under poetry's spell — the love for her that our education planted in us. So we'll want her to appear at her best and truest. But as long as she can't justify herself, we'll recite our argument to ourselves like a charm while we listen to her, reminding ourselves not to fall back into that childish love for her that captures so many. We know now that poetry, being what it is, must not be taken seriously as a path to truth. The listener must be on his guard. The city within his soul needs protecting from her seductions. Let our argument be his shield.

I agree completely.

Yes, Glaucon. The stakes are enormous — greater than they appear. The question of whether a person becomes good or bad: that's what's at stake. And will any amount of honor, money, power — or for that matter, any amount of poetry — justify the neglect of justice and virtue?

No, he said. I've been persuaded by the argument. And I think anyone else would be too.

And yet, I said, we haven't even mentioned the greatest prizes and rewards that await virtue.

There are greater ones? They must be beyond anything I can imagine.

Well, what was ever truly great in a short span of time? Our whole lifespan of seventy years — what is that compared to eternity?

Nothing, he said.

And should an immortal being waste thought on so brief a span, rather than on the whole of time?

On the whole, obviously. But why do you ask?

Are you not aware, I said, that the soul is immortal and can never be destroyed?

He stared at me in amazement. No, by heaven! Are you really prepared to defend that claim?

I am, I said. And you should be too. There's nothing difficult about it.

Maybe not for you, but I see great difficulty. I'd like to hear this argument you take so lightly.

Listen, then.

I'm listening.

There's something you call good and something you call evil?

Yes.

Would you agree that what corrupts and destroys is the evil element, and what preserves and improves is the good?

Yes.

And would you agree that everything has its own particular good and its own particular evil? Ophthalmia is the evil of the eyes. Disease is the evil of the body. Mildew attacks corn. Rot attacks timber. Rust attacks iron and bronze. Almost everything has its own built-in disease, its own inherent evil.

Yes.

And whenever one of these evils takes hold, it corrupts the thing, and eventually destroys it completely.

Of course.

So the inherent evil — the natural vice — of each thing is what destroys it. If that particular evil doesn't destroy it, nothing else will. Good certainly won't destroy anything. And what's neither good nor evil won't either.

Obviously not.

So here's the key: if we can find something that has its own inherent evil but can't be destroyed by it — then we can be sure that thing is indestructible. Follow me?

Yes, that makes sense.

Well, I said: isn't there an evil that corrupts the soul?

Certainly, he said. All the evils we've been talking about — injustice, lack of self-control, cowardice, ignorance.

And does any of these actually dissolve or destroy the soul? Be careful here — don't make the mistake of thinking that when an unjust or foolish person gets caught and executed, it's their injustice that killed them. Think of it this way: disease is the evil of the body. It wastes the body away, reduces it, and eventually annihilates it. Everything we mentioned earlier — corn, timber, iron — they all reach annihilation because their own inherent evil eats them from within. That's how destruction works, isn't it?

Yes.

Now apply the same test to the soul. Does injustice or any other evil that lives in the soul waste it away and consume it? Does it eat at the soul until it brings it to death and separates it from the body?

No, he said. Certainly not.

But think how unreasonable it would be to say that something can be destroyed from without — by an evil that belongs to something else — when it can't even be destroyed from within by its own evil.

That would be unreasonable.

Consider, Glaucon. We don't even believe that the badness of food directly destroys the body. Spoiled food, rotten food, food of every bad quality — the food's badness doesn't destroy the body on its own. What happens is that bad food causes a disease in the body, and then it's the disease — the body's own evil — that does the destroying. But that the body, which is one thing, could be destroyed by the badness of food, which is a different thing entirely, without any corruption being transmitted into the body's own nature — that we'd absolutely deny.

Exactly right.

And by the same principle: unless some evil of the body can actually produce an evil in the soul, we can't say the soul is destroyed by any external evil that belongs to something else. One thing cannot be destroyed by another thing's evil.

That's sound reasoning, he said.

Then let's either refute this conclusion or accept it: you can't say that fever, or any disease, or a knife to the throat, or even chopping the body into the tiniest pieces destroys the soul. Not until someone proves that these bodily afflictions make the soul itself more unjust or more wicked. If an external evil can't implant its own kind of evil in the soul, then no external evil can destroy it. No one should claim otherwise.

And surely, he said, no one will ever prove that dying makes a person's soul more unjust.

But suppose someone wants to deny the soul's immortality and argues that dying really does make people worse — more evil, more unjust. Well, if that's true, then injustice must be fatal, like a disease. It would kill the unjust person through its own inherent destructive power — quickly for the very wicked, more slowly for the somewhat wicked. Instead of the current arrangement, where the unjust die because other people punish them.

Ha! he said. In that case, injustice wouldn't be so terrifying after all — it would just be putting the unjust person out of his misery. But I suspect the truth is the exact opposite: injustice kills others, if it gets the chance, but it keeps the unjust person very much alive — and wide awake, too. Its home is clearly nowhere near the house of death.

True, I said. When the soul's own inherent evil — its own corruption — can't kill or destroy it, then an evil designed to destroy something else is hardly going to destroy the soul. Or anything else, for that matter, except what it was designed to destroy.

That makes sense.

So: the soul can't be destroyed by any evil, whether its own or anyone else's. It must exist forever. And if it exists forever, it must be immortal.

That's the conclusion, I said. And if it's true, then the total number of souls must stay the same forever. None are destroyed, so they can't decrease. And they can't increase either, since any increase in immortal beings would have to come from mortal ones — and then eventually everything would become immortal.

True.

But reason won't let us believe that. Nor should we believe that the soul, in its truest nature, is full of endless variety and conflict and contradiction.

What do you mean?

If the soul is immortal — as we've just proven — then it must be the simplest, purest kind of thing. It can't be a patchwork of many different elements.

I suppose not.

Its immortality is proven by what we just argued, and there are many other proofs. But to see the soul as it truly is — not as we see it now, damaged by its partnership with the body and by all the other miseries of mortal life — you'd need to contemplate it with the eye of reason, in its original purity. Then its beauty would be revealed, and justice and injustice and everything we've discussed would be far clearer. What we've said so far describes the soul as it currently appears. But its present condition is like that of the sea-god Glaucus. You can hardly make out his original form anymore — his limbs are broken off and battered by the waves, crusted over with seaweed and shells and stones, until he looks more like a monster than like himself. That's the condition we see the soul in, disfigured by ten thousand injuries. But that's not where we should look, Glaucon.

Where, then?

At the soul's love of wisdom. Consider what she reaches for, what company she seeks, how she's drawn to the immortal, the eternal, the divine — since she's kin to them. Imagine what she'd become if she followed that calling completely, carried by a divine impulse out of the ocean where she now lies, stripped of all the stones and shells and earthy encrustation that have grown over her because she feeds on earthly things — all those "good things of this life," as people call them. Then you'd see her as she really is: whether she has one shape or many, and what her true nature is. But about her present condition and the forms she takes in this life, I think we've said enough.

We have, he agreed.

And so, I said, we've fulfilled the conditions of our argument. We haven't relied on the rewards and glories of justice that Homer and Hesiod celebrate. We've shown that justice, all by itself, is the best thing for the soul, all by itself. A person should do what's just whether or not he has the Ring of Gyges — even if he had the ring and the helmet of Hades on top of it.

Now, Glaucon, there's no harm in also counting up how many and how great are the rewards that justice and the other virtues bring the soul — from gods and from human beings, in this life and after death.

None at all, he said.

Then will you pay me back what you borrowed during the argument?

What did I borrow?

The assumption that the just person should appear unjust and the unjust person should appear just. You argued that even if the true situation couldn't possibly escape the notice of gods and humans, we should make that assumption anyway — so we could weigh pure justice against pure injustice. Remember?

I'd be a poor friend if I'd forgotten.

Good. Now that the verdict is in, I'm reclaiming justice's reputation on her behalf. The estimation she actually deserves from gods and humans — let it be restored. We've proven she delivers real benefit, not illusion, to those who truly possess her. Now let's give her back the appearance too — the reputation that's rightfully hers.

That's a fair demand, he said.

First: and this is the first thing you need to give back. Both the just and the unjust person are truly known to the gods.

Agreed.

And if both are known, then one is the gods' friend and the other their enemy — as we established at the start.

Yes.

And we can suppose the gods' friend receives everything from them in the best possible form — except for whatever suffering is the necessary consequence of past wrongs?

Right.

So this must be our picture of the just person: even when he's in poverty or sickness or any other apparent misfortune, all things are working together for his good in the end — in life and after death. The gods don't neglect anyone who truly desires to become just and to become as godlike as a human being can, through the pursuit of virtue.

Yes, he said. If such a person is like God, he surely won't be neglected by God.

And we'd expect the opposite for the unjust person?

Yes.

Those, then, are the prizes that the gods award to the just.

That's my conviction.

And what about human rewards? Let's look at how things really play out. The clever unjust people are like runners who sprint beautifully from the starting line to the far end but can't make it back. They burst out fast, but in the end they slink off in disgrace — ears drooping, uncrowned. The true runner crosses the finish line and actually receives the prize. And that's how it goes with the just. At the end of every endeavor, every situation, every phase of life, the just person wins a good reputation and carries off the prize that human beings can award.

Now you have to let me say about the just what you said earlier about the unjust. I'll say of the just what you said of those others: as they grow older, they gain authority in their cities if they want it. They marry whom they choose and give their children in marriage as they please. Everything you attributed to the unjust, I now attribute to the just. And of the unjust, I say this: most of them, even if they get away with it in their youth, are caught in the end and look like fools. When they're old and broken, they're scorned by citizens and strangers alike. They're beaten, and then come those punishments you so rightly called "unfit for polite ears" — the rack, the branding iron. Take it as read: they suffer every one of them. See if you'll accept that.

I do, he said. What you say is true.

Those, then, are the prizes and rewards and gifts that the just receive from gods and humans in this life — on top of the blessings that justice itself provides.

They're noble and enduring rewards, he said.

And yet, I said, all of those are nothing — nothing in number or magnitude — compared to what awaits the just and the unjust after death. You need to hear about that too, so that both just and unjust receive the full account our argument owes them.

Go on, he said. There are few things I'd rather hear.

Well, I said, I'll tell you a story. Not one of those tales Odysseus spins for Alcinous — but this too is the tale of a brave man. His name was Er, the son of Armenius, from Pamphylia.

He was killed in battle. Ten days later, when they collected the dead — already decomposing — his body was found perfectly intact. They carried him home for burial. On the twelfth day, as he lay on the funeral pyre, he came back to life. And he told them what he'd seen in the other world.

He said that when his soul left his body, it traveled with a great company of souls until they reached an extraordinary place. There were two openings in the earth, side by side, and directly above them, two openings in the sky. Between these openings sat judges. After passing judgment, they ordered the just souls to take the right-hand path upward through the sky, with tokens of their deeds fastened to their fronts. The unjust they sent down through the left-hand opening into the earth, wearing the tokens of their deeds on their backs.

When Er himself approached, the judges told him he was to be a messenger. He would carry the report of the other world back to the living. They told him to watch and listen to everything.

And he did. He watched souls departing through the openings in both earth and sky after being judged. And from the other two openings he saw souls arriving — some rising out of the earth, dusty and travel-worn, and others descending from the sky, clean and radiant. Each group seemed to have come from a long journey. They moved joyfully into a great meadow and set up camp, as if at a festival. Those who recognized each other embraced and talked. The souls from below asked eagerly about what life was like above. The souls from above asked about what happened below. They told their stories to each other — those from under the earth weeping as they remembered the terrible things they'd seen and suffered on their thousand-year journey underground, while those from heaven described delights and visions of staggering beauty.

The full account, Glaucon, would take far too long. But here was the gist: for every wrong they'd done to anyone, they paid tenfold — once every hundred years, a human lifetime's length — so that the penalty was paid ten times over across the thousand years. If someone had caused many deaths, or betrayed cities or armies, or committed any other atrocity, they received punishment ten times over for each crime. And the rewards for goodness, justice, and holiness were in the same proportion. He said more about young children who died in infancy, but that hardly needs repeating. And the punishments for impiety toward gods and parents, and for murder, were even greater.

He mentioned being there when one spirit asked another: "Where is Ardiaeus the Great?" — a man who'd been tyrant of a Pamphylian city a thousand years before Er's time. He'd murdered his aged father and his older brother, and was said to have committed many other unspeakable crimes.

The other spirit answered: "He isn't coming. He'll never come."

"And this," the spirit said, "was one of the most terrifying things we witnessed. We were at the mouth of the cavern, about to ascend after completing our thousand years of punishment. Suddenly Ardiaeus appeared, along with several others — mostly tyrants, though some were ordinary people who'd been great criminals. They thought they were about to exit into the upper world. But the mouth of the cavern wouldn't let them through. It let out a roar whenever one of these incurable sinners — or anyone who hadn't been punished enough — tried to pass. And then fierce, blazing figures appeared — wild men made of fire — who heard the roar and seized them. They bound Ardiaeus and the others hand and foot, threw them down, and flayed them with thorns. They dragged them along the roadside, carding their flesh like wool on a thorny bush, and announced to everyone passing by what their crimes were and that they were being dragged away to be hurled into the abyss."

Of all the many terrors the souls had endured, Er said, nothing compared to the fear each one felt at that moment — the fear of hearing the roar as they tried to ascend. When there was silence, the relief and joy were beyond description. One by one they climbed out.

Those were the punishments and retributions. And the blessings were equally vast.

When the souls in the meadow had rested for seven days, on the eighth day they had to set out again. After four days of travel, they came to a place from which they could see, stretching from above, a shaft of light — straight as a column, running through the whole of heaven and earth. It was like a rainbow, but brighter and purer. After another day's journey, they reached it. And there, at the center of the light, they saw the ends of the chains of heaven hanging down from above. For this light is the belt of heaven. It holds the entire revolving cosmos together, like the cables that undergird a ship.

From these ends extends the Spindle of Necessity, on which all the celestial revolutions turn. Its shaft and hook are made of adamant, and its whorl is made partly of adamant and partly of other materials. Picture it: the whorl is shaped like the ones used on earth, but imagine one large hollow whorl, completely scooped out, with a smaller one nested inside it, and another inside that, and another, and four more — eight in all, fitting together like nested bowls. Their rims show on top; from below, they form one continuous surface. The spindle is driven through the center of the eighth.

The first and outermost whorl has the widest rim. Then, in decreasing width: sixth, fourth, eighth, seventh, fifth, third, and second. The rim of the largest whorl — the fixed stars — is spangled with light. The seventh — the sun — is the brightest. The eighth — the moon — gets its color from the reflected light of the sun. The second and fifth — Saturn and Mercury — are similar to each other, yellowish. The third — Venus — has the whitest light. The fourth — Mars — is reddish. The sixth — Jupiter — is the second whitest.

The whole spindle revolves in one direction, but within it, the seven inner circles move slowly the opposite way. Of these, the eighth moves fastest. Next fastest are the seventh, sixth, and fifth, which move together. The fourth appears to move third fastest in this reverse rotation. The third appears fourth fastest, and the second fifth fastest.

The spindle turns on the knees of Necessity.

On the upper surface of each circle stands a Siren, going round with it, singing a single note. The eight notes together form one harmony.

Around them, at equal intervals, sit three other figures on thrones. These are the Fates — daughters of Necessity — robed in white, with garlands on their heads: Lachesis, Clotho, and Atropos. They accompany the Sirens' harmony with their own voices. Lachesis sings of the past. Clotho sings of the present. Atropos sings of the future. Clotho, from time to time, reaches out her right hand to touch and assist the revolution of the outermost circle. Atropos does the same with her left hand for the inner circles. And Lachesis touches each in turn — now one hand, now the other.

When Er and the souls arrived, they went straight to Lachesis. But first a prophet stepped forward and arranged them all in order. Then he took lots and samples of lives from the knees of Lachesis, climbed to a high platform, and spoke:

"Hear the word of Lachesis, daughter of Necessity. Souls of a day — a new cycle of mortal life begins. No guardian spirit will be assigned to you. You will choose your own. Whoever draws the first lot chooses first, and the life he chooses becomes his destiny. Virtue has no master. Each of you will have more or less of it depending on whether you honor or dishonor it. The responsibility belongs to the chooser. God is not to blame."

With that, the prophet scattered the lots among them. Each soul picked up the lot that fell nearest — all except Er, who wasn't allowed to choose. Each soul saw the number it had drawn.

Then the prophet laid out the samples of lives on the ground before them. There were far more lives than there were souls — every kind imaginable. Lives of every animal and every human condition. There were tyrannies among them — some lasting a full lifetime, others cut short, ending in poverty, exile, and beggary. There were lives of famous men: some famous for beauty and athletic prowess, others for noble birth and distinguished ancestors, and some famous for the opposite reasons. And likewise for women. But none of these lives had a fixed character, because the soul that chose a new life would necessarily be changed by it. Everything else was mixed in — wealth and poverty, sickness and health, and every combination in between.

And here, my dear Glaucon, is the supreme danger of our existence. This is why the greatest care must be taken. Let each of us set aside every other kind of knowledge and seek one thing above all: to find someone who can teach us to tell good from evil — and to choose, always and everywhere, the better life. We must weigh all the things we've discussed — individually and together — against virtue. We must understand what beauty does when combined with poverty or wealth in a given soul. What are the consequences of noble or humble birth, public or private station, strength or weakness, cleverness or dullness — all the natural and acquired qualities of the soul and how they interact?

Then, considering the nature of the soul and all these factors, we can judge which life is better and which is worse. The life that makes the soul more just — call that good. The life that makes it more unjust — call that evil. Let everything else go. We've seen that this is the best choice, in life and after death.

A person must carry an unshakable faith in truth and justice into the world below. Even there, he must not be dazzled by the lure of wealth or the other bait of evil. He must not stumble into tyranny or similar horrors, causing terrible harm to others and suffering even worse himself. He must know how to choose the middle path and avoid the extremes — in this life and in every life to come. That is the road to happiness.

And this is what the prophet's messenger reported. At that moment, the prophet said: "Even for the soul that chooses last — if it chooses wisely and lives with discipline — a good life awaits. Not a bad life at all. Let the first chooser not be careless. Let the last not despair."

The soul with the first choice stepped forward — and instantly chose the greatest tyranny it could find. Blinded by greed and foolishness, it hadn't thought the whole thing through. It didn't notice, until it was too late, that this life included — among other horrors — the fate of devouring its own children. When it finally examined the choice carefully, it beat its chest and wailed, forgetting the prophet's warning. Instead of blaming itself, it blamed chance, the gods, everything but itself.

This soul had come from heaven. In its previous life, it had lived in a well-ordered state and practiced virtue — but only out of habit, not philosophy. And that was true of many of the heavenly souls: they'd never been tested by suffering, so they chose carelessly. The souls that came from below — having suffered themselves and watched others suffer — weren't in such a rush. As a result, and because of the luck of the draw, many souls traded a good destiny for a bad one, or a bad one for a good one.

For if a person always, every time they arrive in this world, devotes themselves to sound philosophy from the start — and if their lot isn't too unlucky — then they can be happy not only in this life but in the journey between lives. That journey, instead of being rough and underground, would be smooth and heavenly.

It was a remarkable sight to watch, Er said — sad, funny, and strange. The souls mostly chose based on their experiences in their previous lives. He saw the soul that had once been Orpheus choose the life of a swan — because Orpheus, having been torn apart by women, refused to be born of a woman. He saw the soul of Thamyras choose the life of a nightingale. He saw birds — swans and other songbirds — choosing to become human.

The soul that drew the twentieth lot chose the life of a lion. This was Ajax, son of Telamon, who refused to become a man again because he still remembered the injustice done to him in the judgment over Achilles' armor. The next was Agamemnon, who also chose a non-human life — an eagle — because his sufferings had made him hate humanity.

About halfway through came the lot of Atalanta. She couldn't resist the glory of being an athlete and seized that life. After her came Epeus, son of Panopeus, passing into the nature of a craftswoman. Far toward the end, among the last to choose, the soul of the buffoon Thersites was putting on the body of a monkey.

And last of all — having drawn the very last lot — came the soul of Odysseus, ready to choose. The memory of all his former toils had cured him of ambition completely. He walked around for a long time, searching for the life of an ordinary private citizen — someone without responsibilities, without fame. He had trouble finding it. It was lying off in a corner, ignored by everyone else. When he found it, he said he would have chosen the same life even if he'd drawn the first lot instead of the last. He was delighted.

And it wasn't only humans passing into animals. Animals too — tame and wild — changed into one another and into humans. The good became gentle creatures. The savage became savage ones. Every combination you can imagine.

When all the souls had chosen their lives, they went to Lachesis in the order they'd chosen. She assigned to each the guardian spirit it had selected — to watch over that life and fulfill the choice. The spirit led each soul first to Clotho, passing it beneath her hand as she turned the spindle, ratifying the destiny it had chosen. After that touch, the spirit brought the soul to Atropos, who spun the thread and made it irreversible.

Then, without looking back, each soul passed beneath the throne of Necessity.

When all had passed through, they marched together across a terrible scorching plain to the Plain of Forgetfulness — a barren waste, treeless and bare. Toward evening they camped by the River of Unmindfulness, whose water no vessel can hold. Every soul was required to drink a certain amount. Those who weren't protected by wisdom drank too much. And each one, as it drank, forgot everything.

They went to sleep. In the middle of the night, there was thunder and an earthquake. Then, in an instant, they were all swept upward to their births — shooting in every direction like stars.

Er himself was prevented from drinking the water. But how exactly he returned to his body, he couldn't say. He only knew that suddenly, in the morning, he woke up and found himself lying on the funeral pyre.

And so, Glaucon, the tale was saved. It didn't perish. And it can save us too — if we listen to it. If we hold fast to the upward path and pursue justice with wisdom, always, we'll cross the River of Forgetfulness safely and keep our souls undefiled.

Here is my counsel: hold to the belief that the soul is immortal and capable of enduring every kind of good and every kind of evil. Let us always choose the upward way. Let us pursue justice and wisdom with all our hearts. Then we'll be at peace with each other and with the gods — both while we remain here and when, like victors at the games who parade to collect their prizes, we receive our reward.

It will be well with us — in this life and in the thousand-year journey we've described.

Ion

Persons of the dialogue:
  Socrates
  Ion

Ion is a rhapsode — a professional performer who recites Homer's poetry at festivals and competitions, part actor, part lecturer, part rock star of the ancient Greek literary world.

Socrates: Ion! Welcome. Are you just coming from your hometown of Ephesus?

Ion: No, Socrates — from Epidaurus, where I was at the festival of Asclepius.

Socrates: Do the Epidaurians have competitions for rhapsodes at that festival?

Ion: Oh yes — for rhapsodes and all kinds of musical performers.

Socrates: And were you competing? How did you do?

Ion: I took first prize, Socrates. First out of everyone.

Socrates: Well done! And I hope you'll do the same for us at the Panathenaea.

Ion: I will, god willing.

Socrates: You know, I've always envied your profession, Ion. You get to wear beautiful clothes — looking gorgeous is literally part of the job. And on top of that, you spend all your time in the company of great poets, especially Homer, the best and most divine of them all. And you don't just memorize his words — you have to truly understand what he means. That's the enviable part. Because a rhapsode has to be an interpreter of the poet's mind for his audience, and you can't do that well unless you really grasp what the poet is saying. There's a lot to envy there.

Ion: That's absolutely true, Socrates. Interpretation has been the hardest part of my craft, without question. And I honestly believe I can talk about Homer better than anyone alive. Not Metrodorus of Lampsacus, not Stesimbrotus of Thasos, not Glaucon — nobody who's ever lived has had as many brilliant insights about Homer as I have.

Socrates: That's wonderful to hear, Ion! I'm sure you won't mind sharing some of those insights with me.

Ion: You really should hear me sometime, Socrates. The way I perform Homer is exquisite. I think the Homeridae themselves should give me a golden crown.

Socrates: I'll definitely make time to hear your performance. But right now I'd like to ask you a question. Does your expertise extend to Hesiod and Archilochus too, or just to Homer?

Ion: Just Homer. He's more than enough all by himself.

Socrates: Are there things Homer and Hesiod both talk about?

Ion: Sure, I'd say quite a lot.

Socrates: And on those topics where they agree — could you explain what Homer says better than what Hesiod says, or equally well?

Ion: Equally well, Socrates, at least where they agree.

Socrates: But what about topics where they disagree? For example, both Homer and Hesiod have things to say about divination —

Ion: That's true.

Socrates: So who would be the better interpreter of what both poets say about divination, whether they agree or disagree — you, or a skilled prophet?

Ion: A prophet.

Socrates: And if you were a prophet, wouldn't you be able to interpret them just as well when they disagree as when they agree?

Ion: Obviously.

Socrates: So how did you end up with this talent for Homer alone, and not for Hesiod or any other poet? Doesn't Homer cover the same topics every other poet covers? Isn't war his main subject? And doesn't he also deal with human society — how people interact, good and bad, skilled and unskilled — and with the gods talking to each other and to mortals, and with what happens in heaven and the underworld, and with the origins of gods and heroes? Aren't those the themes Homer sings about?

Ion: They absolutely are, Socrates.

Socrates: And don't the other poets sing about the same things?

Ion: Yes, Socrates — but not nearly as well as Homer.

Socrates: You mean they're worse?

Ion: Far worse.

Socrates: And Homer is better?

Ion: Incomparably better.

Socrates: Now think about this, my friend. When several people are discussing arithmetic and one of them speaks better than the rest, there's someone who can tell which speaker is good. Right?

Ion: Yes.

Socrates: And the person who can spot the good speaker will also be the one who can spot the bad speakers?

Ion: The same person.

Socrates: And that person would be the mathematician?

Ion: Yes.

Socrates: Or take a discussion about whether certain foods are healthy. If several people are speaking and one of them speaks better than the rest, will the person who recognizes the better speaker be different from the person who recognizes the worse one?

Ion: Obviously the same person.

Socrates: And who is that? What do we call him?

Ion: The doctor.

Socrates: So here's the general principle: in any discussion on a given topic, the person who can identify the good speaker will also be able to identify the bad ones. Because if you can't recognize bad speakers on a subject, you won't be able to recognize the good ones either, when the topic is the same.

Ion: True.

Socrates: And the same person is skilled at judging both?

Ion: Yes.

Socrates: Now, you say Homer and the other poets — Hesiod, Archilochus — all deal with the same subjects, just not equally well. Homer does it brilliantly, the others not so much?

Ion: Yes, and I'm right about that.

Socrates: Well, if you can recognize the brilliant speaker, you'd also be able to recognize that the inferior ones are inferior?

Ion: That's true.

Socrates: Then, my friend, I don't think I'm wrong when I say this: if Ion is equally skilled at judging Homer and all other poets — since he himself agrees that the same person who can judge good speakers on a subject can also judge bad speakers on that same subject, and since virtually all poets deal with the same subjects — then Ion should be equally skilled with all of them. Right?

Ion: Then how do you explain this, Socrates: when anyone talks about any other poet, I lose interest, I can barely keep my eyes open, I've got absolutely nothing to contribute. But the moment someone mentions Homer, I'm wide awake, fully engaged, and I've got plenty to say?

Socrates: The reason isn't hard to see, my friend. It's obvious. You don't speak about Homer through any skill or knowledge. If you could talk about Homer because of a skill, you'd be able to talk about all the other poets too — because poetry is a unified whole.

Ion: Yes.

Socrates: And when someone masters any skill as a whole, the same applies to everything within it. Would you like me to explain what I mean, Ion?

Ion: Yes, absolutely, Socrates. I love hearing you brilliant thinkers talk.

Socrates: I wish we deserved the compliment, Ion! But you rhapsodes, actors, and the poets whose work you perform — you're the brilliant ones. I'm just an ordinary person who speaks the truth. And consider what an ordinary, obvious thing this is that I've said — something anyone could see: when you've mastered a skill as a whole, the ability to judge good and bad within it is one and the same. Let's think about this. Isn't painting a complete skill — a unified art?

Ion: Yes.

Socrates: And there are and have been many painters, some good, some bad?

Ion: Yes.

Socrates: Have you ever met anyone who was brilliant at analyzing the work of Polygnotus, son of Aglaophon, and pointing out what's excellent and what's flawed in his paintings, but then when shown the work of any other painter, went blank — fell asleep, had nothing to say — and only woke up and had opinions when Polygnotus came up?

Ion: No, I've certainly never met anyone like that.

Socrates: Or in sculpture — have you ever met someone who could brilliantly discuss the merits of Daedalus, son of Metion, or Epeius, son of Panopeus, or Theodorus of Samos, but when shown the work of other sculptors in general, went blank and had nothing to say?

Ion: No, not that either.

Socrates: And I'd bet you've never met a flute player, or a harpist, or a singer, or a rhapsode who could hold forth brilliantly about Olympus, or Thamyras, or Orpheus, or Phemius the rhapsode of Ithaca — but drew a complete blank when it came to Ion of Ephesus, and had no idea whether he was any good or not?

Ion: I can't argue with that, Socrates. But here's what I know in my bones, and the whole world agrees with me: I do speak about Homer better than anyone else, and I have more to say about him. But I don't speak equally well about the others. So tell me — why is that?

Socrates: I can see what's going on, Ion, and I'm going to explain it to you. This talent you have for speaking brilliantly about Homer — it's not a skill. It's an inspiration. There's a divine force moving you, like the power in that stone Euripides calls a magnet — most people know it as the Heraclean stone.

That stone doesn't just attract iron rings on its own. It also gives those rings the power to attract other rings. Sometimes you can see a whole long chain of iron rings hanging from each other, one after another, and every single one of them gets its power from that original stone.

That's exactly how it works with the Muse. She starts by inspiring people directly — and from those inspired people, a chain of others hangs down, each one catching the inspiration from the one above.

Here's the thing about all the great poets, whether they write epics or lyrics: they don't compose their beautiful poems through skill. They compose them because they're inspired — because something has taken hold of them. It's like the Corybantes, those wild dancers: when they're in their ecstatic dance, they're not in their right minds. That's how it is with the lyric poets when they're creating their gorgeous verses. They fall under the power of music and rhythm, and they become possessed — like the Bacchic women who draw milk and honey from rivers when Dionysus has them in his grip, but can't do it when they're sober.

And the poet's soul works the same way. The poets themselves tell us this — they say they gather their songs from honey-flowing springs, plucking them from the gardens and meadows of the Muses. They're like bees, flying from flower to flower. And they're telling the truth.

Because here's what a poet really is: a light, winged, sacred thing. And there's no creative power in a poet until he's been inspired and knocked out of his senses — until his rational mind has stepped aside. As long as he's still in possession of his reason, he's powerless. He can't compose a thing.

That's why poets speak so many noble words about human action, just like you do when you speak about Homer — not through any technique, but because the Muse drives them to say exactly that, and nothing else. And when the inspiration hits, one poet writes dithyrambs, another writes hymns, another choral songs, another epics, another satire — and the one who's great at one kind is no good at the others. This proves it's not skill. If it were skill, they'd be able to work in every genre. No — God takes away their minds and uses them as his instruments, the same way he uses prophets and oracles. So when we hear them, we should understand that it's not these poets speaking — these people who've lost their rational minds and are saying priceless things without even knowing it. It's God himself speaking, and he's using them to talk to us.

And here's a perfect example: Tynnichus of Chalcis. He never wrote a single poem worth remembering — except for that famous paean that everyone knows, one of the most beautiful poems ever composed. He called it "an invention of the Muses," and he was right. It's as if God deliberately chose the worst poet to write the best poem, just to make sure we'd understand the point: these beautiful poems aren't human creations. They're divine. The poets are just interpreters of the gods, each one possessed by whichever god has claimed them. Isn't that the lesson God was teaching us when he had the worst poet sing the finest song? Am I right, Ion?

Ion: Yes, by Zeus, Socrates — I think you are. Your words really do touch my soul. I'm convinced that good poets, through divine inspiration, interpret the things of the gods for us.

Socrates: And you rhapsodes — you're the interpreters of the poets?

Ion: Right again.

Socrates: So you're interpreters of interpreters?

Ion: Exactly.

Socrates: Now hold on — I want you to be completely honest with me about something. When you're performing and you really hit the audience hard — when you're reciting one of those electrifying passages, like Odysseus leaping onto the threshold, revealing himself to the suitors, and scattering his arrows at their feet, or Achilles charging at Hector, or the grief of Andromache, or Hecuba, or Priam — are you in your right mind at that moment? Or are you carried out of yourself? Doesn't your soul feel like it's actually there, in the places you're describing — in Ithaca, in Troy, wherever the poem takes you?

Ion: That hits home, Socrates. I'll be completely honest: when I'm reciting something sorrowful, my eyes fill with tears. When I'm describing something terrifying, my hair stands on end and my heart pounds.

Socrates: Well then, Ion — what should we say about a man at a festival, dressed in his finest clothes, wearing golden crowns on his head that nobody has stolen from him, standing in front of more than twenty thousand friendly faces — and he's weeping? Or he's terrified, when nobody is threatening him or doing him any harm? Is that man in his right mind?

Ion: No, Socrates — strictly speaking, I'd have to say he's not.

Socrates: And you're aware that you produce the same effect on most of your audience?

Ion: Oh, I'm very aware. I look down at them from the stage and I can see it on their faces — pity, wonder, intensity — stamped right across their expressions when I'm performing. And I have to pay very close attention to them, too. Because if I make them cry, I'll be the one laughing — all the way to the bank. But if I make them laugh, I'll be the one crying when it's time to collect my fee.

Socrates: Now, do you realize that this audience member is the last ring in the chain I was describing — the chain that gets its power from the original magnet? You, the rhapsode — and the actor too — you're the middle links. And the poet is the first link. Through all of these, God pulls the souls of people in whatever direction he wants, making one person hang from the next. It's an enormous chain — choruses, chorus directors, assistant directors — all suspended from the Muse like rings hanging from that stone.

And every poet hangs from a particular Muse, and we say he's "possessed" by her — and that's basically what it means: he's been seized. From those first rings, the poets, other rings hang down. Some people get their inspiration from Orpheus, others from Musaeus, but the greatest number are possessed by Homer and held in his grip.

You're one of them, Ion. You're possessed by Homer. When someone recites another poet, you fall asleep, you've got nothing to say. But when someone sings a passage from Homer, you snap awake, your soul leaps, and the words come pouring out. And it's not through skill or knowledge about Homer that you say what you say — it's through divine inspiration and possession. Just like the Corybantes: they have an uncanny ear for the one particular melody that belongs to the god who possesses them, and they've got endless dances and words for that melody, but they don't care about any other.

That's you, Ion. When Homer comes up, you've got a world of things to say. When anyone else comes up — nothing. You asked me, "Why is this?" Here's the answer: your brilliance about Homer comes not from skill, but from divine inspiration.

Ion: That's a nice speech, Socrates. But still, I doubt you'll ever be eloquent enough to convince me that I praise Homer because I'm mad and possessed. If you could hear me perform, I'm sure you'd never think that.

Socrates: Oh, I'd love to hear you. But first you have to answer a question. Which parts of Homer do you speak well about? Surely not every part?

Ion: Every part, Socrates. There's no part of Homer I can't speak well about. I guarantee it.

Socrates: Surely not about things in Homer that you have no knowledge of?

Ion: And what is there in Homer that I don't know about?

Socrates: Well, doesn't Homer talk about all sorts of specialized skills? For instance, chariot-driving. If I can just remember the lines...

Ion: I remember them. I'll recite them.

Socrates: Tell me what Nestor says to his son Antilochus, advising him about the turn in the chariot race held in honor of Patroclus.

Ion: "Lean gently," he says, "in the polished chariot to the left of them, and urge the horse on the right with whip and voice, giving him rein. At the turning post, let the left horse draw close, so close that the hub of the well-made wheel seems almost to graze the edge — but be careful not to hit the stone."

Socrates: Good enough. Now, Ion — who's the better judge of whether those lines are accurate: the charioteer or the rhapsode?

Ion: The charioteer, obviously.

Socrates: Because that's his skill — or is there some other reason?

Ion: No, that's the reason.

Socrates: Right. Every skill is designed to give knowledge of a particular domain. What we know through the art of navigation, we don't know through medicine.

Ion: Certainly not.

Socrates: And what we know through carpentry, we don't know through medicine.

Ion: Certainly not.

Socrates: And this holds for every skill: what we know through one, we don't know through another. But let me ask a more basic question first: you do agree that different skills exist?

Ion: Yes.

Socrates: And here's how I'd distinguish them — and I think you'd agree: when one skill gives us knowledge of one kind of thing, and another skill gives us knowledge of another kind of thing, then they're different skills.

Ion: Yes.

Socrates: Right — because if two skills gave us knowledge of the same thing, there'd be no point in calling them different. For example, I know there are five fingers here, and you know the same thing. If I asked whether we both learned this through the same skill — arithmetic — you'd agree?

Ion: Yes.

Socrates: Then tell me: does this hold as a general rule? The same skill always covers the same domain of knowledge, and different skills cover different domains?

Ion: That's how I see it, Socrates.

Socrates: Then someone who doesn't have a particular skill won't be able to judge the things that fall under that skill?

Ion: True.

Socrates: So back to those lines about chariot-racing that you recited from Homer — who's the better judge, you or the charioteer?

Ion: The charioteer.

Socrates: Right — because you're a rhapsode, not a charioteer.

Ion: Yes.

Socrates: And the rhapsode's skill is different from the charioteer's?

Ion: Yes.

Socrates: And if they're different skills, they cover different domains of knowledge?

Ion: True.

Socrates: Now, you know the passage where Homer describes Hecamede, Nestor's companion, giving a healing drink to the wounded Machaon:

"She made it with Pramnian wine, and grated goat cheese into it with a bronze grater, and set an onion beside it as a relish for the drink."

Now — is the rhapsode or the doctor better equipped to judge whether Homer got those lines right?

Ion: The doctor.

Socrates: And when Homer says:

"She plunged to the depths like a lead weight set in a piece of ox-horn, that speeds along carrying death to the ravenous fish" —

is the art of fishing or the art of the rhapsode better equipped to judge whether those lines are well-composed?

Ion: The fisherman's art, obviously, Socrates.

Socrates: Now, suppose you turned it around on me and said: "All right, Socrates, since you're so good at assigning passages in Homer to their proper skills, why don't you tell me which passages should be judged by a prophet?" I'd answer you easily and accurately. There are plenty of examples, especially in the Odyssey — like the passage where Theoclymenus, the prophet descended from Melampus, says to the suitors:

"Wretched men! What's happening to you? Your heads, your faces, your limbs are wrapped in night. The sound of wailing breaks out. Your cheeks are wet with tears. The porch is full of ghosts, the courtyard is full of them, streaming down to the darkness of Erebus. The sun has been blotted from the sky. An evil mist has spread over everything."

And there are many such passages in the Iliad too — like the description of the battle near the rampart:

"As they were eager to cross the ditch, an omen came to them: a soaring eagle, holding back the army on the left, carrying a huge, bloody serpent in its talons, still alive and struggling. The serpent hadn't given up the fight — it twisted back and struck the eagle on the breast near the neck, and the eagle, in pain, dropped it to the ground among the crowd. Then, with a shriek, the eagle was carried away on the wind."

Those are the kind of passages I'd say a prophet should examine and judge.

Ion: And you're absolutely right to say so, Socrates.

Socrates: Good — and you're right to agree. So just as I've picked out passages from the Iliad and the Odyssey that belong to the prophet, the doctor, and the fisherman, now it's your turn, Ion. You know Homer so much better than I do — pick out the passages that belong specifically to the rhapsode and the rhapsode's art, the ones that a rhapsode should be able to examine and judge better than anyone else.

Ion: All of them, I'd say, Socrates.

Socrates: All of them? Really? Have you already forgotten what you just said? A rhapsode ought to have a better memory than that.

Ion: What am I forgetting?

Socrates: Don't you remember saying that the rhapsode's skill is different from the charioteer's?

Ion: Yes, I remember.

Socrates: And you agreed that since they're different skills, they'd cover different domains of knowledge?

Ion: Yes.

Socrates: Then by your own reasoning, the rhapsode — and the rhapsode's skill — won't know everything.

Ion: Well, I'd exclude certain things, Socrates.

Socrates: By "exclude certain things," you basically mean you'd exclude the domains of all the other skills. So what's left? What does the rhapsode actually know?

Ion: What a man should say and what a woman should say. What a free person should say and what a slave should say. What a ruler should say and what a subject should say.

Socrates: So you're saying the rhapsode knows better than the pilot what the commander of a ship in a storm should say?

Ion: No, the pilot would know that better.

Socrates: And the rhapsode knows better than the doctor what a person treating a sick patient should say?

Ion: No.

Socrates: But he'd know what a slave should say?

Ion: Yes.

Socrates: Let's say the slave is a cowherd. Would the rhapsode know better than the actual cowherd what he should say to calm down some enraged cattle?

Ion: No.

Socrates: What about a woman spinning wool? Would the rhapsode know what she should say about working with wool?

Ion: No.

Socrates: But a general rallying his troops — the rhapsode would know what he should say?

Ion: Yes! That's exactly the sort of thing a rhapsode would know.

Socrates: Wait — is the art of the rhapsode the same as the art of the general?

Ion: I'm sure I'd know what a general ought to say.

Socrates: Well, maybe you would, Ion — maybe you happen to have some knowledge of generalship on top of being a rhapsode. You might also know about horsemanship on top of playing the lyre. But if I asked you, "When you judge whether horses are well-managed, which skill are you using — your horsemanship or your lyre-playing?" what would you say?

Ion: My horsemanship.

Socrates: And if you were judging lyre players, you'd say you were judging them as a lyre player, not as a horseman?

Ion: Yes.

Socrates: So when you're judging matters of generalship, are you judging as a general or as a rhapsode?

Ion: I don't see any difference between the two.

Socrates: You don't see any difference? Are you really saying the art of the rhapsode and the art of the general are the same thing?

Ion: Yes, one and the same.

Socrates: So anyone who's a good rhapsode is also a good general?

Ion: Absolutely, Socrates.

Socrates: And anyone who's a good general is also a good rhapsode?

Ion: No, I wouldn't say that.

Socrates: But you do say that anyone who's a good rhapsode is a good general?

Ion: Definitely.

Socrates: And you're the best rhapsode in all of Greece?

Ion: The best by far, Socrates.

Socrates: And that also makes you the best general in Greece?

Ion: You bet, Socrates. I learned it all from Homer.

Socrates: Then in the name of all the gods, Ion — if you're really both the best rhapsode and the best general in all of Greece, why on earth are you going around performing poetry at festivals? Why aren't you leading armies? Do you think Greece needs another rhapsode in a golden crown more than it needs a general?

Ion: Well, Socrates, here's the thing. My people — the Ephesians — are subjects and soldiers of Athens, so they don't need a general of their own. And you Athenians and the Spartans aren't likely to pick me, since you think you've got plenty of generals already.

Socrates: My dear Ion, haven't you heard of Apollodorus of Cyzicus?

Ion: Who's he?

Socrates: A foreigner who's been chosen as a general by the Athenians multiple times. And there's Phanosthenes of Andros, and Heraclides of Clazomenae — Athens has given them military commands and other high offices too, even though they're foreigners, once they proved their worth. So you think Athens wouldn't choose Ion of Ephesus as a general and give him every honor, if he proved himself worthy? Weren't the Ephesians originally Athenians? And Ephesus is certainly no second-rate city.

But look, Ion — here's where we really are. If you're right that it's through genuine skill and knowledge that you're able to praise Homer, then you're not dealing fairly with me. You've been boasting about all the glorious things you know about Homer, promising to show me, and then you just keep dodging. You're like Proteus — you shift into a hundred different shapes, twisting and turning every which way, and just when I think I've got you, you slip away in the disguise of a general to avoid actually demonstrating your supposed expertise in Homer.

So here are your two options. If you really do have a skill — an actual art of Homer — then you've been breaking your promise to show it to me, and that's dishonest. But if, as I believe, you don't have any skill at all, and you say all these beautiful things about Homer unconsciously, under his divine influence, without really understanding what you're doing — then you're not dishonest. You're just inspired.

So which would you rather be called, Ion: dishonest or inspired?

Ion: There's a huge difference between those two, Socrates. Inspired is far nobler.

Socrates: Then let's go with the nobler option, Ion. When it comes to your brilliance about Homer, you are a man not of skill, but of divine inspiration.

Laches

Persons of the dialogue:
  Lysimachus, son of Aristides
  Melesias, son of Thucydides
  Their sons
  Nicias, Laches, Socrates

Or, Courage

Lysimachus: You've seen the man fighting in armor, Nicias and Laches. But we didn't tell you at the time why my friend Melesias and I asked you to come along and watch. I think we might as well be honest about that now — we certainly shouldn't hold anything back from you. The truth is, we wanted your advice. Some people laugh at the whole idea of asking others for advice, and when you do ask them, they won't say what they really think. They just try to guess what you want to hear and tell you that. But we know you're both men of sound judgment, and you'll say exactly what you think. So we've brought you into our confidence.

Here's what this is all about. Melesias and I have two sons. That's his boy — named Thucydides, after his grandfather. And this is mine, also named after his grandfather: Aristides. We've made up our minds to give these boys the best upbringing we can, and not just let them run wild the way young men so often do once they're past childhood. We want to start right now and do everything in our power for them.

Now, since you both have sons of your own, we figured you'd have given some thought to their training and education. And if by chance you haven't, well — consider this a reminder that you should. We'd like you to join us in fulfilling what's really a shared responsibility.

Let me tell you, Nicias and Laches — even at the risk of going on too long — how we came to be thinking about this. Melesias and I live together, and our sons live with us. And now, as I said at the start, we're going to make a confession. We often talk to the boys about the many noble things our own fathers did — in war, in peacetime, in managing the allies, in governing the city. But neither of us has any accomplishments of his own to show them. The truth is, we're ashamed of the contrast. And we blame our fathers for spoiling us when we were young — they were too busy with everyone else's affairs to pay attention to us. We point all this out to the boys, warning them that if they slack off and don't take themselves seriously, they won't amount to anything. But if they put in the work, they might actually become worthy of the names they carry.

The boys, for their part, promise to do as we say. So our job now is to find the right studies and training for them. Someone recommended the art of fighting in armor — said it was an excellent skill for a young man to learn. He praised the man whose performance you just watched and told us to go see him. So we went, and we brought you along, planning to ask your advice — if you're willing — not just about this fighting technique, but about the education of our sons in general. That's what we want to discuss with you. Please, tell us what you think.

Nicias: As far as I'm concerned, Lysimachus and Melesias, I'm glad to help, and I applaud what you're doing. I'm sure Laches feels the same way.

Laches: Absolutely, Nicias. And I think Lysimachus made a very good point about his own father and the father of Melesias — and it applies not just to them, but to us and to anyone wrapped up in public affairs. People like that tend to neglect their own children and their personal lives. There's a lot of truth in what you said, Lysimachus.

But here's my question: instead of consulting us, why don't you ask our friend Socrates about the boys' education? He's from your own deme, and he's always spending time in places where young people are pursuing some worthy study — exactly the kind of thing you're looking for.

Lysimachus: Really, Laches? Has Socrates ever taken an interest in matters like this?

Laches: He certainly has, Lysimachus.

Nicias: I can vouch for that as well as Laches can. Just recently, he recommended a music teacher for my sons — Damon, a student of Agathocles. The man is brilliant in every way, not just as a musician, but as a companion of extraordinary value for boys their age.

Lysimachus: Those of us who've reached my age, Socrates and Nicias and Laches, tend to lose touch with the younger generation — we're generally stuck at home thanks to old age. But you, son of Sophroniscus, ought to help your fellow demesmen with whatever advice you can offer. And I have a special claim on you, as an old friend of your father's. He and I were always close — companions and friends right up until the day he died. There was never a disagreement between us.

And now that your name has come up, I remember that these boys of ours often talk about Socrates at home — always with the highest praise. But I never thought to ask them whether the son of Sophroniscus was the one they meant. Tell me, boys — is this the Socrates you're always talking about?

Son Yes, father, that's him.

Lysimachus: I'm delighted to hear it, Socrates, that you're living up to your father's name — he was an excellent man. And I'm glad at the prospect of renewing our family ties.

Laches: And you really shouldn't let him go, Lysimachus. I've seen him in action — and not just upholding his father's reputation, but his country's. He was with me in the retreat from Delium, and I can tell you: if everyone else had fought the way he did, our city's honor would have been preserved, and that terrible defeat would never have happened.

Lysimachus: That's very high praise, Socrates, from reliable witnesses who saw you in action. I'm genuinely pleased to hear about your reputation. I hope you'll count me among your warmest friends. You should have come to visit us long ago and made yourself at home. But now that we've finally found each other, I insist — from this day forward, come around and get to know me and these young men, so I can be your friend the way I was your father's. I'll hold you to that, and I'll remind you if you forget.

But now — what about the question we were starting to discuss? This art of fighting in armor — is it something the boys should learn?

Socrates: I'll do my best to advise you on this, Lysimachus, and I'm happy to help in any way I can. But since I'm younger and less experienced, I think I should hear what my elders have to say first, and learn from them. If I have anything to add after that, I'll offer my opinion to them and to you. How about one of you starts — Nicias, would you like to go first?

Nicias: I don't mind at all, Socrates. In my opinion, learning this art is useful for young men in a number of ways. For one thing, it gives them a pastime that actually improves their physical health rather than harming it — and there's no better or harder exercise. This and horsemanship are the most fitting skills for a free man, since only those trained in the use of arms are true athletes of the military profession, trained in what actually matters on the battlefield.

In actual combat, when you're fighting in formation, this kind of training is an advantage. And it's even more valuable when the ranks break and you have to fight one-on-one — whether you're chasing down someone who's defending himself, or you're the one retreating and defending against an attacker. A man who knows this art wouldn't come to any harm at the hands of a single opponent, or maybe even several. He'd have a real edge.

And there's more. This kind of training makes a man want to learn other noble skills. Anyone who's learned to fight in armor will naturally want to learn how to arrange an army — and once he's learned that, with his ambition fired up, he'll go on to study the complete art of the general. It's easy to see that knowledge of military arts is honorable and valuable, and this skill could be the starting point for all of them.

I'll add one more advantage, and it's not a small one: this training will make a man considerably braver and more self-possessed in the field. And I won't hesitate to mention something that some might consider trivial — he'll cut a better figure at the right moment, the moment when his appearance needs to strike fear into his enemies.

So that's my opinion, Lysimachus: the boys should learn this art, for the reasons I've given. But Laches may see things differently, and I'd be very glad to hear his view.

Laches: Well, I wouldn't want to say that any kind of knowledge isn't worth learning — all knowledge seems like a good thing. So if this fighting in armor really is a genuine skill, as Nicias and the instructors claim, then sure, it should be learned. But if it's not — if the people who teach it are just fakes — or if it is a skill, but not a particularly valuable one — then what's the point?

Here's my thinking. If this were really valuable, the Spartans would have figured it out. Their whole lives are devoted to finding and practicing every art that gives them an advantage in war. And even if the Spartans somehow missed it, these instructors would surely have noticed that the Spartans, of all the Greeks, care most about military training. A master of this art who was respected in Sparta could make a fortune anywhere else — just like a tragic poet who's honored in Athens. That's why anyone who thinks he can write a tragedy comes straight to Athens to put on his play — he doesn't tour around the other cities first.

But I notice these fighting-in-armor men treat Sparta like sacred ground they won't set foot on. They make a circuit of all the neighboring cities and perform for anyone rather than the Spartans — especially for people who'd be the first to admit they're not exactly the best warriors.

And here's the other thing, Lysimachus. I've run into quite a few of these fellows in actual combat, and I can give you my assessment right now: not one of these fencing masters has ever distinguished himself in war. There's a kind of curse on them. In every other art, the notable practitioners are the ones who've actually practiced it. These men seem to be a remarkable exception.

Take this very fellow Stesilaus, the one you and I just watched performing for that big crowd, making grand claims about his skills. Well, I saw him at another time giving a far better performance — completely unintentional — and it was quite a spectacle. He was a marine on a ship that rammed a transport vessel. He was armed with a weapon that was half spear, half scythe — a contraption as peculiar as the man himself. To make a long story short, let me just tell you what happened with this famous scythe-spear of his. He was fighting, and the scythe end got tangled in the rigging of the other ship and stuck fast. He pulled and pulled, but couldn't get it free. Meanwhile, the two ships were drifting past each other. At first he ran along the deck of his own ship, hanging onto the spear. But as the transport pulled away and dragged him along, the spear slid through his hands until he was clutching just the end of the handle. The people on the transport started clapping and laughing at the ridiculous sight. Then someone threw a stone that landed on the deck at his feet, and he finally let go of the spear. At that point, even the crew of his own ship burst out laughing — they couldn't help it when they saw his weapon dangling in the air from the enemy's rigging.

Now, maybe there's something to this art, as Nicias says. But I'm telling you what I've actually seen. And as I said at the start, whether it's a skill with very little real advantage or no real skill at all, just a fraud — either way, it's not worth learning. Here's my view: if the man who claims to know this art is a coward, the training will just make him reckless, and his flaws will be even more obvious. But if he's brave and makes even the smallest mistake, everyone will be watching, and he'll be torn apart. People are jealous of anyone who claims this kind of expertise. Unless a man is truly outstanding in courage, he can't help looking ridiculous if he says he has this skill.

That's my judgment, Lysimachus, on whether this art is worth pursuing. But as I said at the start — ask Socrates, and don't let him go until he's given you his opinion.

Lysimachus: I'm going to ask you for this favor, Socrates, and it's all the more necessary because our two advisors disagree. We need someone to break the tie. If they'd agreed, we wouldn't need an arbiter. But since Laches has voted one way and Nicias another, I'd like to hear which of them you side with.

Socrates: Wait — Lysimachus, you're going to go with the majority opinion?

Lysimachus: Well, yes, Socrates. What else should I do?

Socrates: And you, Melesias — would you do the same? If you were thinking about the best gymnastic training for your son, would you follow the advice of the majority of us, or would you listen to the one person who'd actually trained and exercised under a skilled master?

Melesias: The latter, Socrates. That's only reasonable.

Socrates: His one vote would be worth more than the four of ours combined?

Melesias: Certainly.

Socrates: And that's because a good decision should be based on knowledge, not on numbers. Right?

Melesias: Exactly.

Socrates: So the first thing we need to find out is whether any one of us actually has expertise in what we're discussing. If someone does, let's listen to him, even if it's just one person, and forget about the rest. If nobody does, we'd better look elsewhere. Because this isn't some trivial matter you and Lysimachus are deciding. You're risking your greatest possessions — your children. How they turn out determines everything about your household.

Melesias: That's true.

Socrates: So we'd better be very careful about this?

Melesias: Certainly.

Socrates: Now suppose, as I was just saying, we wanted to find the best athletic trainer. Wouldn't we pick someone who actually knew and had practiced the art, someone who'd studied under the best teachers?

Melesias: I think we would.

Socrates: But wouldn't there be an even more fundamental question to settle first — what exactly is the art whose masters we're trying to find?

Melesias: I don't follow you.

Socrates: Let me try to make it clearer. I don't think we've established yet what it is we're actually consulting about — what skill we need to evaluate, and who has the right teachers for it.

Nicias: Wait, Socrates — isn't the question simply whether young men should learn to fight in armor?

Socrates: Yes, Nicias. But there's a deeper question underneath it. Let me put it this way: when someone is deciding whether to apply a certain medicine to someone's eyes, is the real question about the medicine — or about the eyes?

Nicias: About the eyes.

Socrates: And when someone is deciding whether to put a bridle on a horse, and when to do it, he's really thinking about the horse, not the bridle?

Nicias: True.

Socrates: In other words, whenever someone considers a means for the sake of an end, what he's really thinking about is the end, not the means.

Nicias: Certainly.

Socrates: So when you call in an advisor, what you need to know is whether that advisor has expertise in the end you're aiming at.

Nicias: Absolutely.

Socrates: And what we're aiming at right now is something that concerns the souls of these young men, isn't it?

Nicias: Yes.

Socrates: So what we're really asking is: which of us is skilled in caring for the soul? Which of us has had good teachers in that art?

Laches: Hold on, Socrates — haven't you ever noticed that some people who've had no teachers are more skilled than those who have?

Socrates: Yes, Laches, I've noticed that. But you wouldn't be too eager to trust them unless they could show some proof of their skill — some concrete results.

Laches: That's fair.

Socrates: So here's where we stand, Laches and Nicias. Lysimachus and Melesias want our advice on how to improve their sons' minds. We should tell them who our teachers were — if we've had any — and prove that those teachers were excellent and had real experience in training young minds. Or if any of us is self-taught, he should point to specific Athenians or foreigners — slave or free — whom he's acknowledged to have made better. But if none of us can show either teachers or results, then we should tell these men to look elsewhere. We shouldn't risk ruining the children of our friends and earning the most serious accusation a man can face from those closest to him.

As for myself, Lysimachus and Melesias — I'll be the first to confess: I've never had a teacher of virtue, even though I've wanted one my whole life. But I'm too poor to pay the Sophists, who are the only ones claiming to teach moral improvement. And I've never been able to figure it out on my own.

If Nicias or Laches have discovered or learned the art, I wouldn't be surprised. They're wealthier than I am, so they might have paid for instruction. And they're older, so they've had more time to work it out. I genuinely believe they're able to educate a man. Otherwise, why would they have spoken so confidently about what's helpful or harmful for a young man?

I trust both of them. But I'm puzzled that they disagree with each other.

So, Lysimachus, here's what I suggest — since Laches told you to hold onto me and not let me go until I answered, let me turn that around. I urge you to hold onto Laches and Nicias, and press them with questions. Here's what I'd have you say: "Socrates admits he has no knowledge of these matters — he can't decide which of you is right. He's never been a student or a discoverer of anything like this. But you, Laches and Nicias — each of you should tell us: who is the most skilled educator you've ever known? Did you discover the art yourselves, or learn it from someone? If you learned it, who were your teachers, and who else practiced the same art? And if you're too busy with politics to teach the boys yourselves, send us to your teachers. We'll bring them gifts or pull strings or whatever it takes, in the hope that they'll agree to take charge of our children and yours — so the boys don't grow up to be a disgrace to their ancestors. But if you're self-taught in this field, show us the evidence. Who started out as an inferior person and became good and noble under your guidance? Because if this is your first attempt at education, there's a real danger here — you might be experimenting not on some worthless test subject, but on your own sons and the sons of your friends. As the saying goes, you'd be 'learning to make pots by breaking the big jar.'"

Tell them to answer that, Lysimachus. Don't let them off the hook.

Lysimachus: I like what Socrates says very much. But it's up to you, Nicias and Laches — are you willing to be questioned and give an account of yourselves on these matters? Melesias and I would be delighted to hear your answers. After all, we brought you in because we thought you'd have given this subject some thought, especially since your own children are about the same age as ours.

So, if you're agreeable, why not take Socrates on as a partner? Let him ask the questions, and you answer — and question each other too. As he rightly said, we're discussing the most important thing in our lives. I hope you'll agree to this.

Nicias: I can see quite clearly, Lysimachus, that you only knew Socrates' father. You don't really know Socrates himself — or at least you only knew him as a child, tagging along with his father at sacrifices and neighborhood gatherings. You obviously haven't spent time with him since he grew up.

Lysimachus: What do you mean by that, Nicias?

Nicias: Because you don't seem to realize that anyone who gets close to Socrates and starts a conversation with him will inevitably get drawn into an argument. It doesn't matter what topic you begin with — he'll lead you around and around until you find yourself having to give an account of your entire life, past and present. And once he's got you, Socrates won't let go until he's sifted through you completely and thoroughly.

Now, I'm used to his ways. I know he'll do exactly what I'm describing, and I know I'll be on the receiving end of it — because I actually enjoy his conversation, Lysimachus. And I think there's nothing wrong with being reminded of things we've done poorly, or are doing poorly now. A man who doesn't run from honest criticism is bound to be more careful going forward. As Solon says, a man should want to keep learning as long as he lives, and not assume that old age automatically brings wisdom.

Being cross-examined by Socrates is nothing unusual or unpleasant for me. In fact, I knew all along that once Socrates was here, the conversation would shift from our sons to ourselves. So I'm perfectly willing to go along with Socrates' way of doing things. But you'd better ask our friend Laches how he feels about it.

Laches: My feelings about discussions are — well, it's complicated, Nicias. You could say I'm of two minds. When I hear a man talking about virtue or wisdom, and he's a genuine man, worthy of his subject — I'm absolutely thrilled. I look at the man, then I look at his words, and I see them fitting together in perfect harmony. That's the kind of person I call a true musician — tuned not to some lyre, but to a finer harmony. He's got the harmony of words and deeds in his own life, set not to the Ionian mode, or the Phrygian, or the Lydian, but to the true Greek mode — the Dorian, and no other. A man like that makes me happy when he speaks. People think I'm some great lover of conversation because I drink in his words so eagerly.

But when a man's actions don't match his words? He's a nuisance. And the better he speaks, the more he irritates me. Then people think I'm a hater of discussion.

As for Socrates — I don't know much about his words. But I have long experience of his deeds, and his deeds show that courage and noble feeling come to him naturally. If his words match his deeds, then I'm with him completely, and I'll be glad to be questioned by him. I won't mind learning from him one bit. I agree with Solon too — I'd gladly grow old learning many things. But I'd add one condition: learning from good people only. Socrates has to be a good teacher, or I'll be a difficult student. But the fact that the teacher is younger than me, or not yet famous — that doesn't bother me at all.

So, Socrates, consider yourself invited: teach me, challenge me, learn from me — whatever you like. That's been my opinion of you ever since the day you stood beside me in danger and proved your courage the way only a truly good man can. Say whatever you want, and don't worry about the difference in our ages.

Socrates: Well, I can't say either of you seems reluctant to think things through and join the discussion.

Lysimachus: But this is our business — yours as well as ours, since I count you as one of us. So please, Socrates, take my place and find out from Nicias and Laches what we need to know, for the boys' sake. Talk it over with them. My memory isn't what it used to be — I'm old, and I forget what I was going to ask and what the answers were. If someone interrupts, I lose the thread entirely. So I'll ask you to carry on the discussion yourselves. I'll listen, and Melesias and I will act on whatever you all conclude.

Socrates: All right, Nicias and Laches, let's do as Lysimachus and Melesias ask. There's nothing wrong with asking ourselves the question they first raised: "Who have been our teachers in this kind of training, and whom have we made better?" But there's another way of approaching the same problem that might be even better — starting from first principles.

Here's what I mean. If we knew that adding something to something else would improve it, and we were able to make that addition, then clearly we'd have to understand the thing we're trying to improve. Right? Let me put it more concretely. Suppose we knew that adding sight improves the eyes, and suppose we were able to give someone sight. Then we'd obviously have to know what sight is. If we didn't know what sight was, or what hearing was, we wouldn't be very good medical advisors about eyes or ears — we couldn't tell anyone the best way to acquire sight or hearing.

Laches: That's true, Socrates.

Socrates: And aren't these two friends of ours, Laches, asking us right now to figure out how to give their sons virtue — how to improve their minds?

Laches: Exactly.

Socrates: So don't we first need to know what virtue is? Because how can we advise anyone about the best way to get something if we don't even know what it is?

Laches: I don't think we can, Socrates.

Socrates: So we're claiming, then, that we do know what virtue is?

Laches: Yes, I'd say so.

Socrates: And if we know something, we should be able to say what it is?

Laches: Of course.

Socrates: Now, I wouldn't suggest we start by trying to define the whole of virtue — that might be too much for us. Let's begin with a part of it. That'll make things easier.

Laches: Good idea. Let's do that, Socrates.

Socrates: So which part of virtue should we pick? It should be the one that fighting in armor is supposed to develop, shouldn't it? And that's generally thought to be courage.

Laches: Yes, definitely.

Socrates: All right then, Laches. Let's start by trying to define courage. After that, we can figure out how these young men might acquire it through their studies and training. So tell me, if you can: what is courage?

Laches: That's easy, Socrates. A man of courage is one who doesn't run away but holds his position and fights the enemy. No question about it.

Socrates: Good answer, Laches. And yet I'm afraid the fault is mine — I must not have stated my question clearly enough. Because you've answered a different question from the one I meant to ask.

Laches: What do you mean, Socrates?

Socrates: I'll try to explain. You'd call a man courageous who stands his ground and fights the enemy?

Laches: I certainly would.

Socrates: So would I. But what about a man who fights while retreating, instead of standing firm?

Laches: What do you mean, "fights while retreating"?

Socrates: Well, the way the Scythians fight, for instance — attacking and retreating at the same time. And Homer praises the horses of Aeneas for knowing "how to chase and flee swiftly this way and that." He even compliments Aeneas himself for his knowledge of flight, calling him "a master of fear and retreat."

Laches: Fair enough, Socrates. But Homer was talking about chariots, and you were talking about Scythian cavalry — that's how cavalry fights. But the Greek infantryman fights the way I described: holding his ground.

Socrates: Except, Laches, for the Spartans at Plataea. When they faced the Persian light-armed troops, they reportedly refused to stand and fight — they pulled back. But when the Persian ranks broke, they turned on them like cavalry and won the battle.

Laches: That's true.

Socrates: And that's what I was getting at — the fault was mine, because I asked the question badly, which led you to answer badly. I didn't just want to know about the courage of infantry. I wanted to ask about the courage of cavalry, of every kind of soldier, of people who are brave at sea, brave in the face of illness or poverty, brave in politics. And not just people who are brave against pain and fear, but people who are tough enough to resist desires and pleasures — whether they stand their ground or turn to face the enemy. Because there is this kind of courage too, isn't there, Laches?

Laches: There certainly is, Socrates.

Socrates: All these people are courageous. But some show their courage in the face of pleasures, some in pain, some in desire, some in fear. And others are cowardly in the very same situations.

Laches: Very true.

Socrates: So what I was asking about is courage in general — the quality that's common to all these cases. Do you see what I mean now?

Laches: Not entirely.

Socrates: Here's what I mean. Suppose I asked you: "What is quickness?" Quickness shows up in running, in playing the lyre, in speaking, in learning, and in countless other activities — really, in almost everything worth doing, whether it involves arms, legs, mouth, voice, or mind. You'd agree that "quickness" applies to all of them?

Laches: Absolutely.

Socrates: Now, if someone asked me, "Socrates, what is this quality you call 'quickness' in all these different contexts?" I'd say: it's the quality of accomplishing a lot in a little time — whether in running, speaking, or anything else.

Laches: And you'd be exactly right.

Socrates: Good. Now you try. Tell me in the same way: what is that common quality called courage — the one thing that's present in all these different situations I just described, from pleasure to pain to everything else?

Laches: I'd say courage is a kind of endurance of the soul — if I'm supposed to identify the universal quality that runs through all those cases.

Socrates: That's exactly what we need to do if we're going to answer the question. But I have to say, I don't think every kind of endurance deserves to be called courage. Here's my reasoning. I'm sure, Laches, that you'd consider courage to be a noble quality?

Laches: One of the noblest, absolutely.

Socrates: And endurance guided by wisdom — that's good and noble too?

Laches: Very much so.

Socrates: But what about foolish endurance? Wouldn't you say that's harmful and bad?

Laches: True enough.

Socrates: And can anything noble also be harmful and bad?

Laches: I shouldn't say so, Socrates.

Socrates: So you wouldn't call that kind of endurance courage — since it's not noble, and courage is noble?

Laches: You're right.

Socrates: Then according to you, it's only wise endurance that counts as courage?

Laches: So it seems.

Socrates: But here's the thing — "wise" in what sense? Wise about everything, big and small? For example, if a man shows endurance in spending his money wisely, knowing that in the long run he'll earn more — would you call that courage?

Laches: Definitely not.

Socrates: Or what about a doctor whose son — or patient — has an inflammation of the lungs and begs to eat or drink something, and the doctor stands firm and refuses? Is that courage?

Laches: No, that's not courage either.

Socrates: Now consider this: a soldier who endures in battle, willing to fight, but only because he's calculated wisely that reinforcements are coming, that his side outnumbers the enemy, that the enemy is weaker, and that he has the advantage of position. This man, who endures with all this wisdom and preparation — is he braver than the soldier on the other side who's outnumbered, outmatched, in a worse position, but endures and holds his ground anyway?

Laches: I'd say the second man is braver, Socrates.

Socrates: But his endurance is foolish compared to the first man's, isn't it?

Laches: That's true.

Socrates: So you'd say that in a cavalry engagement, the man who endures without knowing how to ride is more courageous than the one who endures with that knowledge?

Laches: I would.

Socrates: And the man who endures without knowing how to use a sling, or a bow, or any other weapon — he's more courageous than the one who does have that knowledge?

Laches: Yes.

Socrates: And the man who dives into a well, or holds out in any dangerous situation, without knowing how to swim or dive — he's more courageous than the trained divers?

Laches: What else can you say, Socrates?

Socrates: Nothing — if that's what you actually believe.

Laches: And that is what I believe.

Socrates: And yet, Laches, these people who take risks and endure without any skill are being foolish compared to those who do the same things with skill.

Laches: True.

Socrates: But we agreed earlier that foolish boldness and endurance are bad and harmful.

Laches: We did.

Socrates: And we agreed that courage is noble.

Laches: Yes.

Socrates: But now we're saying that foolish endurance — the very thing we called shameful — is courage.

Laches: That does seem to be what we're saying.

Socrates: And does that sound right to you?

Laches: By Zeus, Socrates, it doesn't. Not at all.

Socrates: So by your own account, Laches, you and I aren't exactly in tune with the Dorian mode — the harmony of words and deeds. Anyone who saw us in action would say we have courage. But anyone who heard us trying to talk about courage just now? I don't think so.

Laches: That's painfully true.

Socrates: And is this a satisfactory state to be in?

Laches: The opposite of satisfactory.

Socrates: Well then, suppose we take our own principle and apply it — to a certain extent, at least.

Laches: What principle? What extent?

Socrates: The principle of endurance. We need to endure and keep pushing forward in our investigation. Otherwise courage itself will laugh at us for being faint-hearted in our search for its nature — when courage might turn out to be endurance after all.

Laches: I'm ready to keep going, Socrates, even though I'm not used to this kind of inquiry. But the fighting spirit in me has been aroused by what we've been saying, and I'm honestly frustrated that I can't put my thoughts into words. I feel like I do know what courage is. But somehow the thing keeps slipping away from me — I can't grab hold of it and say what it is.

Socrates: Well, my friend, a good hunter should follow the trail and not give up.

Laches: Absolutely.

Socrates: Then shall we invite Nicias to join the hunt? He might be better at tracking than we are. What do you think?

Laches: Sure, let's do that.

Socrates: Come on then, Nicias. Help out your friends — we're drowning in the waves of this argument, going under for the last time. If you can, save us — and settle your own opinion in the bargain. Tell us: what do you think courage is?

Nicias: I've been thinking, Socrates, that you and Laches have been going about this the wrong way. You've forgotten an excellent saying that I've heard from your own lips.

Socrates: What saying is that, Nicias?

Nicias: I've often heard you say that every man is good at what he's wise about, and bad at what he's ignorant about.

Socrates: That's certainly true, Nicias.

Nicias: So if the courageous man is good, then he must also be wise.

Socrates: Did you hear that, Laches?

Laches: I heard it, but I don't quite understand it.

Socrates: I think I do. He seems to be saying that courage is a kind of wisdom.

Laches: What kind of wisdom could he possibly mean, Socrates?

Socrates: That's a question you should ask him.

Laches: Fine.

Socrates: Go ahead then, Nicias — tell him. What kind of wisdom do you mean? Surely not the wisdom of playing the flute?

Nicias: Not at all.

Socrates: Or the wisdom of playing the lyre?

Nicias: No.

Socrates: Then what is this knowledge, and what's it about?

Laches: Good question, Socrates. I'd like to hear just what kind of knowledge he has in mind.

Nicias: What I mean, Laches, is that courage is the knowledge of what is truly to be feared and what can be safely hoped for — in war, and in everything else.

Laches: That's a strange thing to say, Socrates.

Socrates: Why do you say that, Laches?

Laches: Because courage is one thing and wisdom is another. They're obviously different.

Socrates: That's precisely what Nicias is denying.

Laches: Yes, and he's being ridiculous.

Socrates: How about we try to educate him instead of insulting him?

Nicias: No, Socrates — Laches doesn't want to educate me. He's just been shown up for talking nonsense, and now he wants to prove I'm doing the same thing.

Laches: You're right about that, Nicias — and you are talking nonsense, as I'll show you. Let me ask you something: don't doctors know the dangers of disease? Are they courageous just because they do? Or are you going to tell me doctors are the same as courageous men?

Nicias: Not at all.

Laches: And farmers know the dangers of farming. And every other craftsman knows what's fearful and what's hopeful in his own line of work. But that doesn't make any of them the least bit more courageous, does it?

Socrates: What do you make of Laches' point, Nicias? He seems to be onto something.

Nicias: He's saying something, but it's not true.

Socrates: How so?

Nicias: Because a doctor's knowledge only extends to the nature of health and disease. He can tell a sick man whether he's healthy or ill — and that's it. But Laches, do you think a doctor knows whether health or sickness is more fearful for any particular person? Wouldn't many a man be better off never getting up from his sickbed? Tell me — do you think it's always better to live than to die? Isn't death sometimes the better option?

Laches: Yes, I'd certainly say so.

Nicias: And do you think the same things are fearful for those who'd be better off dead as for those who'd be better off alive?

Laches: No, I suppose not.

Nicias: And do you think the doctor can tell which is which? Or any other craftsman, for that matter? Only the man who understands the real grounds for fear and hope can make that judgment. And that's the man I call courageous.

Socrates: Do you follow his argument, Laches?

Laches: I think so. He's saying fortune-tellers are courageous. Because who else would know whether it's better for someone to live or die? Tell me, Nicias — are you claiming to be a fortune-teller yourself? Because if not, then by your own definition, you're not courageous either.

Nicias: Hold on — you think it's the fortune-teller's job to know the grounds of hope and fear?

Laches: Of course. Whose job would it be?

Nicias: The man I'm talking about — and he's very different from a fortune-teller. The fortune-teller's job is to read the signs of things that are about to happen — death, disease, financial loss, victory, defeat. But whether experiencing or avoiding those things is actually better for a particular person? That's something the fortune-teller can't judge any better than anyone else.

Laches: I don't understand what Nicias is trying to say, Socrates. He's saying the courageous man isn't a fortune-teller, and he isn't a doctor, and he isn't anything else — unless Nicias means to say he's a god. In my opinion, Nicias just doesn't want to admit that he's talking nonsense. He's shuffling back and forth trying to hide the corner he's painted himself into.

You and I, Socrates, could have played the same game a few minutes ago, if we'd wanted to avoid looking inconsistent. If we were arguing in a courtroom, there might be a reason for that kind of dodge. But why would a man dress himself up in empty words at a friendly gathering like this?

Socrates: I completely agree that he shouldn't, Laches. But maybe Nicias is serious and not just talking for the sake of talking. Let's find out exactly what he means. If he has a good reason for what he's saying, we'll agree with him. If not, we'll set him straight.

Laches: Fine. You ask him, Socrates, if you want. I think I've asked enough.

Socrates: I don't see why not. I'll be asking for both of us.

Laches: Good.

Socrates: All right then, Nicias — or rather, tell us, since Laches and I are partners in this argument: you're saying courage is the knowledge of what is truly to be feared and truly to be hoped for?

Nicias: I am.

Socrates: And this knowledge isn't something just anyone has. A doctor doesn't have it, and a fortune-teller doesn't have it. They won't be courageous unless they acquire it — that's your position?

Nicias: It is.

Socrates: So, as the proverb goes, this definitely isn't something every pig would know. No pig could be courageous on your view.

Nicias: I don't think so.

Socrates: Clearly not, Nicias. Not even a pig as famous as the Crommyonian sow would qualify. And I'm not joking here. Anyone who accepts your definition — that courage is the knowledge of what to fear and what to hope for — can't allow that any wild animal is courageous. Unless you're prepared to say that a lion, or a leopard, or a boar has enough wisdom to know things that most humans can barely figure out. No — on your view, a lion and a deer and a bull and a monkey would all have equally little claim to courage.

Laches: Brilliant, Socrates. By the gods, that's a good point. I'd love to hear Nicias tell us whether these animals, which everyone agrees are courageous, are actually wiser than humans. Or will he have the nerve to deny their courage, against the opinion of the whole world?

Nicias: I don't call animals courageous, Laches — or anything else that doesn't fear danger because it doesn't understand danger. I call that fearless and senseless. Do you think I'd call little children courageous, just because they fear nothing since they know nothing? No — there's a difference between fearlessness and courage. In my view, true courage — thoughtful courage — is a rare quality, possessed by very few. But recklessness, boldness, fearlessness without forethought? Those are common enough — in men, women, children, and animals alike. The actions you and most people call "courageous," I call rash. The actions I call courageous are the ones guided by wisdom.

Laches: Look at that, Socrates — see how beautifully he dresses himself up with words, while trying to strip the honor of courage from the very people everyone acknowledges as courageous.

Nicias: Not at all, Laches. Don't worry — I'm perfectly willing to say that you are courageous, and Lamachus too, and plenty of other Athenians. And therefore wise.

Laches: I could reply to that. But I won't give you the satisfaction of calling me a proud Aexonian.

Socrates: Don't argue with him, Laches. I have a feeling you don't realize where he's getting this wisdom of his. He picked it up from my friend Damon, and Damon spends all his time with Prodicus, the Sophist who's considered the best of them all at splitting hairs over words.

Laches: Well, Socrates, splitting hairs is a much more fitting occupation for a Sophist than for a great statesman who's been chosen to lead the city.

Socrates: Well, my dear friend, a great statesman probably ought to have a great mind. And I think there's something in Nicias' definition of courage that deserves a serious examination.

Laches: Then examine it yourself, Socrates.

Socrates: That's what I'm going to do, my friend. But don't think you're off the hook. I expect you to stay engaged and think this through with me.

Laches: All right, if you think I should.

Socrates: I do. Now, Nicias, let's go back to the beginning. Remember, we started by treating courage as a part of virtue.

Nicias: That's right.

Socrates: And you agreed that it's one part among many. The other parts, taken together with courage, make up virtue as a whole.

Nicias: Certainly.

Socrates: Now, do we agree on what those other parts are? I'd say justice, temperance, and other qualities like them are all parts of virtue, along with courage. Wouldn't you?

Nicias: Absolutely.

Socrates: Good. So far we're on the same page. Now let's take the next step and see if we agree about what's fearful and what's hopeful. I don't want us thinking different things. So let me tell you my view, and you can correct me if I'm wrong.

In my opinion, what's fearful is what causes fear. And fear isn't directed at the present or the past — it's directed at expected future evil. Do you agree, Laches?

Laches: Completely, Socrates.

Socrates: So that's my position, Nicias. The things we fear are future evils. And the things that inspire hope are future goods — or at least, future things that aren't evil. Do you agree?

Nicias: I agree.

Socrates: And knowledge of these things is what you call courage?

Nicias: Precisely.

Socrates: Now let me see if you agree with Laches and me on a third point.

Nicias: What's that?

Socrates: Here it is. Laches and I believe that when it comes to any subject, there isn't one kind of knowledge for the past, a different one for the present, and a third for the future. There's just one knowledge that covers all three. Take medicine, for example — there's one science of medicine that understands health in the present, the past, and the future. Same with farming — one science covers the earth's produce in all times.

And as for the art of the general — you two would be my best witnesses — he's supposed to have excellent knowledge of the future. He claims to be the master, not the servant, of the fortune-teller, because he knows better what's actually happening and what's likely to happen in war. That's why the law puts the fortune-teller under the general, not the other way around. Isn't that right, Laches?

Laches: That's exactly right.

Socrates: And Nicias, do you agree that the same science understands the same things, whether they're future, present, or past?

Nicias: Yes, that's my view too, Socrates.

Socrates: Now, courage, you said, is the knowledge of what's to be feared and what's to be hoped for?

Nicias: Yes.

Socrates: And we've agreed that what's fearful and hopeful are future evils and future goods?

Nicias: True.

Socrates: And the same science deals with the same things whether they're future or in any other time?

Nicias: Yes.

Socrates: Then courage isn't just the science of the fearful and the hopeful — because those are only about the future. Courage, like every other science, must cover its subject in all times — past, present, and future.

Nicias: That seems to follow.

Socrates: So, Nicias, you've only given us about a third of what courage is. But our question was about the whole nature of courage. And on your view, it seems courage isn't just knowledge of what to fear and what to hope for. It's knowledge of practically all good and evil, in every time period. Would you like to revise your definition?

Nicias: I suppose I would, Socrates.

Socrates: But think about it, my friend. A man who had knowledge of all good and evil — how they are, how they've been, and how they'll be — would he be lacking any virtue at all? Wouldn't he have justice, temperance, piety — the whole lot? He'd know which things are truly dangerous and which aren't. He'd know how to deal with both gods and men. He'd be able to secure the good and guard against the evil in every situation.

Nicias: I think there's a lot of truth in that, Socrates.

Socrates: But then, Nicias, on this new definition of yours, courage wouldn't be just one part of virtue. It would be all of virtue.

Nicias: It would seem so.

Socrates: But we said courage is one of the parts of virtue?

Nicias: Yes, that's what we said.

Socrates: And that contradicts what we're saying now?

Nicias: It appears so.

Socrates: Then, Nicias, we haven't discovered what courage is.

Nicias: We haven't.

Laches: And yet, my dear Nicias, I had such high hopes that you'd crack it — since you were so contemptuous of the answers I gave Socrates. I was really counting on the wisdom of Damon to save you.

Nicias: That's lovely, Laches. You think it doesn't matter at all that you've been exposed as someone who doesn't know what courage is — all you care about is whether I'm in the same boat. Apparently, if we're both equally ignorant, that's just fine with you. You seem like most people — always looking at your neighbor instead of at yourself.

Well, I think we've said enough for today. If anything was poorly stated, it can be corrected later — with Damon's help, and others'. And when I've worked it out to my own satisfaction, I'll share what I've found with you. It sounds like you could use the help.

Laches: Oh, you're a real philosopher, Nicias — I can see that. But I'd still advise Lysimachus and Melesias not to rely on you or me for advice about their sons' education. As I said at the start, they should ask Socrates and not let him off the hook. If my own boys were old enough, that's what I'd do.

Nicias: I completely agree — if Socrates is willing to take them on. I wouldn't want anyone else as a tutor for my son Niceratus. But every time I bring it up with him, he recommends someone else and won't do it himself. Maybe he'll listen to you, Lysimachus.

Lysimachus: That's only fair, Nicias. I'd certainly do things for Socrates that I wouldn't do for many others. What do you say, Socrates — will you help? Are you willing to take a hand in improving these young men?

Socrates: It would be wrong of me, Lysimachus, to refuse to help anyone improve. And if this conversation had shown that I have knowledge that Nicias and Laches don't, then you'd be right to ask me specifically. But we're all in the same perplexity. None of us has found the answer. So why should any one of us be preferred over the others?

I don't think any of us should be. So here's my advice — and this can stay between us. I think every one of us should seek out the best teacher he can find — first for ourselves, because we badly need it, and then for the boys. We shouldn't spare any expense or effort. But I can't advise that we just stay the way we are now.

And if anyone laughs at us for going to school at our age, I'd quote Homer, who says:

"Modesty is not good for a needy man."

Let's forget what people might say. Let the education of these young men be our own education too.

Lysimachus: I like your proposal, Socrates. And since I'm the oldest, I'm also the most eager to go back to school alongside the boys. Here's what I ask: come to my house tomorrow at dawn, and we'll discuss this further. But for now, let's end here.

Socrates: I'll come to you tomorrow, Lysimachus, as you suggest — God willing.

Lysis

Persons of the dialogue:
  Socrates, who is the narrator
  Menexenus
  Hippothales
  Lysis
  Ctesippus

Scene: A newly built wrestling school outside the walls of Athens.

Or, Friendship

I was walking from the Academy straight to the Lyceum, taking the outer road that runs close along the city wall. When I reached the postern gate by the fountain of Panops, I ran into Hippothales, the son of Hieronymus, and Ctesippus from the deme of Paeania, along with a group of young men standing around them. Hippothales spotted me coming and called out, "Where are you coming from, Socrates, and where are you headed?"

"I'm going from the Academy straight to the Lyceum," I said.

"Well, come straight to us instead," he said. "Come on, join us. It'll be worth your time."

"Who's 'us'?" I said. "And where exactly am I supposed to come?"

He pointed to an enclosed area with an open doorway set into the wall. "That's the building where we all hang out. And we've got a great crowd."

"What is this place?" I asked. "And what do you do here?"

"It's a brand new wrestling school," he said. "We mostly just talk. And you're welcome to join."

"That's kind of you," I said. "Is there a teacher?"

"Yes," he said. "Your old friend and admirer, Miccus."

"Really!" I said. "He's quite a distinguished instructor."

"So, are you coming?" he said. "Want to come see the group?"

"Sure," I said. "But first tell me something — what's expected of me? And who's the boy you're all in love with?"

"Different people have different favorites, Socrates," he said.

"And who's yours?" I asked. "Tell me that, Hippothales."

He blushed. So I said to him, "Hippothales, son of Hieronymus! Don't bother telling me whether you're in love or not — the confession is already too late. I can see not only that you're in love, but that you're in deep. I'm a simple, foolish sort of person, but the gods have given me the ability to spot this kind of thing."

He blushed even more.

Ctesippus jumped in: "I love watching you blush, Hippothales, and getting all tongue-tied about telling Socrates the name. If Socrates spent even a little time with you, you'd bore him to death talking about nothing else. Honestly, Socrates, the man has deafened us and stuffed our ears with his praises of Lysis. And if he's had a little wine? We might as well kiss our sleep goodbye — it'll be 'Lysis this' and 'Lysis that' all night long. His prose performances are bad enough, but they're nothing compared to his poetry. And when he drowns us in poems and songs dedicated to his beloved — that's truly unbearable. The worst part is his singing voice. It's genuinely horrifying, and we can't escape it. And now you ask him a question and look — he's blushing."

"Who is Lysis?" I said. "He must be young, because the name doesn't ring a bell."

"Well," said Ctesippus, "his father is pretty well known, so people still call the boy by his father's name. You might not know his name, but I'm sure you'd recognize his face — that's enough to pick him out."

"Tell me whose son he is," I said.

"He's the eldest son of Democrates, from the deme of Aexone."

"Well, Hippothales!" I said. "What a noble and altogether impressive love you've found! Now do me a favor — give me the same performance you've been putting on for these fellows. I want to judge whether you know how a lover ought to talk about his beloved, either to the boy himself or to others."

"Socrates, please," he said. "You're not really taking what Ctesippus says seriously?"

"What do you mean?" I said. "Are you denying you're in love with the person he mentioned?"

"No," he said. "But I deny that I write poems or compositions about him."

"He's lost his mind," said Ctesippus. "He's talking nonsense. Completely delusional."

"Hippothales," I said, "I don't actually want to hear the poems or songs you've written for your favorite. I just want to know what they're about — the general approach — so I can judge your technique for winning him over."

"Ctesippus can tell you," he said. "If, as he claims, the sound of my words is constantly ringing in his ears, he must have them practically memorized."

"Oh, I know them only too well," said Ctesippus, "and the whole thing is ridiculous. Here's a man desperately in love, and he can't think of anything to say to his beloved that a child couldn't come up with. Isn't that absurd? All he talks about is the wealth of Democrates, and grandfather Lysis, and the boy's other ancestors, and their stable of horses, and their victories at the Pythian Games, and the Isthmus, and Nemea — with four-horse chariots and single horses. That's the kind of stuff he composes and recites to us. But there's even sillier stuff. Just the other day he wrote a poem about Heracles being entertained as a guest, because Heracles was supposedly a relative of the family. He traced how one of Lysis's ancestors received Heracles on account of this connection — and this ancestor was himself descended from Zeus through the daughter of the deme's founder. These are the kinds of old grandmother's tales he sings and recites to us, and we're forced to listen."

When I heard all this, I said, "You ridiculous man, Hippothales! You're composing and singing victory hymns about yourself before you've even won?"

"But my songs and poems aren't about myself, Socrates," he said.

"You think they're not?" I said.

"Well, what do you think?" he said.

"They absolutely are," I said. "Here's the thing: if you win this beautiful love of yours, everything you've said and sung will reflect brilliantly on you — they'll be victory hymns for the man who conquered and won such a prize. But if he slips away from you, the more you've praised him, the more ridiculous you'll look for having lost something so wonderful. So a wise lover doesn't praise his beloved until he's actually won him, because he's afraid of how things might turn out. And there's another danger too: beautiful people, when they're praised and made much of, get puffed up with pride and vanity. Don't you agree?"

"I do," he said.

"And the more vain they become, the harder they are to catch?"

"I believe so."

"What would you say about a hunter who scared away his prey and made the animals he's trying to catch harder to get?"

"He'd be a terrible hunter, obviously."

"Right. And using words and songs to excite rather than soothe — that would be pretty foolish, wouldn't you say? So think about it, Hippothales — make sure you're not guilty of all these mistakes in your poetry. Because I doubt you'd say a man is a good poet who hurts himself with his own work."

"No, of course not," he said. "That would be stupid. And that's exactly why I'm coming to you for advice, Socrates. Tell me — what should I say or do to make my beloved like me?"

"That's not easy to figure out," I said. "But if you'll bring your beloved to me and let me talk with him, I might be able to show you how to have a conversation with him — instead of singing and reciting the way they've been accusing you of."

"That won't be hard," he said. "Just go into the wrestling school with Ctesippus and sit down and start talking. I'm pretty sure Lysis will come over on his own — he loves listening, Socrates. And since today is the festival of Hermes, the boys and young men are all mixed together with no separation. He'll come for sure. But if he doesn't, Ctesippus knows him, and his cousin Menexenus is Lysis's best friend. Menexenus can call him over."

"That's the plan," I said. And with that, I led Ctesippus into the wrestling school, and the others followed.

When we went in, we found that the boys had just finished making their sacrifices, and that part of the festival was wrapping up. They were all dressed in white, and dice games were going on among them. Most of them were out in the courtyard having fun, but some were off in a corner of the changing room playing odds-and-evens with a bunch of dice they were pulling out of little wicker baskets. A ring of spectators stood around watching. Among them was Lysis. He stood there with the other boys and young men, a garland on his head, looking like a vision — and every bit as deserving of praise for his character as for his looks.

We moved to the other side of the room, found a quiet spot, and sat down to talk. This caught Lysis's attention. He kept turning around to look at us — obviously wanting to come over. For a while he hesitated, too shy to come alone. But then his friend Menexenus came in from the courtyard, and when he spotted Ctesippus and me, he started heading over to sit with us. Lysis saw him and followed, sitting down at his side. Then the other boys drifted over too.

I noticed that Hippothales, when he saw the crowd forming, positioned himself behind them where Lysis couldn't see him — afraid of annoying the boy. And from there he stood and listened.

I turned to Menexenus and said, "Son of Demophon, which of you two is older?"

"That's something we argue about," he said.

"And which of you is more noble? Do you argue about that too?"

"Oh yes, definitely."

"And I suppose you also argue about which is better looking?"

The two boys laughed.

"I won't ask which of you is richer," I said, "because you're friends, aren't you?"

"Definitely," they both said.

"And friends share everything in common — so neither of you can be richer than the other, if you truly are friends."

They agreed. I was about to ask which of them was more just and which was wiser, but just then someone came and called Menexenus away, saying the gymnastics teacher needed him. I figured he had to go help with a sacrifice. So off he went, and I turned back to Lysis.

"Lysis," I said, "I'd guess your father and mother love you very much."

"They sure do," he said.

"And they'd want you to be perfectly happy."

"Of course."

"But do you think anyone is happy who's basically a slave and can't do what he wants?"

"I really don't think so," he said.

"So if your father and mother love you and want you to be happy, they must go out of their way to make sure you are."

"Of course," he said.

"So they let you do whatever you like and never scold you or stop you from doing what you want?"

"Actually, Socrates, there are tons of things they won't let me do."

"Wait, what?" I said. "They want you to be happy but stop you from doing what you like? For example — if you wanted to climb into one of your father's chariots and grab the reins during a race, they wouldn't let you, would they?"

"No," he said. "They definitely wouldn't."

"Well, who do they let drive?"

"There's a charioteer my father pays."

"So they trust a hired man more than their own son? They let him do whatever he wants with the horses and pay him for it?"

"But I bet they let you take the whip and drive the mule cart, right? They'd allow that?"

"Allow it?" he said. "They would not!"

"So is nobody allowed to whip the mules?" I said.

"The muleteer is," he said.

"And is he a slave or a free man?"

"A slave," he said.

"So they value a slave more than you, their own son? They trust their property to him rather than to you, and let him do what he likes while you're forbidden? Answer me this: are you your own master, or don't they even allow that?"

"No," he said. "Of course they don't."

"So who's your master?"

"My tutor — there he is," he said.

"And is he a slave?"

"He sure is — he's our slave."

"That's remarkable," I said. "A free person being governed by a slave. And what does this tutor do with you?"

"He takes me to my teachers."

"Don't tell me your teachers boss you around too?"

"They sure do."

"So apparently your father takes great pleasure in loading you up with masters and rulers. But at least when you go home to your mother, she lets you have your way, right? She wouldn't interfere with your happiness. When she's working with her wool or weaving at the loom, she lets you help yourself to her things — the shuttle, the comb, the rest of her weaving tools. I'm sure nothing stops you from touching them."

"Ha!" he said, laughing. "Socrates, she doesn't just stop me — I'd get a beating if I touched any of them."

"Good heavens!" I said. "Have you ever done something terrible to your father or mother?"

"Absolutely not," he said.

"Then why on earth are they so determined to keep you from being happy and doing what you like? They keep you in somebody's charge all day long, doing nothing you want to do. So it seems like you get no benefit at all from your family's enormous wealth — everyone controls it but you — and no use of your own body either, since someone else looks after that too. You, Lysis, are master of nothing and can do nothing you choose."

"Well, Socrates," he said, "the reason is that I'm not old enough."

"I doubt that's really it," I said. "After all, I'd imagine there are plenty of things your father Democrates and your mother do let you do without waiting for you to grow up. For instance, if they need something read or written, I'd bet you're the first person in the household they'd call on."

"True," he said.

"And they let you write the letters in any order you want, and pick up the lyre and tune the strings and pluck them however you please. They don't interfere with any of that."

"That's right," he said.

"So what's the reason, Lysis? Why do they let you do some things and not others?"

"I suppose," he said, "it's because I understand some things and not others."

"Exactly, my young friend," I said. "It's not about your age at all — it's about your knowledge. And the moment your father decides you're wiser than he is about something, he'll hand it right over to you — himself and his property included."

"I think so."

"And your neighbor too — doesn't the same rule apply? If he's convinced you know more about running a household than he does, will he keep managing his own affairs, or hand them over to you?"

"I think he'd hand them over."

"And what about the Athenian people? Won't they trust you with their affairs once they see you have the wisdom to handle them?"

"And here — let me push this further. The Great King of Persia has an eldest son, the Prince of Asia. Now suppose you and I went to the Great King and convinced him we were better cooks than his son. Would he let us manage the kitchen — toss in whatever we liked while the pot was boiling — rather than his own son?"

"Us, clearly."

"And we'd be allowed to throw in salt by the handful, while the prince couldn't put in so much as a pinch?"

"Right."

"Or suppose the prince had bad eyes. Would the king let him touch his own eyes if the king thought the prince didn't know anything about medicine?"

"He wouldn't."

"But if the king believed we knew medicine, he'd let us do whatever we wanted — even pry the prince's eyes wide open and sprinkle ashes in them — because he'd trust that we knew best?"

"That's true."

"And anything at all where we seemed wiser than the king or his son — he'd leave it to us?"

"Necessarily so, Socrates," he said.

"So here's the point, Lysis," I said. "In anything we truly understand, everyone will trust us — Greeks and foreigners, men and women alike. We'll be free to do as we see fit, no one will want to interfere with us, we'll be in charge, and these will truly be ours, because we'll benefit from them. But in areas where we have no understanding, no one will trust us to do what we think is best. Everyone will hold us back as much as they can — and not just strangers, but our own father and mother, and anyone else who's even dearer to us. In those areas, we'll be subject to others, and those things won't really be ours, because we won't benefit from them. Do you agree?"

He agreed.

"And will anyone be our friend, will anyone love us, in areas where we're useless to them?"

"Certainly not."

"So as it stands, not even your father or mother can love you, and nobody else can love anybody, insofar as they're useless."

"And so, my boy, if you become wise, everyone will be your friend and everyone will feel close to you — because you'll be useful and good. But if you're not wise, no one will be your friend — not your father, not your mother, not your own family. And in matters you don't yet understand, can you really be full of yourself about them?"

"That's impossible," he said.

"And you, Lysis, if you still need a teacher, haven't yet reached wisdom."

"True."

"And so you're not puffed up — since you have nothing to be puffed up about."

"Honestly, Socrates, I don't think I am."

When I heard him say this, I glanced over at Hippothales. I very nearly made a blunder — I almost said to him, "That's how you should talk to your beloved, Hippothales — humbling him and bringing him down to size, instead of what you do, which is puff him up and spoil him." But I saw that Hippothales was in a state of excitement and confusion over what had just happened. And I remembered that, even though he was standing nearby, he didn't want Lysis to notice him. So I thought better of it and kept quiet.

Just then Menexenus came back and sat down in his spot next to Lysis. And Lysis, in that sweet, boyish way of his, leaned over and whispered in my ear so Menexenus wouldn't hear: "Socrates, tell Menexenus what you were just telling me."

"Why don't you tell him yourself, Lysis?" I said. "I'm sure you were paying attention."

"Oh, I was," he said.

"Then try to remember what we said, and repeat it to him as exactly as you can. If you forget something, ask me again next time you see me."

"I will, Socrates, I promise. But go on and tell him something new. Let me listen for as long as I'm allowed to stay."

"Well, I can hardly refuse," I said, "since you're asking. But fair warning — Menexenus is pretty combative. You may need to come to my rescue if he tries to trip me up."

"Oh, I know," he said. "He's very combative. That's exactly why I want you to argue with him."

"So I can make a fool of myself?" I said.

"No!" he said. "So you can put him in his place."

"That's easier said than done," I said. "He's formidable — he's been trained by Ctesippus. And look, Ctesippus himself is right here."

"Never mind that, Socrates. Just argue with him."

"All right, I suppose I must," I said.

At this point Ctesippus complained that the two of us were whispering and keeping the feast to ourselves.

"I'll be happy to share," I said. "Here's the situation: Lysis didn't quite follow something I was saying, and he wants me to ask Menexenus about it, since he thinks Menexenus might know."

"Well, why don't you ask him?" said Ctesippus.

"That's what I'll do," I said. "So, Menexenus, answer me this. But first, let me tell you something about myself. Ever since I was a boy, I've had my heart set on one thing. Everyone has their passion — some people want horses, some want dogs, some want gold, some want fame. None of those things get me very excited. But friends? I have a passion for friends. I'd rather have a good friend than the finest rooster or quail in the world. I'd go even further — I'd rather have one than the best horse or dog alive. And by the dog of Egypt, I'd much rather have a true friend than all the gold of Darius — or even Darius himself. That's how much I value friendship.

"And that's why, when I look at you and Lysis — so young, and yet you've already gotten hold of this treasure so easily and so quickly, each of you having the other — I'm amazed. I'm delighted. Because here I am, getting on in years, and I'm so far from having found anything like that, I don't even know how one goes about making a friend.

"But that's exactly what I want to ask you about, since you have actual experience. Tell me: when one person loves another, which one is the friend? The one who loves, or the one who's loved? Or could either of them be the friend?"

"Either one, I'd think," said Menexenus.

"Wait," I said. "You mean that if only one of them loves the other, they're both friends?"

"Yes," he said. "That's what I mean."

"But what if the lover isn't loved back? That happens all the time."

"Sure."

"Or what if he's actually hated? Lovers sometimes imagine exactly that — that they're not loved in return, or even that they're despised. And nothing exceeds their love. Isn't that true?"

"Yes," he said. "Quite true."

"So in that case, one person loves and the other is loved?"

"Yes."

"Then which one is the friend? Is the lover the friend of the beloved, whether the beloved loves him back or even hates him? Or is the beloved the friend? Or is there no friendship at all unless both love each other?"

"It seems like there's no friendship at all," he said.

"Hm. That doesn't line up with what we said before. We were saying that both are friends if just one of them loves. But now it seems like neither is a friend unless they both love."

"That does seem to follow."

"So nothing that doesn't love back can be a friend to its lover?"

"I don't think so."

"Then there are no horse-lovers, if the horses don't love them back? No lovers of quail, or dogs, or wine, or athletics? No lovers of wisdom — unless wisdom loves them in return? Or do they love these things even though the things aren't their friends? Was the poet wrong who said:

"'Happy the man to whom his children are dear, and single-hoofed steeds, and hounds of the chase, and a friend in a foreign land'?"

"I don't think the poet was wrong," he said.

"You think he's right?"

"Yes."

"Then, Menexenus, it seems the conclusion is this: what is loved, whether it loves back or even hates, can still be dear to the one who loves it. Think about very young children — too young to love, or even actively resenting their father or mother when they're being punished. They're never dearer to their parents than at the very moment when they hate them."

"I think you're right," he said.

"So it's the beloved, not the lover, who is the true friend?"

"It seems so."

"And the hated one, not the hater, is the true enemy?"

"Apparently."

"Then many people are loved by their enemies and hated by their friends — friends to their enemies and enemies to their friends. But how absurd is that, my friend? How impossible — being an enemy to your friend, or a friend to your enemy?"

"I completely agree, Socrates. That can't be right."

"So if that's impossible, then the lover must be the friend of the beloved?"

"It seems so."

"And the hater must be the enemy of the hated?"

"That follows."

"But wait — we're running into the same problem as before. A person can be the friend of someone who isn't his friend, or who's even his enemy — if he loves someone who doesn't love him back, or who actually hates him. And he can be the enemy of someone who isn't his enemy, or who's actually his friend — if he hates someone who doesn't hate him, or who even loves him."

"That seems to be true."

"Then if the lover isn't necessarily a friend, and the beloved isn't necessarily a friend, and the two of them together aren't necessarily friends — what are we left with? Who are we supposed to call friends? Is there anyone left?"

"Honestly, Socrates, I'm stuck," said Menexenus.

"Maybe," I said, "we've been going about this the wrong way entirely?"

"I'm sure we have, Socrates," said Lysis. He blushed as he spoke. The words seemed to slip out on their own — his whole mind had been absorbed in the argument. You couldn't miss the intensity on his face as he'd been listening.

I was pleased by Lysis's engagement, and I wanted to give Menexenus a break, so I turned to Lysis and said, "I think you're right, Lysis. If we'd been on the right track, we wouldn't have gone this far astray. Let's not keep going down this road — it's getting rough. Let's try a different path. Let's look at what the poets say, since they're a kind of father and source of wisdom for us. They don't treat the subject of friendship lightly. They say it's God himself who brings friends together, drawing like to like. I think they put it something like this:

"'God always draws like to like, and brings them together.'

"You've heard that, haven't you?"

"Yes," he said.

"And haven't you also come across the philosophers who write about nature and the universe? They argue that like must love like."

"Yes, I have," he said.

"And are they right?"

"Maybe," he said.

"Perhaps half right," I said. "Or maybe even completely right — if we understood their meaning correctly. Because the more time a bad person spends with another bad person, the more closely they're thrown together, the more they're likely to hate each other. Bad people harm each other, and you can't be friends with someone who harms you. Right?"

"Right," he said.

"So half the saying is already wrong, if wicked people are supposed to be like one another and therefore friends."

"That's true."

"But I think what the saying really means is this: good people are alike, and they're friends with one another. Bad people, on the other hand — as people often say about them — are never really at peace with each other or even with themselves. They're restless and unstable. And anything that's at war with itself is hardly going to be in harmony with anything else. Don't you agree?"

"I do."

"So, my friend, what they're really saying — if I understand them correctly — is that only the good are friends with the good. Bad people never achieve true friendship, not with good people and not with each other."

He nodded.

"Then we have our answer about who friends are: the good are friends."

"That seems right," he said.

"It does," I said. "And yet — I'm not entirely satisfied. By Zeus, let me tell you what's bothering me. Suppose like is the friend of like, insofar as they're alike — is that really useful? Or let me put it another way: can someone who's just like you do you any good or any harm that you couldn't do to yourself? Can you experience anything from your likeness that you wouldn't experience on your own? And if neither of you can be any use to the other, how can you be dear to each other? Can you?"

"No, we can't."

"And can someone who isn't loved be a friend?"

"Certainly not."

"All right, but forget the 'like' part for a moment. Maybe the good can still be friends with the good, not because they're alike, but because they're good?"

"Fair enough."

"But think about this: won't the good person, insofar as he's good, be self-sufficient? And someone who's self-sufficient doesn't need anything — that's what self-sufficient means."

"Of course."

"And someone who doesn't need anything won't desire anything."

"No."

"And someone who doesn't desire anything can't love what he doesn't desire."

"True."

"And someone who doesn't love isn't a friend."

"Clearly not."

"Then where does friendship fit in? If good people don't need each other when they're apart — since they're self-sufficient even alone — and have no use for each other when they're together, why would they value each other at all?"

"They couldn't."

"And they can't be friends unless they value each other."

"True."

"So, Lysis, are we being led astray here? Are we completely wrong?"

"How so?" he said.

"Haven't I heard someone say — and now I'm starting to remember — that like is actually the greatest enemy of like, and good of good? And he cited Hesiod as his authority:

"'Potter quarrels with potter, poet with poet, beggar with beggar.'

"And he claimed the same was true of everything: the things most alike are most full of envy, rivalry, and hatred toward each other, while the things most unlike are most full of friendship. The poor man is compelled to be friends with the rich, the weak with the strong, the sick with the doctor. Everyone who's ignorant has to seek out and court the one who knows. In fact, he went on quite grandly to say that the whole idea of like being friendly with like is completely wrong — it's the exact opposite. The most opposed things are the most friendly. Everything desires not what's like it, but what's most unlike it. The dry desires the moist, the cold desires the hot, the bitter desires the sweet, the sharp desires the blunt, the empty desires the full, the full desires the empty. Opposites feed on opposites, while like gets nothing from like.

"I have to say, it was a charming argument, and well put. What do you all think?"

"At first hearing," said Menexenus, "it sounds right."

"So we should say the greatest friendship is between opposites?"

"Hold on, Menexenus. Won't the clever debaters pounce on us and triumphantly ask: isn't love the exact opposite of hate? And what will we say — won't we have to admit they're right?"

"We will."

"Then they'll ask: is an enemy the friend of a friend? Or a friend the friend of an enemy?"

"Neither," he said.

"Is a just person the friend of an unjust person? Or a self-controlled person the friend of someone with no self-control? Or a good person the friend of a bad person?"

"I don't see how that's possible."

"And yet," I said, "if friendship works by opposites, then opposites have to be friends."

"Then neither like and like nor unlike and unlike are friends."

"It seems not."

"But let's consider one more thing. Maybe we've been wrong about all of this, and the truth is something different entirely. Maybe what is neither good nor evil can sometimes be a friend of the good."

"What do you mean?" he said.

"Well, honestly," I said, "I hardly know what I mean — my head is spinning from all this argument. So let me take a guess. Maybe 'the beautiful is the friend,' as the old proverb says. Beauty is a soft, smooth, slippery thing — it slides right into our souls almost without us noticing. And I'd say the good is the beautiful. Would you agree?"

"Here's my hunch: what is neither good nor evil is a friend of the beautiful and the good. Let me explain why. I'm going to say there are three categories of things: the good, the bad, and what's neither good nor bad. You'd agree?"

"Yes."

"And we've already ruled out that the good is the friend of the good, the evil of the evil, or the good of the evil. Our earlier arguments took care of all that. So if friendship exists at all, what's neither good nor evil must be the friend of the good, or of what's also neither good nor evil. Nothing can be friends with the bad."

"Right."

"But like can't be friends with like, as we just said."

"Correct."

"So what's neither good nor evil can't be friends with other things that are neither good nor evil."

"Clearly not."

"Then the good alone is the friend of what is neither good nor evil."

"That seems to follow."

"And doesn't this point us in the right direction? Think about it this way: a body that's healthy doesn't need medicine or any kind of help — it's perfectly fine on its own. A healthy person has no love for the doctor, because he's healthy."

"He doesn't."

"But a sick person does love the doctor, because he's sick?"

"Yes."

"And sickness is a bad thing, while medicine is a good and useful thing?"

"Right."

"And the human body, considered just as a body, is neither good nor evil in itself?"

"Yes."

"And the body is driven, because of disease, to seek out and befriend the art of medicine?"

"Yes."

"So what is neither good nor evil becomes the friend of the good, because of the presence of evil?"

"It looks that way."

"And clearly, this has to happen before the thing has become completely corrupted by evil. Because if it had become evil itself, it wouldn't still desire the good or be friendly with it — we said the evil can't be friends with the good."

"Impossible."

"Now, here's an important distinction. Some things are changed in their nature when something else is present in them, and some things aren't. Take an ointment or dye applied to a surface, for example."

"Is the substance that's been dyed the same thing as the color applied to it?"

"What do you mean?" he said.

"Here's what I mean. Suppose I covered your brown hair with white lead — would your hair actually be white, or would it just look white?"

"It would only look white," he said.

"And yet whiteness would be present in it?"

"Yes."

"But it wouldn't really be white at all, despite whiteness being present. It wouldn't be white any more than it would be black."

"Right."

"But when old age brings whiteness naturally into hair, then it really does become white — it's made white by the genuine presence of white."

"Obviously."

"So here's my question: when something is present in something else, is the thing always changed in its nature? Or only when the presence is of a particular kind?"

"The latter," he said.

"Then what is neither good nor evil can have evil present in it without actually becoming evil — at least not yet?"

"Right."

"And when something has evil present in it but hasn't yet become evil itself, the presence of evil makes it desire the good. But the presence of evil that actually makes a thing evil — that destroys its desire for the good and its friendship with it. Because at that point it's no longer something that's both good and evil, but purely evil. And evil, we said, can't be friends with the good."

"True."

"And this is why we say that people who are already wise — whether gods or mortals — no longer love wisdom. And people who are so deeply ignorant that they've become bad can't love wisdom either, because no truly evil or ignorant person is a lover of wisdom. What's left are the people who have the misfortune to be ignorant but aren't yet hardened in their ignorance — people who don't know what they don't know, but haven't lost their ability to recognize it. These are the lovers of wisdom: neither fully good nor fully bad. The bad don't love wisdom any more than the good do — because, as we've seen, unlike doesn't befriend unlike, and like doesn't befriend like. Remember?"

"Yes," they both said.

"So, Lysis and Menexenus, we've discovered the nature of friendship — no question about it. Friendship is the love that what is neither good nor evil has for the good, because of the presence of evil — whether in the soul, the body, or anywhere else."

They both agreed and gave their wholehearted assent. And for a moment I felt that rush of satisfaction, like a hunter who's just grabbed hold of his prey.

But then the strangest suspicion crept over me. I had a feeling our conclusion was wrong. It was painful, and I said, "Oh no, Lysis and Menexenus — I'm afraid we've only been grasping at shadows."

"Why do you say that?" said Menexenus.

"I'm afraid," I said, "that our argument about friendship is false. Arguments, like people, can be imposters."

"What do you mean?" he said.

"Look at it this way," I said. "A friend is always the friend of someone, right?"

"Certainly."

"And does he have a reason and an object in being a friend? Or no reason and no object?"

"He has a reason and an object."

"And is the object that makes him a friend something dear to him? Or something neither dear nor hateful?"

"I don't quite follow," he said.

"That's fair," I said. "Let me put it differently. A sick man — we were just saying — is the friend of the doctor, right?"

"Yes."

"And he's the doctor's friend because of disease, and for the sake of health?"

"Yes."

"And disease is a bad thing?"

"Obviously."

"And health — is it good, bad, or neither?"

"Good," he said.

"So we were saying that the body, which is neither good nor evil, because of disease — that is, because of something bad — is a friend of medicine. And medicine has taken on this friendship for the sake of health, which is good."

"Right."

"And health is a friend?"

"Yes."

"And disease is an enemy?"

"Certainly."

"Then what is neither good nor evil is a friend of the good, because of the bad, and for the sake of the good?"

"So it seems."

"The friend is a friend for the sake of a friend, and because of an enemy?"

"Apparently."

"All right, boys — let's be careful here and watch out for being tricked. I won't bother going back to the point that 'the friend is a friend of a friend' and 'like is a friend of like,' since we already ruled that out. But let's look closely at this new idea so it doesn't fool us. We said medicine is a friend — for the sake of health, right?"

"Yes."

"And health is also a friend?"

"Yes."

"And if it's a friend, it must be a friend for the sake of something?"

"Yes."

"Something that's also a friend, given what we've agreed?"

"Right."

"And that friend involves another friend?"

"Yes."

"But if we keep going like this, won't we eventually arrive at some first principle of friendship — some ultimate thing that isn't 'for the sake of' anything else, and for the sake of which everything else is dear? That's where we'll have to stop."

"Yes."

"Here's what worries me: all those other things we call dear 'for the sake of something else' — they might just be illusions. The real friend, the true foundation — that's where genuine friendship lives. Let me put it this way: imagine a man has a treasure — say, a son, who's more precious to him than anything else he owns. Now, if the father found out his son had drunk hemlock, and he believed wine could save him — would he value the wine?"

"Of course."

"And the cup that held the wine?"

"Sure."

"But does he value the wine or the clay cup the same way he values his son? Of course not. All his concern isn't really about the means — it's about the thing those means are meant to protect. We often say we place great value on gold and silver, but that's not really true. What we truly value is some further thing — whatever it may be — for the sake of which we pursue gold and everything else. Right?"

"Absolutely."

"And can't we say the same thing about friendship? When we call something dear 'for the sake of something else,' we're not using the word properly. The truly dear thing — the real friend — is whatever all those chains of 'for the sake of' finally lead to."

"That seems right," he said.

"And this truly dear thing, this ultimate friend — it's not for the sake of any further friend?"

"No."

"Good. Then we're done with the idea that friendship has some further object beyond itself. Can we say, then, that the good is the true friend?"

"I think so."

"And the good is loved because of evil? Here's what I mean: suppose that of our three categories — good, evil, and neither — evil just vanished entirely, and in no way affected soul or body or anything else. Would the good still be any use to us? If nothing could hurt us anymore, we'd have no need of anything to help us. And then it would be clear that we only loved the good because of evil — the good was the cure, and evil was the disease. But take away the disease, and there's no need for the cure. Is this the nature of the good — that it's loved by us, who stand between good and evil, only because of evil? And that the good, in itself and for its own sake, is useless?"

"It looks that way."

"Then the ultimate friend — the endpoint where all other friendships lead — is of a completely different nature from those other friendships. Those other things are called 'friends' only for the sake of some further friend. But the truly dear thing works in reverse: it's proved to be dear because of the hated, and if the hated were removed, it would no longer be dear."

"That seems right," he said. "At least if our current argument holds."

"But wait," I said. "Tell me this: if evil were to vanish entirely, would we stop feeling hungry? Or thirsty? Or having any desire at all? Or would hunger still exist as long as humans and animals exist — just not in a harmful way? Would the same go for thirst and all other desires — they'd still be there, but wouldn't be evil, because evil itself had disappeared? Or is it silly to even ask what would or wouldn't exist in a world so different from ours? I don't know. But this much I do know: right now, in our world, hunger can hurt us and it can also help us. True?"

"True."

"And the same for thirst, and every other desire — sometimes good, sometimes bad, sometimes neither?"

"Exactly."

"But is there any reason why, just because evil vanishes, the things that aren't evil should vanish too?"

"No."

"Then even if evil disappeared, desires that are neither good nor evil would remain?"

"Obviously."

"And won't a person love and desire the thing he's longing for?"

"Of course."

"So even without evil, there would still be love and friendship?"

"Yes."

"But not if evil was the cause of friendship. In that case, once evil is destroyed, nothing can be anyone's friend — because you can't have the effect without the cause."

"Right."

"And didn't we say earlier that the friend loves something for a reason? Back then, we thought the reason was that what's neither good nor evil loves the good because of evil."

"We did."

"But now our view has changed. There must be some other cause of friendship."

"It seems so."

"Maybe the truth is what we said a moment ago: desire is the cause of friendship. What desires is dear to what it desires, at the moment of desiring. And maybe that whole earlier theory was just a long story about nothing?"

"Could be."

"But surely," I said, "whoever desires, desires what he lacks?"

"Yes."

"And what he lacks is dear to him?"

"Of course."

"And he lacks what's been taken from him?"

"Yes."

"Then love, desire, and friendship are really about what naturally belongs to us — what's akin to our own nature. That, Lysis and Menexenus, is what the argument seems to show."

They both agreed.

"So if you two are truly friends, you must have natures that are naturally akin to each other."

"Absolutely," they both said.

"And I'd say, boys, that nobody who loves or desires another person would ever feel that love or desire unless he were somehow akin to the beloved — in soul, in character, in temperament, or in appearance."

"Yes, yes!" said Menexenus. But Lysis said nothing.

"Then the conclusion is this: what is naturally akin to us must be loved."

"It seems to follow," he said.

"So the true lover — the genuine article, not the fake — must of necessity be loved by his beloved."

Lysis and Menexenus gave a faint nod of agreement. And Hippothales — Hippothales was turning every color of the rainbow with delight.

Now, wanting to reconsider the argument, I said, "But can we point to any real difference between 'what's akin' and 'what's alike'? Because if we can, then maybe, Lysis and Menexenus, our argument about friendship is getting somewhere. But if 'akin' just means 'alike,' we're back to our old problem: like is useless to like, precisely insofar as they're alike. And to say something useless is dear to us would be absurd. So suppose we agree — in the dizzy excitement of argument — that 'akin' and 'alike' are different things."

"All right."

"And shall we say that the good is akin to everything, while evil is alien to everything? Or that evil is akin to evil, good to good, and what's neither good nor evil to what's neither good nor evil?"

They chose the second option.

"Then, boys, we've stumbled right back into the same mistake we threw out before. The unjust will be the friend of the unjust, and the bad of the bad, just as much as the good of the good."

"That seems to be where we've ended up."

"But what if we say 'akin' is the same as 'good'? Then only the good can be friends with the good."

"But we already proved that doesn't work either. Remember?"

"We remember."

"Then what's left? What can we possibly say? I feel like one of those lawyers summing up for the jury: if the beloved is not a friend, and the lover is not a friend, and like is not a friend of like, and unlike is not a friend of unlike, and the good is not a friend, and the akin is not a friend — and whatever else we've gone through, because there were so many I can't even keep track — if none of these are friends, then I'm at a total loss."

I was on the verge of turning to one of the older people there, hoping for some help. But suddenly we were interrupted. The tutors of Lysis and Menexenus descended on us like some kind of evil apparition, brothers in tow, and told the boys to come home — it was getting late. At first we tried to shoo them away, the bystanders and I. But they wouldn't budge. They just kept shouting in their rough foreign accents and getting more and more irritated and calling for the boys. They seemed to have had a bit too much to drink at the festival, which made them hard to deal with. So we finally gave in and broke up the gathering.

But as they were leaving, I managed to say a few words to the boys: "Well, Lysis and Menexenus, we've made ourselves pretty ridiculous today — you two boys, and me, an old boy who'd love to count himself one of you. The bystanders are going to walk away saying: these people call themselves friends, but they couldn't even figure out what a friend is."

Charmides

Or, On Temperance

Persons of the dialogue:
  Socrates, who is the narrator
  Charmides
  Chaerephon
  Critias

Scene: The Palaestra of Taureas, near the Porch of the King Archon.

The evening before, I'd gotten back from the army at Potidaea, and after being away for a good while, I was itching to visit my old haunts. So I went to the palaestra of Taureas, which is across from the temple next to the porch of the King Archon. I found a good number of people there — most of them I knew, though not all. My visit was unexpected, and the moment they spotted me coming in, they called out greetings from every direction. Chaerephon — who is, let's say, somewhat unhinged — jumped up and came running over to me, grabbing my hand and saying:

"Socrates! How did you make it out alive?"

(I should explain that there'd been an engagement at Potidaea shortly before we left, and the news had only just reached Athens.)

"Well," I said, "as you can see — here I am."

"The report was that the fighting was brutal," he said, "and that many people we know were killed."

"That's not far from the truth," I replied.

"I assume you were there?"

"I was."

"Then sit down and tell us everything! We've only gotten fragments so far."

He sat me down next to Critias, son of Callaeschrus, and once I'd greeted him and the rest of the company, I gave them the news from the army and answered all their various questions.

When we'd had enough of that, I started asking my own questions about things back home — how was philosophy going? Were there any young men who'd distinguished themselves for their intellect or good looks, or both? Critias glanced toward the door, where some young men were coming in, chatting noisily with each other, trailed by a crowd.

"As for the good-looking ones, Socrates," he said, "I think you'll be able to judge for yourself shortly. Those fellows coming in now are the advance guard of the great beauty of the day, as he's considered. And I expect the man himself isn't far behind."

"Who is he?" I asked. "And who's his father?"

"Charmides," he said. "He's my cousin — my uncle Glaucon's son. I think you know him, actually, though he was just a boy when you left."

"Of course I know him," I said. "He was already remarkable even as a child. By now he must be practically a young man."

"You'll see in a moment how he's turned out." He'd barely finished saying this when Charmides walked in.

Now, my friend, I have to confess that I'm a terrible judge of these things. When it comes to beauty, I'm about as reliable as a white line drawn in chalk — almost every young person looks beautiful to me. But when I saw Charmides come in, even I was stunned by his looks and his build. Everyone in the room seemed to be in love with him. A wave of amazement and confusion went through the crowd as he entered, and a whole train of admirers followed in his wake. That grown men like us would be affected this way wasn't especially surprising. But I noticed the same thing among the boys — every last one of them, down to the very youngest, turned and stared at him as if he were a statue.

Chaerephon nudged me. "Well, Socrates? What do you think? Doesn't he have a beautiful face?"

"Incredibly beautiful," I said.

"But you wouldn't think much of his face," Chaerephon replied, "if you could see him stripped down. His body is absolutely perfect."

Everyone else agreed.

"By Heracles," I said, "he sounds like a paragon — if he's got just one other small addition."

"What's that?" asked Critias.

"A noble soul. And being from your family, Critias, he probably does."

"He's just as fine on the inside as on the outside," said Critias.

"Well then," I said, "before we inspect his body, shouldn't we ask him to show us his soul, stripped bare? He's just the right age for conversation."

"Oh, absolutely," said Critias. "I should tell you — he's already quite the philosopher. And a pretty good poet too. Not just in his own estimation, but in other people's."

"That's a distinction that runs in your family, my dear Critias," I replied. "You inherited it from Solon. But why not call him over and introduce us? Even if he were younger than he is, there'd be nothing improper about him talking with us — not with you here, his guardian and cousin."

"Fair enough," he said. And turning to an attendant, he called out: "Go get Charmides. Tell him I want him to come meet a doctor about that headache he mentioned the other day." Then, turning back to me, he added: "He's been complaining about getting headaches in the morning. Why not let him think you know a cure?"

"Why not?" I said. "But will he actually come?"

"Oh, he'll come."

And come he did. He sat down between Critias and me. What happened next was highly entertaining: everyone on the bench started shoving their neighbor as hard as they could, trying to make room for Charmides next to themselves. At one end of the row, somebody got forced to his feet. At the other end, someone was practically rolled off sideways.

Now, my friend, I was starting to feel a little flustered. My earlier confidence about being able to have a smooth conversation with him had evaporated. And when Critias told him that I was the one with the headache cure, Charmides looked at me in this indescribable way and was just about to ask me a question — at which point the entire palaestra crowded in around us. And right at that moment, I caught a glimpse inside his cloak, and — well, I caught fire. I couldn't contain myself. I thought of how well the poet Cydias understood the nature of love, when he warned someone about a beautiful youth: "Don't bring the fawn into the lion's sight, or the lion will eat it." That's exactly what I felt — like some kind of wild animal seizing its prey. But I pulled myself together, and when Charmides asked me if I knew the cure for headaches, I managed to answer — with some effort — that I did.

"What is it?" he asked.

I told him it was a kind of herb, but it had to be accompanied by a charm. If you repeated the charm while applying the remedy, the cure would be complete. But without the charm, the herb was useless on its own.

"Then I'll write down the charm from your dictation," he said.

"With my consent?" I asked. "Or without it?"

"With your consent, Socrates," he said, laughing.

"Very good. And you're quite sure you know my name?"

"I should think so," he said. "People talk about you quite a bit among my friends. And I remember seeing you with my cousin Critias when I was a child."

"I'm glad you remember me," I said. "That puts me more at ease, and I'll be better able to explain what this charm is about. I was having trouble knowing where to start. You see, the charm does more than just cure headaches. I expect you've heard distinguished doctors say that when a patient comes to them with bad eyes, they can't just treat the eyes in isolation — they need to treat the whole head if they want the eyes to get better. And then they say it would be the height of folly to try to cure the head without treating the rest of the body too. Following this logic, they apply their methods to the whole body, trying to heal the whole along with the part. You've heard this kind of thing?"

"Yes," he said.

"And you'd agree with them?"

"Yes, certainly."

His eager answers reassured me, and little by little my confidence started coming back, and the old fire returned.

"Well, Charmides," I said, "that's exactly how this charm works. I learned it on campaign from a doctor who served the Thracian king Zamolxis. These Thracian physicians are said to be so skilled that they can even bestow immortality. This particular Thracian told me that the Greek doctors are right as far as they go, but that Zamolxis, their king — who is also a god — goes further. He says: 'You shouldn't try to cure the eyes without the head, or the head without the body. And just as surely, you shouldn't try to cure the body without the soul. This is the reason,' he said, 'why so many diseases baffle the Greek doctors — they neglect the whole, which also needs attention. The part can never be well unless the whole is well.' For all good and evil, whether in the body or anywhere else in our nature, originates in the soul and flows outward from there, the way things flow from the head into the eyes. So if the head and body are to be well, you have to begin by curing the soul. That comes first. And the cure for the soul, my dear young man, consists of certain charms — and these charms are beautiful words. Through beautiful words, temperance is planted in the soul. And once temperance takes root, health quickly spreads not just to the head, but to the whole body."

"When he taught me this remedy and this charm, he added a strict instruction: 'Let no one persuade you to treat his head until he has first given you his soul to be treated by the charm. The great mistake of our time,' he said, 'in treating the human body, is that doctors try to separate the soul from the body.' And he made me swear an oath to follow his words: 'Let no one, however rich, or noble, or beautiful, persuade you to give him the remedy without the charm.'"

"Now, I've sworn this oath, and I intend to keep it. So if you'll let me apply the Thracian charm to your soul first, just as the stranger directed, I'll go ahead and apply the cure to your head afterward. But if not, I'm afraid I don't know what to do with you, my dear Charmides."

When Critias heard all this, he said: "What an unexpected bonus this headache will turn out to be for my young cousin — if the pain in his head forces him to improve his mind. But I should tell you, Socrates, that Charmides is outstanding not only for his looks among his peers, but also for the very quality your charm is supposed to produce. You said that quality is temperance, right?"

"Yes," I said.

"Well, let me tell you — he's the most temperate person alive, and for his age, second to none in any quality."

"That's only fitting, Charmides," I said. "Because I don't think there's anyone here who could easily point to two Athenian families whose union would be likely to produce a finer young man than you. Your father's house descends from Critias, son of Dropidas — a family celebrated in the poetry of Anacreon, Solon, and many other poets for its beauty, virtue, and every other blessing. And your mother's side is equally distinguished. Your maternal uncle Pyrilampes is said to have had no equal for height and good looks — not in Persia at the Great King's court, not anywhere on the Asian continent, in all the places he traveled as ambassador. That entire family is every bit as impressive as the other. With ancestors like these, you ought to be first in everything. And I must say, sweet son of Glaucon, your outward appearance is no disgrace to any of them."

"Now, if to beauty you also add temperance, and if you're everything Critias here says you are — then, dear Charmides, your mother is truly blessed in her son. And here's where we stand: if, as Critias claims, you already possess this gift of temperance, then you don't need any charms — not from Zamolxis, not from Abaris the Hyperborean — and I might as well give you the headache remedy right now. But if you haven't yet acquired it, then I need to apply the charm before I can give you the medicine. So tell me yourself — is Critias right? Do you already possess temperance, or not?"

Charmides blushed, and the blush only made him more beautiful — modesty suits a young man. Then he said, quite honestly, that he really couldn't answer yes or no to my question.

"Because if I say I'm not temperate," he explained, "that would be a strange thing to say about myself, and besides, I'd be calling Critias a liar — along with everyone else who thinks I'm temperate. But if I say I am, then I'm praising myself, which would be bad manners. So I really don't know how to answer you."

"That's a perfectly natural reply, Charmides," I said. "I think the best thing would be for us to investigate together whether you have this quality or not. That way you won't be forced to say anything you don't want to, and I won't be practicing medicine recklessly. If that sounds good to you, I'd like us to examine the question together. But I won't press you if you'd rather not."

"There's nothing I'd like better," he said. "As far as I'm concerned, go about it however you think best."

"Here's how I think we should start," I said. "If temperance is really present in you, you must have some sense of it. It must give you some hint of its nature — some impression that would let you form an idea of what it is. Don't you think so?"

"Yes," he said, "I think that's right."

"And you speak Greek," I said, "so you should be able to put into words what you feel about it."

"I'd think so," he said.

"Good. So in order for me to get a sense of whether temperance is in you or not, tell me: in your opinion, what is temperance?"

At first he hesitated and was clearly reluctant to answer. But then he said he thought temperance was doing things in an orderly and quiet way — things like walking in the streets, and talking, and everything else of that sort. "To put it in a word," he said, "I'd say temperance is quietness."

"Are you right about that, Charmides?" I said. "Some people would certainly say that the quiet ones are the temperate ones. But let's see if those words really hold up. First, you'd agree that temperance belongs to the category of noble and good things?"

"Yes."

"Well, which is better at the writing teacher's: writing the same letters quickly, or slowly and quietly?"

"Quickly."

"And reading quickly, or slowly?"

"Quickly."

"And in playing the lyre, or wrestling — quickness and sharpness are far better than slowness and quietness?"

"Yes."

"The same goes for boxing and the pancratium?"

"Yes."

"And in running, jumping, and physical exercise generally — quick and agile movements are good, while slow, inactive, quiet ones are bad?"

"Obviously."

"So in every physical activity," I said, "it's not quietness but quickness and agility that are most admirable?"

"Yes, certainly."

"And temperance is a good thing?"

"Yes."

"Then when it comes to the body, quickness — not quietness — would be the more temperate quality, if temperance is good?"

"That does seem to follow," he said.

"All right," I said. "Which is better — finding something easy to learn, or hard to learn?"

"Easy."

"And ease in learning means learning quickly, while difficulty means learning slowly and quietly?"

"Yes."

"And isn't it better to teach someone quickly and energetically, rather than slowly and quietly?"

"Yes."

"And which is better — remembering things quickly and readily, or slowly?"

"Quickly."

"And isn't cleverness a kind of quickness of the mind, not a quietness?"

"Yes."

"And isn't it better to understand what's being said — whether at a writing lesson or a music lesson or anywhere else — as quickly as possible, not as quietly as possible?"

"Yes."

"And when the mind is searching and deliberating, it's not the person who does it most quietly and with the most difficulty who earns our praise — it's the one who does it most easily and quickly?"

"Exactly right," he said.

"So in everything concerning both body and mind, swiftness and energy are clearly better than slowness and quietness?"

"Clearly."

"Then temperance isn't quietness. And the temperate life isn't a quiet life — at least not on this argument. Because the temperate life is supposed to be the good life. And here's where we end up: either quiet actions are never — or very rarely — better than quick and energetic ones; or even if some noble actions are quiet, just as many are quick and vigorous. Either way, temperance can't be defined as acting quietly rather than acting quickly, whether in walking or talking or anything else. The quiet life isn't more temperate than the active one, since we've agreed that temperance is something noble and good, and quick actions have been shown to be just as good as quiet ones."

"I think you're right, Socrates," he said.

"Then let's try again, Charmides," I said. "Focus your attention inward. Consider the effect that temperance has on you, and think about what kind of thing could produce that effect. Think it all over carefully, and then — like the brave young man you are — tell me: what is temperance?"

After a pause, during which he made a genuinely admirable effort to think it through, he said: "My view, Socrates, is that temperance makes a person feel ashamed — makes them modest. I think temperance is the same as modesty."

"Very good," I said. "And didn't you just agree that temperance is noble?"

"Yes, certainly."

"And the temperate are also good?"

"Yes."

"And can something be good if it doesn't make people good?"

"Certainly not."

"So temperance is not only noble, but also good?"

"That's my view."

"All right," I said. "But you'd agree with Homer when he says: 'Modesty is not good for a needy man'?"

"Yes, I agree with that."

"So it seems that modesty is both good and not good?"

"Apparently."

"But temperance — whose presence makes people only good, never bad — is always good?"

"That seems right."

"Then temperance can't be modesty, if temperance is always a good thing but modesty is sometimes an evil as well as a good."

"I think everything you've said is correct, Socrates," he said. "But I'd like to know what you think about another definition of temperance that I just remembered hearing from someone: 'Temperance is doing your own business.' Was the person who said that right?"

"You rascal!" I said. "That's something you heard from Critias here, or from some other philosopher."

"It must have been someone else," said Critias, "because I certainly didn't say it."

"But what does it matter where I heard it?" said Charmides.

"It doesn't matter at all," I replied. "The point isn't who said it, but whether it's true."

"Now you're talking," he said.

"Good," I said. "Though I doubt we'll be able to figure out whether it's true or false very easily. It's a bit of a riddle."

"What makes you say that?" he asked.

"Because it seems to me that whoever said it meant one thing but said another. Take a scribe, for example: when he reads or writes, should we say he's doing nothing?"

"No, I'd say he's definitely doing something."

"And does the scribe only write and read his own name? Or did you boys write your enemies' names just as much as your own and your friends'?"

"Just as much."

"And was there anything meddlesome or intemperate about that?"

"Certainly not."

"And yet, if reading and writing count as 'doing,' then you were doing what wasn't your own business."

"But they do count as doing."

"And medicine, my friend — and building, and weaving, and everything else that's done by any skill — these all count as 'doing,' don't they?"

"Yes."

"Now, do you think a city would be well governed by a law that required every person to weave their own cloak, wash their own clothes, make their own shoes, their own oil flask and scraper — everyone doing only their own work and keeping their hands off other people's?"

"I don't think so," he said.

"But a temperate city would be a well-governed city?"

"Of course."

"Then temperance can't be 'doing your own business' — at least not in this literal sense."

"Clearly not."

"So as I was saying, whoever declared that temperance is doing your own business must have had some other, hidden meaning. Because surely he wasn't such a fool as to mean it literally. Was the person who told you this a fool, Charmides?"

"Not at all," he replied. "I thought he was very wise."

"Then I'm sure he put it forward as a riddle, knowing that 'doing your own business' isn't as straightforward as it sounds."

"Probably so," he said.

"So what does 'doing your own business' really mean? Can you tell me?"

"I really can't. And honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if the man who used the phrase didn't fully understand it himself."

And as he said this, he grinned slyly and glanced over at Critias.

Now, Critias had been looking uncomfortable for a while. He clearly felt he had a reputation to maintain in front of Charmides and the rest of the company. Up to this point he'd managed to hold himself back. But now he couldn't take it any longer. And I'm convinced that my suspicion at the time was right: Charmides had gotten this definition of temperance from Critias. Charmides, not wanting to defend the definition himself, was trying to provoke Critias into doing it. He kept pointing out that the argument had been refuted, and Critias got angrier and angrier, looking ready to pick a fight with him — like a poet furious at an actor for botching his lines. Critias fixed him with a hard stare and said:

"Do you really think, Charmides, that because you don't understand what the author of that definition meant, he didn't understand it either?"

"Well, at his age," I cut in, "most excellent Critias, it would hardly be surprising if he didn't understand. But you're older, and you've studied these things. So I'd have to assume you do know what it means. And if you accept the definition and agree with it, I'd much rather argue with you about whether it's true or false."

"I accept it entirely," said Critias.

"Good," I said. "Now let me repeat my question. Do you agree, as I was just saying, that all craftsmen make or do something?"

"Yes."

"And do they make or do only their own business, or other people's as well?"

"Other people's as well."

"And are they temperate, even though they're not working only for themselves?"

"Why wouldn't they be?" he said.

"I've got no problem with it," I said. "But there might be a problem for whoever defines temperance as 'doing your own business' and then admits there's no reason why people who do other people's business can't be temperate."

"Wait," he said. "I never said that people who do other people's business are temperate. I said people who make. 'Making' and 'doing' aren't the same thing."

"What? You're saying doing and making are different?"

"Absolutely," he said. "And making isn't the same as working either. I learned this from Hesiod, who says that 'work is no disgrace.' Now, do you really think Hesiod would have said there's no disgrace in work if he meant by 'working' things like cobbling shoes, or selling pickles, or sitting in a brothel? Of course not, Socrates. I believe Hesiod distinguished making from doing and working. A 'making' can sometimes be a disgrace — when the product isn't honorable. But 'work' is never a disgrace. Things that are nobly and usefully produced, he called 'works,' and the activity of producing them, he called 'working' and 'doing.' Only this kind of activity, he'd say, is truly a person's own business. Everything harmful is someone else's business, not yours. So when Hesiod or any other wise person says 'do your own business,' we should understand them to mean: the person who does good is wise."

"Critias," I said, "the moment you opened your mouth, I had a pretty good idea where you were heading. You're going to define what's 'proper' to a person and what's 'their own' as what's good, and you're going to say that the 'doing' of good things is what we should call 'action.' I'm no stranger to these kinds of fine distinctions about words — Prodicus makes them endlessly. But look, you can attach whatever meaning to words you like, as long as you tell me clearly what you mean. So let's start over, and be a little more precise this time. Are you saying that doing good — or making good, or producing good, whatever word you prefer — is temperance?"

"I am," he said.

"Then someone who does evil isn't temperate, but someone who does good is?"

"Yes," he said. "Wouldn't you agree with that, my friend?"

"Never mind whether I agree or not. Right now we're not examining what I think — we're examining what you're saying."

"Fair enough," he said. "What I mean is that the person who does evil and not good is not temperate, while the person who does good and not evil is. Temperance, in plain words, is doing good."

"You may well be right about that. But here's something I'm curious about: do you think temperate people can be unaware of their own temperance?"

"I don't think so," he said.

"And yet, weren't you just saying a moment ago that craftsmen can be temperate when they do someone else's work as well as their own?"

"I was. What's your point?"

"I'm not going anywhere particular with this. But tell me: can a doctor who cures a patient do good both for himself and for others?"

"I think so."

"And when he does that, he's doing his duty?"

"Yes."

"And doesn't someone who does their duty act temperately — wisely?"

"Yes, wisely."

"But does a doctor necessarily know when his treatment will help and when it won't? Does every craftsman necessarily know when his work will benefit someone and when it won't?"

"I suppose not always."

"So sometimes," I said, "a doctor might do good or do harm without knowing which he's doing. And yet, according to you, in doing good he's acted temperately. Wasn't that your claim?"

"Yes."

"Then it would seem that a person can sometimes do good and act wisely and temperately — and yet not know their own wisdom or temperance?"

"But that's impossible, Socrates," he said. "And if this is where my earlier admissions lead, I'd rather take them back than accept that someone can be temperate without knowing it. I'm not ashamed to admit I was wrong. Because self-knowledge, I'd insist, is the very essence of wisdom. On this point I agree with whoever dedicated the inscription at Delphi: 'Know Thyself.' That inscription, if I'm not mistaken, is placed there as a greeting from the god to those entering the temple. It's as if the god is saying that the usual greeting — 'Hello!' — is the wrong one, and that 'Be temperate!' would be a far better way for people to greet each other."

"That's how the dedicator understood the god's message, I believe. When a worshipper enters, the first word he hears is 'Be temperate!' But the god, like a prophet, wraps it in a riddle: 'Know thyself!' and 'Be temperate!' are really the same thing, as I'd argue and as the Greek words imply. But later sages misunderstood. They added their own sayings — 'Nothing in excess' and 'Give a pledge, and ruin is near' — thinking that 'Know thyself' was a piece of practical advice from the god, rather than his greeting. So they dedicated their own inscriptions, imagining they were offering equally useful wisdom."

"Now, Socrates, the reason I'm telling you all this is to set aside our earlier discussion — where neither you nor I came to any clear conclusion — and to make a fresh start. I want to prove, if you'll challenge me, that temperance is self-knowledge."

"Very well, Critias," I said. "But you're approaching me as if I already knew the answers to the questions I'm asking, and could agree with you whenever I felt like it. That's not how this works. I'm genuinely investigating these things alongside you, precisely because I don't know the answers. Let me think it over, and then I'll tell you whether I agree or not. Give me a moment."

"Think it over," he said.

"I'm thinking," I said. "And here's what I'm seeing: if temperance, or wisdom, involves knowledge of something, it must be a kind of science — a science of something specific."

"Yes," he said. "The science of itself."

"Isn't medicine the science of health?"

"Yes."

"Now suppose," I said, "you asked me: 'What's the use of medicine, this science of health? What does it produce?' I'd say medicine is enormously useful — it produces health, which is an excellent result."

"Agreed."

"And if you asked me what result architecture produces — the science of building — I'd say houses. And so on for every other craft, each producing its own result. Now I want you to answer the same kind of question about temperance, or wisdom, which you say is the science of itself. Given that definition, I'm asking you: what good product does temperance produce that's worthy of the name 'wise'? Tell me."

"That's not the right way to pursue this inquiry, Socrates," he said. "Wisdom isn't like the other sciences, and they're not all like each other either. But you're treating them as if they are. Tell me — what's the product of arithmetic or geometry, in the same way that a house is the product of building, or a garment is the product of weaving? Can you point to any such product?"

"No, you can't."

"That's true," I said. "But each of these sciences does have a subject matter that's different from the science itself. I can show you, for instance, that arithmetic deals with odd and even numbers and their relationships to one another. The odd and even numbers aren't the same thing as arithmetic, are they?"

"No."

"And the art of weighing deals with heavier and lighter things, but the art of weighing is one thing and heavy and light are another. You'd agree?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now I want to know: what is the subject matter of wisdom, the thing that is not wisdom itself but that wisdom studies?"

"You're falling into the same old trap, Socrates," he said. "You keep asking how wisdom differs from the other sciences, and then you try to find some way in which they're all alike. But they aren't. All the other sciences study something outside themselves. Wisdom alone is a science both of other sciences and of itself. And I think you know this perfectly well. You're doing exactly what you just denied doing — you're trying to refute me, instead of honestly pursuing the argument."

"How can you think that?" I said. "Even if I am refuting you, what other motive could I possibly have except the same one I'd have in examining myself — the fear of unconsciously thinking I know something when I really don't? That's what I'm doing right now. I'm pursuing this argument primarily for my own sake — and perhaps for the sake of my friends too. Isn't discovering how things truly are a benefit to everyone?"

"Yes, certainly, Socrates."

"Then cheer up, my friend, and give me your answer. Never mind whether it's Critias or Socrates who ends up refuted. Just focus on the argument itself and see where it leads."

"I think you're right," he said. "I'll do that."

"Then tell me again what you're claiming about wisdom."

"I'm saying that wisdom is the only science that is both a science of itself and a science of the other sciences."

"Then the science of science would also be the science of the absence of science?"

"Very true," he said.

"So the wise or temperate person, and only that person, will know themselves — will be able to examine what they know and don't know, and to see what other people know and merely think they know. No one else will be able to do this. And this is what wisdom and temperance and self-knowledge amount to: knowing what you know and what you don't know. Is that your meaning?"

"Yes," he said.

"All right," I said. "Now, making an offering of our third argument to Zeus the Savior, let's start fresh and ask two questions. First: is it even possible for a person to know that they know and don't know what they know and don't know? Second: even if it's perfectly possible, would such knowledge be any use?"

"Those are exactly the right questions," he said.

"Here's where I'm stuck, Critias, and I'm hoping you can find a way out. Shall I tell you what the difficulty is?"

"By all means," he said.

"Doesn't your position amount to this: that there's a single science that is wholly a science of itself and of other sciences, and that this same science is also a science of the absence of science?"

"Yes."

"But think about how strange this claim is. Look at any parallel case, and the impossibility becomes obvious."

"What do you mean? What cases?"

"Consider this: suppose there were a kind of vision that doesn't work like ordinary vision — it doesn't see colors, but only sees itself and other kinds of vision, and the lack of them. Do you think such a vision exists?"

"Certainly not."

"Or a kind of hearing that hears no sound at all, but only hears itself and other kinds of hearing, and deafness?"

"No."

"Or take all the senses together: can you imagine a sense that perceives no sensory object at all, but only perceives itself and other senses?"

"I don't think so."

"Can you imagine a desire that desires no pleasure, but only desires itself and other desires?"

"Certainly not."

"Or a wish that wishes for nothing good, but only wishes for itself and other wishes?"

"No."

"Or a love that doesn't love anything beautiful, but only loves itself and other loves?"

"No."

"Have you ever encountered a fear that fears itself and other fears, but has no object of fear?"

"Never," he said.

"Or an opinion that's an opinion about itself and other opinions, but has no opinion about the things that opinions are normally about?"

"Certainly not."

"And yet we're claiming there's a science exactly like this — one that has no subject matter, but is a science of itself and the other sciences?"

"Yes, that's what's being claimed."

"It is strange, isn't it? But let's not rule it out just yet. Let's keep investigating."

"You're right."

"Well then. This science we're talking about is a science of something, and it has the nature of being related to something?"

"Yes."

"Just as whatever is 'greater' has the nature of being greater than something?"

"Yes."

"And that something must be less, if the first thing is greater?"

"Necessarily."

"Now, if we could find something that's greater than itself and greater than other great things, but not greater than the things those other great things are greater than — then that thing would have the property of being both greater and less than itself?"

"That would be the inevitable conclusion," he said.

"Or if there's a double that's double of itself and of other doubles, then those things — including itself — would also be halves. Because the double is always relative to the half."

"True."

"And anything that's greater than itself would also be less than itself. Anything heavier than itself would also be lighter. Anything older than itself would also be younger. And the same for every other relative term: whatever has a relation to itself must also have the nature of the thing it's related to. For example: hearing, we say, is the hearing of sound."

"Yes."

"So if hearing hears itself, it must hear a sound — because there's no other way to hear."

"Exactly."

"And if sight sees itself, my excellent friend, it must see a color — because sight can't see anything that has no color."

"Right."

"Do you notice, Critias, that in several of the cases we've gone through, the idea of something being related to itself is simply impossible — and in other cases, barely credible? Self-relation is impossible for magnitudes and numbers. It's nearly incredible for hearing and sight. As for the power of motion moving itself, or heat burning itself — some people might accept these, others won't."

"What we really need is some great thinker to settle this question once and for all: is there nothing in existence that has this built-in capacity for self-relation? Or do some things have it while others don't? And if there is such a class of self-relating things, does wisdom — as the science of science — belong in it? I don't trust my own ability to answer these questions. I'm not even sure whether a science of science can exist at all. And even if it can, I wouldn't call it wisdom or temperance until I can also see whether it would actually do us any good. Because I have a strong intuition that temperance is beneficial — that it's a good thing."

"So, son of Callaeschrus, since you maintain that temperance is the science of science and also of the absence of science, I'd like you to show me two things: first, that such a science is possible; and second, that it would be useful. Then maybe you'll convince me you're right about what temperance is."

Critias heard all this and could see that I was stuck. And just as one person catches the urge to yawn from watching someone else yawn, he seemed to catch my confusion from my confusion. But since he had a reputation to maintain, he was embarrassed to admit in front of everyone that he couldn't answer my challenge or resolve the question. So he attempted an unclear response to hide his difficulty.

To keep the conversation moving, I said: "All right, Critias, let's just assume for now that there can be such a thing as a science of science. Whether that assumption is right or wrong, we can examine later. Granting it exists, tell me: how would such a science enable us to distinguish what we know from what we don't know? That's what self-knowledge, or wisdom, is supposed to do, right?"

"Yes, Socrates," he said. "And I think that's certainly true. A person who possesses this self-knowing knowledge will become like the knowledge he possesses. In the same way that having speed makes you fast, and having beauty makes you beautiful, having knowledge that knows itself will make you know yourself."

"I don't doubt," I said, "that a person who has the kind of knowledge that knows itself will know himself. But why does having that necessarily mean he'll know what he knows and what he doesn't know?"

"Because, Socrates, they're the same thing."

"Maybe," I said. "But I'm still as confused as ever. I can't see how 'knowing what you know and don't know' is the same as 'knowledge of self.'"

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Here's what I mean. I'll grant that there's a science of science. But can this science do anything more than distinguish between two things: this is science, and that isn't?"

"No, that's all it can do."

"But is knowledge of health the same as knowledge of justice?"

"Of course not."

"One is medicine, the other is politics. What we're talking about is knowledge in the abstract — pure knowledge."

"Right."

"So if someone has only knowledge of knowledge — pure and simple, with no further knowledge of health or justice — all he'll be able to determine is that he knows something, that he possesses some kind of knowledge. Whether he's thinking about himself or other people."

"Yes."

"But how will this abstract knowledge tell him what he knows? He knows health — but that knowledge came from medicine, not from wisdom. He knows music — but that came from the study of music. He knows building — from the study of building. None of these came from temperance or wisdom. The same goes for everything else."

"That's clear."

"Then how will wisdom, understood purely as knowledge of knowledge, ever teach him that he knows medicine? Or that he knows building?"

"It can't."

"Then a person who lacks specific expertise will only know that he knows something — but not what he knows."

"That seems right."

"So being wise, on this view, turns out to be not knowledge of what we know and don't know, but only knowledge that we know or don't know?"

"That's the implication."

"And such a person won't be able to examine whether someone who claims to know something actually does. He'll only be able to tell that the person has some kind of knowledge — but wisdom won't reveal what kind."

"Clearly not."

"So he won't be able to distinguish a genuine doctor from a fake one, or any real expert from a phony. Think about it this way: if the wise person — or anyone — wants to tell a real doctor from a fraud, how will he go about it? He can't quiz the doctor on medicine, because as we said, the only thing a doctor understands is medicine."

"Right."

"And the doctor, on the other hand, doesn't know anything about the science of science — we've assigned that to wisdom alone."

"Right."

"And since medicine is a science, we'd have to conclude that the wise person doesn't know anything about medicine either."

"That does follow."

"So the wise person can tell that the doctor has some kind of knowledge. But when he tries to determine what kind, he'll have to ask: what's its subject matter? Because sciences are distinguished not by the mere fact that they're sciences, but by their subjects."

"Exactly."

"And medicine is distinguished from other sciences by having health and disease as its subject?"

"Yes."

"So anyone who wants to evaluate a doctor has to examine him on matters of health and disease, not on anything else?"

"Right."

"And a proper evaluation will consider whether what the doctor says about health and disease is true, and whether what he does is effective?"

"Yes."

"But can anyone assess these things without having medical knowledge?"

"No one can."

"No one, apparently, except a doctor. Which means the wise person can't do it either — he'd have to be a doctor in addition to being wise."

"Exactly."

"So if wisdom is only the science of science and the absence of science, it can't distinguish a real doctor from a fake one, or any genuine expert from a pretender. The wise person will only recognize his fellow wise person — another person who has knowledge of knowledge. Beyond that, nothing."

"That's what follows," he said.

"Then what's the use of wisdom, Critias, if this is all it amounts to? Because if the wise person really could do what we originally imagined — if he could tell what he knows from what he doesn't know, and make the same judgment about others — then there'd be a tremendous benefit to being wise. We'd never make mistakes. We'd go through life as unerring guides, both for ourselves and for everyone in our care. We wouldn't attempt things we didn't understand but would find the people who did and hand the work over to them. We wouldn't let anyone under our charge do anything they couldn't do well. A household or a city governed by wisdom would be well run, because truth would be guiding every action and error would be eliminated. People would do everything right, and they'd be happy. Wasn't that the great advantage we imagined wisdom would give us — knowing what is known and what is unknown?"

"Yes, absolutely," he said.

"And now you see that no such science exists anywhere."

"I see that," he said.

"Well, then let's try a different angle," I said. "Let's suppose wisdom, understood as knowledge of knowledge and ignorance, does have this much going for it: a person who possesses it would learn things more easily, and everything would be clearer to them, because in addition to studying specific subjects, they'd also perceive the science behind those subjects. And this would help them better evaluate what others know about the same topics. Meanwhile, someone without this meta-knowledge would have a weaker, less penetrating insight. Aren't those the real advantages of wisdom? And aren't we looking for something grander than what wisdom can actually deliver?"

"That's very likely," he said.

"Very likely," I agreed. "And I'm starting to think we've been investigating something worthless. Here's what leads me to say this: even if we grant that wisdom is the science of science — and even if we go further and grant the original claim, that wisdom is knowledge of what you know and don't know — I'm still not convinced, on reflection, that wisdom defined this way would do us much good. I think we were wrong earlier when we said that a world governed by this kind of wisdom would be a tremendous benefit."

"How so?" he said.

"Because we were far too hasty in assuming that mankind would benefit enormously if everyone stuck to what they knew and handed over everything else to the real experts."

"Weren't we right to assume that?"

"I don't think so."

"That's a very strange thing to say, Socrates!"

"By the dog of Egypt," I said, "I agree with you — it is strange. I was just thinking the same thing when I said I was afraid we were on the wrong track. Because no matter how willing we are to accept that this is wisdom, I honestly can't figure out what good it does."

"What do you mean?" he said. "Help me understand."

"I know I'm probably talking nonsense," I said. "But if a thought comes to mind, a person who respects himself can't just let it slip by without examining it."

"I like that attitude," he said.

"Then listen to my dream — whether it comes through the gate of horn or the gate of ivory, I can't say. Here's the dream: suppose wisdom, as we've defined it, had absolute power over us. Then every action would be performed by genuine experts, and no one who claimed to be a pilot when he wasn't, or a doctor, or a general, or anything else he wasn't qualified to be, would be able to fool us. Our health would improve. Our safety at sea and in battle would be guaranteed. Our shoes and clothes and tools and everything else would be expertly made, because only real craftsmen would make them. And if you like, we can even suppose that prophecy — knowledge of the future — would fall under wisdom's control, so that fraudulent prophets would be weeded out and only true seers would predict what's to come."

"I fully agree that humanity, equipped this way, would live and act according to knowledge. Wisdom would stand guard, preventing ignorance from creeping in. But here's the thing, my dear Critias — would living according to knowledge necessarily make us act well and be happy? That's the point we haven't been able to settle."

"And yet," he replied, "I think you'll have a hard time finding the crown of happiness anywhere else, if you throw out knowledge."

"Just one small question," I said. "Knowledge of what? Do you mean knowledge of shoemaking?"

"God, no."

"Working in bronze?"

"Certainly not."

"Wool? Wood? Anything like that?"

"No."

"Then we're abandoning the claim that living according to knowledge makes you happy. These people all live according to knowledge, and you won't call them happy. You seem to be restricting happiness to certain specific individuals who have certain specific knowledge — like the prophet, maybe, who knows the future. Is it him you're thinking of?"

"Yes, him — but others too."

"Who? Someone who knows the past and present as well as the future, and is ignorant of nothing. Let's imagine such a person exists. You'd agree he's the most knowledgeable person alive?"

"Certainly."

"But I'd like to know one more thing: which kind of knowledge is it that makes him happy? Do all kinds equally?"

"Not all equally," he said.

"Then which kind contributes most to his happiness? Knowledge of what past, present, or future thing? Is it the knowledge of how to play checkers?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Arithmetic?"

"No."

"Health?"

"That's getting closer," he said.

"And the knowledge that's closest of all," I said — "closest to making him happy — is the knowledge of what?"

"The knowledge of good and evil."

"You villain!" I said. "You've been leading me around in circles this whole time, hiding from me the fact that the life according to knowledge isn't what makes people act rightly and be happy — not even if knowledge includes every science in the world — but only one particular science: the science of good and evil. Because let me ask you, Critias — if you take away this science, will medicine stop producing health? Will shoemaking stop producing shoes? Will weaving stop producing clothes? Will navigation stop saving lives at sea? Will generalship stop winning battles?"

"No, they'll all keep working."

"But none of these things will be done well and beneficially if the science of good is missing."

"True."

"But this science of good and evil isn't wisdom or temperance — it's something different. It's not a science of other sciences, or of ignorance. It's a science of human benefit. So if this is what's useful, then wisdom — as the science of science — isn't what's useful."

"Wait," he said. "Why can't wisdom still be useful? Even if we accept that wisdom is the science of sciences, surely it would have this particular science — the science of good — under its supervision. And in that way, wisdom would benefit us."

"And will wisdom produce health?" I said. "Isn't that medicine's job? Does wisdom do the work of any of the other crafts? Don't they each do their own work? We established long ago that wisdom is only the knowledge of knowledge and ignorance — nothing more."

"That does seem to be what we said."

"So wisdom won't produce health."

"Apparently not."

"Because the art of health is a different thing."

"Yes, different."

"And wisdom doesn't produce benefit either, since we just assigned that to a different science."

"That's right."

"Then how can wisdom be beneficial, if it produces no benefit?"

"That, Socrates, does seem impossible."

"You see, then, Critias, that I wasn't wrong to be worried — to fear that I'd have no sound understanding of wisdom. I was right to doubt myself. Because something that's supposed to be the best of all things keeps turning out to be useless every time I look at it — and that has to be my fault, not wisdom's."

"Here's where we ended up: we made far more concessions than we should have. We granted that there could be a science of science, even though the argument said no. We granted that this science could know the workings of other sciences, even though that too was denied by the argument — all because we wanted to show that the wise person knows what he knows and what he doesn't know. We waved all of that through generously, without even stopping to consider the impossibility of a person knowing, in any real way, what he doesn't know at all. Our assumption was that he knows what he doesn't know. Nothing could be more irrational than that."

"And yet, after we proved so easy and accommodating, the inquiry still couldn't find the truth. It practically mocked us. It went out of its way to prove the uselessness of the very thing we'd defined — through generous concessions and polite fictions — as temperance or wisdom."

"As for me, I'm not especially upset by this result," I said. "But for your sake, Charmides, I am truly sorry — that someone with your beauty, your wisdom, your temperate soul, should get no benefit in life from your temperance. And I'm even more sorry about the charm I learned with such trouble from the Thracian, only to find it's worthless — a cure for something that turns out to be nothing. I suspect there's been a mistake, and that I must be a terrible investigator. Because I do believe that temperance is genuinely a great good, and that you're blessed if you truly possess it. So examine yourself, Charmides. See if you already have this gift and can do without the charm. Because if you can, my advice would be to consider me simply a fool who can never reason his way to the bottom of anything, and to rest assured: the more temperate you are, the happier you'll be."

Charmides said: "I honestly don't know, Socrates, whether I have this gift of temperance or not. How could I, when even you and Critias can't figure out what it is? Though I'm not sure I entirely believe you on that point. But one thing I'm sure of, Socrates: I do need the charm. And as far as I'm concerned, I'm willing to let you charm me every single day, until you say I've had enough."

"Very good, Charmides," said Critias. "If you do that, I'll take it as proof of your temperance — that you've chosen to let Socrates charm you and never leave his side."

"You can count on it," said Charmides. "I'll follow him and never desert him. If you, my guardian, are ordering me to do this, it would be wrong of me to disobey."

"I am ordering you," Critias said.

"Then I'll start today."

"Wait a moment," I said. "What are you two plotting?"

"We're not plotting," said Charmides. "We've already plotted."

"You're going to use force on me without even going through the proper legal proceedings?"

"Yes, I'm going to use force," he replied, "since he's given me my orders. So you'd better think carefully."

"The time for thinking is past," I said. "Once you've made up your mind and turned to force, you're irresistible."

"Then don't resist me," he said.

"I won't resist you," I replied.

Euthydemus (Part 1)

Persons of the dialogue:
  Socrates, who narrates the whole thing to Crito
  Crito
  Cleinias
  Euthydemus
  Dionysodorus
  Ctesippus

Scene: The Lyceum

Crito: So who was that person you were talking with yesterday at the Lyceum, Socrates? There was such a mob around you I couldn't get close enough to hear anything. But I caught a glimpse of him over everyone's heads, and it looked like you were talking with some foreigner. Who was he?

Socrates: There were two of them, Crito. Which one do you mean?

Crito: The one sitting second from you on the right. In the middle was young Cleinias, son of Axiochus — he's really shot up, by the way. He's about the same age as my Critobulus, but he's way ahead of him, and very handsome. The other one looked thin and younger than he probably is.

Socrates: The one you mean is Euthydemus. And on my left was his brother Dionysodorus, who also got in on the conversation.

Crito: I don't know either of them, Socrates. Another fresh import of Sophists, I take it? Where are they from, and what's their particular brand of wisdom?

Socrates: As for their origin, I believe they're originally from this part of the world. They migrated from Chios to Thurii, got driven out of Thurii, and have been knocking around these parts for years now. As for their wisdom — well, Crito, it's something else. Absolutely staggering. I never knew what a true all-around fighter looked like until I met these two. They're basically one-stop shopping for combat. And I don't mean like the Acarnanian brothers, who only fight with their bodies — oh no. This pair of heroes is not only unbeatable in physical fighting, they're invincible in every kind of warfare. They're experts at fighting in armor and will teach the skill to anyone who pays. They're also brilliant at legal warfare — they'll argue cases themselves and teach others how to speak and compose speeches that win in court. And all of that? That was just the warm-up. Now they've taken the all-around combat art to its absolute pinnacle, mastering the one form of fighting they'd previously neglected. Now nobody dares even stand up to them — that's how devastating they are in the war of words. They can refute any proposition, whether it's true or false. So I'm thinking, Crito, of putting myself in their hands. They claim they can pass on their skill to anyone in no time.

Crito: But Socrates, aren't you a bit old for that? I'd be worried about that.

Socrates: Not at all, Crito, and here's why I'm not worried: they only picked up this art of argumentation quite late in life themselves. Last year, or maybe the year before, they didn't have any of this new wisdom. My only real concern is that I might embarrass them — the same way I've embarrassed Connus, son of Metrobius, the harp teacher, who's still giving me music lessons. The boys who attend his classes see me showing up alongside them, and they laugh and call him "Grandpa's teacher." So I'm afraid these two foreigners might get the same treatment. The fear of being mocked might make them refuse to take me on. That's why, Crito, I plan to recruit some fellow old-timers to come along with me — just like I recruited them to go to Connus with me. I'm hoping you'll be one of them. And maybe we should bring your sons along as bait — they'll want the boys as students and agree to take us as part of the deal.

Crito: I have no objection to that, Socrates. But first, give me a proper account of their wisdom so I know what we're signing up for.

Socrates: You'll hear it all in no time, because I can't claim I wasn't paying attention — I watched them like a hawk and remember everything, and I'll do my best to tell you the whole story. As it happened, I was sitting by myself in the changing room of the Lyceum — the very spot where you saw me — and was just about to leave. Then I felt the familiar divine sign, so I sat back down. A little while later, the two brothers, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, came in with a bunch of others — their students, I believe — and started walking around in the covered court. They hadn't made more than two or three laps when Cleinias walked in. He really has improved, as you rightly say. Trailing behind him was a whole entourage of admirers, including Ctesippus of Paeania — a well-bred young man, but with all the wildness you'd expect from youth. Cleinias spotted me from the entrance, sitting by myself, and came straight over to sit on my right, just as you described. When Dionysodorus and Euthydemus noticed him, they first stopped and talked to each other, glancing our way now and then — I was watching them carefully. Then Euthydemus came and sat down next to the young man, and Dionysodorus sat on my left. The rest scattered wherever they could find seats.

I greeted the brothers — I hadn't seen them in ages — and then said to Cleinias, "Here are two wise men, Cleinias — Euthydemus and Dionysodorus. And I don't mean wise in some small way. These two know everything about warfare — everything a good general needs to know about strategy, commanding troops, and the whole art of fighting in armor. And they know about law too — they can teach a man how to use the weapons of the courts when someone's done him wrong."

They heard me say all this and just looked down on me. I noticed them exchange a glance, and they both laughed. Then Euthydemus said, "Those subjects, Socrates, are things we no longer pursue seriously. For us they're just side projects."

"My God!" I said. "If subjects like those are merely side projects to you, your main business must be something truly extraordinary. Tell me, I'm begging you — what is this noble study?"

"Teaching virtue, Socrates," he replied. "That's our principal occupation. And we believe we can teach it better and faster than anyone."

"By the gods!" I said. "And where did you learn that? I always thought — as I was just telling Cleinias — that your chief talent was fighting in armor. That's what you were advertising when you were here before. But if you really do have this other knowledge now — well, forgive me! I'm addressing you as I would superior beings, and I beg your pardon for my earlier remarks. But are you absolutely sure about this, Dionysodorus and Euthydemus? The promise is so enormous that a certain incredulity creeps over me."

"You have our word, Socrates."

"Then I consider you luckier than the Great King of Persia with his whole empire. But please tell me — do you plan to give a demonstration of your wisdom? Or what's the plan?"

"That's exactly why we've come, Socrates — to demonstrate, and also to teach anyone who wants to learn."

"Oh, I can promise you," I said, "that every person who lacks virtue will want to learn. I'll be first in line. And here's young Cleinias, and Ctesippus over there, and several others" — I pointed to Cleinias's admirers, who were gathering around us.

Now Ctesippus had been sitting at some distance from Cleinias. When Euthydemus leaned forward to talk with me, he was blocking Ctesippus's view of Cleinias, who was between us. So Ctesippus — partly because he wanted to gaze at his beloved and partly because he was interested — jumped up and stood facing us. All the other admirers of Cleinias, along with the students of Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, followed suit. These were the people I pointed out to Euthydemus, telling him they were all eager to learn. Ctesippus and the whole crowd enthusiastically confirmed it and urged him to show off the power of his wisdom.

So I said, "Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, I'm earnestly asking you to do me and this whole company the favor of giving a demonstration. Now, showing us the whole thing might be a big undertaking, but tell me just this one thing: can you make someone good only if he's already convinced he needs to learn from you? Or can you also work on someone who isn't convinced — either because he doesn't think virtue can be taught at all, or because he doesn't think you two are the right teachers? Does your art have the power to persuade even that kind of skeptic that virtue can be taught — and that you're the ones to learn it from?"

"Absolutely, Socrates," said Dionysodorus. "Our art can do both."

"And you and your brother, Dionysodorus," I said, "are the people most likely to inspire him to pursue philosophy and the study of virtue?"

"Yes, Socrates, I rather think we are."

"Then here's what I'd like you to do: skip the rest of the demonstration for now and just try to persuade this young man that he should become a philosopher and devote himself to virtue. Do that, and you'll be doing me and everyone here a tremendous favor. Here's the situation: we're all deeply concerned about this young man. His name is Cleinias, son of Axiochus, grandson of the famous Alcibiades, and cousin of the current Alcibiades. He's quite young, and we're naturally worried that someone might get to him first and point his mind in the wrong direction, and he'll be ruined. So your timing couldn't be better. If you don't mind, please have a go at the young man and talk with him right here in front of us."

Those were more or less my exact words. And Euthydemus, in a confident and encouraging tone, replied, "No objection at all, Socrates — as long as the young man is willing to answer questions."

"Oh, he's quite used to that," I said. "His friends are always coming to him with questions and arguments, so he's right at home with the format."

Now, Crito — what happened next, how can I possibly do it justice? It's no small task to rehearse infinite wisdom in its every detail. So like the poets, I really ought to begin by invoking Memory and the Muses.

Euthydemus, if I remember correctly, kicked things off roughly like this: "Tell me, Cleinias — when people learn things, is it the wise who learn, or the ignorant?"

The boy, overwhelmed by the question, blushed and looked at me for help. I could see he was flustered, so I said, "Take courage, Cleinias, and answer like a man — whichever option you think is right. Trust me, you're going to get enormous benefit from their questions."

Meanwhile, Dionysodorus leaned over to whisper in my ear, his face beaming with laughter: "I'm going to prophesy something for you, Socrates. Whichever way he answers, he's going to get refuted."

While he was whispering to me, Cleinias gave his answer — so I didn't get a chance to warn the boy about the trap he was walking into. He answered that the wise are the ones who learn.

Euthydemus continued: "There are people you'd call teachers, right?"

The boy agreed.

"And they're the teachers of the people who learn? Like how your grammar teacher and music teacher used to teach you and the other boys — and you were the learners?"

Yes.

"And when you were learning those things, you didn't yet know what you were learning?"

"No," he said.

"And were you wise back then?"

"No, definitely not," he said.

"But if you weren't wise, you were ignorant?"

"Yes."

"So when you were learning things you didn't know, you were ignorant while you were learning?"

The boy nodded.

"Then it's the ignorant who learn, Cleinias — not the wise, as you said."

At this, the followers of Euthydemus — the little fan club I mentioned — burst out laughing and cheering like a chorus on cue from their director.

Then, before the boy had a chance to catch his breath, Dionysodorus swooped in and took over. "Yes, Cleinias — and when your grammar teacher dictated something to you, which boys were the ones who actually learned the dictation? The smart ones, or the slow ones?"

"The smart ones," said Cleinias.

"Then after all, it's the wise who learn, not the ignorant — so the answer you just gave Euthydemus was wrong."

Once again the fans of the two heroes erupted in ecstatic laughter and applause at their wisdom, while the rest of us sat there silent and stunned.

Euthydemus noticed this and decided to press on with the boy. To heighten the effect, he threw out another question of the same kind — like the double spin of an expert dancer. "Tell me," he said, "do people who learn things learn what they already know, or what they don't know?"

Dionysodorus leaned over and whispered to me again: "That one, Socrates, is just another of the same sort."

"Good heavens," I said, "and the last question was so brilliant!"

"All our questions are like that, Socrates," he replied. "Inescapable."

"I can see why you have such a reputation among your students," I said.

Meanwhile, Cleinias had answered Euthydemus that people learn what they don't know. And Euthydemus put him through the same wringer as before.

"You know your letters?"

Yes.

"All of them?"

Yes.

"And when the teacher dictates to you, he's dictating letters?"

Yes.

"And if you know all the letters, then what he dictates is something you already know?"

Cleinias had to admit this.

"So," said Euthydemus, "you're not actually learning what he dictates — only someone who doesn't know their letters would be learning."

"But I do learn!" said Cleinias.

"Ah, but you learn what you already know — since you know all the letters."

He had to admit that too.

"So you were wrong in your answer," Euthydemus declared.

The words were barely out of his mouth when Dionysodorus snatched up the argument like catching a ball on the fly and took another shot at the boy. "Cleinias," he said, "Euthydemus is tricking you. Tell me — isn't learning the process of acquiring knowledge of whatever you're learning?"

Cleinias agreed.

"And knowing means already having knowledge at the time?"

Yes.

"And not knowing means not having knowledge at the time?"

He admitted it.

"And the people who acquire something — are they the ones who already have it, or the ones who don't?"

"The ones who don't."

"And you've admitted that those who don't know are among those who don't have?"

He nodded.

"So those who learn belong to the class of those who acquire — those who don't yet have — rather than those who already do?"

Yes.

"So, Cleinias," he said, "it's those who don't know who learn, not those who know."

Now Euthydemus was gearing up to give the boy a third throw, but I could see Cleinias was in deep water. I wanted to give him a break before he lost heart, so I said reassuringly, "Don't be surprised, Cleinias, if their way of arguing seems strange. You may not realize what these two visitors are actually doing with you. They're just initiating you, the way the Corybantes do in the mysteries. This is the enthronement ceremony — the part that comes with dancing and entertainment, if you've ever been through an initiation. Right now they're just dancing around you, and next they'll proceed to the actual initiation. So imagine you're going through the preliminary stage of the Sophist ritual, which, as Prodicus says, begins with learning the correct use of words.

"What our two distinguished visitors are trying to show you is that you didn't realize the word 'to learn' has two different meanings. It can mean acquiring knowledge of something you previously didn't know, but it can also mean reviewing or examining something using knowledge you already have. That second sense is usually called 'knowing' rather than 'learning,' but the word 'learning' gets used for both. You didn't notice that they were using the same word in two opposite senses — applying it both to those who know and to those who don't know. The second question was a similar trick: when they asked whether people learn what they know or what they don't know, they were just playing the same game.

"These are the party tricks of learning. They're not serious. That's why I call these gentlemen playful — they're just having fun with you. If a man mastered every trick of this kind, he wouldn't be one bit wiser. He'd only be able to trip people up with word games, like someone who yanks a stool out from under you right as you're sitting down, then cracks up laughing when you're sprawled on the floor. So consider everything that's happened so far as pure entertainment.

"But what comes next — I'm certain — is when they'll show you their serious side and keep their promise. I'll lead the way and show them the kind of thing I mean. They promised to give us a demonstration of how to encourage a young man toward philosophy, but I suppose they wanted to tease you a bit first.

"So now, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, enough playing around. Let's see you explain to this young man how he should devote himself to the pursuit of virtue and wisdom. But first, I'll show you what I have in mind — the kind of discussion I want to hear. And if I do this in a clumsy, amateurish way, don't laugh at me. I'm only improvising in front of you because I'm so eager to hear your wisdom. So please — you and your students — hold back the laughter.

"Now, son of Axiochus, let me ask you: Don't all people want to be happy? Or is that one of those ridiculous questions that shouldn't even be asked, because what human being doesn't want to be happy?"

"Everyone wants to be happy," said Cleinias. "There's no one who doesn't."

"Good," I said. "So since we all want happiness, how do we get it? Wouldn't we be happy if we had many good things? And that's probably an even simpler question than the first — the answer's obvious."

He agreed.

"So what sorts of things do we consider good? This doesn't require some solemn sage to answer — anyone would say that wealth is a good."

"Certainly," he said.

"And health and good looks are goods — and other natural gifts?"

He agreed.

"And can there be any doubt that good birth, power, and honors in your own country are goods?"

He agreed.

"Then what other goods are there?" I said. "What about self-control, justice, courage — do you honestly think, Cleinias, that we'd be more right to count these as goods than not? Someone might actually argue about this. What do you say?"

"They're goods," said Cleinias.

"Very well," I said. "And where do we put wisdom in our lineup — among the goods, or not?"

"Among the goods."

"Now think," I said. "Have we left out any important goods?"

"I don't think so," said Cleinias.

"Actually, wait," I said. "I'm afraid we've left out the biggest one of all."

"Which one?" he asked.

"Good luck, Cleinias. Everyone — even the most foolish people — agrees that's the greatest good of all."

"True," he said.

"Hold on," I said. "Actually, son of Axiochus, you and I nearly made fools of ourselves in front of these visitors."

"What do you mean?"

"Because we've already listed good luck — and now we're about to say it again. We'd be repeating ourselves."

"How so?"

"Well, it's pretty silly to put something on the list when it's already there, and say the same thing twice."

He asked what I meant, and I said: "Wisdom IS good luck. Even a child could see that."

The innocent young man was amazed. Seeing his surprise, I said, "Think about it, Cleinias. Who has the best luck when it comes to playing the flute — isn't it the skilled flute players?"

He agreed.

"And with reading and writing — the skilled scribes are the luckiest?"

Yes.

"What about the dangers of the sea — aren't wise pilots luckier overall than foolish ones?"

"Definitely."

"And if you were at war, whose company would you rather be in — a wise general's or a foolish one's?"

"A wise one's."

"And if you were sick, who would you rather have by your side in a dangerous illness — a wise doctor or an ignorant one?"

"A wise one."

"So you'd say," I said, "that acting with a wise person is luckier than acting with an ignorant one?"

He agreed.

"Then wisdom always makes people fortunate. Because with wisdom, a person would never go wrong, so they'd always act rightly and succeed — otherwise it wouldn't be wisdom."

After some back and forth, we eventually agreed on this general conclusion: whoever has wisdom has no need of luck.

Then I reminded him where we'd been. "Remember," I said, "we agreed that we'd be happy and fortunate if we had many good things?"

He nodded.

"But would having good things actually make us happy if they didn't benefit us?"

"Only if they benefited us," he said.

"And would they benefit us if we just had them but never used them? Like, if we had mountains of food but never ate any, or oceans of drink but never drank — would that do us any good?"

"Of course not."

"Or what about a craftsman who has every tool he needs for his work but never uses them — would he be any better off? Like a carpenter with all his tools and plenty of wood who never actually makes anything?"

"Not at all," he said.

"And if someone had wealth and every good thing we just listed but never used any of it — would he be happy because he possessed all that stuff?"

"No way, Socrates."

"So," I said, "a person who wants to be happy doesn't just need to have good things — he has to use them. There's no advantage in just having them sitting around."

"Right."

"Well, Cleinias, is having and using good things enough to make you happy?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Even if you use them badly? Or does it matter whether you use them rightly or wrongly?"

"You have to use them rightly."

"Exactly right," I said. "And using something the wrong way is actually much worse than not using it at all. Wrong use is a positive evil, while non-use is neither good nor evil. Agreed?"

He agreed.

"Now, in working with wood, what produces the right use? Isn't it just the carpenter's knowledge?"

"Nothing else," he said.

"And in making tools and equipment, isn't it knowledge that guides the right way of making them?"

Yes.

"And with those goods we mentioned at the start — wealth, health, beauty — isn't knowledge what guides us to use them rightly and well?"

He agreed.

"So in every possession and every use of a thing, knowledge is what gives a person not just luck but success?"

He agreed again.

"So tell me," I said, "what good are possessions to anyone without good sense and wisdom? Would a person be better off having and doing many things without wisdom, or a few things with wisdom? Think about it: if he did fewer things, he'd make fewer mistakes. Fewer mistakes means fewer disasters. And fewer disasters means less misery."

"Definitely," he said.

"And who would do less — a poor man or a rich man?"

"A poor man."

"A weak man or a strong man?"

"A weak man."

"A nobody or a person of high status?"

"A nobody."

"And a coward would do less than a brave man? And a lazy person less than an energetic one?"

He agreed.

"And a slow person less than a quick one? And someone with dull senses less than someone with sharp ones?"

All of this we mutually accepted.

"So, Cleinias," I said, "here's the bottom line: all those things we called goods aren't actually good in themselves. It works like this. Under the guidance of wisdom, they're greater goods than their opposites — because they're more capable of serving the wise principle that directs them. Under the guidance of ignorance, they're greater evils — because they're more capable of serving the foolish principle that rules them. And in themselves, they're nothing, neither good nor bad."

"That," he said, "is obvious."

"So what's the conclusion of everything we've said? It's this: nothing else really matters. Wisdom is the only true good, and ignorance is the only true evil."

He agreed.

"Then let's take the next step," I said. "We've established that all people want happiness. Happiness comes from using the things of life — and using them rightly. Right use comes from knowledge. Therefore the conclusion is clear: everyone should do everything in their power to make themselves as wise as possible."

"Yes," he said.

"And when you realize this treasure is more valuable than money, it's no disgrace to seek wisdom from a father, a guardian, a friend, an admirer — anyone, citizen or foreigner. Whatever honorable thing you need to do or say to get someone to share their wisdom with you, there's no shame in it. Do you agree?"

"Yes," he said. "I completely agree. You're right."

"That is," I said, "if wisdom can be taught and doesn't just come to people on its own. That's a point we haven't settled between us yet —"

"But I do think it can be taught, Socrates," he said.

"Excellent!" I said. "I'm delighted to hear you say that — and grateful to you for saving me from a long, tedious investigation into whether wisdom can be taught. So now, since you believe it can be taught, and that wisdom alone can make a person happy and fortunate, wouldn't you say we all ought to love wisdom? And will you, personally, try to pursue it?"

"Absolutely, Socrates," he said. "With everything I've got."

I was pleased to hear it. Then I turned to Dionysodorus and Euthydemus and said, "There you go. That's an example — clumsy and tedious, I admit — of the sort of encouragement I'd like you to give. And I hope one of you will now do what I've been doing but in a more polished style. Or at least pick up where I left off and show the young man whether he needs to acquire every kind of knowledge, or whether there's one particular kind that will make him good and happy — and what that knowledge is. Because as I said at the start, what matters most to us is this young man's improvement in virtue and wisdom."

That's what I said, Crito, and then I sat back, all ears, waiting to see what would come next. I wanted to see how they'd tackle the question — where they'd start in encouraging the young man to pursue wisdom and virtue. Dionysodorus, the older brother, spoke first. Everyone's eyes were on him, expecting something amazing. And they weren't far wrong, because the man, Crito, launched into a truly remarkable speech — wonderfully persuasive, if you think of it as an encouragement to virtue.

"Tell me," he said, "Socrates, and the rest of you who say you want this young man to become wise — are you joking, or are you actually serious?"

This made me think they'd assumed we were joking earlier when we asked them to talk with the boy, and that's why they'd been joking around and not being serious. So I was even more emphatic: "We are absolutely, profoundly serious."

Dionysodorus said, "Think carefully, Socrates. You might end up having to take back your words."

"I've thought carefully," I said. "And I'll never take back my words."

"All right," he said. "So you're saying you want Cleinias to become wise?"

"Absolutely."

"And right now he's not wise?"

"Well, his modesty wouldn't allow him to claim he is."

"So you want him to become wise," Dionysodorus said, "and to stop being ignorant?"

"That's right."

"You want him to become what he is not, and to no longer be what he is?"

I was completely thrown off by this.

Pressing his advantage while I was still reeling, he added: "You want him to no longer be what he is — which can only mean you want him to die. What lovely friends and admirers you must be, wanting your dear boy to cease existing!"

When Ctesippus heard this, he got seriously angry — as any good boyfriend would — and said, "Stranger from Thurii — if politeness allowed it I'd say something a lot worse — how dare you tell such a disgusting lie about me and the others, that we want Cleinias to die! It's practically unspeakable!"

Euthydemus cut in: "And do you think, Ctesippus, that it's actually possible to tell a lie?"

"Yes," said Ctesippus. "I'd have to be insane to think otherwise."

"When you tell a lie, do you say the thing you're speaking about, or not?"

"You say the thing you're speaking about."

"And the person who says a thing says that thing and no other?"

"Yes," said Ctesippus.

"And that thing he says is one definite thing, distinct from everything else?"

Yes.

"And the person who says that thing says what is?"

Yes.

"And whoever says what is speaks the truth. So Dionysodorus, if he's saying what is, is speaking the truth about you and telling no lie."

"Yes, Euthydemus," said Ctesippus, "but when he says what he said, he's saying what is not."

Euthydemus replied: "And what is not — doesn't exist?"

Right.

"And what doesn't exist is nowhere?"

Right.

"And can anyone do anything to what doesn't exist? Can anyone do to Cleinias something that doesn't exist and is nowhere?"

"I guess not," said Ctesippus.

"Well then — when politicians speak in the assembly, they're doing something, aren't they?"

"Yes, they're doing something," he said.

"And doing is a kind of making?"

Yes.

"And speaking is doing, which is making?"

Yes.

"Then nobody says what is not — because in saying it he'd be doing something, and you've already agreed that nobody can do what doesn't exist. Therefore, by your own logic, nobody speaks falsely. So if Dionysodorus says anything at all, he's saying what is true."

"Yes, Euthydemus," said Ctesippus, "but he's talking about things in a way that doesn't match how they actually are."

"Ctesippus," said Dionysodorus, "are you claiming that anyone talks about things as they actually are?"

"Yes," he said. "Any decent, honest person does."

"And aren't good things good and bad things bad?"

He agreed.

"And you say that decent people describe things as they are?"

Yes.

"Then decent people speak badly of bad things — since they describe things as they are!"

"They certainly do," said Ctesippus. "And they speak badly of bad people too. So let me give you some friendly advice — watch out, or they'll speak badly of you, since I can assure you that good people speak badly of the bad."

"And do they speak big things of the big," Euthydemus jumped in, "and hot things of the hot?"

"Absolutely," said Ctesippus. "And they speak coldly of those who are cold — the way these cold dialecticians are."

"You're being abusive, Ctesippus," said Dionysodorus. "You are being abusive!"

"Not at all, Dionysodorus," he replied. "I actually like you, and I'm just giving you friendly advice. I'm trying to convince you, as a friend, not to be so rude as to say right in front of me that I want my beloved — whom I value above all people — to die."

I could see they were getting heated with each other, so I cracked a joke. "Ctesippus," I said, "I think we have to let our visitors use language however they like and not fight over words. We should be grateful for what they give us. If they know how to 'destroy' people in a way that turns bad, foolish people into good, wise ones — whether this is their own discovery or something they learned — this new kind of death and destruction that lets them get rid of a bad person and turn him into a good one — if they know how to do this, and they clearly do (they just told us that their newly invented art was exactly this) — then let them, in their own terminology, destroy the young man and make him wise. The rest of us too, if they like. But if you young people are nervous about being their test subjects, then let the experiment be tried on old me! Like Medea and her cauldron — I'll offer my elderly person to Dionysodorus. He can kill me, boil me, do whatever he wants — as long as he makes me good in the end."

Ctesippus said, "And I'm volunteering too, Socrates! Let the strangers skin me alive if they want — I'm pretty well skinned by them already — as long as my skin ends up not like poor Marsyas's, turned into a leather bag, but into something made of virtue. And here's Dionysodorus thinking I'm angry with him, when I'm not angry at all. I'm just pushing back when I think he's saying something wrong about me. But don't confuse contradiction with abuse, my illustrious Dionysodorus — they're completely different things."

"Contradiction?" said Dionysodorus. "There's no such thing as contradiction."

"Of course there is," said Ctesippus. "There can't be any question about it. You're not going to tell me, Dionysodorus, that there's no such thing?"

"You'll never prove to me," he said, "that you've ever heard one person contradict another."

"Really?" said Ctesippus. "Then listen right now, because you can hear me contradicting Dionysodorus."

"Can you back that up?"

"Certainly," he said.

"All right then. Doesn't everything have words that describe it?"

Yes.

"Describing its existence or its non-existence?"

"Its existence."

"Right, Ctesippus — and we just proved, if you recall, that nobody can assert a negative. Nobody can affirm what is not."

"So what?" said Ctesippus. "You and I can still contradict each other."

"But can we contradict each other," said Dionysodorus, "if we're both describing the same thing? In that case we'd be saying the same thing, wouldn't we?"

He had to agree.

"And what if neither of us is talking about the same thing? Then neither of us is saying anything about it at all."

He conceded that too.

"But what if I describe one thing and you describe something different — or I say something and you say nothing — is that a contradiction? How can the person who speaks contradict the person who doesn't speak at all?"

Ctesippus fell silent. And I, absolutely amazed, said, "What do you mean, Dionysodorus? I've heard this argument many times before, and I'm always astonished by it. The followers of Protagoras used to be fond of it, and others before them. But it seems to me perfectly marvelous — and wonderfully self-destructive. Here's what it comes down to: there's no such thing as saying something false. When a person speaks, he either speaks the truth or says nothing at all. Isn't that your position?"

He agreed.

"But even if he can't speak falsely — can he think falsely?"

"No, he can't," he said.

"So there's no such thing as a false opinion?"

"No."

"Then there's no such thing as ignorance — no people who are ignorant? Because isn't ignorance — if such a thing exists — just getting the facts wrong?"

"Certainly," he said.

"But that's impossible?"

"Impossible," he said.

"Are you saying this as a clever paradox, Dionysodorus, or do you seriously believe no person is ignorant?"

"Refute me," he said.

"But how can I refute you, if — as you say — it's impossible for anyone to speak falsely?"

"Exactly right," said Euthydemus.

"And I never asked you to refute me," said Dionysodorus. "How can I ask you to do something that doesn't exist?"

"Euthydemus," I said, "I confess these subtle and brilliant devices of wisdom are a bit above my pay grade. I'm afraid I can barely follow them, so forgive me if I ask what might seem like a really stupid question. If there's no such thing as falsehood, or false opinion, or ignorance — then there can't be any such thing as making a mistake either. A person can't get wrong what he's doing, because he's doing what he's doing — right? Isn't that what you're saying?"

"Yes," he said.

"All right — here's my stupid question. If nobody can make a mistake in action, word, or thought, then what on earth have you two come here to teach? Weren't you just telling us you could teach virtue to anyone willing to learn better than anyone else?"

"Socrates," Dionysodorus shot back, "are you really such an old fossil that you're dragging up what I said at the beginning? What's next — are you going to throw my words from last year in my face? You can't deal with what I'm saying now?"

"Well," I said, "your arguments aren't easy to deal with. They're the words of wise men. And actually, I'm not sure what to make of that word 'nonplussed' you just used. What exactly do you mean by it, Dionysodorus? You must mean I can't refute your argument. Tell me if the word means something else."

"No," he said, "it means what you said. Now answer my question."

"What — before you answer mine, Dionysodorus?" I said.

"Answer," he said.

"Is that fair?"

"Perfectly fair," he said.

"On what principle?" I said. "I can only assume you're some supremely wise man who shows up claiming to be a master logician and knows exactly when to answer and when not to. And right now you won't open your mouth because you know you don't have to."

"Stop chattering," he said, "and answer the question."

"All right," I said. "I suppose I must obey, since you're the boss. Ask away."

"Do things that have minds — are they alive or lifeless?"

"They're alive."

"And do you know of any word that's alive?"

"Can't say I do."

"Then why did you ask me just now what 'sense' my words had?"

"Well, because I was being stupid and made a mistake. Or then again — maybe I was right after all to say that words have sense. What do you say, wise man? If I wasn't mistaken, then even you can't refute me, and all your wisdom is stuck. But if I did make a mistake, then you're wrong when you say mistakes are impossible — and you didn't say that very long ago either. I'm starting to think, Dionysodorus and Euthydemus, that this argument is stuck right where it was and isn't going anywhere. Even your amazing skill in the subtleties of logic hasn't figured out how to throw someone else without falling down yourself — no more now than before."

Ctesippus said, "Gentlemen of Chios — or Thurii — or whatever you call yourselves — I'm amazed at you, because you obviously have zero objection to talking complete nonsense."

Fearing a real blowup, I tried to calm Ctesippus down again. "Ctesippus," I said, "what I told Cleinias applies to you too: you don't understand the ways of these foreign philosophers. They're not being serious. They're like the Egyptian sorcerer Proteus — they keep shapeshifting to trick us. So let's be like Menelaus and refuse to let them go until they show us their serious side. When they get serious, their true brilliance will appear. Let's beg and plead with them to let it shine through. And I think maybe I should lead by example again, to show them what I'm looking for. I'll pick up where I left off, as best I can, in hopes that I might touch their hearts and move them to pity — so that when they see how deeply serious and invested I am, they'll get serious too.

"Cleinias," I said, "remind me where we left off. Didn't we agree that a person should study philosophy?"

"Yes," he said.

"And philosophy is the pursuit of knowledge?"

"Yes."

"And what knowledge should we pursue? Can't we say, quite simply — a knowledge that will do us good?"

"Certainly."

"And would we be any better off if we ran around knowing where every deposit of gold was buried in the earth?"

"Maybe," he said.

"But haven't we already proven," I said, "that we'd be no better off even if all the gold in the earth were ours without any effort at all? Even if we knew how to turn stones into gold, that knowledge would be worthless unless we also knew how to use the gold. Remember?"

"I remember perfectly," he said.

"And the same goes for any knowledge — whether it's moneymaking, medicine, or any other skill that knows how to produce something but not how to use what it produces. None of those would do us any real good, right?"

He agreed.

"And if there were a knowledge that could make people immortal, but didn't include the knowledge of how to use immortality — even that would be useless, if we can reason from what we've already established?"

He agreed to all of this.

"Then, my dear boy," I said, "the knowledge we need is one that both produces and knows how to use what it produces."

"True," he said.

"And we definitely don't want to be lyre-makers or anything of that sort. In those crafts, the skill of making and the skill of using are completely separate — they deal with the same object but are totally different arts. The person who makes a lyre and the person who plays it are worlds apart. Right?"

"Right."

"And we obviously don't want the flute-maker's art either — same problem."

He agreed.

"Well then," I said, "suppose we learned the art of speechwriting — would that be the knowledge that makes us happy?"

"I'd say no," said Cleinias.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because I notice," he said, "that there are some speechwriters who don't know how to use the speeches they compose — just like the lyre-makers who can't play their lyres. And there are other people who can't write speeches themselves but can brilliantly deploy the speeches others write for them. So the art of composing speeches clearly isn't the same as the art of using them."

"Yes," I said, "and I think that's solid proof that speechwriting isn't the knowledge that will make you happy. And yet I did think we might find our answer somewhere in that neighborhood. Because whenever I run into these speechwriters, Cleinias, they always strike me as truly extraordinary people — their art seems lofty and almost divine, and no wonder. Their art is really a branch of the great art of enchantment, barely inferior to it. The difference is that the enchanter's art works on snakes, spiders, scorpions, and other pests, while theirs works on juries, assemblies, and crowds of people — charming and soothing them. Do you agree?"

"Yes," he said. "I think you're right."

"So where do we go from here?" I said. "What art should we turn to?"

"I don't see my way," he said.

"But I think I do," I said.

"What's your idea?" asked Cleinias.

"I think the art of the general is the one most likely to make a person happy."

"I don't think so," he said.

"Why not?"

"The art of the general is basically an art of hunting — hunting men."

"So? What's wrong with that?"

"Because no art of hunting goes beyond the hunting and capturing stage. Once the prey is taken, the hunter or fisherman can't use it — they hand it over to the cook. And it's the same with geometers, astronomers, and mathematicians. They belong to the hunting class too, because they don't create their diagrams — they only discover what was already there. And since they can't use what they find, only catch it, they hand over their discoveries to the dialecticians to actually apply — at least, the ones with any sense do."

"Bravo!" I said. "Very good, my brilliant Cleinias! Is this really true?"

"Absolutely," he said. "Just as a general who captures a city or a camp hands his conquest over to the statesman — because the general doesn't know how to govern what he's won. Or as a quail-catcher hands his birds over to the quail-keeper. So if we're looking for the art that will make us truly happy — one that can not only acquire things but also use them — the art of the general isn't it. We need to look elsewhere."

Crito: Wait — are you telling me, Socrates, that the young man actually said all that?

Socrates: You don't believe me, Crito?

Crito: I certainly don't! Because if he really said those things, then in my opinion he needs neither Euthydemus nor anyone else as his teacher.

Socrates: Well, maybe I'm misremembering. Maybe it was actually Ctesippus who said it.

Crito: Ctesippus? No way.

Socrates: All I know is that I heard these words, and they weren't said by either Euthydemus or Dionysodorus. Perhaps, my dear Crito, they were spoken by some higher being. I'm certain I heard them.

Crito: Yes, Socrates — someone considerably higher, I'd say. But did you take the investigation any further? Did you find the art you were looking for?

Socrates: Find it? My dear fellow, hardly. We were like children chasing songbirds — always just about to catch the knowledge we wanted, but it kept slipping away. Why go through the whole story? Eventually we arrived at the kingly art and asked whether it was the one that produces and causes happiness. And then we fell into a labyrinth — every time we thought we'd reached the exit, we found ourselves right back at the entrance, with as far to go as ever.

Crito: How did that happen, Socrates?

Socrates: I'll tell you. We identified the kingly art with the political art.

Crito: And then what?

Socrates: All the other arts — including the general's art — seemed to hand over their authority to this one. It was the only art that knew how to use what the others produced. So obviously this was the very thing we'd been looking for — the art that sits at the helm of the ship of state, as Aeschylus would put it, steering and governing everything, putting it all to use.

Crito: And weren't you right, Socrates?

Socrates: You can judge for yourself, Crito, when you hear what happened next. Because we picked up the investigation again and asked a question like this: does the kingly art, which has supreme authority, actually produce anything for us? "Of course," was the answer. Wouldn't you say the same, Crito?

Crito: I would.

Socrates: And what would you say the kingly art produces? Suppose medicine had supreme authority over all the subordinate arts. If I asked you a similar question about medicine, you'd say — it produces health?

Crito: I would.

Socrates: And what about your own art, farming — if it had supreme authority over its subordinate arts, what does it produce? Doesn't it supply us with the fruits of the earth?

Crito: Yes.

Euthydemus (Part 2)

Socrates: And what does the kingly art produce when it holds supreme power? Maybe you're not ready with an answer?

Crito: I'm certainly not, Socrates.

Socrates: Neither were we, Crito. But you do at least know that if this is the art we've been looking for, it ought to be useful.

Crito: Of course.

Socrates: And it surely ought to do us some good?

Crito: Of course, Socrates.

Socrates: And Cleinias and I had agreed that knowledge of some kind is the only good.

Crito: Yes, that's what you were saying.

Socrates: Now, all the other results of politics — and there are many: wealth, freedom, peace and stability — turned out to be neither good nor evil in themselves. The political art, if it's the one that's going to do us good and make us happy, ought to make us wise and give us knowledge.

Crito: Yes, that was the conclusion you'd reached, from what you've told me.

Socrates: So does the kingly art make people wise and good?

Crito: Why not, Socrates?

Socrates: What — all people, and in every respect? Does it teach them all the skills — carpentry, shoemaking, and all the rest?

Crito: I don't think so, Socrates.

Socrates: Then what knowledge does it give? And what are we supposed to do with it? It can't be the source of any products that are neither good nor evil in themselves, and it doesn't give us knowledge of anything specific — just the knowledge of itself. So what is it, and what do we do with it? Shall we say, Crito, that it's the knowledge by which we make other people good?

Crito: By all means.

Socrates: And in what way will they be good, and what will they be useful for? Shall we say they'll make still other people good, who'll then make yet more people good, and so on forever — without our ever being able to say what they're actually good at? Because we've set aside all the specific results of politics. It's the same old tune playing again. And we're exactly where we started — if not further back — from knowing what the art of happiness actually is.

Crito: You really do seem to have gotten yourself into quite a pickle, Socrates.

Socrates: And so, Crito, finding myself on the verge of shipwreck, I cried out and desperately begged the two visitors to save me and the young man from the whirlpool of this argument. They were our Castor and Pollux, I said, and it was time for them to be serious and show us — in good, sober earnest — what that knowledge is which would enable us to spend the rest of our lives in happiness.

Crito: And did Euthydemus show you?

Socrates: Oh yes, indeed. He launched into a speech so lofty it went like this: "Would you rather, Socrates," he said, "that I show you this knowledge you've been struggling with? Or shall I prove that you already have it?"

"What!" I said. "You have the power to do that?"

"I certainly do."

"Then I'd much rather you prove I already have it. At my age, that would be a lot more convenient than having to learn something new."

"All right then," he said. "Tell me — do you know anything?"

"Yes," I said. "Lots of things, but nothing very important."

"That'll do," he said. "Now — would you agree that anything is what it is, and at the same time is not what it is?"

"Absolutely not."

"And didn't you say you know something?"

Yes.

"And if you know, you're a knowing person."

"Sure — with respect to the things I know."

"That makes no difference. If you're knowing, you must know all things."

"Certainly not!" I said. "There are plenty of things I don't know."

"And if you don't know, you're not knowing."

"Not knowing those particular things, sure."

"But you're still not knowing. And you just said you are knowing. So you both are and are not knowing at the same time, about the same things."

"Well, that's a pretty little tangle you've tied, Euthydemus! But explain something to me — how does this give me that knowledge we've been looking for? Are you saying that since the same thing can't both be and not be, and since I know one thing, I must therefore know everything? Because I can't be knowing and not knowing at the same time? And if I know everything, then I must possess the knowledge we were searching for? Is that your brilliant insight?"

"Convicted out of your own mouth, Socrates," he said.

"Well, Euthydemus," I said, "hasn't the same thing happened to you? Because if I'm in the same boat as you and your beloved brother Dionysodorus, I really can't complain. Tell me honestly — you two, do you know some things and not know others?"

"Certainly not, Socrates," said Dionysodorus.

"What do you mean?" I said. "You don't know anything?"

"Oh no," he replied. "We do know something."

"Then," I said, "you know everything — if you know anything?"

"Yes, everything," he said. "And that's as true of you as it is of us."

"Oh my!" I said. "What a wonderful thing! What a magnificent blessing! And does everyone else also know everything — or nothing?"

"Naturally," he said. "They can't know some things and not others, because then they'd be knowing and not knowing at the same time."

"So what's the conclusion?" I said.

"Everyone knows everything," he said, "if they know even one thing."

"Oh heavens, Dionysodorus," I said, "I see now you really are being serious — I could hardly get you to that point! And you truly, genuinely know all things? Including carpentry? And leather-cutting?"

"Absolutely," he said.

"And stitching? Do you know stitching?"

"Yes, by the gods — stitching and cobbling too."

"And things like the number of the stars and the grains of sand?"

"Of course! Did you think we'd say no to that?"

"By Zeus," Ctesippus broke in, "I just wish you'd give me some proof that you're telling the truth."

"What kind of proof do you want?" said Dionysodorus.

"Tell me how many teeth Euthydemus has, and Euthydemus can tell us how many you have."

"Won't you just take our word that we know everything?"

"Certainly not," said Ctesippus. "First tell us this one thing, and then we'll believe the rest. If you tell us the number and we count the teeth and you're right, we'll buy everything else you say."

They thought Ctesippus was making fun of them and refused to answer, though they kept insisting in response to each of his questions that they knew everything.

Because Ctesippus had finally thrown off all restraint. No question was too outrageous for him. He started asking them if they knew the most disgusting things imaginable. And the two of them, like wild boars rushing onto the spear points, fearlessly answered that yes, they knew all of it.

Finally, Crito, even I got swept up in my disbelief and asked Euthydemus: "Does Dionysodorus know how to dance?"

"Certainly," he said.

"And can he do acrobatic sword-leaps and spin on a wheel — at his age? Has he really reached that level of skill?"

"He can do anything," he said.

"And have you always known all this?"

"Always," he said.

"Even as children? At your very birth?"

They both said yes.

This we simply couldn't believe. And Euthydemus said, "You're skeptical, Socrates."

"Yes," I said, "and I'd have good reason to be — if I didn't know that you two are wise men."

"But if you'll answer my questions," he said, "I'll get you to confess to equally amazing things."

"Well," I said, "there's nothing I'd like better than to be proven wrong about myself. If I'm actually a wise man and have been all along without knowing it — and you can prove it — there'd be no greater prize in life."

"Then answer," he said.

"Ask," I said. "I'm ready."

"Do you know something, Socrates, or nothing?"

"Something," I said.

"And do you know with what you know, or with something else?"

"With what I know — and I assume you mean with my soul?"

"Aren't you ashamed, Socrates, to ask a question when you're the one being questioned?"

"All right," I said. "But what am I supposed to do? I'll do whatever you say. But when I don't understand what you're asking, you tell me to answer anyway and not to ask for clarification."

"You surely have some notion of what I mean," he said.

"Yes," I said.

"Then answer according to your notion."

"Yes," I said, "but if you mean one thing by your question and I understand it differently and answer based on my interpretation, will you be satisfied with that — even if my answer is off the mark?"

"I'll be very satisfied — but I suspect you won't be."

"Then I definitely won't answer," I said, "unless I understand you."

"You refuse to answer based on your own understanding," he said, "because you'd rather keep yammering on. You're an old fossil."

Now I could see he was getting annoyed with me for making distinctions when he wanted to trap me in his nets of words. And I remembered that Connus always got annoyed with me when I pushed back against him — and then he'd give up on me, figuring I was hopeless. Since I was planning to study under Euthydemus, I figured I'd better let him have his way, or he'd think I was a dunce and refuse to teach me.

So I said, "You're a far better dialectician than I am, Euthydemus — I've never claimed to be a professional. So have it your way. Ask me again, and I'll answer."

"Answer again, then," he said. "Do you know what you know with something, or with nothing?"

"Yes," I said. "With my soul."

"There you go again — answering more than was asked!" he said. "I didn't ask you what you know with. I asked whether you know with something."

"You're right — I said too much. Forgive me, it was just ignorance. I'll answer simply: yes, I always know what I know with something."

"And is that something always the same," he said, "or sometimes one thing and sometimes another?"

"Always the same," I said. "Whenever I know, I know with this."

"Would you stop tacking on extra words?"

"I'm worried the word 'always' is going to get us in trouble."

"It might get you in trouble, but certainly not us. Now answer: do you always know with this?"

"Always — since you won't let me say 'when I know.'"

"And always knowing, do you know some things with this and other things with something else? Or do you know all things with this?"

"All that I know," I said, "I know with this."

"There it is again, Socrates!" he said. "The extra words."

"Fine," I said. "I'll drop 'that I know.'"

"No no — don't drop anything. I'm not asking for favors. Just answer this: would you be able to know all things if you didn't already know all things?"

"That's completely impossible."

"Then add on whatever you like," he said, "because you've just admitted that you know all things."

"I suppose that's true," I said, "since my little qualifier 'that I know' isn't allowed to stand. So yes — I know all things."

"And you've admitted that you always know all things with that by which you know — whether we add the phrase 'when you know them' or not. Because you've agreed that you've always known all things at once — that is, even when you were a child, and at your birth, and while you were growing up, and before you were born, and before heaven and earth existed — you knew all things, since you always know them. And I swear you will continue to always know all things, if I have any say in the matter."

"I certainly hope you'll have that say, reverend Euthydemus," I said, "if you're really telling the truth. But I have a slight doubt about your ability to deliver on this — unless your brother Dionysodorus backs you up. Then maybe you can do it. Tell me, both of you — because in the main, I suppose I can't doubt that I really do know all things, since two prodigiously wise men tell me so — but how can I claim to know things like this, Euthydemus: that the good are unjust? Come on — do I know that or not?"

"You certainly know it."

"Know what?"

"That the good are not unjust."

"Right, yes — I've always known that," I said. "But that's not what I'm asking. What I want to know is: where did I learn that the good are unjust?"

"Nowhere," said Dionysodorus.

"Then I don't know it," I said.

"You're ruining the argument!" Euthydemus said to Dionysodorus. "He'll turn out not to know something, and then he'll be knowing and not knowing at the same time."

Dionysodorus blushed.

I turned to Euthydemus and said, "What do you think, Euthydemus? Doesn't your all-knowing brother seem to have made a little mistake?"

"What?" said Dionysodorus, snapping back instantly. "Am I the brother of Euthydemus?"

"Let that go," I said. "Please don't interrupt, my friend — just let Euthydemus get back to proving that I know the good to be unjust. At least let me learn that much."

"You're running away, Socrates," said Dionysodorus. "Refusing to answer."

"No wonder," I said. "I'm no match for even one of you, let alone both. Of course I'm going to run away from two. I'm no Heracles. And even Heracles couldn't fight the Hydra — a she-Sophist who had the wit to sprout several new heads every time one was cut off. Especially once he saw a second monster — a giant sea-crab, another Sophist, who appeared to have just arrived from a sea voyage — bearing down on him from the left, snapping its jaws. When it got too troublesome, he called in his nephew Iolaus for backup, and Iolaus came through beautifully. But if my Iolaus — my brother Patrocles the sculptor — were to come help, he'd only make things worse."

"All right," said Dionysodorus, "now that you've finished that little performance — tell me, was Iolaus the nephew of Heracles any more than he's yours?"

"I suppose I'd better answer you, Dionysodorus," I said, "because you'll keep pressing — that much I know — out of sheer determination to prevent me from learning anything from Euthydemus."

"Then answer," he said.

"Fine," I said. "Iolaus was not my nephew. He was Heracles' nephew. His father wasn't my brother Patrocles but Iphicles, whose name sounds a bit like Patrocles — Iphicles was Heracles' brother."

"And is Patrocles your brother?" he said.

"Yes," I said. "My half-brother — same mother, different father."

"Then he both is and is not your brother."

"Not by the same father, my friend," I said. "His father was Chaeredemus, and mine was Sophroniscus."

"And Sophroniscus was a father, and Chaeredemus was also a father?"

"Yes," I said. "Sophroniscus was my father, and Chaeredemus was his."

"Then Chaeredemus is different from a father?"

"He's not my father," I said.

"But can a father be anything other than a father? Or are you the same as a stone?"

"I'm definitely not a stone," I said, "though I'm worried you might prove I am one."

"Aren't you different from a stone?"

Yes.

"And being different from a stone, you're not a stone? And being different from gold, you're not gold?"

Right.

"So Chaeredemus," he said, "being different from a father, is not a father?"

"I suppose he's not a father," I said.

"Because if Chaeredemus is a father," said Euthydemus, jumping in, "then Sophroniscus, being different from a father, is not a father. And you, Socrates, have no father at all."

Ctesippus jumped in: "And isn't your father in the same situation? He's different from my father, isn't he?"

"Not at all," said Euthydemus.

"Then he's the same?"

"He's the same."

"I can't say I love the connection," said Ctesippus. "But is he only my father, Euthydemus, or is he everyone's father?"

"Everyone's father," he said. "Do you think the same person can be a father and not a father?"

"That's exactly what I thought," said Ctesippus.

"And do you think gold can be not gold? Or a man can be not a man?"

"Hold on, Euthydemus," said Ctesippus. "You're comparing apples and oranges, as they say. It's absurd to claim your father is the father of all."

"But he is," Euthydemus replied.

"Of men only?" said Ctesippus. "Or of horses and every other animal too?"

"Of all of them," he said.

"And your mother is the mother of all too?"

"Our mother too."

"So your mother has given birth to sea urchins?"

"And so has yours," he said.

"And baby fish and puppies and piglets are your brothers?"

"And yours too."

"And your papa is a dog?"

"And so is yours," he said.

"Let me have a turn," said Dionysodorus. "If you'll answer my questions, Ctesippus, I'll get the same admissions from you in no time. You have a dog, you said?"

"Yes — a real rascal," said Ctesippus.

"And he has puppies?"

"Yes, and they look just like him."

"And the dog is the father of the puppies?"

"I personally witnessed him with the mother," said Ctesippus.

"And isn't the dog yours?"

"He sure is."

"Then he's a father, and he's yours. Therefore: he's your father, and the puppies are your brothers."

"And let me slip in one more quick question," said Dionysodorus, jumping ahead before Ctesippus could respond, "just a small one: do you beat this dog?"

Ctesippus laughed and said, "I certainly do — since I can't beat you instead."

"Then you beat your father," said Dionysodorus.

"You'd have a much better reason to beat yours," said Ctesippus. "What was he thinking when he produced such brilliant sons? Your father — and his fellow puppies — must have gotten an enormous amount of good out of this wisdom of yours."

"Neither he nor you, Ctesippus, have any need of much good," said Euthydemus.

"Including yourself, Euthydemus?" said Ctesippus.

"Including me and every other person. Tell me, Ctesippus — do you think it's good or bad for a sick person to take medicine when he needs it? Or to go to war armed rather than unarmed?"

"I'd say it's good. Though I know I'm about to walk into one of your delightful traps."

"You'll find out soon enough," he said. "Since you admit that taking medicine is a good thing when someone needs it, then surely the more medicine the better? When he takes his dose, a whole cartload of hellebore shouldn't be too much for him."

"Absolutely, Euthydemus," said Ctesippus, "provided the patient is as big as the statue at Delphi."

"And since having weapons in wartime is a good thing, a person ought to have as many shields and spears as possible?"

"Oh, absolutely," said Ctesippus. "And you think one shield and one spear is enough?"

"For someone like you, sure. But would you equip Geryon or Briareus that way? I'd have thought you and your brother, being experts in armored combat, would know better..."

Here Euthydemus fell silent. But Dionysodorus returned to a previous answer of Ctesippus's.

"Don't you think owning gold is a good thing?"

"Yes," said Ctesippus. "The more the better."

"And to have money everywhere and always is a good thing?"

"Absolutely. A tremendous good."

"And you agree gold is a good?"

"I've already said so."

"Then shouldn't a person have gold everywhere and always, and as much as possible stuffed inside himself? Wouldn't the happiest man alive be the one with three talents of gold in his belly, a talent of gold in his skull, and a gold coin stuck in each eye?"

"Well, Euthydemus," said Ctesippus, "the Scythians do consider the people with gold in their skulls to be the happiest and bravest — which is just another version of your 'dog-father' routine. And what's even more extraordinary, the Scythians drink from their own gilded skulls, and look inside their own heads, and hold their own brains in their hands."

"Now tell me," said Euthydemus, "do the Scythians and everyone else see things that have the quality of sight, or things that don't?"

"Things that have the quality of sight, obviously."

"And you see things that have the quality of sight too?"

Yes.

"Then do you see our clothes?"

Yes.

"Then our clothes have the quality of sight."

"They can see brilliantly," said Ctesippus with a grin.

"What can they see?"

"Nothing! But you, my sweet friend, seem to have fallen asleep with your eyes open. And if it's possible to speak and say nothing — that's what you're doing right now."

"Can there not be a silence of the speaker?" said Dionysodorus.

"Impossible," said Ctesippus.

"Or a speaking of the silent?"

"Even more impossible."

"But when you mention stones, wood, and iron bars — aren't you speaking of silent things?"

"Not when I walk past a blacksmith's forge! In there, the iron bars make a terrific racket when you touch them. So your wisdom has slipped up on that one. But please, do tell me how you can be silent while speaking."

(I thought Ctesippus was showing off a bit because Cleinias was watching.)

"When you're silent," said Euthydemus, "isn't there a silence of all things?"

"Yes," he said.

"But if speaking things are included in 'all things,' then the speaking things are silent too."

"Wait," said Ctesippus. "Are all things not silent?"

"Certainly not," said Euthydemus.

"Then, my friend — do all things speak?"

"The ones that speak do."

"That's not what I'm asking," said Ctesippus. "I'm asking whether all things are silent or all things speak."

"Neither and both!" said Dionysodorus, jumping in. "I'm sure you'll be 'nonplussed' by that answer."

At this, Ctesippus — as was his way — exploded into a roar of laughter. "Your brother, Euthydemus, has gotten himself into a real jam! The game is up!" This delighted Cleinias, whose laughter made Ctesippus ten times louder. But I can't help thinking the rascal must have picked up that move from them, because nobody in our time has come close to their level of cleverness.

"Why are you laughing, Cleinias," I said, "at such solemn and beautiful ideas?"

"Well, Socrates," said Dionysodorus, "have you ever seen a beautiful thing?"

"Yes, Dionysodorus," I said. "I've seen many."

"Were they different from the beautiful itself, or the same as the beautiful?"

I was in quite a bind. I felt like I deserved it for opening my big mouth. But I said, "They're not the same as absolute beauty, but each of them has beauty present in it."

"And if an ox is present with you, are you an ox? And if Dionysodorus is present with you, are you Dionysodorus?"

"God forbid!" I said.

"But then how, just because one thing is present with another, will one thing be another?"

"Is that what's stumping you?" I said — because I was starting to try to imitate their technique, which I'd really set my heart on.

"Of course it is," he said. "I and the whole world are puzzled by the nonexistent."

"What do you mean, Dionysodorus?" I said. "Isn't the honorable honorable, and the base base?"

"That's as I please," he said.

"And does it please you?"

"Yes," he said.

"And you'd agree that the same is the same, and the different is different? Surely even a child wouldn't deny that the different is different. But I think, Dionysodorus, that you deliberately fumbled that last question. Because in general, you and your brother seem like excellent craftsmen who do the dialectician's business extremely well."

"And what," he said, "is the business of a good craftsman? Tell me — first of all, whose business is hammering?"

"The blacksmith's."

"And whose is making pots?"

"The potter's."

"And who does the killing, skinning, chopping, boiling, and roasting?"

"The cook," I said.

"And if someone does his proper business, he does right?"

Yes.

"And the cook's proper business, as you agreed, is the chopping and skinning?"

"Yes, I admitted that — but don't be too hard on me."

"So if someone were to kill, chop, boil, and roast the cook, he'd be doing the cook's business. And if someone were to hammer the blacksmith and throw the potter on a wheel, he'd be doing their business."

"Poseidon!" I said. "This is the crowning achievement of wisdom! Can I ever hope to possess such wisdom myself?"

"Would you even recognize it, Socrates, if it became yours?"

"Certainly," I said, "if you'll let me."

"What — do you think you know what's yours?" he said.

"I do — unless you say otherwise. Because you're the foundation and Euthydemus is the capstone of all my wisdom."

"Isn't 'yours' something you have in your power — something you can use however you want? For example, an ox or a sheep — if you could sell it, give it away, or sacrifice it to any god you chose — you'd call it yours. And anything you couldn't sell, give away, or sacrifice, you'd say wasn't really in your power. Right?"

"Right," I said — certain that something spectacular was about to emerge from these questions, and impatient to hear it. "Yes, things like that and only things like that are mine."

"And by animals, you mean living beings?"

"Yes," I said.

"So you agree that only those animals are yours over which you have the power to do all these things I just described?"

Yes.

Then, after a pause during which he seemed lost in contemplation of something enormous, he said: "Tell me, Socrates — do you have an ancestral Zeus?"

At this point, sensing the final move coming like a man caught in a net who makes one desperate twist to escape, I said: "No, Dionysodorus. I don't."

"What a pitiful man you must be!" he said. "You're not even a real Athenian if you have no ancestral gods, no temples, no mark of respectable citizenship."

"Now now, Dionysodorus," I said. "Don't be harsh. When it comes to religion, I've got altars and temples, both household and ancestral — everything any other Athenian has."

"And don't other Athenians have an ancestral Zeus?" he said.

"That title," I said, "isn't found among the Ionians, whether colonists or citizens of Athens. We have an ancestral Apollo, who's the father of Ion. And we have a Zeus of the Family and a Zeus of the Phratry, and an Athena of the Phratry. But 'Ancestral Zeus' — that's not one of our titles."

"No matter," said Dionysodorus. "You admit that you have Apollo, Zeus, and Athena."

"I certainly do."

"And they're your gods?"

"Yes," I said. "My lords and ancestors."

"At any rate, they're yours," he said. "Didn't you just admit that?"

"I did," I said. "What's coming?"

"And aren't these gods living beings? You already agreed that everything with life is an animal. And the gods have life, don't they?"

"They have life," I said.

"Then aren't they animals?"

"They're animals," I said.

"And you admitted that of your animals, the ones that are truly yours are the ones you can give away, sell, or sacrifice to any god you choose?"

"I did admit that, Euthydemus — and I have no way out."

"Well then," he said, "since you admit that Zeus and the other gods are yours — can you sell them, give them away, or do whatever you please with them, just as you would with any other animal?"

At this, Crito, I was completely flattened. Struck dumb. Laid out flat. Ctesippus rushed to my rescue.

"Bravo, Heracles!" he shouted. "What a brilliant argument!"

"Is it Bravo Heracles — or Heracles Bravo?" said Dionysodorus.

"Poseidon!" said Ctesippus. "What horrible word games. I give up — the pair of you are unbeatable."

And then, my dear Crito, the applause became universal. Everyone in the place — the speakers' admirers and the whole audience — was cheering, laughing, clapping, absolutely beside themselves with joy. Until this point, only the Sophists' own fan club had cheered after each successful hit. But now the entire crowd roared with delight, so loudly that the columns of the Lyceum seemed to echo back their joy.

As for me — I was so carried away that I made a speech declaring I'd never seen anything like their wisdom in all my life. I proclaimed myself their devoted servant and piled on the praise and admiration. "What marvelous dexterity!" I said. "How did you acquire such perfection in so short a time? There's so much to admire in what you say, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, but what I admire most of all is your magnificent indifference to the opinions of others — whether the common crowd or distinguished intellectuals. You care only for people like yourselves. And I truly believe very few people are like you or would approve of arguments like these. Most people are so ignorant of their value that they'd be more embarrassed to use these arguments on others than to have them used on themselves.

"I must also express my admiration for your generous, public-spirited denial of all distinctions — whether between good and evil, white and black, or anything else. The beautiful result is that, as you say, everyone's mouth is sewn shut — including your own, which graciously follows the same rule. This removes all possible grounds for offense.

"But what impresses me most of all is this: your art is so brilliantly designed that anyone can learn it in almost no time. I noticed that Ctesippus was already copying your moves after just a few minutes. Now, this quick learnability is excellent in its way — but at the same time, let me offer a bit of advice: don't hold too many public performances. There's a risk that people will stop valuing an art they can pick up so easily. These sessions would work best if limited to just the two of you. But if you must have an audience, only admit people willing to pay a generous fee — and make sure of that. And if you're really wise, you'll also tell your students to practice only with you and each other. Because only what is rare is valuable. As Pindar says, 'Water is the best of all things' — but it's also the cheapest.

"Anyway — all I ask is that you accept Cleinias and me as your students."

That was the discussion, Crito. We exchanged a few more words and then went our separate ways. I hope you'll come along with me to their next session, since they claim they can teach anyone who'll pay them — no age limit and no aptitude requirements. And I should mention one thing they said specifically for your benefit: learning their art doesn't interfere at all with making money.

Crito: I'm certainly curious, Socrates, and eager to learn. But I'm afraid I'm not cut from the same cloth as Euthydemus. I'm more like the people you described — the ones who'd rather be demolished by these arguments than use them to demolish others. And though it may seem silly for me to advise you, I think you should hear what someone said to me. He's a man of considerable standing — a professor of legal rhetoric — and he came up to me after your session as I was walking around. "Crito," he said, "aren't you paying attention to these wise men?" "No," I said. "I couldn't get close enough to hear — there was too big a crowd." "Well, you missed something worth hearing." "What was that?" I asked. "You would have heard the greatest masters of rhetorical art performing." "And what did you think of them?" I asked. "What did I think?" he said. "The same thing anyone would think after hearing men play the fool and make a big deal out of nothing." That was his exact phrase. "Surely," I said, "philosophy is a wonderful pursuit." "Wonderful?" he said. "What naivety! Philosophy is worthless. And if you'd been there, I think you'd have been embarrassed for your friend Socrates — putting himself at the mercy of men who don't care what they say and pounce on every word. And these men, as I was telling you, are supposedly the leading thinkers of our time. But the truth is, Crito, that the whole enterprise — and the men themselves — are utterly trivial and ridiculous." Now, this criticism of philosophy, Socrates — whether from this man or from anyone — seems wrong to me. But the point about the awkwardness of debating in public with men like that — there I admit he may have had a point.

Socrates: Ah, Crito — these are marvelous men. But what was I about to say? First, tell me — who was this person who came up and criticized philosophy? Was he a lawyer who argues cases in court himself, or one of those people who trains the lawyers — who writes the speeches they use in battle?

Crito: Definitely not a courtroom lawyer. I doubt he's ever even been in court. But they say he knows the business well — he's clever and composes remarkable speeches.

Socrates: Now I understand, Crito. He's one of those amphibious creatures I was about to mention — the kind Prodicus describes as straddling the border between philosophy and politics. They think they're the wisest of all people, and that they're generally considered the wisest too. The only thing standing between them and universal recognition is the rivalry of the philosophers. They figure that if they can just prove philosophy is worthless, nobody will challenge their claim to the crown of wisdom. And they really are clever — in their own estimation. They have a little bit of philosophy and a little bit of political savvy, which gives them some basis for their confidence. They figure they've got just enough of both to stay out of danger while collecting the rewards.

Crito: What do you make of them, Socrates? There's something appealing in that attitude.

Socrates: More appealing than true, Crito. These people don't understand the nature of what's in between. Here's the thing: whenever something is a blend of two things, and one of those things is good and the other is evil, the blend is better than the evil part but worse than the good. If it's a blend of two good things that aim at different ends, it falls short of both in achieving either purpose. And only if both ingredients are bad does the mixture come out better than either one.

Now, if philosophy and politics are both good but aim at different goals, and these people are a blend of both — then they're actually worse than either a true philosopher or a true statesman. Or if one is good and the other bad, they're better than one but worse than the other. The only way their claim would hold up is if both philosophy and politics were bad — and I don't think even they'd say that.

The truth is that these philosopher-politicians who try to be both end up falling short of both. They're really in third place, though they'd love to be first. But we shouldn't be too hard on them. Every person should be respected who sincerely pursues and works at anything that even resembles wisdom. We just need to see them for what they really are.

Crito: I've told you many times, Socrates — I'm in a constant struggle over what to do about my sons. What should I do with them? There's no rush with the younger one — he's still a child. But Critobulus is getting older and needs someone to guide him. And whenever I hear you talk, I can't help thinking there's a kind of madness in the way we obsess about our children — making sure to marry a wife from a good family, piling up money for them — but then not bothering about their education. But then again, when I look at the people who claim to be educators, I'm appalled. If I'm being honest, they all strike me as dreadful. So I don't know how to advise a young man to study philosophy.

Socrates: My dear Crito, don't you realize that in every field, the incompetent practitioners are the vast majority while the truly good ones are rare and beyond price? Take gymnastics, rhetoric, business, or generalship — aren't these all worthwhile pursuits?

Crito: Absolutely, in my view.

Socrates: And in each of them, don't you see that most practitioners are laughable?

Crito: Yes — that's very true.

Socrates: But would you, on that account, avoid all these pursuits yourself and keep your son from them?

Crito: That wouldn't be reasonable, Socrates.

Socrates: Then be reasonable, Crito. Don't worry about whether the teachers of philosophy are good or bad. Think about philosophy herself. Examine her carefully and honestly. If she turns out to be worthless, then steer everyone away from her — not just your sons. But if she is what I believe she is, then follow her and serve her, you and your whole household, and be of good cheer.

Cratylus (Part 1)

Persons of the dialogue:
  Socrates
  Hermogenes
  Cratylus

Hermogenes: How about we bring Socrates into our argument?

Cratylus Sure, if you'd like.

Hermogenes: I should explain what's going on, Socrates. Our friend Cratylus here has been arguing about names. He says they're natural, not conventional — not just arbitrary sounds that people agree to use, but that there's a truth or correctness built into them, and it's the same for Greeks and non-Greeks alike. So I asked him whether his own name, "Cratylus," is a true name, and he says yes. "And Socrates?" "Yes." So I said, "Then every person's name is simply whatever they're called." And he replies, "If the whole world called you Hermogenes, that still wouldn't be your name." When I press him for an explanation, he gets all ironic and mysterious, like he's got some private theory that he could share if he wanted to — and if he did, he'd completely convince me. So tell me, Socrates, what does this oracle of his mean? Or better yet, tell me your own view on whether names have a natural correctness. I'd much rather hear that.

Socrates: Son of Hipponicus, there's an old saying: "The knowledge of the good is hard to come by." And the knowledge of names is a big part of knowledge. If I weren't poor, I could have taken the fifty-drachma course from the great Prodicus — the one that's supposed to be a complete education in grammar and language (his own words). Then I'd be able to answer your question about the correctness of names right away. But I've only taken the one-drachma course, so I don't actually know the truth about these things. Still, I'm happy to investigate with you and Cratylus. As for his claim that your name isn't really Hermogenes — I suspect he's just teasing you. The name "Hermogenes" means "born of Hermes," the god of profit, and he's joking that you don't live up to it because you're always chasing after money but never having any luck. But as I was saying, this kind of knowledge is genuinely difficult, so we'd better leave the question open until we've heard both sides.

Hermogenes: I've talked this over many times, both with Cratylus and others, and I can't convince myself that there's any principle of correctness in names other than convention and agreement. In my view, whatever name you give something is the right one. And if you change it and give another, the new name is just as correct as the old one. We change the names of our slaves all the time, and the new name works just as well. No name is given to anything by nature — it's all convention and the habits of the people who use them. That's what I think. But if I'm wrong, I'd be happy to learn from Cratylus or anyone else.

Socrates: You may well be right, Hermogenes. Let's see. So your view is that the name of each thing is simply whatever anyone agrees to call it?

Hermogenes: That's my position.

Socrates: Whether the name-giver is an individual person or a whole city?

Hermogenes: Yes.

Socrates: All right, let me try an example. Suppose I call a man "horse" and a horse "man." You're saying the man would be correctly called "horse" by me as an individual, while correctly called "man" by the rest of the world — and the horse would correctly be called "man" by me and "horse" by everyone else? Is that what you mean?

Hermogenes: According to my view, yes.

Socrates: But what about truth? You'd agree that words can be true or false?

Hermogenes: Certainly.

Socrates: And there are true and false propositions?

Hermogenes: Of course.

Socrates: And a true proposition states what is, and a false proposition states what is not?

Hermogenes: Yes — what other answer could there be?

Socrates: So within a proposition, there's truth and falsehood?

Hermogenes: Certainly.

Socrates: But is a proposition only true as a whole, or are its parts true too?

Hermogenes: No, the parts are true as well as the whole.

Socrates: Just the large parts, or every part?

Hermogenes: Every part, I'd say.

Socrates: And is there any part of a proposition smaller than a name?

Hermogenes: No — that's the smallest unit.

Socrates: Then a name is a part of a true proposition?

Hermogenes: Yes.

Socrates: And a true part, as you said.

Hermogenes: Yes.

Socrates: And isn't a part of a falsehood also false?

Hermogenes: Yes.

Socrates: Then if propositions can be true and false, names can be true and false too?

Hermogenes: So it would seem.

Socrates: And the name of anything is whatever anyone says it is?

Hermogenes: Yes.

Socrates: And will there be as many names for each thing as there are people naming it? And will all of them be true names at the moment they're spoken?

Hermogenes: Yes, Socrates. I can't see any other standard of correctness. You give one name, I give another. In different cities and countries there are different names for the same things. Greeks differ from non-Greeks, and different Greek communities differ from each other.

Socrates: But tell me, Hermogenes — do the things themselves differ the way the names differ? Are they relative to individuals, as Protagoras says? He claims that "man is the measure of all things" — that things are to me as they appear to me, and to you as they appear to you. Do you agree with him, or would you say that things have a permanent nature of their own?

Hermogenes: There have been times, Socrates, when I've been so confused that I've taken refuge in Protagoras's view. Not that I really agree with him.

Socrates: Wait — have you ever been driven to admit that there's no such thing as a bad person?

Hermogenes: No, definitely not. But I've often had reason to think there are plenty of very bad people.

Socrates: And have you ever come across any very good ones?

Hermogenes: Not many.

Socrates: But you have found some?

Hermogenes: Yes.

Socrates: And would you say that the very good are the very wise, and the very bad are the very foolish?

Hermogenes: I would.

Socrates: But if Protagoras is right, and the truth is just whatever appears to each person, then how can some of us be wise and some foolish?

Hermogenes: That would be impossible.

Socrates: And on the other hand, if wisdom and foolishness really are distinguishable, then I think you'd agree that Protagoras's claim can hardly be correct. Because if what appears to each person is true for them, no one can actually be wiser than anyone else.

Hermogenes: They can't.

Socrates: And you wouldn't want to go along with Euthydemus either, who says that all things belong equally to all people at the same time and always. Because on that view there can't be good people and bad people — not if virtue and vice belong to everyone equally.

Hermogenes: No, there can't.

Socrates: So if neither view is right — if things aren't just relative to individuals, and all things don't belong equally to everyone — then things must have their own proper and permanent nature. They aren't pushed around by us, fluctuating according to our whims. They're independent, and they maintain their own essential nature as prescribed by how things actually are.

Hermogenes: I think, Socrates, that you've hit on the truth.

Socrates: And does this apply only to things themselves, or equally to actions? Aren't actions also a kind of reality?

Hermogenes: Yes, actions are real too.

Socrates: Then actions are also performed according to their own nature, and not according to whatever we happen to think about them? Take cutting, for example. We don't cut however we please, with any random instrument. We cut with the right instrument, and according to the natural process of cutting. The natural process works. Any other way will fail and be useless.

Hermogenes: I'd say the natural way is the right way.

Socrates: Same with burning. Not every approach works — the right way is the natural way, with the natural instrument.

Hermogenes: True.

Socrates: And this holds for all actions?

Hermogenes: Yes.

Socrates: And speaking is a kind of action?

Hermogenes: True.

Socrates: So will a person speak correctly just by speaking however they please? Won't the successful speaker be the one who speaks in the natural way, as things ought to be spoken, and with the natural instrument? Any other approach will result in error and failure.

Hermogenes: I quite agree with you.

Socrates: And isn't naming a part of speaking? When we give names, we're speaking.

Hermogenes: That's true.

Socrates: And if speaking is a kind of action that relates to real things, then isn't naming also a kind of action?

Hermogenes: True.

Socrates: And we established that actions aren't relative to ourselves but have a nature of their own?

Hermogenes: Precisely.

Socrates: Then the argument leads us to conclude that names should be given according to a natural process and with the proper instrument, not at our pleasure. That's the only way we'll name things successfully.

Hermogenes: I agree.

Socrates: Now, whatever needs to be cut has to be cut with something?

Hermogenes: Yes.

Socrates: And whatever needs to be woven or pierced has to be woven or pierced with something?

Hermogenes: Certainly.

Socrates: And whatever needs to be named has to be named with something?

Hermogenes: True.

Socrates: What do we pierce with?

Hermogenes: An awl.

Socrates: And what do we weave with?

Hermogenes: A shuttle.

Socrates: And what do we name with?

Hermogenes: A name.

Socrates: Very good. So a name is an instrument?

Hermogenes: Certainly.

Socrates: Suppose I ask, "What kind of instrument is a shuttle?" And you answer, "A weaving instrument."

Hermogenes: Right.

Socrates: And if I ask, "What do we do when we weave?" the answer is that we separate the warp from the woof.

Hermogenes: Very true.

Socrates: And the same kind of description could be given of an awl or any other instrument?

Hermogenes: Of course.

Socrates: So now let me ask a similar question about names. If a name is an instrument, what do we do when we name things?

Hermogenes: I can't say.

Socrates: Don't we communicate information to each other, and distinguish things according to their natures?

Hermogenes: Yes, we certainly do.

Socrates: Then a name is an instrument for teaching and for distinguishing natures — just as a shuttle is an instrument for distinguishing the threads of a web.

Hermogenes: Yes.

Socrates: And the shuttle is the weaver's instrument?

Hermogenes: Absolutely.

Socrates: So the weaver will use the shuttle well — meaning like a weaver? And the teacher will use names well — meaning like a teacher?

Hermogenes: Yes.

Socrates: And when the weaver uses the shuttle, whose craftsmanship is he using?

Hermogenes: The carpenter's.

Socrates: And is every person a carpenter, or only the skilled ones?

Hermogenes: Only the skilled.

Socrates: And when someone uses the awl, whose work are they using?

Hermogenes: The smith's.

Socrates: And is every person a smith, or only the skilled ones?

Hermogenes: Only the skilled.

Socrates: And when the teacher uses a name, whose work is he using?

Hermogenes: Now I'm stumped again.

Socrates: Can you at least tell me who gives us the names we use?

Hermogenes: I really can't.

Socrates: Doesn't it seem like the law gives them to us?

Hermogenes: Yes, I suppose so.

Socrates: So the teacher, when he uses a name, is using the work of the legislator?

Hermogenes: I agree.

Socrates: And is every person a legislator, or only the skilled ones?

Hermogenes: Only the skilled.

Socrates: Then not just anyone can give a name, Hermogenes. Only a name-maker can do it — and that's the legislator, who is the rarest of all skilled craftsmen.

Hermogenes: True.

Socrates: And how does the legislator make names? What does he look to? Think about it in light of our previous examples. What does the carpenter look to when making a shuttle? Doesn't he look to whatever is naturally fitted to work as a shuttle?

Hermogenes: Certainly.

Socrates: And suppose the shuttle breaks while he's making it. Will he make another one by looking at the broken one? Or will he look to the ideal form that he was working from?

Hermogenes: The ideal form, I'd imagine.

Socrates: And wouldn't we be right to call that the true or ideal shuttle?

Hermogenes: I think so.

Socrates: So whatever kind of shuttle is needed — for manufacturing thin garments or thick ones, linen or wool or any other material — each one should have the true form of a shuttle. And the maker should produce, in each case, the form that's best suited to that particular kind of work.

Hermogenes: Yes.

Socrates: And the same goes for other instruments. When a craftsman has figured out the instrument naturally suited to each job, he has to express that natural form in whatever material he's working with. He doesn't get to make up his own design. For instance, the smith should know how to put into iron the forms of awls suited by nature to their various uses.

Hermogenes: Certainly.

Socrates: And the carpenter should know how to put into wood the forms of shuttles suited by nature to their uses?

Hermogenes: True.

Socrates: Because the different forms of shuttles naturally correspond to different kinds of weaving. And this is true of instruments in general.

Hermogenes: Yes.

Socrates: Then our legislator must also know how to put the true natural name of each thing into sounds and syllables, and to make and give all names with a view to the ideal name — if he's going to be a real name-maker. And we should remember that different legislators won't use the same syllables, just as different smiths don't use the same iron to make the same instrument for the same purpose. The form must be the same, but the material can vary, and the instrument will be equally good regardless of what iron it's made from, whether in Greece or abroad. The material doesn't matter.

Hermogenes: Very true.

Socrates: And the legislator, whether Greek or non-Greek, shouldn't be considered worse as long as he gives the true and proper form of the name, whatever syllables he uses. The country doesn't matter.

Hermogenes: Quite true.

Socrates: But who decides whether the proper form has been given to the shuttle, regardless of what wood it's made from? The carpenter who makes it, or the weaver who uses it?

Hermogenes: I'd say the one who uses it, Socrates.

Socrates: And who uses the work of the lyre-maker? Won't it be the person who knows how to direct the work being done and can tell whether it's been done well or not?

Hermogenes: Certainly.

Socrates: And who is that?

Hermogenes: The lyre-player.

Socrates: And who will direct the shipwright?

Hermogenes: The pilot.

Socrates: And who is best able to direct the legislator in his work and judge whether the job has been done well, whether here or in any other country? Won't it be the person who actually uses the product?

Hermogenes: Yes.

Socrates: And that's the person who knows how to ask questions?

Hermogenes: Yes.

Socrates: And how to answer them?

Hermogenes: Yes.

Socrates: And someone who knows how to ask and answer — you'd call them a dialectician?

Hermogenes: Yes, that would be the right term.

Socrates: So the carpenter's job is to make a rudder, and the pilot directs him, if the rudder is to be well made.

Hermogenes: True.

Socrates: And the legislator's job is to give names, and the dialectician must be his director, if the names are to be given correctly?

Hermogenes: That's true.

Socrates: Then the giving of names is hardly the trivial matter you think it is, Hermogenes, or the work of trivial or random people. Cratylus is right when he says that things have names by nature, and that not just anyone can be a maker of names — only someone who looks to the name that each thing naturally has and is able to express the true forms of things in letters and syllables.

Hermogenes: I can't really argue with you, Socrates, but I'm having trouble changing my mind all at once. I think I'd be more easily convinced if you could show me what you mean by this "natural fitness" of names.

Socrates: My good Hermogenes, I have nothing to show. Didn't I just tell you — though maybe you've forgotten — that I don't know anything about this, and I was only proposing to investigate it together with you? But now that we've been talking, we've made some progress. We've discovered that names do have a natural truth to them, and that not just anyone knows how to give a thing its name.

Hermogenes: Very good.

Socrates: And what is the nature of this truth or correctness in names? That's the next question, if you want to pursue it.

Hermogenes: I certainly do.

Socrates: Then think about it.

Hermogenes: How should I think about it?

Socrates: The best way is to get help from experts, and you'd have to pay them well — both in money and in gratitude. Those experts would be the Sophists, from whom your brother Callias has — at considerable expense — bought a reputation for wisdom. But since you haven't come into your inheritance yet, you'd better go beg him to share what he learned from Protagoras about the fitness of names.

Hermogenes: But that would be totally inconsistent of me! I just rejected Protagoras and his "truth" doctrine, so how could I then treat what he says about names as valuable?

Socrates: Well, if you won't have Protagoras, you'll have to learn from Homer and the other poets.

Hermogenes: And where does Homer say anything about names? What does he say?

Socrates: He talks about them frequently — notably and impressively in the passages where he distinguishes between the names that gods give to things and the names that humans give. Doesn't he make a remarkable claim about the correctness of names in those passages? Because the gods surely must call things by their right and natural names, don't you think?

Hermogenes: Well, of course, if they call them anything at all, they'd call them correctly. But what passages are you talking about?

Socrates: Do you know what he says about the river in Troy that fought in single combat against Hephaestus? "The gods call it Xanthus," he says, "and men call it Scamander."

Hermogenes: I remember.

Socrates: Well then — isn't it a significant lesson to learn that the river ought to be called Xanthus rather than Scamander? Or take the bird that, as Homer says, "the gods call Chalcis, and men call Cymindis." Isn't it worth knowing that Chalcis is the more correct name? Or the hill called Batieia by humans and Myrina by the gods? There are many similar observations in Homer and other poets. But those examples might be above our pay grade. The names of Hector's son — Scamandrius and Astyanax, both of which Homer says were given to the boy — are more within our range. I think we can figure out what the poet means by "correctness" from that example. You remember the lines I'm referring to?

Hermogenes: I do.

Socrates: Let me ask you, then: which name did Homer think was more correct for Hector's son — Astyanax or Scamandrius?

Hermogenes: I don't know.

Socrates: Well, if you were asked whether the wise or the unwise are more likely to give correct names, what would you say?

Hermogenes: The wise, obviously.

Socrates: And who's generally wiser in a city — the men or the women?

Hermogenes: I'd say the men.

Socrates: Now, Homer tells us that the Trojan men called the boy Astyanax — "lord of the city." But if the men called him Astyanax, the other name, Scamandrius, must have been given by the women.

Hermogenes: That's a reasonable inference.

Socrates: And Homer must have considered the Trojans wiser than their wives?

Hermogenes: Surely.

Socrates: Then he must have thought Astyanax was a more correct name for the boy than Scamandrius?

Hermogenes: Clearly.

Socrates: And what's the reason? Let's think about it. Doesn't Homer himself suggest a very good reason when he says of Hector, "For he alone defended their city and long walls"? This seems like a good reason for calling the son of the city's savior "lord of the city" — which is what Astyanax means. (In the Greek, "anax" means "lord" or "king.")

Hermogenes: I see.

Socrates: Actually, Hermogenes, I'm not sure I see it myself yet. Do you?

Hermogenes: No, not really.

Socrates: But tell me, my friend — didn't Homer also give Hector his name?

Hermogenes: What about it?

Socrates: Well, the name Hector seems to me to be very close in meaning to Astyanax. Both are Greek names, and "king" and "holder" mean nearly the same thing — both describe a ruler. A person is clearly the holder of that which he's king of: he rules it, owns it, holds it. (In the Greek, "Hektor" comes from "echein," to hold, and "anax" means king — so both names point to the idea of ruling or possessing.) But maybe you think I'm talking nonsense. I'm not entirely sure myself that I've actually found a clue to Homer's views on the correctness of names.

Hermogenes: I assure you, I think you're on the right track.

Socrates: There's good reason, I think, to call a lion cub a "lion" and a foal a "horse." I'm talking about the normal course of nature, when an animal produces offspring of its own kind — not about freaks of nature. If a horse somehow gave birth to a calf, I wouldn't call it a foal but a calf. And I wouldn't call an inhuman birth a "human," only a natural one. The same applies to trees and everything else. Do you agree?

Hermogenes: Yes, I agree.

Socrates: Good. But keep an eye on me and make sure I'm not pulling any tricks. By the same principle, the son of a king should be called a king. And it doesn't matter whether the syllables of the name are the same or different, as long as the meaning is preserved. Adding or removing a letter makes no difference, as long as the essence of the thing is captured in the name.

Hermogenes: What do you mean?

Socrates: Something very simple. Think about the names of letters. You know that the names of letters aren't usually the same as the letters themselves — except for four: epsilon, upsilon, omicron, and omega. The names of all the other letters, whether vowels or consonants, are made up of additional letters we tack on. But as long as the meaning comes through and there's no confusion, the name of the letter is perfectly correct. Take the letter beta, for example: the addition of eta, tau, and alpha doesn't cause any problem and doesn't prevent the whole name from conveying the value the original name-giver intended. That's how well he knew how to name letters.

Hermogenes: I believe you're right.

Socrates: And the same can be said of a king. A king will often be the son of a king, a good son of a good father, a noble son of a noble one. And in the regular course of nature, like produces like, so the offspring has the same name as the parent. But the syllables can be disguised until they look completely different to an untrained eye, even though they mean the same thing. It's like how any one of us wouldn't recognize the same drug in different colors and disguises, but a doctor, who looks at the active properties, recognizes it immediately and isn't thrown off by the packaging. In the same way, an etymologist isn't thrown off by the addition, transposition, or removal of a letter or two — or even by changing all the letters — as long as the meaning of the thing is preserved. As we just noted, "Hector" and "Astyanax" have only one letter in common — tau — and yet they mean the same thing. And "Archepolis" (ruler of the city) shares almost no letters with either, yet the meaning is the same. There are plenty of other names that just mean "king." Similarly, there are several names for a general — like Agis ("leader"), Polemarchus ("war chief"), and Eupolemus ("good warrior"). And for a doctor: Iatrocles ("famous healer") and Acesimbrotus ("curer of mortals"). I could give many more examples — names that differ completely in their syllables and letters but mean the same thing. Wouldn't you agree?

Hermogenes: Yes.

Socrates: Then the same names — in terms of meaning — should be assigned to those who follow the natural course?

Hermogenes: Yes.

Socrates: And what about those who don't follow the natural course — the exceptions? For example, when a good and religious man has an irreligious son, the son shouldn't carry his father's name but the name of the class he actually belongs to — just like when a horse gives birth to a calf, you call the offspring what it is, not what its parent is.

Hermogenes: Quite true.

Socrates: So the irreligious son of a religious father should be called irreligious?

Hermogenes: Certainly.

Socrates: He shouldn't be called Theophilus ("beloved of God") or Mnesitheus ("mindful of God") or any name like that. If names are given correctly, his should mean the opposite.

Hermogenes: Certainly, Socrates.

Socrates: Then there's the case of Orestes. (In the Greek, "Orestes" suggests "man of the mountains.") He seems to be aptly named — whether it was chance or perhaps some poet who wanted to capture the brutality, fierceness, and mountain wildness of his nature.

Hermogenes: That's very likely, Socrates.

Socrates: And his father's name also fits his nature.

Hermogenes: Clearly.

Socrates: Yes — "Agamemnon" means "admirable for perseverance." (In the Greek, the name suggests "admirable for remaining" or "holding firm.") He's a man who is patient and determined in carrying through his plans, and crowns them with success through sheer endurance. His years-long siege at Troy with that vast army proves the "admirable endurance" signified by the name.

I also think Atreus is rightly named. His murder of Chrysippus and his terrible cruelty to Thyestes were ruinous and destructive to his reputation. The name is a bit altered and disguised, so it's not obvious to everyone, but an etymologist can see the meaning clearly. (In the Greek, you can connect "Atreus" to "ateiros" meaning stubborn, or "atrestos" meaning fearless, or "ateros" meaning destructive — all of which fit.) The name is right from every angle.

And Pelops is also appropriately named: it means "one who sees only what's near." (In the Greek, "ta pelas horon" — seeing nearby things.)

Hermogenes: How so?

Socrates: According to the legend, he had no foresight at all about the terrible consequences the murder of Myrtilus would bring on his entire bloodline for generations. He saw only what was right in front of him in his eagerness to win Hippodamia as his bride at any cost.

And everyone would agree that the name Tantalus fits perfectly — if the stories about him are true.

Hermogenes: And what are those stories?

Socrates: Many terrible misfortunes happened to him during his life — culminating in the complete ruin of his country. And after death, he had that famous stone suspended over his head in the underworld. All of this lines up wonderfully with his name. (In the Greek, "Tantalus" evokes "talanteia," meaning "weighing down" or "balancing." You could imagine someone wanting to call him "talantatos" — "the most burdened by misfortune" — and disguising it into "Tantalus.")

Now, the name of Zeus, who is supposedly Tantalus's father, also has an excellent meaning, though it's hard to understand because it's actually like a compressed sentence split into two parts. Some people call him Zena, using one half, and others call him Dia, using the other half. The two together express the nature of the god. (In the Greek, combining "Zena" and "Dia" gives you "di' hon zen" — "the one through whom all living creatures always have life.") And it's the business of a name to express nature.

Now, there seems to be something disrespectful about calling Zeus the "son of Kronos" — since Kronos is proverbially associated with stupidity. You'd expect Zeus to be the child of a mighty intellect. And in fact he is! Because that's actually what Kronos's name means. (In the Greek, "Kronos" is connected to "koros," meaning "sweeping clean" — not "youth," but rather "the pure and uncontaminated mind.") And Kronos, tradition tells us, was the son of Uranus, whose name is also appropriate — it comes from "looking upward." (In the Greek, "Ouranos" derives from "horan ta ano" — "gazing at what's above.") And as the philosophers say, looking upward is the way to develop a pure mind. So the name Uranus is correct.

If I could remember Hesiod's whole genealogy, I'd keep going and try out more of these analyses on the remoter ancestors of the gods. Then I might see whether this wisdom that's suddenly come over me — I don't know from where — holds up all the way through.

Hermogenes: You know, Socrates, you sound like a prophet who's just been struck by divine inspiration — delivering oracles left and right.

Socrates: And you're right, Hermogenes. I believe I caught the inspiration from the great Euthyphro of the deme of Prospalta. He gave me a very long lecture starting at dawn — he talked and I listened — and his wisdom and enchanting enthusiasm have not only filled my ears but taken possession of my soul. So here's my plan: today I'll let his superhuman power work through me and finish this investigation of names. But tomorrow, if you're up for it, we'll perform an exorcism and purge ourselves of him — if we can find some priest or sophist skilled in that sort of purification.

Hermogenes: I'm all for it! I'm very curious to hear the rest of this investigation.

Socrates: Then let's keep going. Where should we start, now that we've gotten a rough framework? Are there any names that testify on their own behalf that they weren't given arbitrarily but have a natural fitness? Names of heroes and ordinary people can be misleading, because they're often named after ancestors whose names may not suit them at all, or they express a wish — like Eutychides ("child of good fortune"), Sosias ("savior"), or Theophilus ("beloved of God"). We'd better skip those. We'll have a better chance of finding correctness in the names of unchanging realities — the things that should have been named with the greatest care, and where perhaps some more-than-human power was at work.

Hermogenes: I think so, Socrates.

Socrates: Shouldn't we start with the gods, and show that they're correctly called "gods"?

Hermogenes: Yes, that would make sense.

Socrates: Here's my theory. I suspect that the sun, moon, earth, stars, and sky — which are still the gods of many non-Greek peoples — were the only gods known to the earliest Greeks. And since they saw that these things were always moving and running, they called them "theoi" (gods) from their running nature. (In the Greek, "theoi" — gods — sounds like "theontes" — runners.) When they later came to know the other gods, they applied the same name to all of them. Does that seem likely?

Hermogenes: Very likely indeed.

Socrates: What should come after the gods?

Hermogenes: What about "daimones" (spirits) and heroes and humans?

Socrates: Daimones! And what do you think the word means? See if my view is right.

Hermogenes: Let me hear it.

Socrates: Do you know how Hesiod uses the word?

Hermogenes: I don't.

Socrates: Don't you remember that he speaks of a golden race of people who came first?

Hermogenes: Yes, I do.

Socrates: He says of them: "But now that fate has closed over this race, they are holy spirits upon the earth, beneficent, averters of evil, guardians of mortal men."

Hermogenes: What's the point?

Socrates: Well, I don't think he means people literally made of gold, but good and noble people. I'm convinced of this because he also says that we are the "iron race."

Hermogenes: That's true.

Socrates: And wouldn't he say that the good people of our own time belong to that golden race?

Hermogenes: Very likely.

Socrates: And aren't good people wise?

Hermogenes: Yes, they are.

Socrates: Then I'm absolutely convinced he called them "daimones" because they were "daemones" — wise or knowing. (In the Greek, "daimon" is connected to "daemon," meaning knowing or wise, a word that appears in the older Attic dialect.) Hesiod and other poets say truly that when a good person dies, they receive honor and a great role among the dead, becoming a "daimon" — a name signifying wisdom. And I'd say the same: that every wise and good person, both in life and death, is more than human — "daimonion" — and is rightly called a daimon.

Hermogenes: Then I think I agree with you completely. But what about the word "hero"?

Socrates: That's not hard to explain, since the name has barely been altered. It indicates that heroes were born of love.

Hermogenes: What do you mean?

Socrates: Don't you know that heroes are demigods?

Hermogenes: So?

Socrates: They all sprang from the love of a god for a mortal woman, or a mortal man for a goddess. Look at the word in the old Attic dialect, and you'll see more clearly: "heros" (hero) is just a slight alteration of "eros" (love) — the heroes sprang from eros. (In the old Attic script, "heros" was written "eros.") Either that, or they were called heroes because they were skilled rhetoricians and dialecticians — people good at asking questions. (In the Greek, "erotan" means "to question," and "eirein" means "to speak.") So in Attic dialect, heroes turn out to be rhetoricians and questioners — a tribe of sophists and orators, basically.

But can you tell me why humans are called "anthropoi"? That's the harder one.

Hermogenes: No, I can't. And I wouldn't try even if I could, because I think you're more likely to figure it out.

Socrates: You mean you trust in the inspiration of Euthyphro.

Hermogenes: Of course.

Socrates: And your trust isn't misplaced. Because at this very moment a new and clever idea strikes me, and if I'm not careful, by tomorrow's dawn I'll be wiser than I ought to be. Now pay attention. First, keep in mind that we often add and remove letters from words, shift accents, and give names as we please. Take "Diphilos" ("dear to Zeus"), for instance: to turn it from a phrase into a proper name, we drop one of the iotas and change the middle syllable from an acute accent to a grave. In other cases, letters are inserted rather than removed, and the accent shifts the other way.

Hermogenes: That's true.

Socrates: Well, the word "anthropos" ("human") seems to be exactly that kind of case — a sentence compressed into a noun. One letter, the alpha, has been removed, and the accent on the last syllable has been changed.

Hermogenes: What do you mean?

Socrates: The word "human" implies that while other animals never examine, reflect on, or look up at what they see, a human not only sees but reflects on and looks up at what they've seen. That's why humans alone are rightly called "anthropos" — it comes from "anathron ha opopen": "one who looks up at what they have seen." (In the Greek, "anthropos" is derived from "anathrein" — to look up and examine — combined with "opope" — what one has seen.)

Hermogenes: Can I ask you to examine another word that I'm curious about?

Socrates: Certainly.

Hermogenes: I'll take what seems to come next in order. You know the distinction between soul and body?

Socrates: Of course.

Hermogenes: Let's try to analyze them the way we did the previous words.

Socrates: You want me to examine the natural fitness of the word "psyche" (soul) first, and then "soma" (body)?

Hermogenes: Yes.

Socrates: If I go with what comes to mind right now, I'd say that those who first used the name "psyche" meant to express that the soul, when in the body, is the source of life — it gives the power of breath and revival ("anapsychon"). When this reviving power fails, the body dies. And that, if I'm not mistaken, is why they called it "psyche." But wait a moment — I think I can come up with something that Euthyphro's followers would find more impressive. They'd probably look down on that first explanation. How about this one?

Hermogenes: Let me hear it.

Socrates: What is it that holds, carries, and gives life and motion to the entire body? What else but the soul?

Hermogenes: Just that.

Socrates: And don't you agree with Anaxagoras that mind or soul is the ordering and sustaining principle of all things?

Hermogenes: Yes, I do.

Socrates: Then you could rightly call that power "physeche" — "that which sustains and holds nature." (In the Greek, this is formed from "physin echei kai ochei" — "holds and carries nature.") And this has been refined down to "psyche."

Hermogenes: That derivation does seem more scientific than the first one.

Socrates: It does. But I can't help laughing at the idea that this was really the original meaning of the name.

Hermogenes: But what about the next word?

Socrates: You mean "soma" — the body?

Hermogenes: Yes.

Socrates: That one can be interpreted in several ways, and even more if you allow a little rearrangement of letters. Some say the body is the "sema" (tomb or sign) of the soul, as if the soul were buried in our present life. Others say the body is the "sign" of the soul, because the soul expresses itself through the body. (In the Greek, "sema" means both "tomb" and "sign," and "semainei" means "to indicate.") But probably the best etymology comes from the Orphic poets, who believed that the soul is being punished for some sin, and that the body is an enclosure or prison in which the soul is kept safe — "soma" from "sozein" (to keep safe) — until the penalty has been paid. On this view, you don't even need to change a single letter.

Hermogenes: I think, Socrates, we've said enough about this category of words. But do we have any more explanations of divine names, like the one you gave for Zeus? I'd like to know whether a similar principle applies to them.

Socrates: Yes, Hermogenes, and there's one excellent principle that we, as sensible people, should acknowledge: we know nothing about the gods — neither about their natures nor about the names they give themselves. But we can be sure that whatever names they call themselves are true. And this is the best principle. The next best is to say, as we do in prayers, that we'll call them by whatever names or titles they prefer, since we don't know any others. I think that's a fine custom, and I'd like to follow it. So let's make an announcement to the gods first: we're not investigating them — we wouldn't presume to be capable of that. We're only investigating what humans meant when they gave them these names. Surely there's no harm in that.

Hermogenes: I think, Socrates, you're quite right, and I'd like to proceed as you suggest.

Socrates: Shall we begin with Hestia, as is customary?

Hermogenes: Yes, that would be very proper.

Socrates: What do you think the person who named Hestia had in mind?

Hermogenes: Now that's another very difficult question.

Socrates: My dear Hermogenes, the original name-givers must have been remarkable people. They were philosophers, with a lot to say.

Hermogenes: So? What follows from that?

Socrates: I'd attribute the creation of names to people like that. Even in foreign names, if you analyze them, you can still find meaning. Take what we call "ousia" (being/essence) — some people call it "esia" and others call it "osia." Now, it's perfectly reasonable for the essence of things to be called "hestia," which is closely related to the first form, "esia." (In the Greek, "hestia" sounds like "esia," which sounds like "ousia.") And there's good reason why the Athenians connected "hestia" to "ousia": because in ancient times they too said "esia" instead of "ousia." And this explains why sacrifices were traditionally offered first to Hestia — it was natural enough if they thought of Hestia as the essence of things.

Those who used the form "osia," on the other hand, seem to have leaned toward Heraclitus's view that everything flows and nothing stands still. For them, the driving force ("othoun" — pushing) is the cause and ruling power of everything, so they rightly called it "osia."

That's about all we can say, knowing as little as we do. Now, after Hestia, we should consider Rhea and Kronos, though we've already discussed Kronos. But I'm probably talking total nonsense.

Hermogenes: Why, Socrates?

Socrates: My friend, I've stumbled onto a whole hive of wisdom.

Hermogenes: What kind?

Socrates: Well, rather ridiculous — and yet plausible.

Hermogenes: How plausible?

Socrates: I keep seeing Heraclitus repeating ancient traditions, as old as the days of Kronos and Rhea, the same kind Homer spoke of.

Hermogenes: What do you mean?

Socrates: Heraclitus says that everything is in motion and nothing is at rest. He compares things to a river's current and says you can't step into the same water twice.

Hermogenes: That's right.

Socrates: Well then, can we avoid concluding that whoever gave the names Kronos and Rhea to the ancestors of the gods held roughly the same view as Heraclitus? Is it a coincidence that they gave both of them names connected to streams and flowing? (In the Greek, "Rhea" suggests "rhein" — to flow — and "Kronos" can be connected to "krounos" — a spring or stream.) Compare the line in Homer — and I believe in Hesiod too — about "Ocean, the origin of the gods, and mother Tethys." And Orpheus says, "The fair river of Ocean was the first to marry, and he wedded his sister Tethys, who was his mother's daughter." You see — it's a remarkable coincidence, and it all points toward Heraclitus.

Hermogenes: I think there's something to what you say, Socrates. But I don't understand the meaning of the name Tethys.

Socrates: Well, that's almost self-explanatory. It's just the name of a spring, slightly disguised. "That which is strained and filtered" can be compared to a spring, and the name Tethys is made up of those two ideas. (In the Greek, "Tethys" evokes "diattomenon" — strained — and "ethoumenon" — filtered.)

Hermogenes: That's clever, Socrates.

Socrates: Of course it is! But what comes next? We've already dealt with Zeus.

Hermogenes: Yes.

Socrates: Then let's take his two brothers — Poseidon and Pluto, whether we call him by that name or by his other one.

Hermogenes: By all means.

Socrates: "Poseidon" seems to mean "foot-chain" — the person who named him was being held back by the sea in his travels and couldn't walk any further, so he called the ruler of the waters "Posidesmos." (In the Greek, "posi" evokes feet and "desmos" means chain.) The epsilon was probably just added as decoration. Or maybe not — maybe the name was originally written with a double lambda instead of a sigma, meaning that the god "knows many things." (In the Greek, "polla eidos" — knowing much.) Or perhaps it comes from his being the "shaker of the earth" — from "seiein" (to shake), with pi and delta added on.

As for Pluto, he gets his name from giving wealth — "ploutos." (In the Greek, "Pluto" directly suggests "ploutos" — wealth.) Wealth, after all, comes out of the earth below. But most people seem to think that the name "Hades" is connected to "the invisible" ("aeides"), which is why they're afraid of him and prefer to call him Pluto instead.

Hermogenes: And what is the real derivation?

Socrates: Despite all the mistakes people make about this god's power and all their foolish fears of him — the terror of always being with him after death, of the soul going to him stripped of the body — I think the god's office and name actually match perfectly.

Hermogenes: How so?

Socrates: Let me explain. But first, a question: which chain holds an animal more tightly and keeps it more firmly in place — desire, or necessity?

Hermogenes: Desire, Socrates. Desire is far stronger.

Socrates: Then don't you think many people would escape from Hades if he didn't bind the departed with the strongest possible chain?

Hermogenes: They certainly would.

Socrates: And if by the strongest chain, then by some desire — not by necessity?

Hermogenes: That's clear.

Socrates: And there are many desires?

Hermogenes: Yes.

Socrates: Then he must bind with the greatest of all desires, if his chain is to be the greatest?

Hermogenes: Yes.

Socrates: And is any desire stronger than the thought that associating with someone will make you a better person?

Hermogenes: Certainly not.

Socrates: Then that's the reason, Hermogenes, why nobody who has gone to Hades is willing to come back to us. Even the Sirens have fallen under his spell, along with everyone else. Such is the charm this god can weave into his words. On this view, he's the perfect and accomplished Sophist, and the great benefactor of those in the other world. And even to us on earth he sends abundant blessings from below, which is why he's called Pluto — "the wealthy one."

Note also that he won't associate with people while they're in the body — only after the soul has been freed from the body's desires and corruptions. There's real philosophy in that. Because in their liberated state, he can bind souls with the desire for virtue. But while they're confused and maddened by the body, not even his father Kronos could hold them with his famous chains.

Hermogenes: There's a lot of truth in what you say.

Socrates: And the legislator called him Hades not from "the unseen" ("aeides") — far from it — but from his "knowledge" ("eidenai") of all noble things. (In the Greek, "Hades" is connected to "eidenai" — to know — rather than "a-ides" — unseen.)

Hermogenes: Very good! And what do we say about Demeter, Hera, Apollo, Athena, Hephaestus, Ares, and the other gods?

Socrates: Demeter means "the giving mother" — she gives food like a mother. (In the Greek, "Demeter" evokes "didousa meter" — "mother who gives.") Hera is "the lovely one." (In the Greek, "Hera" suggests "erate" — lovely.) Zeus, according to tradition, loved and married her. Or possibly the name was given with the sky in mind, and is really a disguise for "air" ("aer"), with the end put at the beginning. You'll see the truth of this if you repeat "Hera" several times.

People dread the name Persephone just as they dread the name Apollo — and with just as little reason. Their fear comes from not understanding how names work. They keep changing the name to "Phersephone," and that terrifies them. But the real name means that the goddess is wise. (In the Greek, "Pherepapha" comes from "ephaptomene tou pheromenou" — "touching that which is in motion" — i.e., grasping moving reality.) Since everything in the world is in motion, the principle that can embrace, touch, and follow all moving things is wisdom. And Hades, who is wise, naturally takes a wise consort. People altered her name to Persephone for the sake of euphony, caring more about how it sounds than what it means.

Now, about Apollo — as I was saying, people generally think his name has some terrible significance. Have you noticed that?

Hermogenes: Yes, definitely, and what you say is true.

Socrates: But the name, in my view, is actually a beautiful expression of the god's power.

Hermogenes: How so?

Socrates: I'll try to explain. I don't think any single name could better capture all four of his attributes — music, prophecy, medicine, and archery.

Hermogenes: That must be a remarkable name. I'd like to hear the explanation.

Socrates: It's a harmonious name, as befits the God of Harmony. First, consider that the purifications and cleansings that doctors and priests use — their fumigations, their ritual washings and sprinklings — all serve one purpose: to make a person pure in both body and soul.

Hermogenes: Very true.

Socrates: And isn't Apollo the purifier, the washer, the one who cleanses all impurities?

Hermogenes: He certainly is.

Socrates: So in terms of his purifying and cleansing role — as the physician who prescribes these things — he could rightly be called "Apolouon" ("the purifier"). (In the Greek, "apolouon" means "washer" or "purifier.") In terms of his prophetic powers and his truthfulness and sincerity, he could be called "Haplous" ("sincere" or "simple"), as the Thessalians do — all Thessalians call him "Haplous." (In the Greek, "haplous" means "sincere" or "straightforward.") And as "the one who always shoots" ("aei ballon"), because he's a master archer who never misses. Or the name might refer to his musical powers: just as in "akolouthos" ("companion") and "akoitis" ("spouse"), where the alpha means "together," the meaning of Apollo would be "moving together" — because he's the god who makes all things move together in harmony, whether the poles of heaven or the harmony of song. He moves everything in concert through a harmonious power, which is what both astronomers and musicians will tell you.

He's the god who presides over harmony and makes all things move together — among both gods and humans. And just as "akolouthos" and "akoitis" have alpha substituted for omicron, "Apollon" is really "homopolon" ("moving all together"). The second lambda was added to avoid the unfortunate sound of "apollon" — which sounds like "destroyer" ("apolein"). (In the Greek, "Apollon" sounds dangerously close to "apollon" — destruction.) That suspicion of destructive power still haunts some people's minds because they don't understand the true value of the name. But as I've just shown, the name refers to all the god's powers: the sincere one, the always-shooting one, the purifier, the one who moves all things together. (In the Greek: "haplous," "aei ballon," "apolouon," "homopolon.")

The Muses and music get their name from "making philosophical inquiries" ("mosthai"). (In the Greek, "Mousai" is connected to "mosthai" — to seek or investigate.) Leto is called by that name because she's such a gentle goddess, so willing ("ethelemon") to grant requests. Or maybe her name is really "Letho," as foreigners often call her — suggesting her gentle, smooth, easygoing nature.

Artemis gets her name from her sound and well-ordered nature ("artemes" — healthy, sound), from her love of virginity, or perhaps from her being a "proficient in virtue" ("arete"), or possibly from "hating intercourse" ("ton aroton misesasa"). The person who named her could have had any or all of these in mind.

Hermogenes: What about Dionysus and Aphrodite?

Socrates: Son of Hipponicus, you're asking a solemn question! There's both a serious explanation and a humorous one for each of these names. The serious one you'll have to get from someone else, but I'm happy to share the humorous version — because the gods love a good joke too.

Dionysus is simply "the giver of wine" — "didous oinos," which you could playfully call "Didoinusos." (In the Greek, "Dionysos" is derived from "didous ton oinon" — "giver of wine.") And "oinos" (wine) is properly "oionous," because wine makes those who drink it think ("oiesthai") they have a mind ("noun") when they don't.

As for Aphrodite, born from the foam ("aphros"), we can accept that derivation on Hesiod's authority.

Hermogenes: There's still Athena — and you, Socrates, as an Athenian, surely won't forget her. And there are also Hephaestus and Ares.

Socrates: I'm not likely to forget them.

Hermogenes: No, indeed.

Socrates: There's no difficulty in explaining Athena's other name.

Hermogenes: What other name?

Socrates: We call her Pallas.

Hermogenes: Right.

Socrates: We'd be right to suppose this comes from armed dancing. Lifting yourself or anything else above the earth, or moving with the hands — we call that shaking or dancing ("pallein"). (In the Greek, "Pallas" is connected to "pallein" — to brandish or shake.)

Hermogenes: That's quite true.

Socrates: So that's the explanation of Pallas.

Hermogenes: Yes, but what about the name Athena?

Socrates: That's a weightier matter. Modern interpreters of Homer can help us here, I think. Most of them, when explaining the poet, say he meant by Athena "mind" ("nous") and "intelligence" ("dianoia"). And the original name-giver seems to have gone even further, calling her "divine intelligence" ("theou noesis"), as if to say: "This is she who has the mind of God" — "theonoa." (In the Greek, "Athena" is connected to "theonoa" — divine intelligence — using a dialectical alpha for eta and dropping some letters.) Or maybe "theonoe" means "she who knows divine things better than others" ("theia noousa"). Or perhaps the author wanted to connect the goddess with moral intelligence ("en ethei noesin" — thinking within character), giving her the name "ethonoe," which over time was altered into "Athena."

Hermogenes: But what do you say about Hephaestus?

Socrates: You mean the noble lord of light? ("Phaeos histora" — "one who knows light.") (In the Greek, "Hephaistos" is "Phaistos" with an eta added by attraction — "Phaistos" being the "knower of light.")

Hermogenes: Of course.

Socrates: Well, "Hephaistos" is just "Phaistos" with an eta tacked on. That's obvious to anyone.

Hermogenes: Very probably — unless a better idea comes along.

Socrates: To prevent that, you'd better ask me about Ares.

Hermogenes: All right, what about Ares?

Socrates: Ares could be named from his manliness — "arren" (male) — or from his hard, unyielding nature — "arratos" (unbreakable). (In the Greek, "Ares" can be connected to "arren" — male — or "arratos" — stubborn, unbreakable.) Either derivation fits the god of war perfectly.

Hermogenes: Very true.

Socrates: And now, by the gods, let's leave the gods alone! I'm afraid of them. Ask me about anything else, and you'll see how Euthyphro's horses can gallop.

Hermogenes: Just one more god! I'd like to know about Hermes, since I'm supposedly not a true son of his. Let's figure him out, and then I'll know whether there's anything to what Cratylus says about me.

Socrates: I'd say the name Hermes has to do with speech. He's the interpreter ("hermeneus"), the messenger, the thief, the deceiver, the bargainer — all of which involve language. As I was saying earlier, the word "eirein" expresses the use of speech, and there's a recurring Homeric word "emesato" that means "he contrived." Out of these two words — "eirein" and "mesasthai" — the legislator formed the name of the god who invented language and speech. We can imagine him addressing us: "My friends, since he is the contriver of speech and tales, you should properly call him Eiremes." But we've improved this, as we think, into "Hermes."

And Iris also seems to get her name from "eirein" (to speak), because she was a messenger.

Hermogenes: Then I'm quite sure Cratylus was right that I'm no true son of Hermes — I'm really not good with words!

Socrates: There's also good reason, my friend, for Pan being the double-natured son of Hermes.

Hermogenes: How do you figure that?

Socrates: You know that speech signifies all things ("pan") and is always turning them round and round, and has two forms — true and false?

Hermogenes: Certainly.

Socrates: Well, the truth in speech is the smooth and sacred form that dwells above among the gods, while falsehood dwells below among humans, rough like the goat of tragedy. (In the Greek, "tragoidia" — tragedy — is connected to "tragos" — goat.) Tales and falsehoods generally belong to the tragic, goatish side of life, and tragedy is their natural home.

Hermogenes: Very true.

Socrates: Then Pan, who declares all things ("pan") and perpetually moves all things ("aei polon"), is rightly called "aipolos" (goatherd) — being the double-natured son of Hermes, smooth in his upper part and rough and goatlike in his lower regions. And as Hermes' son, he is speech — or the brother of speech. And that a brother should resemble his brother is no surprise.

But as I was saying, my dear Hermogenes, let's get away from the gods.

Hermogenes: From those gods, absolutely, Socrates. But why shouldn't we talk about another kind of "gods" — the sun, moon, stars, earth, aether, air, fire, water, the seasons, and the year?

Socrates: You're piling a lot of work on me. Still, if you want, I won't refuse.

Hermogenes: You'd be doing me a favor.

Socrates: Where shall I begin? With the one you mentioned first — the sun?

Hermogenes: Very good.

Socrates: The origin of the sun's name comes out more clearly in the Doric form, where they call him "halios." This could be because at sunrise he gathers ("halizoi") people together, or because he's always rolling ("aei eilein") around the earth in his course, or from "aiolein" — to variegate — because he variegates the things the earth produces.

Hermogenes: But what about "selene" (the moon)?

Socrates: That name is rather unfortunate for Anaxagoras.

Hermogenes: How so?

Socrates: The name seems to anticipate his recent discovery that the moon gets its light from the sun.

Hermogenes: Why do you say that?

Socrates: The two words "selas" (brightness) and "phos" (light) mean much the same thing, right?

Hermogenes: Yes.

Socrates: And the light of the moon is always both new ("neon") and old ("enon"), if Anaxagoras's followers are right. The sun in its revolution constantly adds new light, while the old light from the previous month remains.

Hermogenes: Very true.

Socrates: The moon is also frequently called "selanaia."

Hermogenes: True.

Socrates: And since she has a light that's always old and always new ("enon neon aei"), she could very properly be called "selaenoneoia." And this, when compressed, becomes "selanaia." (In the Greek, the name "selanaia" is built from "selas" — brightness — plus "enon" — old — plus "neon" — new — plus "aei" — always.)

Hermogenes: Now that's a positively dithyrambic name, Socrates! But what do you say about the month and the stars?

Socrates: "Meis" (month) is named from "meiousthai" (to grow less), because the moon diminishes. "Astra" (stars) seems to come from "astrape" — which is an improved form of "anastrope," meaning "turning the eyes upward." (In the Greek, "astra" is connected to "anastrephein opa" — turning the gaze upward.)

Hermogenes: What do you say about "pyr" (fire) and "hydor" (water)?

Socrates: "Pyr" has me stumped. Either the muse of Euthyphro has deserted me, or there's some real difficulty with this word. But let me tell you about the trick I use whenever I hit a wall like this.

Hermogenes: What trick?

Socrates: I'll explain. But first, can you tell me what "pyr" means?

Hermogenes: I really can't.

Socrates: Here's what I suspect: this and several other words are actually of foreign origin. The Greeks, especially those who lived under foreign rule, frequently borrowed words from other languages.

Hermogenes: And the point is?

Socrates: That if you try to find the natural fitness of these names using Greek alone, ignoring the language they actually came from, you're likely to get nowhere.

Hermogenes: Yes, certainly.

Socrates: Well, "pyr" doesn't easily connect to any Greek roots. And the Phrygians have what appears to be the same word, just slightly modified — as they do with "hydor" (water), "kynes" (dogs), and many others.

Hermogenes: That's true.

Socrates: So we shouldn't force an interpretation — something to say about them might easily be found from a foreign source. That's how I dispose of "pyr" and "hydor."

Now, "aer" (air), Hermogenes — this can be explained as the element that "raises things" from the earth ("airei"), or as "always flowing" ("aei rhei"). Or, since the flowing of air is wind, and the poets call winds "aetai" (air-blasts), the name-giver might have meant "aetorroun" — "air-flow" — in the sense of "wind-flow" ("pneumatorroun"). And so he used the word "aer."

"Aither" (aether) I'd interpret as "aeitheer" — "that which always runs in a current around the air." (In the Greek, "aither" comes from "aei thein peri ton aera rheon" — "always running and flowing around the air.")

The meaning of "ge" (earth) comes out better in the form "gaia," because the earth is truly the "mother" ("gaia" suggesting "genneteira" — she who gives birth). In Homer, "gegaasi" means "to have been born."

Hermogenes: Good.

Socrates: What's next?

Hermogenes: There are "horai" (the seasons) and the two names for the year: "eniautos" and "etos."

Socrates: The "horai" should be spelled in the old Attic way if you want the probable truth: they're rightly called "horai" because they divide ("horizousin") the summers and winters and winds and the fruits of the earth.

As for "eniautos" and "etos," they appear to be the same idea — "that which brings to light the plants and growths of the earth in their turn and reviews them within itself." (In the Greek, "eniautos" comes from "en heauto exetazei" — "examines within itself" — and is split into two words: "eniautos" from "en heauto" and "etos" from "etazei.") This is similar to how the original name of Zeus was divided into Zena and Dia — the single idea of a power that reviews things from within gets expressed in two words, "etos" and "eniautos."

Hermogenes: Socrates, you really are making amazing progress.

Socrates: I'm on a roll.

Hermogenes: You certainly are.

Socrates: And I haven't hit top speed yet.

Hermogenes: I'd very much like to know how you'd explain the virtues. What principle of correctness is there in those wonderful words — wisdom, understanding, justice, and the rest?

Socrates: That's an enormous class of names you're digging up! Still, since I've put on the lion's skin, I'd better not lose heart. So I need to consider the meanings of "phronesis" (practical wisdom), "synesis" (understanding), "gnome" (judgment), "episteme" (knowledge), and all those other wonderful words you mention?

Hermogenes: We can't stop now — not until we've figured out their meaning.

Socrates: By the dog of Egypt! A not-bad idea just occurred to me. I believe the original name-givers were a lot like many of our modern philosophers: in their constant search for the nature of things, they kept going round and round until they got dizzy. And then they imagined that it was the world spinning, not themselves. They projected their own internal dizziness onto nature, and concluded that nothing is stable or permanent — that everything is just flux and motion and constant change. That's the framework that seems to be behind the names we've been discussing.

Hermogenes: How so, Socrates?

Socrates: Didn't you notice that the names we just examined all seem to indicate motion and flux?

Hermogenes: No, I never thought of it.

Socrates: Take the first one you mentioned. It clearly points to motion.

Hermogenes: Which one?

Socrates: "Phronesis" (practical wisdom) — it can mean "perception of motion and flow" ("phoras kai rhou noesis"), or "the blessing of motion" ("phoras onesis"). Either way, it's connected to motion ("pheresthai"). (In the Greek, "phronesis" is built from roots meaning motion, flow, and perception.)

"Gnome" (judgment) clearly implies the pondering ("nomesis") of becoming ("genesis"). To ponder is to consider.

Or take "noesis" (thought) itself — it's really "neou hesis" (the desire of the new). The word "neos" implies that the world is always in the process of creation. The original name-giver wanted to express the soul's longing for novelty. The original form was "neoesis," but eta replaced the double epsilon.

"Sophrosyne" (self-control) is the preservation ("soteria") of that wisdom ("phronesis") we were just discussing.

"Episteme" (knowledge) is related to this too: it indicates that the good soul follows ("hepetai") the motion of things, neither running ahead nor falling behind. So the word should really be read as "epistemene" — "she who follows along." (In the Greek, "episteme" comes from "hepesthai" — to follow along with.)

"Synesis" (understanding) can be seen as a kind of conclusion — derived from "synienai" (to go along with). Like "epistasthai" (to know), it implies the soul progressing in company with the nature of things.

"Sophia" (wisdom) is darker and seems not to be native Greek. The meaning is: "touching the motion or stream of things." Remember that the poets, when describing the start of rapid motion, often use the word "esythe" (he rushed). There was even a famous Spartan named Sous ("Rush") — the Spartans use this word for rapid motion. And the touching ("epaphe") of this motion is expressed by "sophia." Everything is supposed to be in motion.

"Agathon" (the good) names what is admirable ("agaston") in nature. Even though all things move, some move faster and some slower, and those that are most admirably swift are called "agathon."

"Dikaiosyne" (justice) is clearly "dikaiou synesis" — understanding of the just. But the actual word "dikaion" (just) is harder. People agree up to a point about justice, and then they start disagreeing.

Those who think everything is in motion conceive most of nature as a kind of receptacle, and they say there's a penetrating power that passes through everything, the instrument of creation — the subtlest and swiftest element. It must be the subtlest, because otherwise it couldn't pass through everything, and the swiftest, because it passes by other things as if they were standing still. This element, which superintends all things and pierces through all — "diaion" — is rightly called "dikaion." The kappa is just added for euphony. (In the Greek, "dikaion" comes from "dia-ion" — "passing through.")

So far there's general agreement on justice. But I, Hermogenes, being an enthusiastic student, have been told in confidence that justice is also the cause of the world. Now, a "cause" is "that because of which" something is created. And someone whispers in my ear that justice is rightly so called because it partakes of the nature of causation. I start asking gently: "Well, fine, but if that's all true, I still want to know what justice IS." And they think I'm asking tiresome questions and jumping ahead, that I've already been sufficiently answered. They try to satisfy me with one derivation after another, until they start arguing among themselves.

One says justice is the sun — the only thing that truly pierces and burns as guardian of nature. And when I happily repeat this beautiful idea, someone laughs and says, "So there's no justice in the world after sunset?" When I beg them to give me their honest opinion, one says "fire in the abstract" — which isn't very illuminating. Another says, "No, not fire in the abstract, but the abstraction of heat in fire." Yet another ridicules all of this and says, following Anaxagoras, that justice is mind, since mind has absolute power, mixes with nothing, orders all things, and passes through everything.

In the end, my friend, I find myself in far greater confusion about justice than before I started learning about it. But I still think the name was given for the reasons I mentioned.

Hermogenes: I think, Socrates, you're not making this up on the spot. You must have heard it from someone else.

Socrates: And not the rest?

Hermogenes: Hardly.

Socrates: All right, then let me continue, and maybe I can convince you that the rest is original too. What comes after justice? I don't think we've discussed courage ("andreia") yet. Injustice ("adikia") is obviously just a hindrance to the penetrating principle ("diaiontos"), so we needn't bother with it.

The name "andreia" (courage) seems to imply a battle — a battle in the world of existence. According to the flux doctrine, it's a counter-flow ("enantia rhoe"). If you remove the delta from "andreia," the name directly signifies the thing: courage is not the stream opposed to every stream, but only to the stream that's contrary to justice. Otherwise courage wouldn't be praiseworthy.

The words "arren" (male) and "aner" (man) also contain a similar allusion — to the principle of upward flow ("tes ano rhoes"). (In the Greek, "aner" suggests "ano rhoe" — upward flow.)

"Gyne" (woman) I suspect is the same as "gone" (birth). "Thely" (female) seems partly derived from "thele" (the breast), because the breast, like rain, makes things flourish ("tethalenai").

Hermogenes: That seems probable.

Socrates: Yes, and the very word "thallein" (to flourish) seems to capture the growth of youth — swift and sudden. The legislator expressed this in the name, which is a compound of "thein" (running) and "hallesthai" (leaping).

Look at me galloping along once I hit smooth ground! There are still plenty of important names left to explain.

Hermogenes: True.

Socrates: There's the word "techne" (art/skill), for example.

Hermogenes: Very true.

Socrates: That can be identified with "echonoe" — "possession of mind." You just need to remove the tau and insert two omicrons. (In the Greek, "techne" becomes "echonoe" — "having mind" — with minor letter changes.)

Hermogenes: That's a pretty shabby etymology.

Socrates: Yes, my friend, but you have to remember that the original names have been buried and disguised over time. People stuck on and stripped off letters for the sake of euphony, twisting and decorating them in every possible way. Time has played its part too. Take the word "katoptron" (mirror) — why is the rho in there? Someone who cared nothing for truth but only for how the mouth feels must have added it. These additions pile up until eventually no human being can figure out the original meaning. Another example: the word "sphinx" — which should properly be "phix," but someone added the sigma.

Hermogenes: That's quite true, Socrates.

Cratylus (Part 2)

Socrates: And yet, if you're allowed to add and remove whatever letters you want, names would be far too easy to make, and any name could be adapted to fit any object.

Hermogenes: True.

Socrates: Yes, it is. So a wise dictator like yourself should observe the laws of moderation and probability.

Hermogenes: That's my goal.

Socrates: Mine too, Hermogenes. But don't be too much of a stickler, or "you'll unnerve me of my strength." Once you let me add "mechane" (contrivance) to "techne" (art), I'll be at the top of my game. I take "mechane" to be a sign of great accomplishment ("anein" — to accomplish), since "mekos" means greatness, and "mekos" plus "anein" make up "mechane." (In the Greek, "mechane" is built from "megas" — great — and "anein" — to accomplish.)

But as I was saying, now that I'm at my peak, I'd like to examine two key words: "arete" (virtue) and "kakia" (vice). I don't fully understand "arete" yet, but "kakia" is transparent and fits with everything we've been saying. Since all things are in flux ("ionton"), "kakia" means "kakos ion" — "going badly." When this bad motion exists in the soul, it gets the general name "kakia" — vice. (In the Greek, "kakia" comes from "kakos ienai" — to go badly.)

The meaning of "kakos ienai" is further illustrated by "deilia" (cowardice), which should have come after "andreia" (courage) but got skipped. "Deilia" means the soul is bound by a strong chain ("desmos"), since "lian" means "strength." So "deilia" expresses the greatest and strongest bond on the soul. And "aporia" (difficulty, perplexity) is a related concept — from "a" (not) and "poreuesthai" (to go) — like anything that impedes motion and movement.

So "kakia" means going badly, limping and halting, which fills the soul with vice. And if "kakia" is the name for that sort of thing, "arete" (virtue) will be its opposite: first, ease of motion; second, the stream of the good soul flowing unimpeded, without obstruction. It's called "arete" — or more correctly, "aeirheite" ("ever-flowing") — and may at some point have had the form "hairete" ("eligible"), suggesting that nothing is more worth choosing than virtue. And this has been hammered into "arete." (In the Greek, "arete" can be derived from "aei rheite" — ever-flowing — or "hairete" — worth choosing.)

I'm sure you'll think this is another one of my inventions. But if the previous derivation of "kakia" was right, then "arete" should be right too.

Hermogenes: But what about "kakon" (bad, evil), which played such a big role in your earlier discussion?

Socrates: That's a very strange word, and I can barely form an opinion about it. So I'll have to resort to my usual trick.

Hermogenes: What trick?

Socrates: Declaring it foreign. I'll give that word foreign origin status too.

Hermogenes: Fair enough. But suppose we leave those and try to work out the logic of "kalon" (beautiful) and "aischron" (ugly/shameful).

Socrates: The meaning of "aischron" is clear: it's "aei ischon rhoes" — "always preventing flow." This matches everything we've been saying. The original name-giver was a fierce enemy of stagnation, so he gave the name "aeischoroun" to whatever hindered the flow. That's been compressed into "aischron." (In the Greek, "aischron" comes from "aei ischein rhoun" — always holding back the stream.)

Hermogenes: But what do you say about "kalon" (beautiful)?

Socrates: That's more obscure, though the form has only been changed by converting "ou" into "o."

Hermogenes: What do you mean?

Socrates: This name seems to denote mind.

Hermogenes: How so?

Socrates: Let me ask you: what is the cause of anything having a name? Isn't the principle that assigns the name the cause?

Hermogenes: Certainly.

Socrates: And that principle must be mind — whether the mind of gods, humans, or both?

Hermogenes: Yes.

Socrates: And isn't mind what "called" ("kalesan") things by their names? And isn't mind the beautiful ("kalon")? (In the Greek, "kalon" — beautiful — is connected to "kalein" — to call or name.)

Hermogenes: That's evident.

Socrates: And aren't the works of intelligence and mind worthy of praise, while other works deserve blame?

Hermogenes: Certainly.

Socrates: Medicine does a physician's work, carpentry does a carpenter's work?

Hermogenes: Exactly.

Socrates: And the principle of beauty does the works of beauty?

Hermogenes: Of course.

Socrates: And we said that principle is mind?

Hermogenes: Very true.

Socrates: Then mind is rightly called "beauty" because it does the works we recognize and celebrate as beautiful?

Hermogenes: That's evident.

Socrates: What other names are left?

Hermogenes: The words connected with "agathon" (good) and "kalon" (beautiful) — like "sympheron" (expedient), "lysiteloun" (profitable), "ophelimon" (advantageous), "kerdaleon" (gainful), and their opposites.

Socrates: You can probably figure out "sympheron" (expedient) yourself from the previous examples. It's a sister word to "episteme" — meaning the motion ("phora") of the soul accompanying the world. Things done on this principle are called "symphora" or "sympheronta" because they're carried along with the world. (In the Greek, "sympheron" comes from "sym-" — together — and "phora" — motion.)

Hermogenes: That's probable.

Socrates: And "kerdaleon" (gainful) comes from "kerdos" (gain), but you have to change the delta to a nu to get at the meaning. This word also signifies good, but in a different way: the name-giver intended to express the power of mixing ("kerannumenon") and universal penetration in the good. But he inserted a delta instead of a nu and made "kerdos." (In the Greek, "kerdos" is connected to "kerannumenon" — mixing.)

Hermogenes: Well, but what about "lysiteloun" (profitable)?

Socrates: I don't think people mean by "profitable" what pays ("lyei") the shopkeeper. They use it to mean "swift." You should think of the profitable as that which, being the swiftest thing in existence, allows no pause or standstill but always, whenever things start to stop, releases ("lyei") them again, making motion immortal and unceasing. In this sense, the good is rightly called "lysiteloun" — "that which loosens ("lyon") the end ("telos") of motion." (In the Greek, "lysiteloun" comes from "lyein" — to loosen — and "telos" — end.)

"Ophelimon" (advantageous) comes from "ophellein" — to increase, to make grow. That's a common Homeric word and has a foreign flavor.

Hermogenes: And what about their opposites?

Socrates: The ones that are simple negatives hardly need discussion.

Hermogenes: Which ones?

Socrates: "Asympheron" (inexpedient), "anopheles" (unprofitable), "alysiteles" (unadvantageous), "akerdes" (ungainful).

Hermogenes: True.

Socrates: I'd rather look at "blaberon" (harmful) and "zemiodes" (hurtful).

Hermogenes: Good.

Socrates: "Blaberon" (harmful) is what hinders or damages ("blaptein") the flow ("rhoun"). "Blapton" really means "boulomenon haptein" — "wanting to hold or bind." And "haptein" (to bind) is the same as "dein" (to fasten), which is always a term of criticism. So "wanting to bind the flow" ("boulomenon haptein rhoun") would properly be "boulapteroun," which has been improved into "blaberon." (In the Greek, "blaberon" is compressed from "boulomenon haptein rhoun" — wanting to bind the stream.)

Hermogenes: You produce the most curious results, Socrates! When I hear a word like "boulapteroun," I can't help imagining you're making your mouth into a flute and puffing away at some prelude to Athena.

Socrates: That's the fault of the name-makers, Hermogenes, not mine.

Hermogenes: Very true. But what's the derivation of "zemiodes" (hurtful)?

Socrates: What does "zemiodes" mean? Let me point out, Hermogenes, how right I was to say that great changes in meaning come from adding and removing letters. Even a very slight change can sometimes flip the meaning entirely. Take the word "deon" (obligation), which just occurred to me. It reminds me of something I was going to tell you: our fashionable modern language has twisted and disguised and completely altered the original meanings of both "deon" and "zemiodes," even though in the old language the meaning was clear.

Hermogenes: What do you mean?

Socrates: I'll explain. Our ancestors loved the sounds of iota and delta, especially the women, who are the most conservative with language. But now people change iota to eta or epsilon, and delta to zeta — supposedly to sound grander.

Hermogenes: How do you mean?

Socrates: For example, in very ancient times they called the day either "himera" or "hemera." We call it "hemera."

Hermogenes: That's true.

Socrates: Only the ancient form reveals the name-giver's intention. People longed for ("himeirousi") and loved the light that comes after darkness, so they called it "himera" — from "himeros" (desire, longing). (In the Greek, the old form "himera" comes from "himeros" — desire or longing.)

Hermogenes: Clearly.

Socrates: But now the name has been so altered that you can't tell the meaning. Though some people think "hemera" means it makes things "gentle" ("hemera").

Hermogenes: That's my own impression.

Socrates: And did you know the ancients said "duogon" instead of "zugon"?

Hermogenes: They did.

Socrates: "Zugon" (yoke) has no transparent meaning, but the old form "duogon" expresses the binding of two together ("duein agoge" — "leading of two") for the purpose of pulling. This was changed to "zugon." And there are many other similar examples.

Hermogenes: There are.

Socrates: Following the same line of thought, the word "deon" (obligation) has a meaning opposite to all our other terms for good. "Deon" is a species of good, and yet it means "chain" ("desmos") or "hindrance of motion" — making it the brother of "blaberon." (In the Greek, "deon" is connected to "desmos" — a chain or bond.)

Hermogenes: Yes, Socrates, that's quite clear.

Socrates: Not if you restore the ancient form, which is probably the correct one. Read "dion" instead of "deon" — convert the epsilon back to an iota, the old way. Then the word agrees with all the other good-words. "Dion," not "deon," signifies the good and is a term of praise. So the name-giver hasn't contradicted himself after all. In all these various words — "deon" (obligatory), "ophelimon" (advantageous), "lysiteloun" (profitable), "kerdaleon" (gainful), "agathon" (good), "sympheron" (expedient), "euporon" (plenteous) — the same concept is implied: the all-pervading, ordering principle is praised, and the restraining, binding principle is criticized.

And this helps explain "zemiodes" (hurtful): change the zeta back to a delta, as in the ancient language, and it becomes "demiodes." This name, as you'll see, refers to "that which binds motion" ("dounti ion"). (In the Greek, "zemiodes" is connected through its ancient form "demiodes" to "dein" — to bind — and "ion" — going.)

Hermogenes: What do you say about "hedone" (pleasure), "lype" (pain), "epithymia" (desire), and words like those?

Socrates: I don't think they're particularly difficult. "Hedone" (pleasure) is "he onesis" — the action that tends toward benefit. The original form was probably "heone," but a delta was inserted. (In the Greek, "hedone" comes from "onesis" — benefit.)

"Lype" (pain) comes from the relaxation ("lyein") the body feels in sorrow.

"Ania" (trouble) is the hindrance of motion ("a" — not — and "ienai" — to go).

"Algedon" (distress), if I'm not mistaken, is a foreign word, derived from "algeinos" (grievous).

"Odyne" (grief) is named from the "putting on" ("endysis") of sorrow.

"Achthedon" (vexation) — "the word itself labors," as anyone can see.

"Chara" (joy) is the very expression of the soul's free flow and diffusion ("cheo" — to pour).

"Terpsis" (delight) is so called from pleasure creeping ("herpon") through the soul, which can be likened to breath ("pnoe"). It was originally "herpnoun" but was changed over time to "terpnon."

"Euphrosyne" (cheerfulness) and "epithymia" (desire) explain themselves. "Euphrosyne" ought to be "eupherosyne" — named from the soul moving ("pheresthai") in harmony with nature. It was changed to "euphrosyne."

"Epithymia" is really "he epi ton thymon iousa dynamis" — "the power that enters into the passionate part of the soul." (In the Greek, "epithymia" comes from "epi" — toward — "thymos" — spirit/passion — and "iousa" — going.)

"Thymos" (passion/spirit) itself comes from "thysis" — the rushing and boiling of the soul.

"Himeros" (desire/yearning) denotes the stream ("rhous") that most powerfully draws the soul — flowing with desire and expressing a violent attraction toward things. (In the Greek, "himeros" is connected to "hiemenos" — rushing — and "rhous" — stream.)

"Pothos" (longing) expresses desire for what's not present but absent and "elsewhere" ("pou" — somewhere). That's why "pothos" applies to absent things, while "himeros" applies to present ones.

"Eros" (love) is so called because it flows in ("esron") from outside. The stream isn't internal but is an influence introduced through the eyes. In ancient times, when they used omicron instead of omega, it was called "esros" (influx). Now, with omega substituted, it's "eros." (In the Greek, "eros" comes from "esrhein" — to flow in.)

But why don't you give me another word?

Hermogenes: What do you think of "doxa" (opinion, belief) and that category of words?

Socrates: "Doxa" is either derived from "dioxis" (pursuit) — expressing the soul's march in pursuit of knowledge — or from the shooting of a bow ("toxon"). The latter seems more likely, and it's confirmed by "oiesis" (thinking), which is just "oisis" (motion) — the movement of the soul toward the essential nature of each thing.

Similarly, "boule" (counsel, deliberation) has to do with shooting ("bole" — a throw), and "boulesthai" (to wish or intend) combines aiming and deliberating. All these words follow "doxa" and involve the idea of shooting or aiming. And "aboulia" (lack of counsel) is, by contrast, a mishap — missing the target, the aim, the goal.

Hermogenes: You're really picking up the pace now, Socrates.

Socrates: I'm almost at the finish line. But before I'm done, I want to explain "ananke" (necessity) and "hekousion" (the voluntary).

"Hekousion" (voluntary) is the yielding ("eikon") and unresisting — yielding to motion that's in accordance with our will.

But "the necessary" is what resists our will, involving error and ignorance. The idea is taken from walking through a ravine ("anke") — impassable, rugged, overgrown, impeding your progress. That's where "anankaion" gets its name: "an' anke ion" — "going through a ravine." (In the Greek, "ananke" comes from "ana" — through — and "anke" — ravine — and "ion" — going.)

While my strength holds out, let's press on. I hope you'll keep asking questions.

Hermogenes: Well then, let me ask about the greatest and noblest words: "aletheia" (truth), "pseudos" (falsehood), and "on" (being) — and while we're at it, why the word "onoma" (name), which is the very subject of our whole discussion, has that name.

Socrates: Do you know the word "maïesthai" (to seek)?

Hermogenes: Yes — it means the same as "zetein" (to inquire).

Socrates: "Onoma" (name) seems to be a compressed sentence meaning "on hou zetema" — "being for which there is a search." This is even more obvious in "onomaston" (notable), which states in so many words that "real existence is that for which there is a seeking" ("on hou masma"). (In the Greek, "onoma" comes from "on" — being — and "masma/zetema" — search or seeking.)

"Aletheia" (truth) is also a compressed phrase: "theia ale" — "divine wandering" — implying the divine motion of existence. (In the Greek, "aletheia" comes from "theia" — divine — and "ale" — wandering.)

"Pseudos" (falsehood) is the opposite of motion — another bad name from the legislator, given to stagnation and forced inactivity, which he compared to sleep ("eudein"). The original meaning is disguised by the addition of psi. (In the Greek, "pseudos" is connected to "eudein" — to sleep — with a psi added.)

"On" (being) and "ousia" (essence) are really "ion" with the iota broken off. This fits perfectly: being ("on") is also moving ("ion"). And the same goes for not-being: "ouk ion" — not going. (In the Greek, "on" comes from "ion" — going — with the iota dropped.)

Hermogenes: You've really hammered those into shape. But suppose someone asked you: what about the words "ion" (going), "rheon" (flowing), and "doun" (binding)? Show me THEIR fitness.

Socrates: You mean, how would I answer that?

Hermogenes: Yes.

Socrates: One approach has already been suggested.

Hermogenes: Which one?

Socrates: Saying that words we can't explain are foreign in origin. And that's probably often true. But it's also possible that the original forms of words have been lost over the ages. Names have been so twisted in every direction that I wouldn't be surprised if the old language, compared to ours, sounded like a foreign tongue to us.

Hermogenes: Very likely.

Socrates: Yes, very likely. But the inquiry demands our full attention, and we can't back down. Because here's the thing: if someone keeps analyzing names into words, and then analyzing those words into their component elements, and keeps repeating this process, eventually the person answering has to give up in despair.

Hermogenes: Very true.

Socrates: And at what point should we give up? Surely when we reach the names that are the building blocks of all other names and sentences. These can't be assumed to be composed of still other names. Take "agathon" (good) — we said it's a compound of "agaston" (admirable) and "thoos" (swift). And "thoos" is probably made up of other elements, and those of still others. But if we hit a word that can't be broken down any further, we're right to say we've reached a primary element that doesn't need further analysis.

Hermogenes: I think you're right.

Socrates: And if the names you're asking about turn out to be primary elements, we'll need a different method to examine their truth or correctness.

Hermogenes: Very likely.

Socrates: Exactly, Hermogenes. Everything we've discussed so far points to this conclusion. And if the conclusion is sound — as I believe it is — then come help me, so I don't say something absurd about the principle behind primary names.

Hermogenes: Let me hear it, and I'll do my best to help.

Socrates: I think you'll agree with me that one principle applies to all names, primary and secondary alike. Viewed simply as names, there's no difference between them.

Hermogenes: Certainly not.

Socrates: All the names we've been explaining were meant to indicate the nature of things.

Hermogenes: Of course.

Socrates: And that's equally true of primary names and secondary ones — they're all names.

Hermogenes: Surely.

Socrates: But the secondary names, I think, derive their meaning from the primary ones.

Hermogenes: That's evident.

Socrates: Very good. But then how do the primary names — the ones that can't be broken down further — show the natures of things, to whatever extent they can? Here's a question: if we had no voice or tongue and wanted to communicate with each other, wouldn't we make signs with our hands and head and body, the way deaf people do?

Hermogenes: We'd have no other choice, Socrates.

Socrates: We'd imitate the nature of the thing. To express lightness and upwardness, we'd raise our hands toward the sky. For heaviness and downwardness, we'd let them drop to the ground. If we were describing a running horse or any other animal, we'd make our bodies and gestures resemble theirs as closely as possible.

Hermogenes: I don't see what else we could do.

Socrates: Right — bodily imitation is the only way the body can express anything.

Hermogenes: Very true.

Socrates: And when we want to express ourselves using the voice, tongue, or mouth, our expression is simply an imitation of whatever we want to express.

Hermogenes: That must be right, I think.

Socrates: So a name is a vocal imitation of what the namer imitates?

Hermogenes: I think so.

Socrates: Actually, my friend, I don't think we've quite hit on the truth yet.

Hermogenes: Why not?

Socrates: Because if that were right, we'd have to say that people who imitate sheep, roosters, or other animals are naming them.

Hermogenes: That's true.

Socrates: So maybe my approach was wrong?

Hermogenes: It seems so. But I wish you'd tell me, Socrates: what kind of imitation IS a name?

Socrates: First of all, not a musical imitation, even though music is vocal. And not an imitation of what music imitates either. Those wouldn't be names, in my view. Let me put it this way: all objects have sound and shape, and many have color, right?

Hermogenes: Certainly.

Socrates: But the art of naming doesn't seem to be concerned with imitating those qualities. The arts that deal with sound and shape are music and painting.

Hermogenes: True.

Socrates: But isn't there an essence of each thing, just as there's a color and a sound? Isn't there an essence of color and sound themselves, and of anything else that can be said to have an essence?

Hermogenes: I'd think so.

Socrates: Well then, if someone could express the essence of each thing in letters and syllables, wouldn't they be expressing the nature of each thing?

Hermogenes: Absolutely.

Socrates: We called the musician and the painter the two kinds of imitators. What shall we call this imitator?

Hermogenes: I think, Socrates, he must be the namer — the name-giver we've been looking for.

Socrates: If that's right, then we're in a position to examine the words "rhoe" (stream), "ienai" (to go), and "schesis" (retention) that you were asking about. We can see whether the namer grasped the nature of these things in letters and syllables well enough to imitate their essence.

Hermogenes: Very good.

Socrates: But are those the only primary names, or are there others?

Hermogenes: There must be others.

Socrates: I'd think so. But how do we analyze them further, and where does the imitator begin? Since the imitation of essence is made through syllables and letters, shouldn't we first separate the letters — the way people studying rhythm first distinguish the basic sounds, then compound sounds, and only after that move on to rhythms?

Hermogenes: Yes.

Socrates: We should begin the same way with letters. First, separate the vowels into classes. Then the consonants and mutes, according to the standard scholarly distinctions. Then the semivowels, which are neither vowels nor mutes. And then classify the vowels themselves. When we've perfected this classification of sounds, we should give them names and see whether there are classes they can all be grouped into. That way we'll see their natures and whether they, like letters, fall into distinct categories. When we've thought all this through, we'll know how to match sounds to the things they resemble — whether a single letter represents a single thing, or several need to be mixed together.

It's like painting. When a painter wants to depict something, sometimes he uses a single color — just purple, say — and sometimes he mixes several colors, as when painting skin tones. He uses his colors as the subject requires. And in the same way, we'll apply letters to the expression of things — single letters where appropriate, or combinations, forming syllables, and from syllables making nouns and verbs, and from those building up entire language — large, beautiful, and complete.

Just as the painter creates a figure, so we'll create speech through the art of naming, or rhetoric, or whatever we call it. Not that I mean WE literally do this — I got carried away. I mean the ancients formed language this way. And what they put together, we need to take apart in the same way, if we want a scientific understanding of the whole subject. We need to check whether both the primary and secondary elements are correctly assigned. Because if they're not, the whole composition will be a sorry piece of work, built in the wrong direction.

Hermogenes: I can well believe that, Socrates.

Socrates: Well, do you think you'd be able to analyze them this way? I'm certain I couldn't.

Hermogenes: Then I'm even less likely to manage it.

Socrates: Shall we give up then? Or shall we do the best we can, saying — as I said earlier about the gods — that we know nothing of the truth and are only exploring human opinions? Let us say, before we proceed, that the higher method is the one we or anyone else should follow who wants to analyze language properly. But under the circumstances, as the saying goes, we must do as well as we can. What do you think?

Hermogenes: I very much approve.

Socrates: It may seem ridiculous, Hermogenes, that things should be imitated in letters and syllables. But we can't avoid it — there's no better principle to look to for the truth of primary names. Without it, we'd have to resort to divine intervention, like the tragic poets who bring in gods on cranes whenever they're stuck. We could say "the gods gave the first names, so they must be right." That would be convenient. Or we could say the names come from some foreign people (since foreigners are older than us). Or we could say that the origins are lost in antiquity. But these are all just clever excuses for having no real explanation.

And yet, any ignorance about primary names means ignorance about secondary ones too, since secondary names can only be explained through primary ones. Clearly, anyone claiming expertise in language should be able to give a very clear account of primary names. Otherwise they'll just be talking nonsense about everything else. Don't you think that's true?

Hermogenes: Certainly, Socrates.

Socrates: My first thoughts about primary names are truly wild and ridiculous. But I'm happy to share them if you want, and I hope you'll share anything better you might have.

Hermogenes: Don't worry — I'll do my best.

Socrates: First: the letter rho seems to me to be the universal instrument for expressing all motion ("kinesis"). But I haven't yet explained "kinesis" itself, which is really "iesis" (going). The ancients didn't use eta — they used epsilon — so the root is "kiein," a foreign form meaning the same as "ienai" (to go). The old word "kinesis" would be correctly given as "iesis" in modern letters. With the foreign root "kiein," allowing for the change of eta and insertion of nu, we get "kinesis" — which should really be "kieinesis" or "eisis." And "stasis" (rest/standing still) is the negation of "ienai" (going), improved into "stasis."

Now, the letter rho struck the name-giver as an excellent instrument for expressing motion. He uses it constantly for this purpose: in "rhein" (to flow) and "rhoe" (stream), he represents motion with rho. Also in "tromos" (trembling), "trachys" (rough), and in "krouein" (to strike), "thrauein" (to crush), "ereikein" (to bruise), "thryptein" (to break), "kermatizein" (to crumble), "rhymbein" (to whirl). In all these kinds of movement, he generally uses the letter rho — because, I imagine, he noticed that the tongue is most agitated and least at rest when pronouncing this letter. That's why he used it to express motion.

He uses the letter iota to express the subtle elements that pass through all things — which is why he employs iota in imitating motion: "ienai" (to go), "hiesthai" (to rush).

Then there's another class of letters — phi, psi, sigma, and zeta — whose pronunciation involves a great expenditure of breath. These are used to imitate blowing and windy concepts: "psychron" (shivering cold), "zeon" (seething), "seïesthai" (to be shaken), "seismos" (earthquake). The name-giver always brings these in when he wants to imitate what is "physodes" (windy).

He seems to have thought that the closure and pressure of the tongue in pronouncing delta and tau expressed binding and rest — stillness in a place. He noticed the liquid movement of lambda, where the tongue slips, and found in it the expression of smoothness, as in "leios" (smooth), "olisthanein" (to slip), "liparon" (sleek), "kollodes" (gluey), and similar words.

The heavier sound of gamma detained the slipping tongue, and the combination of gamma and lambda together gave the notion of something glutinous and sticky, as in "glischros" (sticky), "glykys" (sweet), "gloiodes" (gummy).

He noticed that nu is sounded from within and therefore has a quality of inwardness, so he used it in "endon" (inside) and "entos" (within).

Alpha he assigned to the expression of largeness, and eta to length, because they are big letters. Omicron was the sign of roundness, and so there's plenty of omicron in "gongylon" (round).

And so the original legislator, reducing everything to letters and syllables, impressing names and signs on things, and then building other signs out of them through imitation — that's how he composed language. At least, that's my view, Hermogenes, of the truth about names.

But I'd like to hear what Cratylus has to say.

Hermogenes: But Socrates, as I was telling you before, Cratylus mystifies me. He says there's a natural fitness of names but never explains what it is, so I can't tell whether his vagueness is deliberate or not. Tell me now, Cratylus — here in Socrates' presence — do you agree with what Socrates has been saying about names, or do you have something better? If you do, share it. Either you'll learn from Socrates, or Socrates and I will learn from you.

Cratylus: Come now, Hermogenes — you don't really think you can learn, or I can explain, any important subject in a moment, do you? Especially not a subject like language, which is perhaps the greatest of all.

Hermogenes: No, of course not. But as Hesiod says, and I agree: "to add a little to a little" is worthwhile. So if you can add anything at all, however small, to what we know, please make the effort. You'd be doing both Socrates and me a favor — and you certainly owe us that.

Socrates: I'm by no means certain, Cratylus, about the views that Hermogenes and I have worked out. So don't hesitate to share your thoughts. If you've got something better than what I've said, I'll gladly accept it. And I wouldn't be at all surprised if you have. You've clearly been thinking about these things and have had teachers. So if you really do have a better theory about the truth of names, count me among your students.

Cratylus: You're right, Socrates, that I've studied these matters, and I might convert you into a student yet. But I'm afraid the opposite is more likely. I find myself moved to say to you what Achilles says to Ajax in the Prayers: "Illustrious Ajax, son of Telamon, lord of the people, you seem to have spoken entirely to my mind." You, Socrates, seem to me like an oracle, giving answers very much to my liking — whether you're inspired by Euthyphro or some Muse has long been dwelling in your heart without your knowing it.

Socrates: My dear Cratylus, I've been wondering at my own wisdom for a while now. I don't trust myself. I think I need to pause and ask: "What am I actually saying?" Because there's nothing worse than self-deception — when the deceiver is always at home and always with you. That's truly terrible. So I should often retrace my steps and try to "look fore and aft," as Homer says.

Now then, where are we? Haven't we been saying that a correct name indicates the nature of the thing? Has that been sufficiently established?

Cratylus: Yes, Socrates. I'm disposed to think that what you say is quite true.

Socrates: So names are given in order to teach?

Cratylus: Certainly.

Socrates: And naming is a craft, with skilled practitioners?

Cratylus: Yes.

Socrates: And who are these practitioners?

Cratylus: The legislators you spoke of at the start.

Socrates: And does this craft, like other crafts, produce practitioners of varying skill? Some painters are better and some worse?

Cratylus: Yes.

Socrates: The better painters produce better figures, and the worse produce worse ones. And among builders, the better ones build finer houses, the worse ones build worse ones.

Cratylus: True.

Socrates: And among legislators, some do their work better and some worse?

Cratylus: No — there I disagree with you.

Socrates: So you don't think some laws are better and others worse?

Cratylus: No, I don't.

Socrates: Or that one name is better than another?

Cratylus: Certainly not.

Socrates: Then all names are correctly given?

Cratylus: Yes — if they're names at all.

Socrates: Well, what about our friend Hermogenes' name, which we discussed earlier? If he has nothing of Hermes' nature in him, should we say this is a wrong name, or not his name at all?

Cratylus: I'd say it's not his name at all. It only appears to be. His real name belongs to whoever has the nature that corresponds to it.

Socrates: And if someone were to call him "Hermogenes," would that person even be speaking falsely? Because there may be a question of whether you CAN call him Hermogenes if he isn't one.

Cratylus: What do you mean?

Socrates: Are you saying that falsehood is impossible? Because if that's your position, I should point out that there have been plenty of liars throughout history.

Cratylus: But Socrates, how can you say what is not? How can you say something and yet say nothing? Isn't falsehood just saying what is not?

Socrates: That argument is a bit too subtle for a man my age. But let me ask: are you one of those philosophers who think falsehood can be spoken but not really said?

Cratylus: Neither spoken nor said.

Socrates: Not even uttered or addressed? For example, suppose someone met you in a foreign country, took your hand, and said, "Greetings, Athenian stranger, Hermogenes, son of Smicrion." Are you saying those words would have no application to you — only to our friend Hermogenes here, or perhaps to nobody at all?

Cratylus: In my view, Socrates, the speaker would just be producing meaningless noise.

Socrates: Good enough for me. I just want to know: would the nonsense be true, false, or partly true and partly false?

Cratylus: I'd say the person would be putting himself in motion to no purpose. His words would be a meaningless sound — like the noise of someone banging on a brass pot.

Socrates: Let's see if we can find common ground, Cratylus. You'd agree that a name is not the same as the thing it names?

Cratylus: I would.

Socrates: And you'd agree that a name is an imitation of the thing?

Cratylus: Certainly.

Socrates: And paintings are also imitations of things, just in a different way?

Cratylus: Yes.

Socrates: I may not fully understand you, but let me ask: can't both kinds of imitation — pictures and names — be attributed and applied to the things they imitate?

Cratylus: They can.

Socrates: Now look at it this way: you can assign the portrait of a man to a man, and the portrait of a woman to a woman?

Cratylus: Certainly.

Socrates: And conversely, you can assign the portrait of a man to a woman, and the portrait of a woman to a man?

Cratylus: Very true — you CAN.

Socrates: And are both ways of assigning them right, or only the first?

Cratylus: Only the first.

Socrates: That is, the assignment that gives each thing what belongs to it and is like it?

Cratylus: That's my view.

Socrates: Now, since you and I are friends and I want us to understand each other, let me state my position: the first kind of assignment, whether applied to pictures or names, I call right. And when applied to names specifically, I call it true as well as right. The other kind — assigning a name that's unlike the thing — I call wrong. And in the case of names, false as well as wrong.

Cratylus: That may be true for pictures, Socrates. They can be wrongly assigned. But not names — names must always be right.

Socrates: Why? What's the difference? Can't I go up to a man and say "This is your portrait," showing him his own likeness, or perhaps the likeness of a woman? When I say "show," I mean bringing it before his eyes.

Cratylus: Certainly.

Socrates: And can't I also go up to him and say "This is your name"? A name, like a picture, is an imitation. So I could bring to his ears the imitation of himself, saying "This is a man," or the imitation of a female, saying "This is a woman." Isn't all that perfectly possible?

Cratylus: I'd like to agree with you, Socrates, so — granted.

Socrates: That's generous of you, and I think I'm right, though we needn't settle it fully now. But if I can assign names as well as pictures to objects, then the right assignment is what we'd call truth, and the wrong assignment falsehood. And if there can be wrong assignment of names, there can also be wrong assignment of verbs. And if names and verbs can be wrongly assigned, then so can the sentences made from them. What do you say, Cratylus?

Cratylus: I agree. What you say is very true.

Socrates: Furthermore, primary nouns can be compared to pictures. In a picture, you can give all the right colors and shapes, or you might leave some out, or put in too many. Right?

Cratylus: Very true.

Socrates: And the person who gets everything right produces a perfect picture, while the person who adds or leaves something out produces a picture — but not a good one.

Cratylus: Yes.

Socrates: In the same way, someone who imitates the nature of things in syllables and letters will produce a good image — in other words, a good name — if they get everything right. But if they subtract or perhaps add a little, they'll produce an image that's still an image — just not a good one. From this I conclude that some names are well made and others poorly made.

Cratylus: That's true.

Socrates: Then the artist of names can sometimes be good and sometimes bad?

Cratylus: Yes.

Socrates: And we called that artist the legislator?

Cratylus: Yes.

Socrates: Then, like other artists, the legislator can be good or bad — if our earlier reasoning holds?

Cratylus: Very true, Socrates. But with language, you see, it's different. When we use grammar to assign the letters alpha, beta, or any others to a particular name — if we add, remove, or misplace a letter, the name isn't just written wrong, it's not really written at all. It becomes something other than that name entirely.

Socrates: But I'm not sure your view is correct, Cratylus.

Cratylus: How so?

Socrates: What you're saying might be true of numbers. A number must be exactly what it is, or it's a completely different number. Add or subtract a unit from ten and you've got a different number. But this doesn't apply to qualitative things or to representations. In fact, I'd go further: an image that reproduced every single aspect of the original would no longer be just an image.

Let me illustrate. Suppose there are two things: Cratylus, and an image of Cratylus. And suppose some god creates not just a representation of your outward form and color, like a painter would, but also replicates your inner organization — the same warmth, softness, motion, soul, and mind — copies all your qualities exactly and places this replica right next to you. Would you say that's Cratylus and an image of Cratylus, or that there are two Cratyluses?

Cratylus: I'd say there are two Cratyluses.

Socrates: Then you see, my friend, that we need to find a different standard of truth in images, and in names too. We can't insist that an image stops being an image just because something is added or left out. Don't you see that images are very far from being exact copies of what they represent?

Cratylus: Yes, I see.

Socrates: And wouldn't it be ridiculous if names were exactly the same as the things they name? Everything would be doubled, and nobody could tell which was the name and which was the reality.

Cratylus: Quite true.

Socrates: Then be brave and admit that one name can be well given and another poorly given. Don't insist that the name be exactly the same as the thing. Allow the occasional wrong letter. And if a wrong letter in a name, then a wrong noun in a sentence. And if a wrong noun in a sentence, then a sentence that doesn't perfectly fit its subject. The thing can still be named and described, as long as the general character of what you're describing is preserved. You'll remember that Hermogenes and I made this very point about the names of letters.

Cratylus: Yes, I remember.

Socrates: Good. When the general character is preserved, the thing is signified — well, if all the right elements are there; not perfectly, if only some are. I think we'd better accept this, or we'll end up like travelers in Aegina who wander the streets late at night and get told by truth herself that we've arrived too late. Either accept this, or find some entirely new theory of the correctness of names. Because you can't keep saying that a name is the expression of a thing in letters and syllables while also saying one wrong letter destroys it completely — that's contradictory.

Cratylus: I quite accept what you're saying, Socrates. That seems very reasonable.

Socrates: Good. Since we agree on that, let's ask whether a rightly given name should contain the proper letters.

Cratylus: Yes.

Socrates: And the proper letters are those that resemble the things?

Cratylus: Yes.

Socrates: So names that are correctly given are mostly made up of appropriate, similar letters — otherwise there'd be no resemblance at all. But there will also be some improper elements that spoil the beauty and completeness of the name. You'd agree?

Cratylus: I can't really quarrel with you, Socrates, but I'm not comfortable saying that an incorrectly given name is a name at all.

Socrates: Do you at least admit that a name is a representation of a thing?

Cratylus: Yes, I do.

Socrates: And don't you allow that some nouns are primary and others derived?

Cratylus: Yes, I do.

Socrates: Then if primary names are representations of things, is there any better way to create them than by making them as similar to their objects as possible? Or do you prefer the view of Hermogenes and many others that names are conventional — meaningful to those who've agreed on them because they already know the things, and that convention is the only principle? Whether you stick with the current convention or make a new one where you call small "large" and large "small" — it's all the same, they'd say, as long as there's agreement. Which view do you prefer?

Cratylus: Representation through likeness, Socrates, is infinitely better than representation through arbitrary signs.

Socrates: Very good. But if the name is to be like the thing, then the letters out of which primary names are composed must also be like things. Think of painting: how could you compose a picture that looks like anything at all if there were no pigments in nature that resembled the things being depicted?

Cratylus: That would be impossible.

Socrates: In the same way, names could never resemble real things unless the basic elements they're composed of bore some degree of resemblance to the objects the names imitate. And those elements are letters?

Cratylus: Yes.

Socrates: Then let me invite you to reconsider what Hermogenes and I were saying about individual sounds. Do you agree that the letter rho expresses rapidity, motion, and hardness? Were we right?

Cratylus: I'd say you were right.

Socrates: And that lambda expresses smoothness and softness?

Cratylus: Right again.

Socrates: And yet, as you know, what we call "sklerotēs" (hardness) the Eretrians call "sklerotēr" — with a rho at the end instead of a sigma.

Cratylus: Very true.

Socrates: So are rho and sigma equivalent? Do they both have the same significance — rho at the end for them, sigma for us — or does the word mean something to only one of us?

Cratylus: No, it surely means something to both of us.

Socrates: Insofar as rho and sigma are alike, or insofar as they're unlike?

Cratylus: Insofar as they're alike.

Socrates: Are they completely alike?

Cratylus: Well, at least for the purpose of expressing motion.

Socrates: But what about the lambda in the middle of "sklērotēs"? Lambda expresses softness, not hardness.

Cratylus: Well, maybe the lambda is wrongly inserted, Socrates, and should be changed to a rho — as you were suggesting to Hermogenes when you talked about adding and removing letters as needed. You were right about that, in my opinion.

Socrates: Fine. But the word is still perfectly intelligible to both of us, isn't it? When I say "sklēron" (hard), you know what I mean.

Cratylus: Yes, my friend — but that's just custom.

Socrates: And what is custom but convention? I make a sound, I understand what I mean by it, and you know what I mean. That's what you're saying, isn't it?

Cratylus: Yes.

Socrates: And if when I speak you understand my meaning, I've communicated something to you?

Cratylus: Yes.

Socrates: And this communication might proceed through unlike sounds just as easily as through similar ones — as in the lambda of "sklērotēs." But if that's true, then you've made a convention with yourself, and the correctness of names turns out to depend on convention, since letters that are unlike the thing can communicate just as effectively as letters that are similar — if they're backed by custom and convention.

Even if you draw the sharpest possible distinction between custom and convention, you still have to admit that the meaning of words comes from custom, not just from resemblance. Custom can work through unlike sounds just as well as through similar ones.

And since we're agreed on this, Cratylus, then convention must contribute to how we communicate our thoughts. How could you ever find names resembling every individual number, for instance, unless you allowed convention some authority in determining the correctness of names?

I quite agree with you that words should resemble things as much as possible. But I'm afraid this "resemblance" requirement, as Hermogenes might say, is a somewhat fragile thing, and it needs the mechanical support of convention to work properly. In an ideal world, we'd always use perfectly fitting resemblances, and that would be the most perfect language. The opposite — arbitrary signs with no resemblance — would be the most imperfect.

But let me ask: what is the purpose of names? What are they for?

Cratylus: The purpose of names, Socrates, I'd say, is to inform. The simple truth is: whoever knows the names knows the things they express.

Socrates: So you're saying, Cratylus, that since the name and the thing are similar, knowing the name means knowing the thing? Because similar things fall under the same art or branch of knowledge. So whoever knows names will also know things.

Cratylus: That's precisely what I mean.

Socrates: But let's think about what kind of information names give us. Is it the best kind? Or is there another, better kind?

Cratylus: I believe names give us the only and best kind of information. There can be no other.

Socrates: But do you also think that the person who discovers the names thereby discovers the things? Or is learning through names just one method, and there might be another way to investigate and discover?

Cratylus: I believe investigation and discovery work the same way as instruction — through names.

Socrates: But don't you see, Cratylus, that whoever follows names in searching for things, analyzing their meanings, is in great danger of being deceived?

Cratylus: How so?

Socrates: Because clearly, whoever first gave names did so according to their own understanding of the things. Right?

Cratylus: True.

Socrates: And if that understanding was wrong — if they named things based on a mistaken conception — where does that leave us, their followers? Won't we be led astray?

Cratylus: But Socrates, surely the original name-giver must have known what he was doing? Otherwise his names wouldn't really be names at all. And you have clear proof that he didn't miss the truth — the proof is his perfect consistency. Didn't you notice, when you were going through all those etymologies, that the words all shared a common character and purpose?

Socrates: That's no answer at all, my friend. If the name-giver made a mistake at the start, he could easily have forced everything else into agreement with that initial error. There'd be nothing strange about that — it's no different from what happens in geometry, where a small, invisible flaw in the first step leads to consistently wrong conclusions all the way down. That's why every person should devote their greatest thought and attention to first principles — are they rightly established or not? Once you've examined those thoroughly, everything else follows.

Now, I'd be amazed to find that names really are consistent. Let's revisit our earlier discussion. Weren't we saying that everything is in motion, in progress, in flux, and that names express this idea of motion? Isn't that what they seemed to mean?

Cratylus: Yes, absolutely. That's their meaning and the true meaning.

Socrates: Let's look again. Take "epistēmē" (knowledge) — it's ambiguous. It seems to suggest "stopping the soul at things" rather than "going along with them." (In the Greek, "epi-histēmē" could suggest "epi" — at — and "histanai" — to stop — rather than "hepesthai" — to follow.) So maybe we should keep the beginning as is but insert an iota instead of an epsilon.

Or take "bebaion" (certainty/firmness) — that clearly expresses standing still and position, not motion.

"Historia" (inquiry) bears on its face the "stopping" ("histanai") of the stream.

"Piston" (trustworthy) certainly indicates cessation of motion.

"Mnēmē" (memory) obviously expresses rest in the soul, not motion.

And words like "hamartia" (error) and "symphora" (calamity), when you look at their etymologies, turn out to mean the same thing as "synesis" (understanding) and "epistēmē" (knowledge) and other positive words! (In the Greek, "hamartia" can be analyzed as "hama artein" — "going along with" — similar to "syn-ienai" and "hep-esthai.") The same applies to "amathia" (ignorance) and "akolasia" (lack of self-control): "amathia" can be explained as "hē hama theō iontos poreia" — "the journey of one who travels with god" — and "akolasia" as "hē akolouthia tois pragmasin" — "following along with things."

So the names with the worst meanings turn out to be built on the same principle as those with the best. And I'm sure that anyone who took the trouble could find many more examples where the name-giver indicates not motion and progress but rest — the exact opposite.

Cratylus: Yes, Socrates, but notice: the great majority express motion.

Socrates: So what, Cratylus? Are we counting names like votes? Do we decide correctness by majority rule? Whichever type has the most names wins?

Cratylus: No, that wouldn't be reasonable.

Socrates: Certainly not. But let's leave that question and move on. Were we not agreeing earlier that the first name-givers — whether Greek or non-Greek — were legislators, and that the art of giving names was the legislator's art?

Cratylus: Quite true.

Socrates: Then tell me: did the first legislators, who gave the first names, know the things they named, or didn't they?

Cratylus: They must have known, Socrates.

Socrates: Yes, friend Cratylus, they could hardly have been ignorant.

Cratylus: I'd say not.

Socrates: Let's return to the point we left. You were saying that the person who gave names must have known the things he named. Are you still of that opinion?

Cratylus: I am.

Socrates: And you'd say that the giver of the FIRST names also had knowledge of the things he named?

Cratylus: I would.

Socrates: But how could he have learned or discovered things from names if the primary names hadn't been given yet? We just agreed that the only way to learn and discover things is either by discovering the names yourself or learning them from someone else.

Cratylus: I think there's a good deal in what you say, Socrates.

Socrates: But if things can only be known through names, how can we suppose that the original name-givers had knowledge — or were even legislators at all — before any names existed, and therefore before they could have known anything through names?

Cratylus: I think, Socrates, the true explanation is this: a power greater than human gave things their first names, and the names given that way are necessarily the true ones.

Socrates: But then how did this inspired name-giver — or god — manage to contradict himself? We just showed that some names express motion and others express rest. Was that a mistake?

Cratylus: Well, I suppose one set of those aren't really names at all.

Socrates: And which set did the god make — the ones expressing motion, or the ones expressing rest? Because, as I said, this can't be settled by counting.

Cratylus: No, not that way, Socrates.

Socrates: But if we have a battle of names — some claiming to represent the truth and others making the same claim — how are we to decide between them? We can't appeal to still other names — we'd need some standard that, without using names at all, shows which set is right. And that standard would have to reveal the truth of things directly.

Cratylus: I agree.

Socrates: But if that's true, Cratylus, then it seems that things can be known without names?

Cratylus: Clearly.

Socrates: And how would you expect to know them? What other way is there except the true and natural way — through their connections with each other, through their kinship, and through themselves? Because anything other than them, anything different from them, would point to something other and different.

Cratylus: What you're saying seems true, I think.

Socrates: Now hold on. Haven't we agreed several times that names, when correctly given, are likenesses and images of the things they name?

Cratylus: Yes.

Socrates: Then suppose you can learn things through names to whatever degree you like. And suppose you can also learn them from the things themselves. Which method is likely to be nobler and clearer: learning from the image whether the image and the truth it represents have been rightly conceived? Or learning from the truth itself whether the truth and its image have been properly executed?

Cratylus: We must learn from the truth, I'd say.

Socrates: How real existence is to be studied and discovered is a question that's probably beyond both you and me. But we can at least admit this much: knowledge of things is not to be derived from names. Things must be studied and investigated in themselves.

Cratylus: Clearly, Socrates.

Socrates: There's one more point. I wouldn't want us to be misled by the sheer number of names all trending in the same direction. I don't deny that the original name-givers really did create names under the assumption that everything is in motion and flux. That was their sincere belief — but I think they were mistaken. Having fallen into a kind of whirlpool themselves, they're spinning around and trying to drag us in after them.

There's something, Cratylus, that I often think about, and I'd like your opinion: tell me, do you believe there exists an absolute beauty or good, or any other absolute reality?

Cratylus: Yes, Socrates, I do believe so.

Socrates: Then let's focus on that — true beauty itself. Not whether a particular face is attractive or anything like that, since all particular things seem to be in flux. Let's ask: isn't true beauty always beautiful?

Cratylus: Certainly.

Socrates: And can we really speak of a beauty that's always passing away, that's one thing and then another? Wouldn't it have changed and vanished while the word was still in our mouths?

Cratylus: Undoubtedly.

Socrates: Then how can something be real if it's never in the same state? Things that remain the same can't change while they remain the same. And if they're always the same, always in the same condition, never departing from their original form, they can never change or be moved.

Cratylus: They certainly can't.

Socrates: And they can't be known by anyone either — at least not if they're always changing. Because at the very moment the observer approaches, they'd become something different and other, so you could never get any further in knowing their nature or condition. You can't know what has no stable condition.

Cratylus: True.

Socrates: And we can't reasonably say there's knowledge at all if everything is in transition and nothing abides. Knowledge, too, would have to stop being knowledge if it's constantly changing. But if the very nature of knowledge changes, at the moment of change there'd be no knowledge. And if the transition never stops, there'd always be no knowledge — no one to know and nothing to be known.

But if the knower and the known DO exist permanently, and beauty and goodness and every other thing also exist in this way, then they can't resemble a process or a flow, as we were just supposing. Whether there is this eternal nature in things, or whether Heraclitus and his many followers are right about universal flux, is a difficult question to settle. And no sensible person will put themselves or the education of their mind in the power of names. They won't trust names or name-givers to the point of confidently declaring that they have knowledge — knowledge that condemns both themselves and everything else to an unhealthy unreality, where everything leaks like a cracked pot, or the world is like a person with a permanently runny nose.

This might be true, Cratylus. But it might also be very much untrue. So don't be too easily convinced of it. Think it over carefully, like a man, and don't accept such a doctrine without serious examination. You're young — this is the age for learning. And when you've found the truth, come back and tell me.

Cratylus: I'll do as you say. But I can assure you, Socrates, that I've already been thinking about this for a long time. And after a great deal of reflection and effort, I lean toward Heraclitus.

Socrates: Well then, another day when you come back, you can teach me. But for now, go ahead to the country, as you're planning. And Hermogenes here will see you on your way.

Cratylus: Very good, Socrates. But I hope you'll keep thinking about these things yourself.

Theaetetus (Part 1)

Persons of the dialogue:
  Socrates
  Theodorus
  Theaetetus

Euclid and Terpsion meet in front of Euclid's house in Megara. They go inside, and a servant reads the dialogue aloud to them.

Euclid: Terpsion! Did you just get in from the country?

Terpsion: No, I've been here a while. Actually, I was looking for you in the marketplace and couldn't figure out where you'd gone.

Euclid: That's because I wasn't in the city.

Terpsion: Where were you, then?

Euclid: On my way down to the harbor, I ran into Theaetetus — he was being carried up to Athens from the army camp at Corinth.

Terpsion: Alive or dead?

Euclid: Barely alive. He's badly wounded, but what's really destroying him is the sickness that's spread through the army.

Terpsion: The dysentery, you mean?

Euclid: Yes.

Terpsion: What a loss that man will be!

Euclid: A terrible one, Terpsion. He's a noble man. Just today I heard people praising the way he conducted himself in the battle.

Terpsion: That doesn't surprise me at all — I'd be more surprised to hear anything else about him. But why didn't he stop here in Megara?

Euclid: He wanted to get home. I begged him to stay, I gave him every reason to, but he wouldn't listen. So I walked with him part of the way, and as I was heading back, I found myself remembering what Socrates once said about him — and marveling at how exactly the prediction came true, the way his predictions always did. I believe it was shortly before Socrates' own death that he met Theaetetus, who was just a teenager then. They had a remarkable conversation, and Socrates repeated it to me when I next came to Athens. He was full of admiration for the boy's mind, and he said that if Theaetetus lived, he was certain to become a great man.

Terpsion: Well, the prophecy certainly came true. But what was the conversation? Can you tell it to me?

Euclid: Not from memory, no. But here's the thing: I took notes as soon as I got home that day, then filled them out from memory when I had time. And whenever I went to Athens, I'd ask Socrates about any details I'd forgotten and make corrections when I got back. So I have nearly the whole conversation written down.

Terpsion: That's right — you told me about this once! I've been meaning to ask you to show me the manuscript ever since, and I've never gotten around to it. Why don't we read it now? I've just come in from the country, and I could badly use a rest.

Euclid: I could use one too — I walked with Theaetetus all the way to Erineum. Let's go in, and the servant can read to us while we put our feet up.

Terpsion: Perfect.

Euclid: Here's the scroll, Terpsion. One note: I wrote it with Socrates actually talking to the people in the conversation — Theodorus the geometer from Cyrene, and Theaetetus — rather than narrating it to me secondhand. I cut out all the connecting phrases, the "I said" and "I remarked" when Socrates spoke about himself, and the "he agreed" or "he disagreed" for the answers. They get tiresome when they're repeated over and over.

Terpsion: Good call, Euclid.

Euclid: Now, boy, take the scroll and read.

Euclid's servant reads.

Socrates: If I cared more about Cyrene, Theodorus, I'd ask you about the scene there — whether any promising young geometers or philosophers are coming up in that part of the world. But honestly, I'm more interested in our own Athenian youth. I want to know which of them show real promise. I keep an eye out myself, as much as I can, and I ask around about whose company the young men seek. Plenty of them flock to you — and rightly so, given your eminence in geometry and everything else. So tell me: have you come across anyone worth watching?

Theodorus: I have, Socrates. There's one Athenian boy I've gotten to know who is truly remarkable, and you should absolutely meet him. Now, if he were beautiful, I'd hesitate to praise him this much — someone might think I was in love with him. But he's no beauty, so I can speak freely. In fact — don't take this the wrong way — he looks like you: snub nose, bulging eyes, though both features are less pronounced in him than in you. So with that disclaimer out of the way, let me say this: of all the young people I've ever met — and I've met a great many — I've never known anyone with natural gifts like his. He picks things up faster than almost anyone alive, yet he's extraordinarily gentle, and on top of that he's as brave as they come. I've never seen that combination in anyone else, and I wouldn't have believed it could exist. Usually the quick, sharp, retentive minds also come with hair-trigger tempers — they're like ships without ballast, darting around, more manic than courageous. And the steady, calm types tend to turn sluggish when they face real study, and can't remember anything. But this boy moves through learning and investigation so surely, so smoothly, so effectively — all with perfect gentleness, like a river of oil flowing without a sound. It's astonishing in someone his age.

Socrates: That is good news. Whose son is he?

Theodorus: I've forgotten the father's name, but the boy himself is the one in the middle of that group coming toward us. He and his friends have been oiling up in the outer courtyard — looks like they've just finished. See if you recognize him.

Socrates: I know him, though I don't know his name. He's the son of Euphronius of Sunium — a man who was, by all accounts, exactly the kind of person you're describing in his son. A distinguished man. I believe he left a sizable fortune.

Theodorus: Theaetetus, Socrates — that's his name. As for the fortune, I think the trustees managed to make it disappear. And yet he's wonderfully generous with money anyway.

Socrates: He sounds like a fine person. Tell him to come sit with me.

Theodorus: I will. Theaetetus! Come over here and sit by Socrates.

Socrates: Yes, do, Theaetetus — so I can study my own reflection in your face. Theodorus says we look alike. But think about this: if each of us were holding a lyre, and he claimed the two were tuned alike, would we just take his word for it? Or would we first ask whether he was a musician?

Theaetetus: We'd ask.

Socrates: And if he turned out to be one, we'd believe him; if not, we wouldn't?

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: So if we cared at all about this supposed resemblance between our faces, we'd want to know whether the man making the claim is a painter or not.

Theaetetus: Definitely.

Socrates: Well — is Theodorus a painter?

Theaetetus: Not that I've ever heard.

Socrates: Is he a geometer?

Theaetetus: Of course he is, Socrates.

Socrates: And an astronomer, a mathematician, a musician — an educated man across the board?

Theaetetus: I think so.

Socrates: Then if he comments on our physical resemblance — whether as a compliment or an insult — there's no particular reason to take him seriously.

Theaetetus: I suppose not.

Socrates: But if he praises the virtue or wisdom in either of our minds? Then anyone who hears that praise will naturally want to examine the person being praised — and the person being praised should be willing to show what he's got.

Theaetetus: Very true, Socrates.

Socrates: Then now's the moment, my dear Theaetetus — time for me to examine and for you to show what you've got. Because believe me, Theodorus has praised plenty of people to me, citizens and foreigners alike, but he has never praised anyone the way he just praised you.

Theaetetus: That's nice to hear, Socrates. But what if he was joking?

Socrates: No, that's not Theodorus' style. And don't think you can wriggle out of your agreement by pretending he might have been kidding. If you try it, he'll have to testify under oath — and nobody is going to accuse him of perjury. So be brave and stand by your word.

Theaetetus: All right. If that's what you want, I will.

Socrates: First things first: tell me what you study with Theodorus. Some geometry, I assume?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: And astronomy, harmony, calculation?

Theaetetus: I do my best.

Socrates: So do I, my boy, so do I — I'm eager to learn from him, or from anyone who understands these things. And I manage well enough overall. But there's one small difficulty nagging at me, and I'd like you and the others here to help me investigate it. Answer me this: learning means becoming wiser about whatever it is you're learning, doesn't it?

Theaetetus: Of course.

Socrates: And it's wisdom that makes the wise wise?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: And is that any different from knowledge?

Theaetetus: Is what different?

Socrates: Wisdom. Aren't people wise about exactly the things they know?

Theaetetus: Sure.

Socrates: So knowledge and wisdom are the same thing?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: And right there is the difficulty I can never settle to my own satisfaction: What is knowledge? Can we answer that? What do you all say? Who wants to go first? Whoever misses sits out and gets to be "donkey," as the boys say in their ball game — and whoever survives every round without missing is crowned king and gets to ask the rest of us any questions he likes... Why so quiet? Theodorus, I hope my love of conversation isn't making me rude. I only want to get us talking, like the friendly, sociable people we are.

Theodorus: Rude? The opposite, Socrates. But do ask one of the young ones instead. The truth is, I'm not used to your style of question-and-answer, and I'm too old to get used to it now. The young men are better suited — and they'll improve more than I would, since the young improve at everything. You've already started on Theaetetus, so my advice is: keep going, and don't let him off the hook.

Socrates: You hear that, Theaetetus? Theodorus says so — and you're not going to disobey him. When a wise man gives orders, a young man obeys. So take courage, and tell me, nobly and honestly: what do you think knowledge is?

Theaetetus: Well, Socrates, since the two of you insist, I'll answer. And if I get it wrong, you'll correct me, I'm sure.

Socrates: We will — if we can.

Theaetetus: All right then. I think the subjects I study with Theodorus — geometry and the others you listed just now — are knowledge. And I'd add the craft of the shoemaker and the other craftsmen too. Each and every one of those is knowledge.

Socrates: Theaetetus, that's too much! Generous and openhanded as you are, I ask you for one simple thing and you hand me a whole assortment.

Theaetetus: What do you mean, Socrates?

Socrates: Maybe nothing. But let me try to explain what I think I mean. When you say "shoemaking," you mean the craft of making shoes, right?

Theaetetus: Exactly.

Socrates: And when you say "carpentry," you mean the craft of making things out of wood?

Theaetetus: I do.

Socrates: So in both cases, you're defining what each craft is about?

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: But that wasn't my question, Theaetetus. I didn't ask what the various crafts are about, or how many of them there are — we weren't taking a head count. I asked what knowledge itself is. Am I making sense?

Theaetetus: Perfectly.

Socrates: Look at it this way. Suppose someone asked us about something completely ordinary and trivial — say, "What is clay?" — and we answered: "Well, there's potters' clay, and oven-makers' clay, and brickmakers' clay." Wouldn't that be a ridiculous answer?

Theaetetus: It would.

Socrates: Ridiculous first of all because we'd be assuming the questioner understands what clay is just because we tacked on "of the figurine-makers" or "of" some other craftsmen. How can anyone understand the name of a thing when he doesn't know what the thing is?

Theaetetus: He can't.

Socrates: Then someone who doesn't know what knowledge is can't understand "knowledge of shoemaking" either.

Theaetetus: No.

Socrates: Nor "knowledge of" anything else.

Theaetetus: Right.

Socrates: So when someone is asked "What is knowledge?" it's ridiculous to answer with the name of some particular craft. The question was "What is knowledge?" — and he answers, "Knowledge of this" or "knowledge of that."

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: Besides, he could have given a short, simple answer, but instead he goes the long way around. Take the clay question: he could simply have said, "Clay is earth mixed with water" — and never mind whose clay it is.

Theaetetus: Now that you put it that way, Socrates, it seems easy. In fact, I think you're asking the same kind of question that came up recently when I was talking with your namesake — my friend Socrates here.

Socrates: What question was that, Theaetetus?

Theaetetus: Theodorus was drawing diagrams for us about square roots — showing that the roots of three and five aren't measurable by the unit — and he took the cases one by one, up to the root of seventeen, where he stopped for some reason. Since there are infinitely many roots, it occurred to us to try to gather them all under a single name or class.

Socrates: And did you find one?

Theaetetus: I think we did. But see what you think.

Socrates: Go on.

Theaetetus: We divided all numbers into two classes. The numbers you can make by multiplying equal factors — like four, which is two times two — we pictured as squares, and called them square or equilateral numbers. That was one class.

Socrates: Very good.

Theaetetus: The numbers in between — like three and five, and any other number you can't make from equal factors, only from a larger number times a smaller one, so that the figure they form has unequal sides — we pictured as rectangles and called them oblong numbers.

Socrates: Excellent. And then what?

Theaetetus: Every line that forms the side of a square number we called a length. And every line that forms the side of an oblong number we called a root, or power — because while those lines aren't measurable by the lengths themselves, the squares built on them are. And we did something similar for solids.

Socrates: Boys, that's superb. I don't think Theodorus is in any danger of a perjury conviction.

Theaetetus: But Socrates, I can't answer your question about knowledge the way I answered the one about roots — and that's clearly what you want. So maybe Theodorus is a fraud after all.

Socrates: Hold on. Suppose someone praised your running and said he'd never met a boy your equal — and then you lost a race to a grown man in his prime, a champion sprinter. Would the praise be any less true?

Theaetetus: No.

Socrates: And do you think figuring out what knowledge is, is a small matter, like I suggested a moment ago? Isn't it the kind of problem that would strain the very best minds anywhere?

Theaetetus: By heaven, the very best of the best!

Socrates: Then relax. Don't decide that Theodorus was wrong about you. Just give everything you've got to finding out the truth about knowledge — and about everything else, while you're at it.

Theaetetus: If effort can get us to the truth, Socrates, I'm willing.

Socrates: Come on, then — you just showed us how it's done. Take your answer about the roots as your model. Just as you gathered all those many roots into one class, try to gather the many kinds of knowledge into one definition.

Theaetetus: I have to tell you, Socrates, I've tried this many times — whenever reports of your questions reached me. But I can never convince myself that I have a good answer, and I've never heard anyone else give the kind of answer you're looking for. And yet I can't stop worrying at it.

Socrates: Ah — those are labor pains, my dear Theaetetus. You're not empty. You're pregnant with something, and it's trying to be born.

Theaetetus: I don't know about that, Socrates. I'm just telling you how it feels.

Socrates: You ridiculous boy — have you never heard that I'm the son of a midwife? A fine, sturdy one named Phaenarete?

Theaetetus: I've heard that, yes.

Socrates: And have you heard that I practice midwifery myself?

Theaetetus: No. Never.

Socrates: Well, I do, my friend — though keep it to yourself, because the world hasn't found me out. People only say that I'm the strangest of men, and that I drive everyone I talk to into total confusion. Have you heard that one?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: Shall I tell you the reason?

Theaetetus: Please.

Socrates: Then think about how midwifery actually works, and you'll see what I mean. You probably know that no woman who can still conceive and bear children works as a midwife — only women who are past childbearing age.

Theaetetus: Yes, I know.

Socrates: They say the reason is Artemis, the goddess of childbirth, who is herself childless. She honors women who resemble her. But she couldn't let completely barren women be midwives, because human beings can't master a skill they have no experience of. So she gave the job to women who have borne children but are now too old to bear more.

Theaetetus: Makes sense.

Socrates: And here's something else that makes sense — in fact I'm certain of it: midwives can tell, better than anyone, who is pregnant and who isn't.

Theaetetus: Very true.

Socrates: And with their drugs and incantations they can trigger labor pains or soothe them, at will. They can bring on delivery for women who are struggling, and, if they judge it best, they can end a pregnancy in its early stage.

Theaetetus: They can.

Socrates: Have you also noticed that they're shrewd matchmakers — absolute experts at knowing which pairings will produce the best children?

Theaetetus: No, I never knew that.

Socrates: Well, let me tell you, they're prouder of that than of cutting the umbilical cord. Think about it: the same skill that knows how to grow and harvest crops must also know which soil suits which plant or seed. It's one art, not two.

Theaetetus: Yes, the same art.

Socrates: And you don't suppose it's any different with women?

Theaetetus: Probably not.

Socrates: It isn't. But midwives are respectable women with reputations to protect, so they steer clear of matchmaking. They're afraid of being called procuresses — the name for people who pair off men and women in shady, unskilled ways. And yet the true midwife really is the one true matchmaker.

Theaetetus: Clearly.

Socrates: So that's what midwives do — important work, but not as important as mine. Here's why. Women don't give birth to real babies one day and counterfeit babies the next, fakes so convincing you can hardly tell the difference. If they did, then telling true births from false ones would be the crowning skill of the midwife's art. Don't you think?

Theaetetus: I do.

Socrates: Well, my art of midwifery is just like theirs — with a few differences. I attend men, not women. And I watch over souls in labor, not bodies. The supreme moment of my art is this: testing, by every means I have, whether the idea a young mind delivers is a false phantom or something alive, genuine, and true. And there's one more way I'm like the midwives: I'm barren. I can't give birth to wisdom myself. The accusation people have thrown at me for years — that I ask everyone else questions but never answer any myself, because I have no wisdom in me — is absolutely true. And here's the reason: the god compels me to deliver others, but has forbidden me to give birth. So no, I'm not wise at all, and I have no discovery to show for myself, no brainchild of my own soul. But the people who spend time with me? Something different happens to them. Some seem hopelessly slow at first; but as we keep at it, all of them — all the ones the god favors — make progress that astonishes everyone, themselves most of all. And here's the thing: it's obvious they never learned anything from me. The many beautiful discoveries they bring forth came entirely from inside themselves. The delivery, though — that was the god's work, and mine.

Here's the proof. Plenty of them didn't realize this. Giving themselves all the credit and despising me, they left me sooner than they should have — some on their own conceit, some because others lured them away. And after they left, what happened? They miscarried everything that was still in them, and the ideas I had already delivered they ruined through bad nurture — because they cared more for falsehood and shams than for truth. In the end they looked like complete fools, to themselves and everyone else. Aristeides, son of Lysimachus, is one of them; there are plenty more. And when the runaways come back, begging to be taken in again — ready to get down on their knees, practically — then, if my inner voice allows it (and it doesn't always), I take them back, and they begin to grow again.

One more thing: the people who keep my company suffer something the women in labor suffer too, except worse. They feel labor pains — they're filled, day and night, with confusion and aching perplexity far beyond anything the women endure. And my art can both stir those pangs up and soothe them. So much for them. And then there are others, Theaetetus, who come to me carrying nothing at all. Since I know my art is useless to them, I kindly arrange a match — and with the god's help I'm pretty good at guessing whose company will do them good. I've matched many of them with Prodicus, and many with other wise and inspired men.

Now, why have I told you this whole long story, my friend? Because I suspect — and you suspect it yourself — that you're in labor. You're pregnant with something. So come to me, the midwife's son and a midwife myself, and when I ask my questions, do your very best to answer them. And if, when I examine one of your statements, I conclude it's a phantom and not a true birth, and I gently take it from you and discard it — don't rage at me the way first-time mothers do over their babies. People before you, my friend, have gotten so furious with me they were literally ready to bite, just because I removed some cherished nonsense of theirs. They never grasped that I do it out of pure goodwill. They have no idea that no god ever wishes evil to man, and that I don't act out of malice either. I simply cannot accept a falsehood and bury a truth.

So — back to the beginning, Theaetetus. What is knowledge? Try to tell me. And never say you can't. If the god is willing and you take courage, you can.

Theaetetus: Well, Socrates, after a pep talk like that, I'd be ashamed not to give it everything I have. All right. It seems to me that someone who knows something perceives the thing he knows. So, as it looks to me right now: knowledge is nothing other than perception.

Socrates: Good — bold and direct! That's exactly how you should speak your mind. Now let's examine this child of yours together and find out whether it's a real birth or just a wind-egg. Knowledge is perception, you say?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: And in fact you've just delivered no ordinary theory of knowledge — it's the very one Protagoras used to teach, though he put it differently. He said that man is the measure of all things: of things that are, that they are; and of things that are not, that they are not. You've read him, I assume?

Theaetetus: Oh yes — many times.

Socrates: And doesn't he mean something like this: things are, for you, the way they appear to you, and they are, for me, the way they appear to me — you and I each being a man?

Theaetetus: Yes, that's what he says.

Socrates: Well, a wise man doesn't usually talk nonsense, so let's try to follow him. Sometimes the same wind is blowing, and yet one of us feels chilly and the other doesn't — or one feels slightly cool and the other freezing. True?

Theaetetus: Quite true.

Socrates: So in that moment, is the wind itself, taken on its own, cold or not cold? Or should we side with Protagoras and say it's cold for the one who feels cold, and not for the one who doesn't?

Theaetetus: The second, I suppose.

Socrates: And it appears that way to each of them?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: And "appears to him" means the same as "he perceives it."

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: So appearing and perceiving are the same thing, in matters of hot, cold, and everything like them. The way each person perceives things is presumably the way they are — for that person.

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: Then perception is always perception of what is — and since it's the same as knowledge, it never makes a mistake.

Theaetetus: Apparently.

Socrates: In the name of the Graces! Protagoras must have been an almighty genius. He tossed out this saying as a riddle for the common herd — people like you and me — while telling the real Truth (that was actually the title of his book) in secret to his own students.

Theaetetus: What do you mean by that, Socrates?

Socrates: I'm about to lay out a serious doctrine — one that says nothing is anything in itself; everything is relative. You can't correctly call anything by any name — "big," "small," "heavy," "light" — because the big will turn out small and the heavy light. Nothing is any one thing or any one quality. The truth is that everything comes to be — through motion, change, and mixture with everything else — always relative to something. We say things "are," but that's sloppy talk: nothing ever is. Everything is always becoming. And on this point, line up all the philosophers one after another — Protagoras, Heraclitus, Empedocles, the lot — and they'll all agree, with the single exception of Parmenides. Line up the great poets of both genres too: Epicharmus, the king of comedy, and Homer, the king of tragedy. When Homer sings of

"Ocean, source of the gods, and mother Tethys,"

doesn't he mean that all things are born of flux and motion?

Theaetetus: I think so.

Socrates: And who would dare take up arms against an army that size, with Homer as its general, and not look ridiculous?

Theaetetus: Who indeed, Socrates?

Socrates: Exactly, Theaetetus. And there's plenty more evidence that motion is the source of everything we call being and becoming, while stillness is the source of non-being and destruction. Fire and warmth — supposedly the parent and guardian of everything else — are themselves born from movement and friction, and friction is a kind of motion. Isn't that where fire comes from?

Theaetetus: It is.

Socrates: And every animal is generated the same way — from motion?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Socrates: And what about the body? Doesn't rest and laziness ruin its condition, while motion and exercise preserve it for years?

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: And the mind? Isn't the soul taught, improved, and maintained by study and practice — which are motions — while at rest (which for the soul just means not studying, not paying attention) it learns nothing and quickly forgets what it knew?

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: So motion is good for the soul as well as the body, and rest is bad for both?

Theaetetus: Apparently.

Socrates: I could go further: dead calms and windless stillness rot and decay things, while wind and storm keep them fresh. And the crown jewel of the whole argument — I insist on this one — is Homer's golden chain. By it he means nothing other than the sun, and his point is this: as long as the sun and the heavens keep circling in their orbits, everything in heaven and earth exists and is preserved. But if they were chained in place and their motion stopped, everything would be destroyed and, as the saying goes, turned upside down.

Theaetetus: I think you've explained his meaning exactly, Socrates.

Socrates: Then apply the doctrine to perception, my friend — start with vision. What you call "white color" isn't a thing in your eyes, and it isn't some separate thing existing outside them either. Don't assign it any location at all — because if it had a fixed position, it would just be, sitting still, and there'd be no becoming.

Theaetetus: Then what is color?

Socrates: Follow the principle we just laid down — that nothing exists on its own — and you'll see it: white, black, and every other color arise from the eye meeting the right kind of motion. What we call a color is neither the thing striking the eye nor the eye being struck, but something that passes between them — and it's private to each perceiver. Tell me: would you swear that every color appears to a dog, or to any other animal, exactly the way it appears to you?

Theaetetus: Definitely not.

Socrates: And would you swear that anything appears the same to you as it does to another person? Are you really so sure of even that? Wouldn't it be closer to the truth to say it never appears exactly the same even to you — because you are never exactly the same?

Theaetetus: The latter, I think.

Socrates: Now, if the thing we measure ourselves against, or the thing we touch, really were big or white or hot in itself, then bumping into something different couldn't change it — unless the thing itself actually changed. And on the other side, if the perceiver were really big or white or hot in himself, then he wouldn't become different when something different approached him or happened to him — unless something in him changed. Yet in everyday speech, we casually say things that drive us straight into the most absurd contradictions — as Protagoras and anyone arguing his line would happily point out.

Theaetetus: What kind of contradictions? What do you mean?

Socrates: A small example will make it clear. Take six dice. Set four next to them, and we say the six are more — one-and-a-half times as many. Set twelve next to them, and we say the six are fewer — only half as many. The same six dice: more and fewer at once. Can you or anyone deny it?

Theaetetus: No, that's right.

Socrates: Well then, suppose Protagoras or someone else asks you: "Theaetetus, can anything become bigger or more in any way other than by increasing?" What's your answer?

Theaetetus: If I answer what I really think about this last question, Socrates, I'd say no. But if I keep my earlier answer in mind, I'd say yes — to avoid contradicting myself.

Socrates: Wonderful! Spoken like an oracle, my boy! And notice: if you answer "yes," it'll be a scene straight out of Euripides — the tongue convinced, but not the mind.

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: Now, if you and I were professional debaters — those thoroughbred Sophists who know everything about the mind and argue purely from a surplus of cleverness — we'd have had a regular sparring match over this by now, banging our arguments together for sport. But we're amateurs. All we want is to see what these ideas actually are and whether they're consistent with one another or not.

Theaetetus: Yes, that's exactly what I'd want.

Socrates: Me too. And since we feel that way, and there's no rush, why don't we calmly and patiently go back over our own thoughts and examine what these appearances in us really are? If I'm not mistaken, we'll start by laying out three claims. First: nothing can become bigger or smaller, in size or in number, as long as it stays equal to itself. Agreed?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: Second: a thing to which nothing is added and from which nothing is taken away neither grows nor shrinks — it stays equal.

Theaetetus: Quite true.

Socrates: Third: what wasn't there before can't exist later without having come into being — without becoming.

Theaetetus: Yes, definitely.

Socrates: Now, these three principles, if I'm not mistaken, go to war with each other in our minds when we think about the dice — or take this example. Suppose I'm a certain height, taller than you. Within a year, without growing or shrinking at all, I might be shorter than you — not because I lost any height, but because you grew. So I am, later on, something I wasn't before — and yet I never became it. But that's impossible: nothing can come to be without becoming, and I couldn't have become shorter without losing some height. I could give you ten thousand examples of contradictions like this, if we accept them at all. I think you're following me, Theaetetus — I suspect you've puzzled over questions like these before.

Theaetetus: Yes, Socrates, and I'm amazed when I think about them — by the gods, I am! I want to know what on earth they mean. Sometimes my head literally swims just contemplating them.

Socrates: I see, my dear Theaetetus, that Theodorus read your nature correctly when he called you a philosopher. Wonder is the philosopher's signature feeling — philosophy begins in wonder. Whoever said that Iris, the messenger of heaven, is the daughter of Thaumas — Wonder — wasn't a bad genealogist. But are you starting to see how the theory we're attributing to Protagoras explains all this perplexity?

Theaetetus: Not yet.

Socrates: Then you'll owe me one if I help you dig up the hidden "truth" of a famous man — or rather, a famous school of thought.

Theaetetus: Of course I'll owe you. Very much so.

Socrates: Then take a look around and make sure none of the uninitiated are eavesdropping. By "the uninitiated" I mean people who believe in nothing except what they can grab with their two hands — people who refuse to accept that actions or processes or anything invisible could possibly be real.

Theaetetus: Yes, Socrates — hard, stubborn characters, those people.

Socrates: Complete barbarians, my boy. The initiates whose mysteries I'm about to reveal to you are far more sophisticated. Here's their first principle: everything is motion. There is nothing but motion, and it comes in two forms — one active, one passive — both in endless variety. From their union and friction comes an endless brood of offspring, also in two forms: the senses, and the objects of sense, which are constantly bursting forth and being born at the very same moment. The senses have names — hearing, sight, smell, the sense of heat and cold, pleasure, pain, desire, fear, and many more — plus countless others with no names at all. And each sense has its matching object: every variety of color has a corresponding variety of seeing, every sound a corresponding hearing, and so on for all the senses and their kindred objects. Do you see, Theaetetus, what this story has to do with our earlier argument?

Theaetetus: Honestly, no.

Socrates: Then pay attention, and I'll try to finish the tale. The point is this: everything is in motion, as I said, and the motion comes in two speeds, slower and quicker. The slow elements move in place, in relation to whatever is near them — and that's how they generate offspring. But the offspring are faster: they travel, moving from place to place. Now apply this to perception. When an eye and a suitable object come together, they give birth to whiteness, along with the sensation that's twinned with it — a birth that never would have happened if either of them had wandered off elsewhere. As sight flows from the eye and whiteness streams from the object, the two combine to produce the color. The eye is filled with seeing — at that moment it really does see, and it becomes not sight itself but a seeing eye. And the object that partnered in producing the color is filled with whiteness, and becomes not whiteness itself but a white thing — white wood, white stone, whatever the thing happens to be.

And the same goes for everything we perceive — hard, warm, all of it. None of it has any independent existence on its own, just as we said before. Everything, of every kind, is generated by motion in the encounter between things. As for "agent" and "patient" — the thing acting and the thing acted on — you can't form any reliable conception of either one existing on its own. There is no agent until it pairs with a patient, and no patient until it pairs with an agent. And what acts as agent in one encounter turns up as patient in another.

The upshot of all this, as I said at the start, is that nothing exists by itself, in its own right. Everything is always becoming, always in relation to something else. "Being" should be struck from our vocabulary entirely — although, out of habit and ignorance, we've kept using the word even in this very discussion. But the great philosophers tell us we mustn't allow even words like "something" or "somebody's" or "mine" or "this" or "that," or any other word that pins a thing down. In the language of nature, things are forever being created and destroyed, coming into being and passing into new forms. No name can fix or hold them — and anyone who tries to nail them down is easily refuted. And we should talk this way not just about individual things but about collections of them — the kinds of bundles we name "man" or "stone" or any animal or class of things.

Well, Theaetetus, aren't these speculations sweet as honey? Don't you like the taste of them?

Theaetetus: I don't know what to say, Socrates. Honestly, I can't even tell whether you're giving your own opinion or just testing me.

Socrates: You're forgetting, my friend, that I don't know any of this, and I don't claim to. None of these ideas are mine. You're the one in labor; I'm just the midwife — barren myself. That's why I'm soothing you, offering you one delicacy after another for you to taste. I'm hoping that in the end I can help bring your own opinion out into the light of day. And once it's born, we'll examine it and decide whether what you've delivered is a real, living child or just a wind-egg — an empty shell. So keep your courage up, and answer like a man: what do you think?

Theaetetus: Ask away.

Socrates: Then tell me once more: is it your view that nothing is, but everything is always becoming — the good and the beautiful included, along with everything else we just listed?

Theaetetus: When I hear you lay it out like that, it seems to make a great deal of sense, and I'm very much inclined to accept it.

Socrates: Then let's not leave the argument unfinished, because there's still an objection to deal with — about dreams and diseases, especially madness, and all the illusions of hearing and sight and the other senses. In every one of these cases, the theory that "to be is to be perceived" looks flatly refuted. In dreams and hallucinations our perceptions are clearly false. Far from saying that whatever appears to someone is, we'd be tempted to say the opposite: nothing that appears is.

Theaetetus: Very true, Socrates.

Socrates: Then how, my boy, can anyone keep claiming that knowledge is perception, or that whatever appears to each person is, for that person?

Theaetetus: I'm afraid to say I have no answer, Socrates, since you scolded me just now for saying exactly that. But I really can't argue that madmen and dreamers believe truly — not when some of them imagine they're gods, and others dream they have wings and are flying through the air.

Socrates: Do you see yet another puzzle hiding in this, especially in the question of dreaming versus waking?

Theaetetus: What puzzle?

Socrates: One I'm sure you've heard people raise: what proof could you give if someone asked us, right now, this very moment, whether we're asleep and dreaming all our thoughts, or awake and actually talking to each other?

Theaetetus: Honestly, Socrates, I don't see how you'd prove one any more than the other — the two states match each other point for point. There's nothing to stop us from supposing this entire conversation is something we're dreaming. And when we dream that we're telling each other our dreams, the resemblance between the two states is downright uncanny.

Socrates: So you see, doubt about the reality of perception is easy to raise — there's even doubt about whether we're awake or dreaming. And since our time is split equally between sleeping and waking, in each state the soul insists that whatever it's thinking at the moment is the truth. Half our lives we swear by the one set of perceptions, half our lives by the other — and we're equally confident both times.

Theaetetus: Absolutely true.

Socrates: And doesn't the same go for madness and the other disorders? The only difference is that the time isn't split equally.

Theaetetus: Right.

Socrates: And surely truth and falsehood aren't going to be decided by a stopwatch — by how long a state lasts?

Theaetetus: That would be ridiculous in all kinds of ways.

Socrates: But do you have any other way of proving for certain which of these opinions is true?

Theaetetus: I don't think I do.

Socrates: Then listen to what the champions of appearance would say on the other side of the argument. As I imagine it, they'd argue like this: can something that is wholly other than another thing have any of the same properties as the thing it differs from? And notice, Theaetetus — by "other" we don't mean partly different. We mean wholly other.

Theaetetus: Put that way, then no — what is wholly other can't be the same in any respect or any sense.

Socrates: So it must also be admitted to be unlike?

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: So if a thing happens to become like or unlike anything — itself or something else — we say it's the same when it becomes like, and other when it becomes unlike?

Theaetetus: Right.

Socrates: And weren't we saying earlier that there are many agents — infinitely many — and many patients, infinitely many of those too?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: And that different pairings produce different results, not the same ones?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Socrates: Then let's use you and me as the example — or anything, really. Take Socrates healthy and Socrates sick. Are those two alike, or unlike?

Theaetetus: You mean Socrates-when-sick taken as a whole, compared with Socrates-when-healthy as a whole?

Socrates: Exactly — you've got my meaning.

Theaetetus: Then my answer is: unlike.

Socrates: And if unlike, then other?

Theaetetus: Right.

Socrates: And you'd say the same about Socrates asleep versus awake, or in any of the other states we mentioned?

Theaetetus: I would.

Socrates: So anything that acts on Socrates is dealing with a different patient depending on whether I'm well or ill.

Theaetetus: Of course.

Socrates: And in each of the two cases, I as the patient and the thing acting on me will produce a different result together?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Socrates: Now, the wine I drink when I'm healthy seems sweet and pleasant to me?

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: Because — as we already agreed — the agent and patient meet and generate sweetness plus the perception of sweetness, both in motion at once. The perception, coming from the patient's side, makes my tongue a perceiving tongue; the sweetness, arising on the wine's side and swirling around it, makes the wine both be sweet and appear sweet to a healthy tongue.

Theaetetus: Right — that's exactly what we agreed.

Socrates: But when I'm sick, the wine is really acting on a different person, isn't it?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: So the pairing of the gulp of wine with the sick Socrates produces an entirely different result: a sensation of bitterness on the tongue, and bitterness arising and moving about the wine — which becomes not bitterness itself but something bitter, just as I become not perception itself but something perceiving.

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: And I'll never get this exact perception from any other object — a different object would generate a different perception and make the perceiver different too. Nor can the thing acting on me ever produce the same result by meeting some other person and stay the same itself — from a different subject it will produce a different result, and become different in the process.

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: Nor can I have this sensation all by myself, nor the object have this quality all by itself.

Theaetetus: No, certainly not.

Socrates: When I perceive, I have to be perceiving something — there's no such thing as perceiving and perceiving nothing. And the object, whether it becomes sweet or bitter or anything else, has to become that for some perceiver — nothing can become sweet without being sweet to someone.

Theaetetus: Absolutely.

Socrates: Then the conclusion is that we — the agent and the patient — exist, or rather become, only in relation to each other. Necessity binds us together, but binds each of us to the other and to nothing else — not even to ourselves. So we can only be bound to each other. Which means that whenever someone says a thing "is" or "becomes," they must say it is or becomes for someone, or of something, or in relation to something. They must never say — or let anyone else say — that anything is or becomes absolutely, all on its own. That's where our argument lands.

Theaetetus: Very true, Socrates.

Socrates: So since whatever acts on me is related to me and to no one else, I and no one else am the one who perceives it?

Theaetetus: Of course.

Socrates: Then my perception is true for me — because it's always a perception of my own reality. And, just as Protagoras says, I am the judge of what is for me, and of what is not for me.

Theaetetus: So it seems.

Socrates: Then if I'm never wrong, and my mind never stumbles in its grasp of what is or what becomes, how could I fail to know what I perceive?

Theaetetus: You couldn't.

Socrates: So you were exactly right to say that knowledge is nothing but perception. And it all turns out to be the same theory — whether you say with Homer and Heraclitus and that whole crowd that everything is motion and flux, or with the great sage Protagoras that man is the measure of all things, or with Theaetetus that, given all this, perception is knowledge. Am I right, Theaetetus? Shall we say this is your newborn child, and I'm the midwife who delivered it? What do you say?

Theaetetus: I can't disagree, Socrates.

Socrates: Then this is the baby — however it turns out — that you and I have labored to bring into the world. And now that it's born, we have to perform the naming ceremony: carry it in a circle around the hearth and take a good hard look at it, to see whether it's worth raising or is just a wind-egg, a fake. Or do you think your child must be raised no matter what, and not abandoned? Can you stand to watch it cross-examined and rejected, without flying into a rage if your firstborn is taken from you?

Theodorus: Theaetetus won't be angry — he's far too good-natured. But tell me, Socrates, in heaven's name: is the theory actually wrong?

Socrates: You're a lover of theories, Theodorus, and you have the charming notion that I'm a sack stuffed full of them, and can just reach in and pull out one that will overturn the last. But you don't see what's really happening: none of these theories come from me. They always come from whoever's talking with me. I know nothing — only just enough to draw an idea out of someone else's wisdom and receive it fairly. So now I'll say nothing of my own, and instead try to coax something out of our young friend here.

Theodorus: You put it well, Socrates. Do it your way.

Socrates: Shall I tell you, Theodorus, what astonishes me about your friend Protagoras?

Theodorus: What's that?

Socrates: On the whole I'm delighted with his doctrine that what appears to each person is, for that person. But the opening of his book amazes me. Why didn't he begin his "Truth" by declaring that a pig is the measure of all things — or a dog-faced baboon, or some even weirder creature, so long as it has the power of perception? That would have been a magnificently contemptuous way to open: announcing that while we were all gawking at him like he was a god for his wisdom, he was actually no wiser than a tadpole — let alone wiser than any other human being. What an opener that would have been! Because if truth is just whatever each person perceives, if no one can judge another's experience better than that person can, no one is better positioned to say whether another's opinion is true or false, and — as we've said over and over — each person alone is the judge of his own beliefs, and everything he judges is true and right, then tell me, my friend: why exactly is Protagoras the wise one? Why does he deserve to teach others and charge gigantic fees, while we're the ignorant ones who have to go to school to him — when every one of us is the measure of his own wisdom? How can this not be Protagoras playing to the crowd? And I won't even mention what it does to me and my midwife's art — we'd both be cosmically ridiculous — and the same goes for the whole practice of philosophical conversation. Examining and testing each other's opinions and beliefs would be a long, colossal exercise in stupidity, if every person's opinions are right for them — and that's exactly what follows if Protagoras' "Truth" is really true, and not just the great man joking around from the inner sanctum of his book.

Theodorus: He was my friend, Socrates, as you said yourself. I couldn't bear to be the one whose answers get him refuted — but I can't oppose you either, since I agree with you. So please, take Theaetetus back. He was answering you very nicely.

Socrates: Theodorus, if you walked into a wrestling school in Sparta, would you really think you had the right to sit there watching the wrestlers stripped down — some of them looking pretty pathetic — without stripping down yourself and giving them a look at your physique?

Theodorus: Why not, if they'd let me off? Which I'm hoping you will, out of respect for my age and stiff joints. Find some limber young man to grapple with, and leave me out of the gymnasium.

Socrates: Well, Theodorus, if that's your will, it's no ill will of mine, as the proverb-lovers say. So back to the wise Theaetetus. Tell me, Theaetetus — about what we were just saying — aren't you stunned, like I am, to discover that you've suddenly been promoted to the level of the wisest of men? Or rather of the gods — since I assume Protagoras' "measure" applies just as much to gods as to men?

Theaetetus: I assume so too. And yes, I admit it: I'm stunned. When I first heard the doctrine — that whatever appears to each person is, for them — it seemed completely satisfying. Now everything looks different.

Socrates: That's because you're young, my dear boy. You've got quick ears for crowd-pleasing arguments, and they sway you. Protagoras — or someone arguing on his behalf — will have an answer ready. He'll say: "Good people, young and old, you sit around making speeches. You drag in the gods — whose existence or nonexistence I refuse to discuss in speech or in writing. You go on about how dreadful it would be for human reason to sink to the level of the beasts — which plays great with a crowd. But proof? Demonstration? You offer not one word of it. Everything with you is plausibility. If Theodorus or any other geometer tried to do geometry on the strength of what's merely plausible and likely, he wouldn't be worth a thing. So you and Theodorus had better ask yourselves whether, on matters this important, you're willing to settle for probabilities and pretty phrases."

Theaetetus: Well, that wouldn't be fair, Socrates — not by your standards or ours.

Socrates: Then apparently you and Theodorus think we have to come at it some other way?

Theaetetus: Yes, a completely different way.

Socrates: Then here's the way: let's ask whether knowledge and perception are the same thing or different things. That was the real target of our whole argument, wasn't it? That's why we stirred up all these strange questions.

Theaetetus: Absolutely.

Socrates: So — shall we agree that we know everything we see and hear? Take languages: before we've learned a foreign language, when foreigners speak, shall we say we don't hear them? Or that we both hear and know what they're saying? Or take reading: when we look at letters we can't read, shall we insist we don't see them? Or that since we see them, we must know them?

Theaetetus: We'll say, Socrates, that we know exactly as much of them as we see and hear. With the letters, we see and know their shape and color; with the foreign speech, we hear and know the rise and fall of the sound. But what reading teachers and interpreters could tell us about them — that we don't perceive by sight or hearing, and don't know.

Socrates: Excellent, Theaetetus! I won't argue with you there — you deserve room to grow. But look, here comes another difficulty, and you'll have to fight this one off too.

Theaetetus: What is it?

Socrates: This. Someone will ask: "Can a man who has come to know something, and who still has the memory of it, preserved intact, not know the very thing he's remembering, at the moment he remembers it?" I'm being long-winded, I'm afraid. All I'm asking is: can a person who has learned something, and remembers it, fail to know it?

Theaetetus: Impossible, Socrates. That would be monstrous.

Socrates: Am I talking nonsense, then? Think it through. Seeing is perceiving, and sight is a perception — right?

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: And by our recent definition, anyone who sees something knows it?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: And you'd grant that there's such a thing as memory?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: Memory of something, or of nothing?

Theaetetus: Of something, obviously.

Socrates: Of things one has learned and perceived — that kind of something?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Socrates: So a man sometimes remembers what he has seen?

Theaetetus: He does.

Socrates: Even with his eyes shut? Or does he forget the moment he closes them?

Theaetetus: That would be an outrageous thing to say, Socrates.

Socrates: And yet say it we must, if our earlier argument is going to survive.

Theaetetus: What do you mean? I can't quite pin it down — though I have a strong suspicion you're right.

Socrates: Here's the problem. We say the one who sees knows what he sees, because sight, perception, and knowledge are all agreed to be the same thing.

Theaetetus: Right.

Socrates: But the man who saw something, and so knows it, still remembers it when he closes his eyes — even though he no longer sees it.

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: And "not seeing" is "not knowing," since "seeing" is "knowing."

Theaetetus: That follows.

Socrates: Then look at the conclusion: a man who has come to know something, and still remembers it, doesn't know it — because he isn't seeing it. And that's the result we just called monstrous.

Theaetetus: So it is.

Socrates: So the claim that knowledge and perception are the same leads straight to an impossibility?

Theaetetus: It looks that way.

Socrates: Then they must be different things?

Theaetetus: I suppose they must.

Socrates: So we're back to the beginning: what is knowledge? Although — Theaetetus, hold on. What are we doing?

Theaetetus: About what?

Socrates: We're behaving like a no-account fighting rooster: hopping away from the argument and crowing victory before we've actually won.

Theaetetus: How so?

Socrates: We've been acting like professional debaters. We made our agreements about the meanings of words, scored our point through verbal consistency, and congratulated ourselves on winning. We claim to be philosophers, not prize-fighting word-twisters — and yet, without noticing it, we've sunk to the level of those clever gentlemen.

Theaetetus: I still don't see what you mean.

Socrates: Then let me try to explain. We asked whether someone who has learned a thing and remembers it can fail to know it. We pointed out that a man who has seen something can shut his eyes and remember it while no longer seeing it — and so he'd remember and not-know at the same time. We agreed that was impossible. And so the Protagorean tale perished — and yours along with it, the claim that knowledge is perception.

Theaetetus: So it seems.

Socrates: But I suspect, my friend, things would have gone very differently if the father of the first of those two brainchildren were still alive. Protagoras would have had plenty to say in its defense. As it is, he's dead, and we're kicking his orphan around. Even the guardians he left behind won't lift a finger — and our friend Theodorus here is one of them. In the name of justice, it looks like I'll have to come to the child's defense myself.

Theodorus: Not me, Socrates — Callias, son of Hipponicus, is the real guardian of his estate. I drifted away from abstract argument to geometry early on. Still, I'll be grateful if you come to his rescue.

Socrates: Well said, Theodorus. Watch, then, and see what my rescue looks like — because a person can land in even worse paradoxes than the ones we just saw, if he doesn't pay attention to how words are actually used in argument. Should I explain this to you, or to Theaetetus?

Theodorus: To both of us — but let the younger one give the answers. There's less shame for him if he gets tripped up.

Socrates: Then here comes the truly fearsome question. It's this: can the same man know something and also not know the very thing he knows?

Theodorus: Well, Theaetetus? What's our answer?

Theaetetus: He can't — I'd say.

Socrates: Oh yes he can — if you're going to maintain that seeing is knowing. What will you do when some self-assured fellow has you cornered — "trapped in a well," as the saying goes — claps his hand over one of your eyes, and asks whether you can see his cloak with the eye he's covering? How will you answer him? There's no escaping this man.

Theaetetus: I'd say: "Not with that eye, but with the other one."

Socrates: So you see and don't see the same thing at the same time?

Theaetetus: Well — yes, in a certain sense.

Socrates: "None of that," he'll snap. "I didn't ask in what sense. I asked one thing: do you know what you don't know? You've just been caught seeing what you don't see. And you've already admitted that seeing is knowing and not-seeing is not-knowing. Add it up yourself."

Theaetetus: And when I add it up, I get the exact contradiction of what I claimed.

Socrates: Yes, you marvel — and you might have suffered far worse if your opponent had kept going. He could have asked whether you can know sharply and also know dully; whether you can know something up close but not at a distance; whether you can know the same thing intensely and faintly — and on and on without end. Questions like these are the ammunition of the mercenary skirmisher of debate, the fighter who argues for pay. The moment you took the position that knowledge is perception, he'd have ambushed you — launched his assault on hearing and smelling and the rest of the senses, shown you no mercy, kept you pinned down while you stood there marveling at his prodigious wisdom. By the time he had you tangled in his net, you'd be paying whatever ransom the two of you agreed on before he'd let you out. But now, you'll ask, what would Protagoras himself say in defense of his doctrine? Shall I speak for him?

Theaetetus: Please do.

Socrates: He'll repeat everything we've already said on his behalf, and then — I imagine — he'll close with us in open contempt. He'll say:

"This fine fellow Socrates found a little boy, asked him whether the same person can remember a thing and not know it, and the boy got scared, couldn't see the trap coming, and said no — and so, Socrates made a laughingstock of me. Here's the truth, you slapdash Socrates. When you cross-examine some doctrine of mine by asking questions, and the person answering gets caught out, then I am refuted only if he answered the way I would have answered. If he says something different, the refuted party is him, not me. Start with this: do you really expect anyone to grant that the memory of a past impression is the same as the impression itself was, at the moment it was happening, to the person having it? Not even close. Or that anyone would shy away from admitting that the same man can know and not know the same thing? Or — if that scares him — that he'd ever concede a man who has become unlike his former self is the same person he was before the change? Indeed, that there is such a thing as 'a man' at all — one man — rather than an endless series of men, a new one for every change he undergoes? I'm choosing my words precisely, you see, since we have to watch out for each other's verbal traps.

"No, my good sir," he'll say. "Come at my actual argument, and do it more generously. Show, if you can, that our perceptions are not private and individual to each of us. Or, granting that they're individual, show that it doesn't follow that what appears to a person thereby becomes — or, if you insist on the word, is — for that person alone. As for your pigs and your baboons — you're not just talking like a pig yourself, you're training your audience to root through my writings like pigs, and that does you no credit. Because I say it again: the truth is exactly as I've written it. Each of us is the measure of what is and of what is not. But people differ from each other enormously in precisely this way: different things are, and appear, to different people. As for wisdom and wise men, far be it from me to deny they exist. Here's what I call a wise man: anyone who can take someone for whom things seem and are bad, and turn things around so they seem and are good for him.

"And don't go chasing the letter of my words this time — let me make my meaning even plainer. Remember what was said earlier: to a sick man, his food seems bitter, and is bitter; to a healthy man, it both is and seems the opposite. Now, there's no call to make either of these men out to be wiser than the other — that's not even possible. And there's no call to declare the sick man ignorant for thinking what he thinks, or the healthy man wise for thinking differently. What's needed is to change the man from one condition to the other — because the other condition is better. Education is the same: a change from a worse condition to a better one. The difference is that a doctor produces the change with drugs, while a sophist does it with words. Not that anyone ever made a man whose beliefs were false start believing truly — it's impossible to believe what is not, or to believe anything beyond what one experiences, and what one experiences is always true. What happens, I'd say, is this: a man whose soul is in a worthless condition believes things that match that condition, and a sound soul gives him sound things to believe. Those beliefs — the ones some people naively call 'true' — are simply better than the others. Not truer. Better.

"And as for the wise, dear Socrates — I'm not calling them tadpoles, far from it. Where bodies are concerned, the wise are the doctors; where plants are concerned, the farmers. Yes, farmers too: when plants are sickly, I say the farmer strips away their bad and diseased sensations and instills good, healthy, sound ones — true ones, even. And wise, skilled public speakers do the same for cities: they make sound things, rather than rotten things, seem just. Because whatever each city judges just and admirable really is just and admirable for that city, as long as it holds those beliefs. But the wise man takes each rotten thing that is and seems just to them, and makes a sound thing be and seem just instead. By the same logic, the sophist who can educate his pupils this way is wise, and worth every penny of his fees. And so: some people are wiser than others, and yet nobody believes falsely. And you, Socrates, like it or not, will have to put up with being a measure — because that's where the argument stands, solid as ever.

"You're welcome to attack it from the ground up, if you like — lay out a counterargument in a full speech. Or do it by questions, if you prefer; no sensible person runs away from questioning, quite the opposite. But do observe one rule: don't ask questions unfairly. It's wildly inconsistent to claim you care about virtue and then spend your time cheating at argument. Cheating, here, means failing to keep the two modes separate — the competitive debate and the genuine discussion. In a debate, play games and trip people up as much as you can. But in genuine discussion, be serious. Set your partner back on his feet; show him only the slips that he made on his own, or that were drilled into him by the company he kept before you. Treat people that way, and those who spend time with you will blame themselves for their own confusion and dead ends, not you. They'll follow you and love you — and hate themselves enough to run from who they are into philosophy, hoping to become different people and shed the selves they used to be. But take the usual approach — the opposite one — and you'll get the opposite result: instead of philosophers, you'll turn your companions into people who, by the time they grow up, despise the whole enterprise. So if you take my advice, you'll come to us not with hostility and combativeness but with goodwill, and honestly examine what we mean when we declare that all things are in motion, and that whatever appears to each person or each city, is — for that person or city. Build on that to investigate whether knowledge and perception are the same or different. But don't do what you did just now — making your case out of the everyday use of words and phrases, which ordinary people yank around any way they please, creating no end of confusion for each other."

There, Theodorus — that's my contribution to your old friend's defense. The best I can scrape together from my small means. If he were alive, he'd have defended his own ideas in far grander style.

Theodorus: You're joking, Socrates. Though I have to admit, your defense of him was downright heroic.

Socrates: Thank you, my friend. But I hope you noticed Protagoras scolding us to take this seriously. His text — "Man is the measure of all things" — was meant as a solemn pronouncement, and he complained that we were running the argument through a boy, letting the boy's timidity count as evidence against his position. He said we were treating him as a joke.

Theodorus: How could I have missed all that, Socrates?

Socrates: Well then — shall we do what he asks?

Theodorus: By all means.

Socrates: But if we're going to respect his wishes, then you and I have to take up the argument ourselves, in complete seriousness, asking and answering each other directly. Because compared to him, the rest of us here are just boys. There's no other way to escape the accusation that we're re-examining his thesis by playing games with children.

Theodorus: Come now — isn't Theaetetus better at following a philosophical investigation than plenty of men with long beards?

Socrates: Yes, Theodorus, but not better than you. So don't imagine that I'm obligated to defend your departed friend by every means I've got while you defend nothing and nobody. No, my good man — don't slip away until we find out whether you really are the measure of diagrams, or whether everyone is equally his own measure, fully self-sufficient in astronomy and geometry and all the other subjects where you're supposed to be the expert.

Theodorus: Sitting next to you, Socrates, nobody escapes getting pulled into an argument. I was talking nonsense just now when I said you'd excuse me — that you wouldn't be like the Spartans and force me to strip and wrestle. Actually, you're worse. The Spartan rule is "strip or leave." You're more like Antaeus, the giant who wrestled every traveler who came near: you won't let anyone who approaches you go until you've stripped him down and made him take a fall with you in argument.

Socrates: That's it exactly, Theodorus — you've diagnosed my condition perfectly. But I'm more relentless than the giants of old, because I've faced an endless parade of heroes. Many a Heracles, many a Theseus, mighty in words, has cracked my head open. And still I keep coming back for more of this rough sport — it grips me like a passion. So come on: take a fall with me. It'll do us both good.

Theodorus: Fine, I give in. Lead me wherever you like. When it comes to argument, you're like fate itself — no one escapes the web you weave. But I won't go a step further than what we've agreed.

Socrates: One round will be enough. And now let's be careful not to slip back, without noticing, into the kind of talk that gets us accused of acting like children.

Theodorus: I'll do my best to avoid it.

Socrates: First, then, let's go back to our earlier objection. Were we right to fault Protagoras — to take offense at his claim that everyone is equally sufficient in wisdom — when he himself admitted that some people are better and some worse, and that the better ones, the ones he called "the wise," really do excel the rest?

Theodorus: Very true.

Socrates: If Protagoras were alive and answering for himself, instead of us answering on his behalf, there'd be no need to review or shore up the argument. But he isn't here, and someone might accuse us of putting words in his mouth. So shouldn't we pin down exactly what he meant? A great deal could be riding on it.

Theodorus: True.

Socrates: Then let's get the basis of agreement not from any third party, but from his own statement, in the fewest possible words.

Theodorus: How?

Socrates: Like this. His words are: "What seems true to a man, is true — for him."

Theodorus: Yes, that's what he says.

Socrates: Well then, Protagoras, we too are voicing the opinion of a man — or rather of all mankind — when we say that everyone considers himself wiser than other people in some areas, and less wise in others. In moments of danger — in war, at sea, in sickness — don't people look up to their commanders as if they were gods, expecting to be saved by them, for exactly one reason: that these men know more than they do? The whole world is full of people looking for teachers and leaders, for themselves and for their animals — and full of others who believe they're qualified to teach and qualified to lead. And all of this implies that people themselves believe that wisdom and ignorance exist among them.

Theodorus: Certainly.

Socrates: And they take wisdom to be true thinking, and ignorance to be false opinion.

Theodorus: Exactly.

Socrates: So how should we handle the argument, Protagoras? Should we say that people's opinions are always true? Or sometimes true and sometimes false? Either way it comes out the same: their opinions are not always true, but sometimes true and sometimes false. Think about it, Theodorus. Would any follower of Protagoras — would you yourself — want to insist that no person ever considers another person ignorant or mistaken?

Theodorus: That's unbelievable, Socrates. Of course people do.

Socrates: And yet that absurdity is exactly what's built into the thesis that man is the measure of all things.

Theodorus: How so?

Socrates: Like this. Suppose you settle something in your own mind and state your opinion to me. By Protagoras' rule, let's grant that it's true — for you. But what about the rest of us? Don't we get to judge your judgment? Or do we somehow always judge that your opinion is true? Aren't there thousands of people, every time you form an opinion, ready to take up arms against you with the opposite opinion, convinced that you've judged falsely?

Theodorus: Oh yes, Socrates — thousands and tens of thousands, as Homer says, and they give me no end of trouble.

Socrates: Well then, shall we say that in those cases your opinion is true for you, but false for the ten thousand others?

Theodorus: That seems to be the only conclusion.

Socrates: And what about Protagoras himself? Suppose neither he nor the multitude believed that man is the measure of all things — which in fact they don't. Then the "Truth" that Protagoras wrote wouldn't be true for anyone at all. And suppose he did believe it, but the multitude doesn't agree. Then you have to start by admitting this: by however much the many outnumber the one, by that much his truth is more false than true.

Theodorus: That follows — if truth really varies with each person's opinion.

Socrates: And here's the best part of the joke. When he admits that everyone's opinions are true, he's admitting the truth of his opponents' opinion — and their opinion is that he's wrong.

Theodorus: Certainly.

Socrates: So he concedes that his own view is false, if he grants that the people who think he's wrong are thinking truly?

Theodorus: Of course.

Socrates: But the other side doesn't admit that they're wrong?

Theodorus: No, they don't.

Socrates: And he — judging from his own writings — has to agree that their opinion is true as well.

Theodorus: Clearly.

Socrates: Then everyone, starting with Protagoras himself, will dispute his doctrine — or rather, he'll concede it. The moment he grants that his opponent holds a true opinion, Protagoras himself is admitting that neither a dog nor any random man is "the measure" of anything he hasn't studied. Am I right?

Theodorus: Yes.

Socrates: So, since everybody disputes Protagoras' truth, it turns out to be true for no one — not for anyone else, and not even for Protagoras himself.

Theodorus: Socrates, I think we're running my old friend a bit too hard.

Socrates: Maybe — but I'm not sure we've overshot the truth. Of course, since he's older, we should expect him to be wiser than we are. If he could just pop his head up out of the underworld right now, he'd probably knock us both flat in no time — me for talking nonsense and you for agreeing with me — and then duck back underground and be gone. But he's beyond our reach, so we have to make do with our own faculties, such as they are, and say what actually seems true to us. And here's one thing nobody will deny: there are enormous differences in human understanding.

Theodorus: On that I completely agree.

Socrates: And isn't the firmest ground exactly the distinction we sketched out on Protagoras' behalf? Namely: with most things — especially immediate sensations like hot, dry, sweet — things really are just as they appear to each person. But if there's any area where we have to allow that one opinion can be better than another, surely it's health and disease. Not every woman or child — or animal, for that matter — knows enough about health to cure themselves. If anywhere, here one person really is wiser than another.

Theodorus: I quite agree.

Socrates: The same in politics. The Protagoreans will say that just and unjust, honorable and shameful, holy and unholy really are, for each city, whatever that city believes them to be and writes into law — that on these questions no individual and no city is wiser than another. But when it comes to deciding what's actually beneficial for the community, even they won't deny that one city's judgment is wiser than another's, one adviser better than the next. They'd hardly dare claim that whatever a city enacts, believing it beneficial, will actually turn out to be beneficial. It's only in that other realm — justice and injustice, piety and impiety — that they confidently insist none of it has any nature or essence of its own: the truth is whatever gets agreed on, at the moment of agreement, for exactly as long as the agreement lasts. And that's the philosophy of plenty of people who don't even follow Protagoras the whole way. But now, Theodorus, a new question is rising up — a bigger one than the last.

Theodorus: Well, Socrates, we have plenty of free time.

Socrates: So we do. And that remark of yours reminds me of something I've noticed many times: how absurdly helpless people who've spent their lives in philosophy look when they have to show up and speak in a courtroom. And it's no wonder!

Theodorus: What do you mean?

Socrates: I mean that people raised in philosophy and free inquiry, compared to people who've been knocking around courtrooms since they were young — well, the difference is like the difference between a free man's upbringing and a slave's.

Theodorus: How does the difference show?

Socrates: It shows in exactly that free time you just mentioned. The free man always has it. He talks through his subject in peace, at leisure. Like us, right now, he wanders from one topic to another, and on to a third; if a new thought strikes him, he starts over — as we're doing — and he doesn't care whether the discussion is long or short. His only goal is to reach the truth.

But the courtroom man is always in a hurry. The water-clock is running, driving him on — no rambling allowed. His opponent stands over him, enforcing the rules, holding the sworn indictment that lays out exactly what may and may not be discussed; he can't stray from it by an inch. He's a slave arguing with a fellow slave before a master who sits there holding the case in his hands. The stakes are never about something neutral — they're always about himself, and often the race is for his very life.

All this has made him tense and sharp. He's learned to flatter his master with words and grovel before him in deeds. But his soul has come out small and crooked. The slavery he's lived in since youth has robbed him of growth, of straightness, of independence. Dangers and fears hit him early, when he was too young and tender to face them honestly, so he was forced into bent and devious ways. He learned to lie and to retaliate from the very beginning, and he's grown warped and stunted. He passes from youth into manhood with no soundness left in him — and yet he's convinced he's become formidable and wise. That's your courtroom man, Theodorus. Shall I paint the companion portrait — the philosopher, one of our own brotherhood? Or should we get back to the argument? We don't want to abuse this freedom of digression we keep claiming.

Theodorus: No, Socrates — not until we've finished. You said it truly yourself: we belong to a free brotherhood, and we are not the servants of the argument. The argument is our servant, and it can wait until we're ready. Who's our judge here? Where's the spectator with any right to censor us or hurry us along, the way they can with the poets?

Socrates: Then since that's what you want, let's talk about the leaders of philosophy — there's no point discussing the second-rate ones. From their youth on, the true philosophers have never known the way to the marketplace, or the law courts, or the council chamber, or any other political gathering. They neither see nor hear the laws and decrees of the city, whether published or proclaimed. The scrambling of political clubs for office, the meetings, the dinners, the parties with hired flute-girls — none of this enters even their dreams. Has something gone well or badly in the city? Has some family scandal come down to a man from his ancestors? The philosopher knows no more about it than he knows how many pints of water are in the sea, as the saying goes. And he doesn't even realize he doesn't know — because he's not staying aloof for the sake of his reputation. The truth is that only his body is here in the city, residing among us. His mind, having concluded that all these human concerns are small and worth nothing, treats them with contempt and flies in every direction — "soaring far and wide," as Pindar says — measuring the earth and the heavens, the things below the earth and above the sky, investigating the entire nature of everything that exists, each thing as a whole, and never lowering itself to anything close at hand.

Theodorus: What do you mean by that, Socrates?

Socrates: Let me illustrate it, Theodorus, with the joke that a clever and witty Thracian servant girl is said to have made about Thales. He was studying the stars, looking up — and fell into a well. She teased him: he was so eager to know what was happening in the heavens that he couldn't see what was right in front of his feet. The same joke applies to everyone who lives in philosophy. The philosopher genuinely doesn't know his next-door neighbor — not just what the man is doing, but practically whether he's a human being or some other creature. Meanwhile, what is a human being? What should such a nature do or undergo, that's different from every other nature? That is what he's asking, that is what he's busy investigating. You follow me, Theodorus?

Theodorus: I do, and it's true.

Socrates: And so, my friend, in private and in public, just as I said at the start: whenever the philosopher is dragged into court, or anywhere else he's forced to deal with what's at his feet and in front of his eyes, he becomes a laughingstock — not just for Thracian servant girls but for the crowd in general — falling into wells and every kind of trouble because he has no experience. His awkwardness is appalling; people take him for a complete fool. When he's insulted, he has no personal slanders to fire back, because he doesn't know anything scandalous about anybody — he's never been interested. So he just stands there at a loss, and everyone laughs at him for it. And when people are being praised and congratulating each other, he can't help laughing out loud — not for show, but honestly — and that makes him look like an outright idiot.

When a tyrant or a king is being glorified, he feels like he's hearing some farmer praised — a pig-keeper, a shepherd, a cowherd — congratulated for the gallons of milk he squeezes out of his herd. Except that the animal kings tend and milk is more dangerous and treacherous than cattle, and the king himself, with no leisure to learn anything, penned in by the walls of his fortress like a herdsman in his mountain pen, ends up just as rough and uneducated as any shepherd. When the philosopher hears about some landowner with ten thousand acres or more — an astonishing fortune! — to him it sounds like next to nothing, because he's used to thinking about the whole earth. And when people sing the praises of family — "he's a gentleman; he can show seven generations of wealthy ancestors" — he thinks the praise comes from dim, shortsighted people who can't see the whole picture: that every single person has had thousands upon thousands of ancestors, and among them, for anyone you pick, there have been rich men and beggars, kings and slaves, Greeks and barbarians, beyond counting. When someone takes pride in a list of twenty-five forebears stretching back to Heracles, son of Amphitryon, the pettiness of it baffles him. Amphitryon had a twenty-fifth ancestor too — who was whatever luck made him — and that man had a fiftieth, and so on back forever. Why can't they do the math? He laughs to himself at their inability to count, and thinks a little arithmetic would cure them of their swollen vanity. In all these situations, the crowd mocks the philosopher — partly because he seems arrogant, partly because he doesn't know the everyday things at his feet and is hopeless in every practical situation.

Theodorus: That's exactly how it goes, Socrates.

Socrates: But, my friend, watch what happens when the philosopher drags one of them up into the heights. When some lawyer is willing to leave behind his "Who did what to whom?" and climb up to look at justice and injustice themselves — what each of them is, how they differ from each other and from everything else. When he's pulled away from his stock phrases about whether a king with piles of gold is a happy man, up to the examination of kingship itself, and of human happiness and misery in general — what they really are, and how a human being should pursue the one and escape the other. When that narrow, sharp, little legal mind has to give an account of all that — then the tables turn, and the philosopher gets his revenge. Dangling at that height, staring down into so much open space, the lawyer gets dizzy. Terrified, lost, stammering broken phrases, he becomes the laughingstock — not to Thracian servant girls or other uneducated people, who can't even see what's happening, but to everyone whose upbringing was the opposite of a slave's.

So there are the two characters, Theodorus. One is the man raised in genuine freedom and leisure — the one you call a philosopher. He can look simple and useless when menial tasks fall to him: he doesn't know how to bundle up bedding, or sweeten a sauce, or sweeten a speech — and we shouldn't hold it against him. The other can do all those little services briskly and neatly, but he doesn't know how to wear his cloak like a free man, much less how to strike up the music of true discourse and rightly sing the life that gods live, and human beings blessed by heaven.

Theodorus: Socrates, if you could persuade everyone of what you're saying, the way you persuade me, there would be more peace and less evil in the world.

Socrates: Evil can never be destroyed, Theodorus — there must always be something standing opposed to the good. And it can't be housed among the gods in heaven, so by necessity it haunts our mortal nature and this earthly realm. That's why we should try to escape from earth to heaven as quickly as we can. And escaping means becoming like God, as far as that's possible — and becoming like God means becoming just and holy, with wisdom.

But, my friend, it isn't easy to convince people of the right reason for pursuing virtue and fleeing vice. The reason isn't the one the world gives — so that you'll seem good rather than bad. That, in my judgment, is just an old wives' tale. Here's the truth. God is never, in any way, unjust. God is perfect justice, and nothing is more like God than the person among us who becomes as just as possible. This is the test of a man's true ability — or of his emptiness and cowardice. To know it is real wisdom and real virtue; not to know it is obvious folly and vice. Everything else that passes for ability and wisdom — political cleverness, technical know-how — is coarse and common by comparison.

So when a man acts unjustly and speaks or does unholy things, it's far better not to let him believe his rottenness is cleverness. People like that glory in the insult. They imagine they're hearing: "These aren't useless dead weight — these are real men, the kind a city needs to survive!" So let's tell them the truth: they are exactly what they don't think they are, and all the more so because they don't know it. Because they don't know the penalty of injustice — and that's the last thing anyone should be ignorant of. The penalty isn't what they think it is. It isn't whippings and executions, which unjust men sometimes dodge entirely. It's a penalty that cannot be escaped.

Theodorus: What penalty do you mean?

Socrates: There are two patterns set up in reality, eternally: the divine pattern, which is supremely happy, and the godless pattern, which is supremely wretched. But these men can't see this. Their foolishness, their utter blindness, hides from them what their evil actions are doing — making them grow more like the one pattern and less like the other. And the penalty they pay is exactly that: they live the life that matches the pattern they're coming to resemble. If we tell them that unless they shed their "cleverness," the place untouched by evil will refuse them after death, and that here on earth they'll live a life shaped like themselves — evil men in the company of evil — they'll hear all this as the babbling of idiots. They're far too clever for it.

Theodorus: Very true, Socrates.

Socrates: True indeed, my friend — I know it well. But there's one odd thing about these people. When they have to reason privately, one-on-one, about the philosophy they despise, and they're brave enough to hear the argument through to the end without running away — then, strangely, they end up dissatisfied with themselves. Their famous rhetoric withers, and they're left as helpless as children. But all this is digression, and we'd better stop, or it will keep flooding in and drown our original argument. Shall we go back to it?

Theodorus: Honestly, Socrates, I'd rather have the digressions — at my age they're easier to follow. But by all means, let's return to the argument.

Socrates: Well then, here's roughly where we were. We were talking about the people who preach that everything is in flux, and that what seems so to each person is so — for that person. We said they're prepared to stand firm on most things, and especially on questions of justice: whatever a city decrees and believes to be just is just, for that city, as long as the decree stands. But when it comes to the good, nobody is bold enough to keep fighting and claim that whatever a city enacts believing it beneficial really is beneficial as long as it's on the books. Anyone who said that would just be playing with the word "beneficial" — and that would make a mockery of our actual question, wouldn't it?

Theodorus: It certainly would.

Socrates: He shouldn't talk about the word, but about the thing the word points to.

Theodorus: Right.

Socrates: Whatever word a city uses, the good — the beneficial — is what it's aiming at when it legislates. Every city makes all its laws with a view to what will benefit it most, as far as its judgment and power can reach. Can lawmaking have any other goal?

Theodorus: Certainly not.

Socrates: But does it always hit the mark? Don't cities often miss?

Theodorus: Yes, I think mistakes do happen.

Socrates: We can see the possibility of error even more clearly if we ask about the whole category that "beneficial" belongs to. The beneficial is about the future, isn't it? When we make laws, we make them on the theory that they'll be useful in the time to come — which is to say, the future.

Theodorus: Very true.

Socrates: Then here's a question for Protagoras, or any of his disciples. "Protagoras," we'll say, "man, by your account, is the measure of all things — of white, heavy, light, all things of that sort. He carries the criterion inside himself, so when he believes things are as he experiences them, he believes what is true — for him." Isn't that so?

Theodorus: Yes.

Socrates: "But Protagoras," we'll go on, "does your doctrine cover the future too? Does each man carry the criterion of what will be, so that whatever he expects to happen actually happens — for him? Take heat. When an ordinary man thinks he's about to catch a fever — that this hot flush coming on is the start of one — and a doctor thinks otherwise, whose prediction should we bet on? Or are both of them right: he'll be hot and feverish in his own judgment, and not feverish in the doctor's?"

Theodorus: That would be ridiculous!

Socrates: And on the question of whether next season's wine will be sweet or dry — surely the vinegrower's judgment beats the harp player's?

Theodorus: Certainly.

Socrates: And on what will sound harmonious or off-key, the musician will be a better judge than the gym instructor — even about what the gym instructor himself will later find harmonious?

Theodorus: Of course.

Socrates: And when a feast is being prepared, the cook will be a better judge than the guest of the pleasure to come — the guest being no cook. Notice we're not yet arguing about present or past pleasure, only about future pleasure: is each person really his own best judge of what will seem pleasant, and be pleasant, to him later? Or take your own case, Protagoras: wouldn't you predict better than any ordinary person which arguments will persuade a jury?

Theodorus: On that point, Socrates, he certainly used to insist — emphatically — that he was better at it than anybody alive.

Socrates: Of course he did, my friend. Nobody would have paid him those enormous fees for conversation if he'd actually convinced his customers that no one — not even a prophet — could judge what will be, and will seem to be, any better than they could judge for themselves.

Theodorus: Nobody at all.

Socrates: And lawmaking, and the question of what's beneficial, are entirely about the future — and everyone will admit that cities, when they pass laws, must often miss what would benefit them most.

Theaetetus (Part 2)

Theodorus: Quite true.

Socrates: Then we have a fair argument against your master: he has to admit that one person is wiser than another, and that the wiser person is a measure. As for me — the one who knows nothing — I'm under no obligation to accept the honor that Protagoras' defender was just trying to force on me, like it or not: the honor of being a measure of anything.

Theodorus: That's the strongest refutation of him, Socrates. Though he's also trapped another way: by granting that everyone's opinions are true, he grants the truth of the people whose opinion is that he's flat wrong.

Socrates: There are plenty of ways, Theodorus, to refute the doctrine that every opinion of every person is true. But it's much harder to prove that the feelings actually present to a person — the ones that give rise to sensations and the opinions that match them — are false too. Maybe I've been talking nonsense about them. Maybe they really are unassailable, and the people who say they're clear evidence — actual knowledge — may well be right. In that case our friend Theaetetus wasn't so far off the mark when he said perception and knowledge are the same thing. So let's move in closer, as Protagoras' defender wanted, and give this theory of universal flux a good knock to hear whether it rings true or cracked. One thing is certain: there's no small war raging over it, and no shortage of fighters on each side.

Theodorus: No small war indeed. In Ionia the movement is spreading fast — the followers of Heraclitus are the doctrine's most energetic champions.

Socrates: All the more reason, my dear Theodorus, to examine the question from the ground up, the way they themselves lay it out.

Theodorus: Absolutely. Though about these Heraclitean ideas — which, as you say, are as old as Homer or even older — the Ephesians who claim to understand them are completely mad. You can't have a conversation with them about it. True to their own textbooks, they're perpetually in motion. As for staying put on one argument or one question — calmly asking and answering in turn — they can no more do that than they can fly. Actually, "no more" understates it: there isn't a negative strong enough to capture how determined these men are not to have a single particle of rest in them. Ask one of them a question and he pulls little cryptic sayings out like arrows from a quiver and shoots them at you. Ask him to explain what he just said, and you get hit with another freshly coined riddle. You'll never get anywhere with any of them — and they get nowhere with each other. They take enormous care never to let anything settled appear in their arguments or in their own minds, believing, I suppose, that anything settled would be standing still. And they're at war with stillness; they do everything they can to banish it from the universe.

Socrates: Maybe, Theodorus, you've only seen them in combat and never spent time with them during a truce — they're not your crowd, after all. I imagine they save their "peacetime doctrines" for the students they hope to mold into copies of themselves.

Theodorus: Students! My good man, they don't have any. Men like that aren't anyone's students. They just spring up on their own, each one catching his inspiration wherever he happens to find it, and each one convinced his neighbor knows nothing. So as I was about to say: you'll never get a reasoned account out of these men, willingly or unwillingly. We'll have to take the question out of their hands and work through the analysis ourselves, as if it were a geometry problem.

Socrates: Quite right. But on this question — haven't we heard it from the ancients too, who hid their wisdom from the masses inside poetic imagery? They said that Oceanus and Tethys, the origin of all things, are flowing streams, and that nothing stands still. And now the moderns, being so much wiser, declare it openly — so even the cobbler can hear their wisdom and learn it, and stop foolishly imagining that some things rest while others move. Once he's learned that everything is motion, he'll honor his teachers properly. But I almost forgot the opposite camp, Theodorus:

"Alone Being remains unmoved, which is the name for the all."

That's the language of Parmenides, Melissus, and their followers, who insist that all being is one, complete in itself, with nowhere to move. What are we going to do with all these people? Step by step we've accidentally wandered right between the two armies, and unless we can cover our retreat, we'll pay for our recklessness — like players in the wrestling school caught on the center line and dragged in both directions by both teams. I think we'd better start with the group we approached first, the "river gods" of flux. If we find any truth in them, we'll let them pull us over to their side and try to escape the others. But if the partisans of "the whole" seem to speak more truly, then we'll flee to them, away from the people who would set the immovable in motion. And if it turns out neither side has anything reasonable to say, we'll look ridiculous — imagining that nobodies like us could be right while ancient and famous men are wrong. O Theodorus, do you think it's worth going forward when the danger is this great?

Theodorus: Socrates, leaving these two positions unexamined would be intolerable. We have to go on.

Socrates: Then examine we must — since you, who were so reluctant to start, are now so eager to continue. The nature of motion seems to be the place to begin. What exactly do they mean when they say all things are in motion? Is there only one kind of motion, or — as I'm inclined to think — two? I'd like your opinion on this along with mine, so that if I'm going to be wrong, at least I'll be wrong in good company. Tell me: when something changes from one place to another, or spins around in the same place, isn't that what we call motion?

Theodorus: Yes.

Socrates: So there's one kind of motion. But when something stays in the same spot but grows old, or turns black from white, or hard from soft, or undergoes any other change — isn't it fair to call that a second kind of motion?

Theodorus: I think so.

Socrates: Say rather that it must be so. So motion comes in these two kinds: "change" and "motion in place."

Theodorus: You're right.

Socrates: Now that we've drawn this distinction, let's address the people who say everything is in motion and ask them: do all things, on your view, have both kinds of motion — changing as well as moving in place — or do some things move in both ways and others in only one?

Theodorus: Honestly, I don't know how to answer. But I think they'd say all things move in both ways.

Socrates: They'd have to, my friend. Otherwise they'd be admitting that the same things are both moving and at rest, and then it would be no more true to say "everything moves" than to say "everything rests."

Theodorus: That's certain.

Socrates: And if things are to be in motion, with nothing exempt from motion, then everything must always have every kind of motion?

Theodorus: Quite true.

Socrates: Now consider a further point. Didn't we understand them to explain the generation of heat or whiteness or anything else roughly like this: each of these things moves, along with a perception, between the agent and the patient — the thing acting and the thing acted upon. The patient stops being a mere capacity for perceiving and becomes an actual perceiver, while the agent becomes a "qualified thing" rather than a quality. I suspect "quality" sounds like a strange, awkward word to you, and the abstract phrasing isn't landing. So let me give concrete examples. I mean that the producing power, the agent, becomes not heat or whiteness but hot and white, and so on for everything else. Remember, as I said before: neither the agent nor the patient has any independent existence on its own. It's when they come together and generate sensations and the things sensed that one becomes a thing with a certain quality and the other becomes a perceiver. You remember all this?

Theodorus: Of course.

Socrates: We can skip the fine print of their theory. But we mustn't forget to ask them the one question that concerns us: Are all things in motion and flux?

Theodorus: Yes, they'll say.

Socrates: And moving in both the ways we distinguished — moving in place and also changing?

Theodorus: Of course — if the motion is to be complete.

Socrates: Right, because if things only moved in place without changing, we'd still be able to say what kind of things these moving, flowing things are. Wouldn't we?

Theodorus: Exactly.

Socrates: But as it stands, not even white keeps flowing white. Whiteness itself is a flux, a change, always slipping into another color, never to be caught standing still. So can the name of any color ever be used correctly at all?

Theodorus: How could it be, Socrates — for color or any other quality — if the object is escaping in the flux even while we're saying the word?

Socrates: And what about perceptions like sight and hearing, or any other kind? Does the act of seeing or hearing ever stand still?

Theodorus: Certainly not, if everything is in motion.

Socrates: Then we have no more right to speak of "seeing" than of "not-seeing," and no more right to speak of any perception than of any non-perception — if everything shares in every kind of motion?

Theodorus: We don't.

Socrates: Yet perception is knowledge — at least that's what Theaetetus and I were saying.

Theodorus: Very true.

Socrates: So when we were asked "what is knowledge?", our answer was no more an answer about knowledge than about non-knowledge?

Theodorus: I suppose not.

Socrates: A fine result! We polished up our first answer by being so eager to prove that nothing stands still — and if nothing stands still, then every answer on every subject is equally correct. You can say a thing is "thus," or "not thus" — or if you prefer, "becomes thus," so we don't trap them with words that imply rest.

Theodorus: Quite true.

Socrates: Yes, Theodorus — except for the words "thus" and "not thus." They can't even use "thus," because there's no motion in "thus" or in "not thus." The defenders of this doctrine don't yet have any words to express themselves with; they need to invent a whole new language. The only phrase I know that would suit them is "no how" — perfectly indefinite.

Theodorus: Yes, that's exactly the kind of talk they'd feel at home with.

Socrates: And so, Theodorus, we've gotten free of your friend without conceding his doctrine that every man is the measure of all things — only a wise man is a measure. Nor can we accept that knowledge is perception, certainly not on the hypothesis of perpetual flux — unless perhaps our friend Theaetetus can convince us otherwise.

Theodorus: Excellent, Socrates. And now that the argument about Protagoras' doctrine is finished, I'm released from answering — that was the deal.

Theaetetus: Not yet, Theodorus! Not until you and Socrates have dealt with the people who say everything is at rest, the way you proposed.

Theodorus: You young rogue, Theaetetus — teaching your elders to break their promises! No, you should be getting ready to answer Socrates for the rest of the argument.

Theaetetus: Fine, if he wants me to. But I'd rather have heard about the doctrine of rest.

Theodorus: Inviting Socrates into an argument is like inviting cavalry onto open ground. Just ask him — he'll answer.

Socrates: Even so, Theodorus, I'm afraid I can't grant Theaetetus' request.

Theodorus: Can't grant it! Why not?

Socrates: Because I feel a kind of reverence — not so much for Melissus and the others who say "All is one and at rest," as for their great leader himself: Parmenides, "venerable and awe-inspiring," as Homer might put it. I'd be ashamed to approach him in any spirit unworthy of him. I met him once, when he was an old man and I was barely more than a boy, and he struck me as having a glorious depth of mind. I'm afraid we wouldn't understand his words, and would fall even further short of understanding his meaning. Most of all, I'm afraid that the nature of knowledge — the real subject of our discussion — would get shoved out of sight by the crowd of uninvited guests who'd come pouring into our feast of conversation if we opened that door. Besides, the question now stirring is enormous. Treat it in passing and you treat it unfairly; treat it fully and at length, and it eclipses the question of knowledge. We can't allow either. No — I have to use my midwife's art to deliver Theaetetus of the ideas he's carrying about knowledge.

Theaetetus: Very well. Go ahead, if that's what you think best.

Socrates: Then take another look at the subject, Theaetetus. You answered that knowledge is perception, right?

Theaetetus: I did.

Socrates: And if someone asked you, "With what does a person see black and white colors? With what does he hear high and low sounds?" — you'd say, if I'm not mistaken, "With the eyes and with the ears."

Theaetetus: I would.

Socrates: Now, using words loosely instead of with fussy precision is usually the mark of a well-educated mind — the opposite is pedantic. But sometimes precision is necessary, and I think the answer you just gave is, strictly speaking, incorrect. Which is more accurate: to say that we see and hear with the eyes and ears, or through the eyes and ears?

Theaetetus: "Through," Socrates, I'd say — rather than "with."

Socrates: Yes, my boy. Because nobody can seriously suppose that each of us is like a kind of Trojan horse with a crowd of disconnected senses perched inside, never meeting in any single nature. There must be something — call it the mind, or whatever you like — in which they all converge: something that uses the senses as instruments, and through them perceives whatever can be sensed.

Theaetetus: I agree with that.

Socrates: Here's why I'm being so precise. I want to know whether, when we perceive black and white through the eyes, and other qualities through other organs, we perceive them all with one and the same part of ourselves. If asked, you could refer all such perceptions to the body — but maybe I should let you answer for yourself instead of putting words in your mouth. Tell me: the organs through which you perceive warm and hard and light and sweet — they belong to the body, don't they?

Theaetetus: To the body, certainly.

Socrates: And you'd agree that what you perceive through one faculty, you can't perceive through another? You can't perceive the objects of hearing through sight, or the objects of sight through hearing?

Theaetetus: Of course not.

Socrates: So if you have a thought about both of them together, that common perception can't be coming to you through either organ alone?

Theaetetus: It can't.

Socrates: Now, about sounds and colors. First of all, you'd agree that they both exist?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: And that each is different from the other and the same as itself?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Socrates: And that together they are two, and each one is one?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: And you can also consider whether they're like or unlike each other?

Theaetetus: I suppose so.

Socrates: But through what do you perceive all this about them? Neither hearing nor sight can grasp what they have in common. Here's an illustration of the point. Suppose there were any sense in asking whether sounds and colors are salty or not — you could tell me which faculty would handle that question. Not sight, not hearing, but something else.

Theaetetus: Certainly — the faculty of taste.

Socrates: Very good. Now tell me: what is the power that discerns — not just in objects of sense but in everything — those universal notions like "being" and "not-being," and the others we were just asking about? What organs will you assign for perceiving these?

Theaetetus: You mean being and not-being, likeness and unlikeness, sameness and difference — and also unity and the other numbers we apply to things we sense. And you're asking through what bodily organ the soul perceives odd and even numbers and the other concepts of arithmetic.

Socrates: You follow me beautifully, Theaetetus. That's exactly what I'm asking.

Theaetetus: Honestly, Socrates, I can't answer — except that I don't think there's any special organ for these things, the way there is for objects of sense. It seems to me that the mind, by a power of its own, contemplates these universals in everything.

Socrates: You're beautiful, Theaetetus — not ugly, whatever Theodorus said — because the one who speaks beautifully is beautiful and good himself. And besides being beautiful, you've done me a great kindness: you've saved me from a very long discussion, if it's truly clear to you that the soul views some things by itself and others through the organs of the body. That was exactly my own view, and I wanted you to reach it on your own.

Theaetetus: It's quite clear to me.

Socrates: Then to which class do you assign being, or existence? Of all our notions, that's the most universal.

Theaetetus: To the class the soul reaches for by itself.

Socrates: And the same for like and unlike, same and different?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: And what about noble and base, good and evil?

Theaetetus: Those seem to me to be essentially relative notions — ones the soul perceives by comparing, within itself, things past and present against the future.

Socrates: Hold on, though. The hardness of something hard — doesn't the soul perceive that through touch? And the softness of something soft, equally through touch?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: But their being — the fact that they exist, what the two of them are, their opposition to each other, and the nature of that opposition — these the soul tries to determine for us by itself, reviewing them and comparing them?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Socrates: So the simple sensations that reach the soul through the body — nature gives those at birth to humans and animals alike. But reflections about them — about their being and their usefulness — come slowly and with difficulty, if they come at all, through education and long experience.

Theaetetus: Absolutely.

Socrates: And can someone attain truth if he can't even attain being?

Theaetetus: Impossible.

Socrates: And if someone misses the truth about a thing, can he ever have knowledge of that thing?

Theaetetus: He can't.

Socrates: Then knowledge doesn't live in our sense impressions at all, but in our reasoning about them. There — and not in the raw impression — is where truth and being can be reached.

Theaetetus: Clearly.

Socrates: And would you call two processes by the same name when they're so different from each other?

Theaetetus: That certainly wouldn't be right.

Socrates: So what name would you give to seeing, hearing, smelling, feeling cold, feeling hot?

Theaetetus: I'd call all of them perceiving. What else could you call them?

Socrates: So "perception" is the collective name for all of them?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Socrates: Which, as we've said, has no share in reaching truth — since it has none in reaching being?

Theaetetus: None.

Socrates: And therefore no share in knowledge?

Theaetetus: No.

Socrates: Then perception, Theaetetus, can never be the same thing as knowledge?

Theaetetus: Clearly not, Socrates. And now knowledge has been proved, as plainly as anything could be, to be different from perception.

Socrates: But the original goal of our discussion was to find out what knowledge is — not what it isn't. Still, we've made progress: we now know not to look for knowledge in perception at all, but in that other activity — whatever we call it — where the mind is alone, occupied with being.

Theaetetus: You mean, Socrates, if I'm not mistaken, what's called thinking, or forming opinions.

Socrates: You've got it exactly. So now, my friend, start fresh from this point. Wipe everything that came before out of your memory and see if the view is any clearer from here. Tell me, once more: what is knowledge?

Theaetetus: I can't say that all opinion is knowledge, Socrates, because opinions can be false. But I'll venture this: knowledge is true opinion. Let that be my answer. If it gets disproved down the road, I'll try to find another.

Socrates: That's the way to answer, Theaetetus — boldly, not in your old hesitant style. If we're bold, one of two good things will happen: either we'll find what we're looking for, or we'll be less inclined to think we know what we don't know. Either way, we come out richer. So — what are you saying, exactly? That there are two kinds of opinion, one true and one false, and you define knowledge as the true kind?

Theaetetus: Yes. That's my view at the moment.

Socrates: Then is it worth picking up an old thread about opinion?

Theaetetus: Which thread do you mean?

Socrates: There's something that troubles me — often — and leaves me genuinely perplexed, both about myself and about others. I can't make out the nature or origin of this mental experience.

Theaetetus: What experience?

Socrates: How false opinion is even possible. The problem still nags at my mind's eye, and I'm torn between dropping the question and starting over on it in a new way.

Theaetetus: Start over, Socrates — if you think there's the slightest need. Weren't you and Theodorus just saying, quite rightly, that in discussions like this we can take all the time we want?

Socrates: Good point. And maybe there's no harm in retracing our steps and beginning again. Better to do a little well than a lot badly.

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Socrates: Well then, what's the difficulty? We do speak of false opinion, don't we? We say one person holds a false opinion and another a true one, as though there were some real distinction between them.

Theaetetus: We certainly do.

Socrates: Now, everything whatsoever is either known or not known. (I'm setting aside the in-between cases of learning and forgetting — they don't matter for our present question.)

Theaetetus: With those excluded, Socrates, there's no doubt: a thing must be either known or not known.

Socrates: With that settled, mustn't we say that whoever holds an opinion holds it about something he either knows or doesn't know?

Theaetetus: He must.

Socrates: And if you know a thing, you can't not know it; if you don't know it, you can't know it?

Theaetetus: Of course.

Socrates: Then what happens with false opinion? When a man holds one, does he take something he knows to be some other thing he knows — so that knowing both, he's somehow ignorant of both?

Theaetetus: That's impossible, Socrates.

Socrates: Then does he take something he doesn't know for some other thing he doesn't know? For example: he knows neither Theaetetus nor Socrates, yet somehow gets it into his head that Theaetetus is Socrates, or Socrates is Theaetetus?

Theaetetus: How could he?

Socrates: But surely he can't take what he knows for what he doesn't know, or what he doesn't know for what he knows?

Theaetetus: That would be monstrous.

Socrates: Then where can false opinion be? If everything is either known or unknown, every opinion falls under one of those two headings — and false opinion gets squeezed out entirely.

Theaetetus: Very true.

Socrates: Then suppose we move the question out of the territory of knowing and not knowing, and into the territory of being and not-being.

Theaetetus: What do you mean?

Socrates: Maybe the simple truth is this: whoever thinks what is not — thinks something that doesn't exist — necessarily thinks falsely, whatever else is going on in his mind.

Theaetetus: That sounds plausible, Socrates.

Socrates: Then suppose someone puts this to us, Theaetetus: "Is it possible for any man to think that which is not — either as a thing existing on its own, or as a property of something else?" And we answer, "Yes, he can — when he thinks something untrue." Is that what we'll say?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: But does anything parallel happen anywhere else?

Theaetetus: What do you mean?

Socrates: Can a man see something — and yet see nothing?

Theaetetus: Impossible.

Socrates: Right. If he sees any one thing, he sees something that exists. Or do you suppose a "one" could ever be found among things that don't exist?

Theaetetus: I don't.

Socrates: So whoever sees some one thing, sees something that is?

Theaetetus: Clearly.

Socrates: And whoever hears anything, hears some one thing — and so hears something that is?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: And whoever touches anything, touches some one thing — which, being one, is?

Theaetetus: That's true too.

Socrates: And doesn't whoever thinks, think some one thing?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Socrates: And whoever thinks some one thing, thinks something that is?

Theaetetus: I agree.

Socrates: Then whoever thinks what is not, thinks nothing?

Theaetetus: Clearly.

Socrates: And whoever thinks nothing isn't thinking at all?

Theaetetus: Obviously.

Socrates: So no one can think what is not — neither as a thing existing on its own, nor as a property of something else?

Theaetetus: Clearly not.

Socrates: Then thinking falsely must be something different from thinking what is not?

Theaetetus: So it seems.

Socrates: Then false opinion has no existence in us — not in the realm of being, and not in the realm of knowledge?

Theaetetus: Apparently not.

Socrates: But maybe what we mean by this name is really something like the following.

Theaetetus: Like what?

Socrates: Maybe false opinion is a kind of mistaken-swapping of thoughts: a person makes an exchange in his mind and declares that one real thing is another real thing. That way, he's always thinking of something that is — but he's put one thing in the place of another. And since he's missed the target he was aiming at, we could fairly say he holds a false opinion.

Theaetetus: Now I think you've hit it exactly. When someone mentally swaps in "base" where "noble" belongs, or "noble" where "base" belongs — that's when he truly holds a false opinion.

Socrates: I see, Theaetetus, that your fear of me is gone and you're starting to look down on me.

Theaetetus: What makes you say that?

Socrates: You think, if I'm reading you right, that your phrase "truly false" is safe from attack — that I'll never ask whether there can be a swift that is slow, or a heavy that is light, or any other self-contradictory thing that operates not according to its own nature but according to its opposite's. But I'll let that go; I don't want to discourage you for no reason. So — you're satisfied that false opinion is this kind of mental swap, thinking one thing in place of another?

Theaetetus: I am.

Socrates: So on your view, it's possible for the mind to take one thing for another?

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: But when the mind mixes them up like that, doesn't it have to have some conception of both objects, or at least one of them?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Socrates: Either at the same time, or one after the other?

Theaetetus: Right.

Socrates: And when you say "thinking," do you mean the same thing I mean?

Theaetetus: What do you mean by it?

Socrates: I mean the conversation the soul has with itself when it's considering something. I'm telling you this as someone who barely understands it himself — but the soul, when it thinks, seems to me to be simply talking: asking itself questions and answering them, saying yes and saying no. And when it finally reaches a decision — whether it gets there gradually or in a sudden leap — when it settles on one answer and stops doubting, that's what we call its opinion. So I'd say that forming an opinion is a kind of speaking, and an opinion is a statement spoken — not out loud to someone else, but silently to yourself. What do you think?

Theaetetus: I agree.

Socrates: Then when someone thinks one thing is another, he's saying to himself that one thing is the other?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: But think back: have you ever said to yourself that the noble is definitely shameful, or that the unjust is just? Or — here's the real test — have you ever tried to convince yourself that one thing is another thing? Even in your sleep, have you ever dared to tell yourself that odd is even, or anything like that?

Theaetetus: Never.

Socrates: And do you suppose anyone else — sane or insane — ever seriously tried to persuade himself that an ox is a horse, or that two is one?

Theaetetus: Certainly not.

Socrates: So if thinking is talking to yourself, then no one who is speaking and thinking about two things, holding both of them in his soul, will say or think that one of them is the other. And by the way — fond of arguing as you are, you'd better not quibble over the word "other" here (I mean, don't insist that "one" and "other" amount to the same thing). My point is simply this: nobody thinks the noble is shameful, or anything of the kind.

Theaetetus: I'll drop the word "other," Socrates. And I agree with you.

Socrates: So if a man has both things in his thoughts, he can't think that one of them is the other?

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: And if he has only one of them in his mind and not the other, he can't think that one is the other either?

Theaetetus: True — because then he'd have to be grasping something that isn't in his thoughts at all.

Socrates: Then no one who has both objects in mind, or only one of them, can think that one is the other. So anyone who defines false opinion as "mistaking one thing for another" is talking nonsense. This route, like the one before it, leads nowhere — false opinion can't exist in us this way either.

Theaetetus: No.

Socrates: And yet, Theaetetus, if we don't admit that it exists, we'll be forced into some very strange conclusions.

Theaetetus: Like what?

Socrates: I won't tell you until I've tried looking at the problem from every angle. I'd be ashamed of us if, stuck in our confusion, we got forced into admitting the absurdities I have in mind. If we find a way out and escape them, then we can talk about them calmly as other people's problems, and the embarrassment won't stick to us. But if we end up completely stumped — well, then I suppose we'll have to swallow our pride and let the argument walk all over us, like seasick passengers getting stepped on by the sailors, and let it do whatever it wants with us. So listen, and I'll tell you where I think I see a way out.

Theaetetus: I'm listening.

Socrates: I think we were wrong to deny that a man can mistake something he knows for something he doesn't know. There is, in fact, a way that kind of mistake can happen.

Theaetetus: You mean what I suspected at the time — that I might know Socrates, and then see someone in the distance whom I don't know, and mistake him for you? That's how the error happens?

Socrates: But didn't we abandon that position, because it forced us into the absurdity of knowing and not knowing the very things we know?

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: Then let's frame the claim differently. Maybe it will hold up, maybe it won't — but we're in a tight spot, and every argument deserves to be turned over and tested. Tell me: am I right that you can learn something you didn't know before?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Socrates: And then another thing, and another?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: Then here's what I want you to imagine. Suppose there's a block of wax in each person's mind. It's bigger in some people, smaller in others; harder in some, moister in others; purer in some — and in some, somewhere in between.

Theaetetus: I'm imagining it.

Socrates: Let's say this wax tablet is a gift from Memory, the mother of the Muses. Whenever we want to remember something we've seen or heard or thought up ourselves, we hold the wax under our perceptions and thoughts, and they stamp an impression into it, the way a signet ring stamps a seal. Whatever gets imprinted, we remember and know — as long as the image lasts. But when the image wears away, or never takes in the first place, we forget. We don't know it anymore.

Theaetetus: Very good.

Socrates: Now, take a person with this kind of knowledge stamped in his wax, who is considering something he sees or hears. Couldn't false opinion arise in the following way?

Theaetetus: What way?

Socrates: By his thinking that what he knows is, sometimes, what he knows — and sometimes, what he doesn't know. We were wrong before when we denied this was possible.

Theaetetus: So how would you fix our earlier statement?

Socrates: I'd start by listing the impossible cases — the ones we have to rule out. First: no one can mistake one thing for another when he isn't perceiving either of them but has the memory-seal of both stamped in his mind. Nor can he mix up two things when he knows only one of them and has no impression at all of the other. Nor can he think that one thing he doesn't know is another thing he doesn't know, or that something he doesn't know is something he knows. Second: he can't think that one thing he perceives is another thing he perceives; or that something he perceives is something he doesn't perceive; or that something he doesn't perceive is some other thing he doesn't perceive; or that something he doesn't perceive is something he does perceive. Third: he can't think that something he both knows and perceives — where his impression matches his perception exactly — is some other thing he also knows and perceives with the impression matching the perception. That case, if anything, is even more inconceivable than the others. Fourth: he can't think that something he knows and perceives, with the memory lined up correctly with the sensation, is some other thing he knows; nor, as long as everything lines up, can he think that a thing he knows and perceives is another thing he merely perceives. And a thing he neither knows nor perceives can't be confused with another thing he neither knows nor perceives; nor can a thing he neither knows nor perceives be confused with another thing he doesn't know, or with another thing he doesn't perceive. In all these cases, false opinion is absolutely and completely impossible. If it's possible anywhere, it's only in the cases that remain.

Theaetetus: And what are those? Tell me — maybe then I'll understand you better. Right now I can't follow you at all.

Socrates: The remaining cases are these: a person may think that things he knows are other things he knows and perceives; or things he doesn't know but perceives are things he knows and perceives; or things he both knows and perceives are other things he knows and perceives.

Theaetetus: Now I understand you even less than before.

Socrates: Then let me put it another way. I know Theodorus, and I hold in my memory what kind of person he is — same with you. But sometimes I see the two of you, and sometimes I don't; sometimes I touch you, sometimes not; sometimes I hear you or perceive you in some other way, and sometimes I have no perception of you at all — yet I still remember you, and I still know you in my own mind.

Theaetetus: Very true.

Socrates: So here's the first point I want you to grasp: a person can know something while perceiving it, or know it while not perceiving it.

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: And something he doesn't know — sometimes he won't perceive it either, and sometimes he'll perceive it and nothing more?

Theaetetus: That's also true.

Socrates: Now see if you can follow me. Suppose Socrates knows Theodorus and Theaetetus, but he sees neither of them, and has no other perception of them. In that case, there's no way he could ever form the thought, in his own mind, that Theaetetus is Theodorus. Am I right?

Theaetetus: Quite right.

Socrates: That was the first of the cases I described.

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: The second case: knowing one of you but not the other, and perceiving neither, I could never think that the one I know is the one I don't know.

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: Third case: knowing neither of you and perceiving neither, I can't possibly think that one stranger is some other stranger. And you can take it that I've run through the whole catalog of excluded cases again — all the ones where I can't form a false opinion about you and Theodorus, whether I know both of you, or neither, or one and not the other. And the same goes for perceiving. You follow me?

Theaetetus: I do.

Socrates: So the only opening left for false opinion is this: I know you and I know Theodorus — I have impressions of both of you on my wax block, like seal-stamps from a ring. Then I see you both, but poorly, at a distance. I rush to match the right memory-impression to the right visual impression — to fit each sight into its own stamp, so to speak. If I succeed, recognition happens. But if I fail and swap them — putting the foot in the wrong shoe, fitting the sight of one of you onto the impression of the other — or if my mind slips the way mirrors do, flipping right to left, then mismatching happens, and false opinion is born.

Theaetetus: Yes, Socrates! That's a marvelously exact description of what happens to opinion.

Socrates: There's also the case where I know both of you, and perceive one but not the other, and my knowledge of the one I perceive doesn't line up with my perception — that was the case I described before that you couldn't follow.

Theaetetus: Right, I couldn't.

Socrates: What I was saying was this: if someone knows and perceives one of you, and his knowledge agrees with his perception, he'll never think that person is somebody else whom he also knows and perceives with knowledge agreeing with perception. That was the situation, wasn't it?

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: But what we left out was the case we're describing now — where false opinion actually arises: when I know both of you, and see both of you (or have some other perception of both), but I fail to hold each memory-seal in line with its matching sensation. Like a bad archer, I shoot wide and miss the mark. And missing the mark, in fact, is exactly what we call being wrong — falsehood.

Theaetetus: And rightly so.

Socrates: So: when perception is present for one of the impressions but not for the other, and the mind fits the seal of the absent perception onto the perception that's actually present, the mind is deceived. In short, if our account is sound: about things a person has never known and never perceived, there can be no error, no deception at all. It's only among things we know and perceive that opinion turns and twists, coming out alternately true and false. True, when the impressions line up straight and square with their sensations. False, when they go crooked and land askew.

Theaetetus: Isn't that beautifully put, Socrates?

Socrates: Beautifully — well, wait until you hear the rest, and then you'll say so with even better reason. Because holding true opinions is a beautiful thing, and being deceived is an ugly one.

Theaetetus: No doubt about that.

Socrates: And here, supposedly, is where the difference comes from. When the wax in someone's soul is deep and plentiful, smooth and worked to the perfect consistency, then the things that come in through the senses stamp themselves into this "heart" of the soul — as Homer calls it, in a phrase that hints at the likeness between heart and wax (in the Greek, his word for "heart," ker, echoes keros, "wax"). In these souls the impressions come out clean and deep, and they last. People like this learn easily, remember well, and don't get their impressions confused. They think truly. Since the impressions are clear and there's plenty of room, they quickly file each one in its proper place on the block — and these are the people we call wise. Do you agree?

Theaetetus: Completely.

Socrates: But when someone's heart is shaggy — the condition our all-wise poet praises — or when the wax is muddy and impure, or too soft, or too hard, the mind has a matching defect. Soft-waxed people learn quickly but forget quickly; hard-waxed people are the reverse. Those whose wax is shaggy and rough and gritty, mixed with earth or filth, get blurry impressions. So do the hard-waxed, because their impressions have no depth — and the soft-waxed too, because their impressions smear together and rub away. And it's blurrier still when all the impressions are crammed and jostled together in some tiny soul with no room. These are the natures that breed false opinion. When they see or hear or think about anything, they're slow matching things to the right impressions; they misassign them, in their dullness, and so they see wrong, hear wrong, think wrong. And that's what we mean when we say someone is deceived about things and ignorant.

Theaetetus: No one could put it better, Socrates.

Socrates: So then — we can now say that false opinion exists in us?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Socrates: And true opinion too?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: At last we've established it, beyond any doubt: these two kinds of opinion exist?

Theaetetus: Absolutely.

Socrates: Oh, Theaetetus. What a tiresome creature a talkative man is!

Theaetetus: What? Why do you say that?

Socrates: Because I'm annoyed at my own slowness — at my endless chatter. What else can you call it, when a man drags his arguments back and forth in every direction, too dense to be convinced, and simply will not let a question go?

Theaetetus: But what's bothering you?

Socrates: I'm not just bothered — I'm in despair. I don't know what to say if someone asks me: "So, Socrates, you've discovered that false opinion arises neither in our perceptions, when compared with each other, nor in our thoughts, but precisely at the junction where perception meets thought?" "Yes," I'll have to say — beaming, no doubt, like a man who thinks he's made a great discovery.

Theaetetus: I don't see anything to be ashamed of in what we've just shown, Socrates.

Socrates: "So," he'll go on, "your claim is this: a man we merely think of but don't see can never be confused with a horse we also don't see or touch, but merely think of?" Yes, I'll have to say, that's exactly my claim.

Theaetetus: And quite right too.

Socrates: "Well then," he'll say, "by that argument, the number eleven — which is purely a thought — could never be mistaken for twelve, which is also purely a thought." How would you answer him?

Theaetetus: I'd say a person might easily make a mistake between eleven and twelve things he sees or handles — but about the eleven and twelve in his mind alone? No. There's no making that kind of mistake.

Socrates: Really? Do you think no one has ever set five and seven before his mind — not five or seven men or horses, I mean, but five and seven themselves, the abstract numbers, which we agreed are stamped on the wax block, the ones we said could never be the subject of false opinion — has no one ever asked himself what they add up to, with one person answering eleven, and another answering twelve? Or does everyone always think and say twelve?

Theaetetus: By Zeus, no — plenty of people say eleven. And with bigger numbers, they slip up even more. You're talking about numbers in general, I assume.

Socrates: Exactly. And now consider: when that happens, isn't the person taking the twelve on his wax block to be eleven?

Theaetetus: It does seem so.

Socrates: Then haven't we circled right back to our original problem? Whoever makes that mistake is thinking that one thing he knows is another thing he knows. And we said that was impossible — in fact, that very impossibility was our airtight proof that false opinion couldn't exist, since otherwise the same person would have to know and not know the same thing at the same time.

Theaetetus: Very true.

Socrates: So false opinion can't be explained as a mismatch between thought and perception after all — because if that were the whole story, we could never go wrong about pure thoughts. Which leaves us stuck: either false opinion doesn't exist, or it's possible for a man not to know what he knows. Which option do you prefer?

Theaetetus: That's an impossible choice, Socrates.

Socrates: And yet the argument won't let us have both. Still — since we're completely stuck — what if we did something shameless?

Theaetetus: Like what?

Socrates: Like trying to explain what "knowing" actually means.

Theaetetus: What's shameless about that?

Socrates: You don't seem to realize that our entire conversation, from the very beginning, has been a hunt for knowledge — on the assumption that we don't know what it is.

Theaetetus: No, I realize that.

Socrates: Then isn't it brazen of us — not knowing what knowledge is — to go around explaining what "to know" means? The truth is, Theaetetus, our whole discussion has been contaminated from the start. We've said "we know" and "we don't know," "we have knowledge" and "we don't have knowledge," a thousand times, as if we understood each other perfectly while still being in the dark about what knowledge even is. In fact, look — even at this very moment I've used the words "understand" and "in the dark," as if we were entitled to those words when knowledge is exactly the thing we're missing.

Theaetetus: But if you ban all those expressions, Socrates, how will you argue at all?

Socrates: I couldn't — not being the man I am. If I were a true champion of dialectic, things would be different. If only such a man were here! He'd order us to avoid all these terms, and he'd come down hard on the sloppy way I've been using them. But since we're amateurs, what do you say I just go ahead and try to define what knowing is? I think the attempt is worth making.

Theaetetus: Then by all means, go ahead. And no one will blame you for using the forbidden words.

Socrates: Well — have you heard how people usually explain the verb "to know"?

Theaetetus: Probably, but I can't recall it at the moment.

Socrates: They say "to know" means "to have knowledge."

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: I'd like to make one small change, and say: "to possess" knowledge.

Theaetetus: What's the difference?

Socrates: Maybe there isn't one. But hear me out anyway, and help me test the idea.

Theaetetus: I will if I can.

Socrates: I'd distinguish "having" from "possessing" like this. Suppose a man buys a coat, and it's his, under his control — but he isn't wearing it. We wouldn't say he has it on; we'd say he possesses it.

Theaetetus: That would be the right way to put it.

Socrates: Now ask yourself whether knowledge can work the same way: possessed, but not actually "had" in hand. Imagine a man who has caught wild birds — doves, say, or any birds you like — and keeps them in an aviary he's built at home. In one sense, we'd say he always "has" them, because he possesses them. Right?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: But in another sense he "has" none of them. He merely has power over them. They're under his control, shut up in an enclosure of his own, and he can hunt down and take hold of any bird he wants, whenever he likes, and let it go again — and he can do that as often as he pleases.

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: Then just as before we set up a contraption of wax in the mind, let's now build a different image: suppose that in every man's mind there's an aviary full of birds of all kinds. Some flock together in big groups away from the rest, some gather in small clusters, and some are loners, flying wherever they happen to fly.

Theaetetus: Done — I'm imagining the aviary. What next?

Socrates: Let's say the birds are pieces of knowledge. When we're children, the cage is empty. And whenever someone captures a piece of knowledge and shuts it up in his enclosure, we say he has learned or discovered the thing that knowledge is about — and that's what knowing is.

Theaetetus: Granted.

Socrates: Now then. When he wants to hunt down one of these pieces of knowledge, catch it, hold it, and then release it again — what words should we use? The same ones we used for the original capture, when he first came to possess it? Let me make this clearer with an example. You agree there's such a skill as arithmetic?

Theaetetus: Of course.

Socrates: Picture that as a hunt for the knowledge of every odd and even number.

Theaetetus: I'm with you.

Socrates: It's by that skill, I take it, that the arithmetician has the numbers under his control — and can hand them over to someone else.

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: And when he hands them over, we call it teaching, and when someone takes them in, we call it learning, and when he has them in his possession in our aviary, we call it knowing.

Theaetetus: Exactly.

Socrates: Now watch what follows. A perfect arithmetician knows all numbers, doesn't he? He has the knowledge of every number in his mind.

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: And such a person sometimes counts — either the abstract numbers in his head, or external things that can be counted?

Theaetetus: Of course.

Socrates: And counting is just figuring out how big some number actually is?

Theaetetus: Very true.

Socrates: So he's investigating something he knows as if he didn't know it — because we've agreed he knows all numbers. You've heard these puzzles debated, I imagine?

Theaetetus: I have.

Socrates: Then let's use our image of the doves and pigeons, and say there are two kinds of hunt. One happens before you possess the bird, for the sake of possessing it. The other happens after — when you want to catch and hold in your hands what you've owned all along. That's how it is with knowledge too: a man may have learned something long ago and possessed the knowledge ever since, and then go after it all over again — recapturing the knowledge of this or that, knowledge he's possessed for years but didn't have ready at hand in his mind.

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: That was the point of my question a moment ago: what's the right way to describe an arithmetician who sets out to count, or a literate man who sets out to read? Should we say that, although he knows, he's going back to learn from himself what he already knows?

Theaetetus: That sounds absurd, Socrates.

Socrates: Then should we say he's about to read or count what he doesn't know — when we've granted that he knows all the letters and all the numbers?

Theaetetus: That's just as absurd.

Socrates: Then suppose we say this: we don't care at all about the words. Let people drag "knowing" and "learning" around however they like. We've established that possessing knowledge is one thing, and having it in hand is another. So our position is: it's impossible for a man not to possess what he possesses — and therefore it never happens that he doesn't know what he knows. But he can still grab a false opinion about it. Why? Because he can lay hold of the wrong piece of knowledge — not the knowledge of this thing, but of some other thing instead. When all the various kinds of knowledge are fluttering around his aviary, and he goes hunting for one particular kind out of the whole flock, he can grab the wrong bird by mistake. He thought eleven was twelve because he caught the ring-dove inside him when he was reaching for the pigeon.

Theaetetus: That makes very good sense.

Socrates: But when he catches the bird he was actually trying to catch, then he isn't deceived — then his opinion matches what's real. And so true opinion and false opinion both exist, and all the problems that were tormenting us before vanish into thin air. I suppose you'll agree with me? Or no — what will you do?

Theaetetus: I agree.

Socrates: Yes — we're finally rid of the "not knowing what you know" problem, since it never turns out, on this account, that we don't possess what we possess, deceived or not. But I'm afraid an even worse problem is peering in at the window.

Theaetetus: What problem?

Socrates: How can swapping one piece of knowledge for another ever produce a false opinion?

Theaetetus: What do you mean?

Socrates: Think about it. First: how can a man who has knowledge of something be ignorant of that very thing — not because of ignorance, but because of his own knowledge? And second, isn't it completely absurd that he should mistake this for that, and that for this — that with knowledge sitting right there in his mind, he should know nothing and be ignorant of everything? On that logic, you might as well say that ignorance can make a man know things, or blindness make him see, if knowledge can make a man ignorant.

Theaetetus: Maybe, Socrates, our mistake was stocking the aviary only with birds of knowledge. We should have included birds of ignorance too, flying around in the mind alongside them. Then the hunter would sometimes catch a piece of knowledge and sometimes a piece of ignorance about the same thing — and the ignorance would give him a false opinion, while the knowledge would give him a true one.

Socrates: I can't help admiring you, Theaetetus — but I do have to ask you to think that over again. Let's grant your suggestion. Then, on your account, the man who catches a piece of ignorance will hold a false opinion — right?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: He certainly won't think he has a false opinion?

Theaetetus: Of course not.

Socrates: He'll think his opinion is true, and he'll believe he knows the very things he's been deceived about?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Socrates: So he'll think he's caught hold of knowledge, not ignorance?

Theaetetus: Clearly.

Socrates: And so, after this long detour, we're right back face to face with our original problem. Our champion of debate will laugh at us and say: "My excellent friends, if a man knows the form of ignorance and the form of knowledge, can he really think the one he knows is the other one he knows? And if he knows neither of them, can he think the one he doesn't know is some other thing he doesn't know? And if he knows one but not the other, can he think the one he knows is the one he doesn't know — or the one he doesn't know is the one he knows? Or are you going to tell me there are still further forms of knowledge — knowledge of the right and wrong birds — which their owner keeps in yet other aviaries, or carved on yet other wax blocks, to use your silly images, and which he 'knows' because he possesses them even when they aren't ready at hand in his mind? At this rate you'll be chasing yourselves in circles forever and getting nowhere." What do we say to that, Theaetetus?

Theaetetus: Honestly, Socrates, I have no idea what we're supposed to say.

Socrates: And isn't his scolding fair? Doesn't the argument show that we were wrong to go hunting for false opinion before we know what knowledge is? That has to come first; only then can we work out the nature of false opinion.

Theaetetus: As far as we've gotten, Socrates, I can't disagree.

Socrates: Then back to the beginning: what shall we say knowledge is? We're not giving up yet, are we?

Theaetetus: Not unless you do.

Socrates: What definition would fit best with everything we've said so far?

Theaetetus: I can't think of anything except our old answer, Socrates.

Socrates: Which was?

Theaetetus: That knowledge is true opinion. True opinion can't go wrong, surely, and everything that comes of it is fine and good.

Socrates: The man leading the way across the river said, "The water itself will show how deep it is," Theaetetus. Same here — if we push ahead with the search, maybe we'll trip over what we're looking for. Stand still and we'll learn nothing.

Theaetetus: Right. Let's push ahead.

Socrates: Well, the trail doesn't run far. An entire profession stands in our way.

Theaetetus: What do you mean? Which profession?

Socrates: The profession of those great wise men known as orators and lawyers. These people use their art to persuade — they make their audience believe whatever they want them to believe. They don't teach. Or do you imagine there are teachers brilliant enough to convey the truth about a robbery or an assault to people who weren't there to see it — and to do it in the few minutes the water-clock allows for a courtroom speech?

Theaetetus: No, of course not. All they can do is persuade.

Socrates: And by "persuading" them, you mean making them form an opinion?

Theaetetus: Sure.

Socrates: So consider: jurors are rightly persuaded about facts that can only be known by an eyewitness — facts there's no other way to know. Judging from hearsay, they reach a true opinion about the case. They've decided without knowledge — yet they were correctly persuaded, assuming they reached the right verdict.

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Socrates: But my friend, if true opinion and knowledge were the same thing, then the best juror in the world could never reach a right verdict without knowledge. As it stands, the two appear to be different.

Theaetetus: Oh — that reminds me of something, Socrates. I'd forgotten it, but I once heard someone make exactly this distinction. He said that true opinion combined with an account is knowledge, and true opinion without an account falls outside of knowledge. Things that can't be given a rational account are "unknowable" — that was the odd word he used — and things that can are knowable.

Socrates: Excellent! But how did he divide the knowable from the unknowable? Tell me what he said. I want to find out whether you and I have heard the same story.

Theaetetus: I'm not sure I can remember it. But if someone else laid it out, I think I could follow along.

Socrates: Then let me trade you a dream for a dream. I seem to have dreamed it too. In my dream, I heard some people saying that the primary elements, so to speak — the letters out of which we and everything else are composed — have no account. Each of them, by itself, can only be named. You can't say anything more about it. You can't say that it is, or that it is not — because then you'd be tacking existence or nonexistence onto it, and you mustn't add anything if you're going to speak of the thing alone, just by itself. You shouldn't even call it "itself" or "that" or "each" or "alone" or "this," because words like those circulate everywhere and get attached to everything — they're distinct from the things they get attached to. If an element could be described in its own right, if it had an account all its own, that account would have to leave out everything else. But as it is, none of these primary elements can be defined. They can only be named — a name is all they have. The things composed of them, though, are complex, and just as the things are woven together, so the names get woven together into an account — because an account is exactly that: a weaving-together of names. So: the elements are without account and unknowable, but they are perceivable; while the complexes — the "syllables" — are knowable and expressible and can be grasped by true opinion. So when someone forms a true opinion of something without an account, his mind has hit on the truth about it, but he doesn't know it. Whoever can't give and receive an account of a thing has no knowledge of it. But add the account, and he's got it all — he's complete in knowledge. Is that the version of the dream you heard?

Theaetetus: That's it exactly.

Socrates: So you accept this and propose that true opinion with an account is knowledge?

Theaetetus: Exactly.

Socrates: Theaetetus, can it really be that today, just like that, we've found what so many wise men have grown old searching for and never found?

Theaetetus: Well, I'm satisfied with the current statement, anyway, Socrates.

Socrates: And it probably is right — after all, what could knowledge be apart from an account plus true opinion? But there's one part of the theory that bothers me.

Theaetetus: Which part?

Socrates: The part that sounds cleverest of all: that the elements are unknowable, but the class of complexes — the syllables — is knowable.

Theaetetus: Is that wrong?

Socrates: We're about to find out. We hold hostages, you see: the very examples the author of the theory used.

Theaetetus: What hostages?

Socrates: The letters — the elements of language — and the syllables, their combinations. That's what he was reasoning from, wasn't it? The letters of the alphabet?

Theaetetus: Yes, it was.

Socrates: Then let's take them up and put them to the test — or rather, put ourselves to the test, and ask how we actually learned our letters. First question: do syllables have an account while letters have none? Is that right?

Theaetetus: I think so.

Socrates: I think so too. Suppose someone asked you about the first syllable of my name: "Theaetetus, what is SO?"

Theaetetus: I'd answer: S and O.

Socrates: And that's your account of the syllable?

Theaetetus: It is.

Socrates: Good. Now give me the same kind of account of the S.

Theaetetus: But how can anyone state the elements of an element, Socrates? The S is just a consonant, nothing but a noise, a sort of hissing of the tongue. B, like most letters, isn't even that — neither a vowel sound nor a noise. So it's quite right to call the letters unaccountable. Even the clearest of them, the seven vowels, have only a sound. No account can be given of them at all.

Socrates: So far, then, friend, we've gotten this much about knowledge right?

Theaetetus: It seems so.

Socrates: But wait — have we been right in saying the syllable can be known but the letter can't?

Theaetetus: I'd think so.

Socrates: When we say "the syllable," do we mean the two letters — or all of them, if there are more than two? Or do we mean some single form that comes into being when they're combined?

Theaetetus: I'd say we mean all the letters.

Socrates: Then look at the case of the two letters S and O — the first syllable of my name. If someone knows the syllable, he knows both letters, doesn't he?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Socrates: So he knows the S and the O?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: But can he be ignorant of each one separately and yet know the two of them together?

Theaetetus: That would be monstrous, Socrates. It makes no sense at all.

Socrates: And yet — if knowing both requires knowing each, then anyone who's ever going to know a syllable has to know the letters first. And just like that, our beautiful theory sprouts wings and flies off.

Theaetetus: With remarkable speed, too.

Socrates: Yes, we weren't guarding it carefully. Maybe we should have said the syllable is not the letters, but a single form produced out of them, with its own unified character — something different from the letters.

Theaetetus: Right. That may well be more plausible than the other view.

Socrates: Careful, now. We shouldn't be cowards and betray a grand, imposing theory.

Theaetetus: No, we shouldn't.

Socrates: Then let it be as we now say: the syllable is one single form, arising out of the fitting-together of the several elements — letters or any other kind of element.

Theaetetus: Very good.

Socrates: Then it must have no parts.

Theaetetus: Why?

Socrates: Because whatever has parts must be the whole of all its parts. Or do you say a whole, even though formed out of parts, is a single thing different from all the parts?

Theaetetus: I do.

Socrates: And do you say "all of them" and "the whole" are the same, or different?

Theaetetus: I'm not certain. But since you want a quick answer, I'll take a chance and say: different.

Socrates: Your boldness I approve of, Theaetetus. Whether I approve of your answer — that needs some thought.

Theaetetus: Yes, the answer is what matters.

Socrates: On this new view, then, the whole is different from all the parts taken together?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: Well now: is there any difference between "all of them" in the plural and "the all" in the singular? Take numbers. When we say one, two, three, four, five, six — or twice three, or three times two, or four plus two, or three plus two plus one — are we talking about the same number each time, or different ones?

Theaetetus: The same.

Socrates: Namely, six?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: And in each way of putting it, we've spoken of all six?

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: And when we say "all of them," aren't we still talking about one thing?

Theaetetus: Of course.

Socrates: Namely, the six?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: So in everything made up of number, "the all" in the singular and "all of them" in the plural pick out the same thing?

Theaetetus: Clearly.

Socrates: Now then. The number of an acre and the acre are the same thing, aren't they?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: And likewise the number of a mile-stretch is the mile-stretch?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: And an army is the number of the army — and the same in every case like this: the total number of a thing is the total thing?

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: And the number of each thing is nothing other than its parts?

Theaetetus: Exactly.

Socrates: So whatever has parts consists of parts?

Theaetetus: Clearly.

Socrates: And we've agreed that all the parts are "the all," since the total number is "the all"?

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: Then the whole does not consist of parts — because if it consisted of all the parts, it would be "the all."

Theaetetus: That seems to follow.

Socrates: But can a part be a part of anything except the whole?

Theaetetus: Yes — of the all.

Socrates: A gallant defense, Theaetetus! But tell me: isn't "the all" precisely that from which nothing is missing?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Socrates: And isn't a whole the very same thing — that from which nothing is absent? Whereas if something is missing from a thing, it's neither a whole nor an all. The same loss disqualifies it from both at once.

Theaetetus: I'm now thinking there's no difference between a whole and an all.

Socrates: Now, weren't we saying that when a thing has parts, the whole — the all — will be all the parts?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Socrates: Then back to what I was trying to say before. The alternatives are these: either the syllable is not the letters — in which case the letters are not parts of it — or the syllable is the same as the letters, in which case it must be exactly as knowable as they are.

Theaetetus: You're right.

Socrates: And it was to avoid the second option that we supposed the syllable to be different from the letters?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: Well then — if the letters aren't parts of the syllable, can you name any other parts of a syllable that aren't its letters?

Theaetetus: No way, Socrates. If I admitted the syllable has parts at all, it would be ridiculous to throw out the letters and go hunting for parts of some other kind.

Socrates: Quite right, Theaetetus. So on our present view, the syllable must be some absolutely indivisible single form?

Theaetetus: It seems so.

Socrates: But do you remember, my friend, what we accepted and approved just a little while ago — that the primary elements, the things everything else is composed of, can have no account, because each of them taken alone is incomposite, and it isn't even correct to apply words like "being" or "this" to them, since those are alien, borrowed words — and that this is why the elements are unaccountable and unknowable?

Theaetetus: I remember.

Socrates: And isn't that — being simple and indivisible — the entire reason they're unknowable? I can't see any other.

Theaetetus: No, there is no other.

Socrates: Then doesn't the syllable land in exactly the same category as the elements, if it has no parts and is a single form?

Theaetetus: It certainly does.

Socrates: So: if the syllable is a whole made up of many letters as its parts, then the letters are exactly as knowable and expressible as the syllable, since all the parts turned out to be the same as the whole.

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: But if it's one and partless, then syllable and letter alike are unaccountable and unknowable — for the very same reason.

Theaetetus: I can't argue with that.

Socrates: Then we should refuse to accept it when anyone says the syllable is knowable and expressible but the letter isn't.

Theaetetus: Agreed — if we trust the argument.

Socrates: And here's something else. Wouldn't your own experience of learning to read make you reject that claim anyway?

Theaetetus: What experience?

Socrates: This: when you were learning, what you spent your time doing was trying to distinguish each letter by itself, by eye and by ear, so that their arrangement in speech and writing wouldn't confuse you.

Theaetetus: Very true.

Socrates: And at the music teacher's, wasn't a student fully trained exactly when he could follow each note and say which string it belonged to? And notes, as everyone would agree, are the letters — the elements — of music.

Theaetetus: Exactly.

Socrates: So if we're to argue from the elements and combinations we ourselves have experience of to all the others, we'll say that the class of elements admits of knowledge that is far clearer, and more decisive for mastering any subject, than knowledge of the complex. And if anyone claims that the complex is by nature knowable and the element unknowable, we'll assume he's joking — whether he means to or not.

Theaetetus: Exactly.

Socrates: I think more proofs of this could be found, too. But let's not lose sight of our question while chasing them. The question was: what does it actually mean to say that the most perfect knowledge is true opinion plus an account?

Theaetetus: Right — we need to look at that.

Socrates: Well then, what is this "account" supposed to mean? I think it must mean one of three things.

Theaetetus: What are they?

Socrates: The first would be: making your thought plain through your voice, with verbs and nouns — your opinion mirrored in the stream of speech flowing from your lips, the way a reflection appears in water or a mirror. Doesn't "giving an account" sound like that sort of thing?

Theaetetus: It does. At least, we do say a person who does that is "expressing himself."

Socrates: But that's something anyone can do, sooner or later — say what he thinks about a thing — anyone, that is, who isn't deaf or mute from birth. And then everyone who has a right opinion will turn out to have it "with an account," and right opinion without knowledge will be found nowhere at all.

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: So let's not be too quick to convict the man who defined knowledge this way of talking nonsense. Maybe that's not what he meant. Maybe he meant the second thing: that when you're asked what something is, you should be able to give your questioner an answer in terms of its elements.

Theaetetus: Meaning what, for example, Socrates?

Socrates: For example — Hesiod says of a wagon, "a hundred timbers make a wagon." Now, I couldn't name all hundred, and neither could you. If someone asked us what a wagon is, we'd be happy to say: wheels, axle, body, rails, yoke.

Theaetetus: We certainly would.

Socrates: And he'd probably laugh at us — the way he'd laugh if we were asked your name, answered syllable by syllable, and then claimed to be expert grammarians. We might think and speak the syllables correctly, but we'd be holding a true opinion, not knowledge. Knowledge, on this view, means going through the thing element by element — true opinion plus a complete run-through of the elements — just as we said before.

Theaetetus: Yes, we did say that.

Socrates: In the same way, a person can have a true opinion about a wagon; but the one who can lay out its being by going through all hundred timbers — he, by doing that, has added the account to his true opinion. Instead of mere opinion, he's gained mastery and knowledge of what a wagon is, by working through the whole by means of its elements.

Theaetetus: And doesn't that seem right to you, Socrates?

Socrates: Tell me if it seems right to you, my friend. Is going through a thing element by element an account of it, while going through it by syllables — or any bigger chunks — is no account at all? Settle that first, so we can examine it.

Theaetetus: Yes — I say it's exactly the element-by-element way.

Socrates: Then tell me: do we think a man knows a given element if, at one time, he counts it as part of one thing and, at another time, counts it as part of something else — or if he believes that the same thing has now one element, now another?

Theaetetus: Definitely not.

Socrates: And don't you remember that's exactly what you and everyone else did when first learning letters?

Theaetetus: You mean we'd assign the wrong letters to syllables — think a letter belonged in one syllable one time, and a different one the next?

Socrates: That's what I mean.

Theaetetus: Then by Zeus, I do remember, and I'd never say people at that stage have knowledge.

Socrates: So look: at that stage of learning, someone writing "Theaetetus" thinks he should write TH and E, and does; then, setting out to write "Theodorus," he thinks he should write T and E, and does. Are we going to say he knows the first syllable of your names?

Theaetetus: No — we've just agreed that someone in that condition doesn't yet know.

Socrates: And nothing stops him from being in the same condition about the second syllable, and the third, and the fourth?

Theaetetus: Nothing at all.

Socrates: Now, suppose at some point he writes "Theaetetus" with every letter in order. At that moment, he has the element-by-element run-through plus right opinion?

Theaetetus: Clearly.

Socrates: But he's still without knowledge — though his opinion is right. We agreed?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: And yet he has the account along with the right opinion. He wrote the letters out in their proper order, and that's what we said the account was.

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: So there is such a thing, my friend, as right opinion with an account that doesn't yet deserve to be called knowledge.

Theaetetus: It looks that way.

Socrates: So what we thought was the perfect definition of knowledge was, apparently, only a dream after all. But let's not pass sentence yet. There's still the third meaning of "account" left — remember, we said the person who defines knowledge as right opinion with an account had three options. Maybe this is the one he'd choose.

Theaetetus: Good reminder — one meaning does remain. The first was the image of thought in speech; the second, the one we just finished, was the road to the whole through the elements. What's the third?

Socrates: What most people would say: being able to state some mark by which the thing you're asked about differs from everything else.

Theaetetus: Can you give me an example?

Socrates: Take the sun, if you like. I imagine you'd accept this as an account of it: the sun is the brightest of the bodies that move through the heavens around the earth.

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Socrates: And here's the point of the example. It's what we just said: if you grasp the difference that sets a thing apart from everything else, then — so some people claim — you've grasped its account. But as long as you've only got hold of something it shares with other things, your account will cover everything that shares that common feature.

Theaetetus: I see. And calling that kind of thing an "account" seems right to me.

Socrates: So whoever takes a right opinion about any thing and adds its difference from everything else will have come to know what he previously had only an opinion about.

Theaetetus: That's our claim, yes.

Socrates: Well, Theaetetus, now that I've come up close to this theory, like a painting viewed at arm's length, I can't make out a thing. From a distance it looked like it might amount to something.

Theaetetus: What? Why?

Socrates: I'll try to explain. Say I have a right opinion about you. If I add your account to that, then I know you; if not, I merely have an opinion.

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: And an account, we said, is the interpretation of your differentness.

Theaetetus: True.

Socrates: So back when I was a mere opinion-haver — my mind didn't grasp a single one of the points where you differ from everyone else?

Theaetetus: Apparently not.

Socrates: Then what I had in mind was some common feature — something that belongs no more to you than to anybody else.

Theaetetus: That must be so.

Socrates: But then, by Zeus, how on earth was it you I had an opinion about, rather than anyone else? Suppose my thought is: "Theaetetus is the one who's a man, with a nose and eyes and a mouth," and so on through every limb. Will that thought make me think of Theaetetus rather than Theodorus — or, as they say, the remotest barbarian?

Theaetetus: How could it?

Socrates: And if I think not just "the one with a nose and eyes" but "the one with a snub nose and bulging eyes" — will my opinion be about you any more than about me, or about anyone else who fits that description?

Theaetetus: Not at all.

Socrates: No — I won't have Theaetetus in my mind, I think, until that snub-nosedness of yours has stamped and lodged in me a memory-trace different from every other snub nose I've ever seen — and the same for every other feature of you. Then, if I run into you tomorrow, that trace will remind me and give me a right opinion about you.

Theaetetus: Very true.

Socrates: So right opinion, too, must already involve the difference of its object?

Theaetetus: Clearly.

Socrates: Then what's left for this "adding an account" to right opinion? If it means forming an opinion of how the thing differs from everything else, the instruction becomes downright comical.

Theaetetus: How so?

Socrates: It tells us to get a right opinion of the way things differ from other things — when we already have a right opinion of the way they differ from other things. At that rate, a treadmill spinning in the same circle — or a pestle, or any machine that goes round and round — is nothing compared to this instruction. "The blind leading the blind" would be the fairer name for it. Telling us to acquire what we already have, so that we can learn what we already believe — that's the work of a mind completely in the dark.

Theaetetus: Then what's the alternative? What were you about to suggest when you raised the question just now?

Socrates: Well, my boy — if "adding an account" means coming to know the difference, not just having an opinion about it, then this finest of all definitions of knowledge turns into a fine joke. Because knowing is acquiring knowledge, isn't it?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Socrates: So when someone asks "What is knowledge?" our splendid definition will apparently answer: "Right opinion plus knowledge — of the difference, or of whatever." Since that's what "adding the account" turns out to mean.

Theaetetus: So it seems.

Socrates: And it's utterly silly, when we're trying to find out what knowledge is, to answer "right opinion plus knowledge" — whether of difference or of anything else. So, Theaetetus, knowledge is not perception, and not true opinion, and not true opinion with an account added either.

Theaetetus: Apparently not.

Socrates: Well then, my friend — are we still pregnant? Is anything about knowledge still kicking inside us, or have we delivered it all?

Theaetetus: Honestly, Socrates, thanks to you I've said more than I ever had in me.

Socrates: And my midwife's art declares the whole brood stillborn — wind-eggs, all of them, not worth raising. Doesn't it?

Theaetetus: It absolutely does.

Socrates: Then here is what we've gained. If you ever try to conceive again, Theaetetus, and you succeed, what you carry will be the better for today's examination. And if you stay empty, you'll be easier on the people around you — gentler, and humble enough not to think you know what you don't know. That much my art can do; no more. I know none of the things that other men know — the great and admired men of today and yesterday. But this midwife's work my mother and I received from God: she delivered women, and I deliver young men — young men who are noble and fair.

And now I have an appointment at the Porch of the King, to answer the indictment Meletus has filed against me. But tomorrow morning, Theodorus, let's meet here again.

Parmenides (Part 1)

Persons of the dialogue:
  Cephalus (narrator)
  Adeimantus
  Glaucon
  Antiphon
  Pythodorus
  Socrates
  Zeno
  Parmenides
  Aristoteles

We had traveled from our home in Clazomenae to Athens, and we ran into Adeimantus and Glaucon in the Agora.

"Welcome, Cephalus!" said Adeimantus, taking me by the hand. "Is there anything we can do for you here in Athens?"

"Actually, yes — that's exactly why I'm here. I need to ask a favor."

"What is it?" he said.

"I'm trying to remember the name of your half-brother. He was just a child the last time I came here from Clazomenae, and that was a long time ago. His father's name was Pyrilampes, if I remember right?"

"Yes," he said. "And our brother's name is Antiphon. But why do you ask?"

"Let me introduce some countrymen of mine," I said. "They're lovers of philosophy, and they've heard that Antiphon was close with a man named Pythodorus, a friend of Zeno's. Apparently Pythodorus often recited to him a famous conversation that took place many years ago between Socrates, Zeno, and Parmenides. They'd like to hear it."

"That's quite true," he said.

"So could we hear it?" I asked.

"Nothing easier," he replied. "When Antiphon was young, he studied it very carefully. These days his interests have taken a different turn — like his grandfather Antiphon, he's devoted to horses. But if that's what you want, let's go find him. He lives in Melita, which is nearby. He just left us to go home."

So we went to find him. He was at home, in the middle of giving a bridle to a metalworker to be fitted. When he was done with the smith, his brothers explained why we'd come. He greeted me as someone he remembered from my earlier visit, and we asked him to repeat the conversation. At first he wasn't eager — he complained about how much work it would be — but eventually he agreed.

He told us that Pythodorus had described the arrival of Parmenides and Zeno in Athens. They came for the great festival of the Panathenaea. Parmenides was about sixty-five at the time — his hair was very white with age, but he was still a handsome man. Zeno was nearly forty, tall and good-looking. In his youth, it was said, he had been Parmenides' beloved.

They were staying with Pythodorus in the Ceramicus, just outside the city walls. Socrates — who was then a very young man — came to see them, along with many others. They wanted to hear Zeno's writings, which had been brought to Athens for the first time on this visit. Zeno read them aloud himself, while Parmenides was out. He was almost done when Pythodorus came in, bringing Parmenides and a man named Aristoteles — who later became one of the Thirty Tyrants — and they caught the tail end of the reading. Pythodorus had heard Zeno read these arguments before.

THE CHALLENGE TO ZENO

When the reading was finished, Socrates asked that the first thesis of the first argument be read again. After it was, he said:

"What exactly are you arguing here, Zeno? You're saying that if reality is many things, then those things must be both like and unlike — but that's impossible, because what's like can't be unlike, and what's unlike can't be like. Is that your position?"

"Exactly," said Zeno.

"And if what's unlike can't be like, and what's like can't be unlike, then reality can't be many — because that would lead to an impossibility. Isn't that the whole point? Every section of your treatise is meant to be a separate proof that plurality doesn't exist — you've written as many proofs against plurality as you have arguments. Is that right, or am I missing something?"

"No," said Zeno, "you've understood my purpose exactly."

"I see, Parmenides," said Socrates, "that Zeno here isn't just your friend — he's practically your literary alter ego. He's saying the same thing you say, just from a different angle, and trying to make us think he's telling us something new. You say in your poem that the All is One, and you give excellent proofs. He turns around and says there is no Many, and backs it up with overwhelming evidence. You affirm unity; he denies plurality. You're both saying the same thing from opposite directions — and you've fooled the world into thinking you're making different arguments. That's a level of artistry most of us can't match."

"Well, Socrates," said Zeno with a smile, "you track an argument like a Spartan hound. But you haven't quite understood the real motive behind my work. It's not as artificial as you think. There was no grand scheme, no intention to deceive anyone. The truth is, I wrote these arguments to defend Parmenides against people who mocked him — people who tried to show that his claim that reality is one leads to ridiculous and contradictory results. My answer was to hit back: I showed that their own hypothesis — that reality is many — leads to consequences even more ridiculous than the ones they complained about. It was youthful pugnacity, not the ambition of an older man. And actually, someone stole my copy before I meant to publish it, so I never even chose to make it public. But apart from that detail, Socrates, your analysis is perfectly right."

SOCRATES' THEORY OF FORMS

"Fair enough," said Socrates. "But let me ask you this, Zeno. Don't you think there's a Form of Likeness in itself, and another Form of Unlikeness — the opposite of Likeness? And that you and I and everything else we call 'many' participate in these two Forms? Things that participate in Likeness become like to that degree; things that participate in Unlikeness become unlike to that degree. And some things participate in both, and so they're both like and unlike at the same time.

"What's so surprising about that? Now, if someone could prove that Likeness itself becomes unlike, or Unlikeness itself becomes like — that would genuinely amaze me. But there's nothing extraordinary about showing that ordinary things, which merely participate in Likeness and Unlikeness, turn out to have both qualities.

"The same goes for the One and the Many. If someone could show me that the One itself — the Form of Unity — is many, or that the Many itself is one, I'd be truly astonished. But it's no big deal to prove that I am both many and one. When someone wants to show I'm many, they point out I have a right side and a left side, a front and a back, upper and lower halves — I can't deny I participate in plurality. When they want to show I'm one, they point out that of the seven of us here, I'm one person who participates in unity. Both are true, and neither is paradoxical.

"Same thing with wood, stones, and everything else. If you show that such things are both one and many, fine — you've shown that the one and the many coexist. But you haven't shown that the Many is one or the One is many. That would just be a truism, not a paradox.

"But here's what would really impress me: if someone could take the abstract Forms themselves — Likeness and Unlikeness, One and Many, Rest and Motion — the things grasped by pure reason — and show that they can mix and separate among themselves. That, Zeno, you've handled with real energy. But as I said, I'd be far more amazed if someone could show that the same kind of puzzle and entanglement you've demonstrated in visible things also exists in the Forms themselves — in the things we grasp through reason alone."

PARMENIDES' CRITIQUE

While Socrates was speaking, Pythodorus kept watching Parmenides and Zeno. They weren't entirely pleased with the direction the argument was heading, but they listened intently, glancing at each other from time to time with smiles that seemed to express admiration. When Socrates finished, Parmenides spoke up.

"Socrates," he said, "I admire your philosophical instincts. Tell me — was this distinction your own idea? This separation between the Forms themselves and the things that participate in them? Do you believe there's a Form of Likeness that exists apart from whatever likeness we ourselves possess? A Form of the One, of the Many, and of everything else Zeno mentioned?"

"I do," said Socrates.

Parmenides continued: "And would you also say there are absolute Forms of Justice, Beauty, and Goodness — that whole class of things?"

"Yes," he said. "I would."

"What about a Form of Human Being, apart from all of us actual humans? Or Forms of Fire and Water?"

"Those I'm often unsure about, Parmenides — whether I should include them or not."

"And what about things that might seem laughable to mention — things like hair, mud, dirt, or anything else that's cheap and trivial? Would you say each of these has a Form distinct from the actual objects we encounter?"

"Certainly not," said Socrates. "Those things just are what they appear to be. I'm afraid it would be absurd to suppose there's a Form of them. But I admit it bothers me sometimes. I start to wonder whether maybe everything has a Form — but then I pull back, because I'm afraid of falling into a bottomless pit of nonsense. So I return to the kinds of things I was just talking about — Justice, Beauty, Goodness — and I focus my attention on those."

"That, Socrates," said Parmenides, "is because you're still young. The time will come — if I'm not mistaken — when philosophy will get a firmer grip on you, and you won't look down on even the lowliest things. Right now, you care too much about what people think. But tell me: you're saying there are certain Forms, and other things participate in them and get their names from that participation? Things become similar by participating in Similarity, great by participating in Greatness, just and beautiful by participating in Justice and Beauty?"

"Yes," said Socrates, "that's exactly what I mean."

THE WHOLE-OR-PART DILEMMA

"Then does each thing participate in the whole Form, or just a part of it? Is there any other way to participate?"

"I don't see how there could be," Socrates said.

"So do you think the whole Form — which is one thing — is present in its entirety in each of the many things that participate in it?"

"Why not, Parmenides?" said Socrates.

"Because one and the same thing would exist as a whole, simultaneously, in many separate individuals. It would be in a state of separation from itself."

"Not necessarily," said Socrates. "Think of it like daylight — it's one and the same everywhere at once, and yet it doesn't split apart. Maybe each Form is like that: one and the same, present in all things simultaneously."

"That's a nice image, Socrates — making one thing be in many places at once. It's as if you spread a sail over a group of people and said: there's one thing covering them all. Isn't that what you mean?"

"I suppose so."

"But would the whole sail be over each person? Or only a part of it — a different part over each one?"

"Just a part."

"Then, Socrates, the Forms themselves would be divisible, and the things that participate in them would have only a portion of each Form — not the whole thing."

"That seems to follow."

"So are you really prepared to say that a single Form is actually divided up, and yet remains one?"

"Certainly not," he said.

"Think about it. If you divide Greatness itself, and each great thing is great by virtue of a portion of Greatness that's less than absolute Greatness — doesn't that seem absurd?"

"It does."

"Or take Equality. If something has a small portion of Equality — less than Equality itself — could that make it equal to something else?"

"Impossible."

"Or consider Smallness. Suppose one of us has a portion of Smallness. That portion is only a part of Smallness itself, so Smallness itself is greater than the portion. Now, if you add that portion of Smallness to something, should that thing become smaller or larger? It would have to become larger — because you've added something to it — but we're saying it's become smaller. That's absurd!"

"Completely absurd!"

"Then how, Socrates, can things participate in the Forms, if they can't participate as wholes or as parts?"

"That," said Socrates, "is not an easy question to answer."

THE THIRD MAN ARGUMENT

"Well," said Parmenides, "what about this problem?"

"What problem?"

"I imagine the way you arrive at a single Form for each kind goes something like this: you look at a number of great things, and when you see them all together, there seems to be one single nature common to them all. So you conclude that Greatness is one thing."

"That's right," said Socrates.

"But now consider: if you hold Greatness itself in your mind alongside the great things that participate in it, and compare them all together — won't another Greatness appear? One that seems to be the source of the greatness they all share?"

"It would seem so."

"Then you'd have a new Form of Greatness, on top of the original Greatness and the particular great things. And then another one above all of those, in virtue of which they're all great. And so on — each Form, instead of being one, multiplies infinitely."

THE FORMS AS THOUGHTS

"But wait," said Socrates. "Maybe the Forms are just thoughts — they exist only in our minds, Parmenides. That way, each Form would still be one, and you'd avoid the infinite multiplication problem."

"So, can there be a thought that's a thought of nothing?"

"That's impossible," he said.

"It must be a thought of something?"

"Yes."

"Of something that exists, or something that doesn't?"

"Of something that exists."

"Isn't it a thought of some one thing — something the thought recognizes as a single nature applying to all cases?"

"Yes."

"And won't that single something — apprehended as one and the same across all instances — be a Form?"

"There's no escaping that conclusion."

"Then," said Parmenides, "if you say everything else participates in the Forms, doesn't that mean either that everything is made of thoughts and everything thinks — or that there are thoughts that exist but don't think at all?"

"Neither of those makes any sense," said Socrates. "Here's what I think makes more sense, Parmenides: the Forms are like patterns fixed in the nature of things. Other things resemble them — they're copies of them. 'Participation' really just means resemblance."

THE RESEMBLANCE REGRESS

"But," said Parmenides, "if the copy resembles the Form, mustn't the Form also resemble the copy? Isn't resemblance a two-way street — like can only be like what's like it?"

"It must be."

"And when two things are alike, don't they share in the same Form?"

"They must."

"And the thing that makes them alike — that they both share — won't that be the Form itself?"

"Exactly."

"Then the Form can't be like its copy, or the copy like the Form. Because if they're alike, some further Form of Likeness will always crop up. And if that new Form is like anything, yet another will appear. You'll get an endless chain of new Forms, one after another, if the Form resembles what participates in it."

"That's quite true."

"So participation by resemblance has to be abandoned. We need some other account of how things participate in Forms."

"It would seem so."

"Do you see, then, Socrates, how enormous the difficulty is, if you maintain that Forms exist as absolute, independent realities?"

"I do see that."

THE GREATEST DIFFICULTY

"And let me tell you," said Parmenides, "you've only begun to grasp how deep the problems go when you separate each Form off on its own."

"What do you mean?"

"There are many problems, but the greatest is this: if someone argues that these Forms, being what we say they must be, are fundamentally unknowable to us — you couldn't prove them wrong. Not unless the challenger had extraordinary ability and was willing to follow a long and painstaking demonstration. Otherwise, they'd remain unconvinced and insist the Forms can't be known."

"What do you mean, Parmenides?" said Socrates.

"Here's the issue. I think you — or anyone who holds that these absolute essences exist — would agree that they can't exist in us."

"Of course not," said Socrates. "If they were in us, they wouldn't be absolute anymore."

"Exactly. So when the Forms relate to one another, their nature is determined by their relationships among themselves — it has nothing to do with the likenesses or copies or whatever you want to call them that exist in our world. The things in our world that share names with the Forms are also defined only in relation to one another, not in relation to the Forms. They belong to our sphere, not to the sphere of the Forms."

"What do you mean?" said Socrates.

"Let me give you an example," said Parmenides. "Take mastery and slavery. A master has a slave, and there's nothing absolute about that relationship — it's just one person related to another. But there's also a Form of Mastery in the abstract, which relates to the Form of Slavery in the abstract. These abstract natures have nothing to do with us, and we have nothing to do with them. They exist in their own sphere; we exist in ours. You see the point?"

"Yes," said Socrates, "I see."

"And absolute Knowledge would correspond to absolute Truth?"

"Yes."

"And each kind of absolute Knowledge would correspond to each kind of absolute Being?"

"Right."

"But our knowledge — the knowledge we actually have — corresponds to our truth, the truth within our sphere. And each kind of knowledge we have is knowledge of each kind of being we have."

"Necessarily."

"But we don't have the Forms themselves — you've admitted that. We can't have them."

"No, we can't."

"And the absolute natures of things are known by the Form of Knowledge itself?"

"Yes."

"Which we don't have?"

"We don't."

"Then none of the Forms are known to us, since we don't have any share in absolute Knowledge?"

"It seems not."

"So the true nature of Beauty itself, of Goodness itself, and of all the other Forms we take to be absolute realities — all of these are unknown to us?"

"It would seem so."

"But here's an even stranger consequence."

"What?"

"Would you agree that if absolute Knowledge exists, it must be far more exact than our knowledge? The same goes for absolute Beauty and everything else?"

"Yes."

"And if any being participates in absolute Knowledge, no one is more likely to have it than God?"

"Certainly."

"But then — would God, having absolute Knowledge, be able to know human things?"

"Why wouldn't he?"

"Because, Socrates," said Parmenides, "we've established that the Forms don't apply to human things, and human things don't apply to the Forms. Each sphere's relationships are limited to its own domain."

"Yes, we did say that."

"So if God has this perfect authority and this perfect knowledge, his authority can't govern us, and his knowledge can't know us or any human thing. Just as our authority doesn't extend to the gods and our knowledge can't grasp anything divine, so too, by the very same reasoning, the gods — being gods — are neither our masters nor able to know human affairs."

"But surely," said Socrates, "to say that God lacks knowledge is monstrous."

THE WAY FORWARD

"These, Socrates," said Parmenides, "are just a few — and only a few — of the difficulties that arise if the Forms really exist and you insist each one is an absolute unity. Anyone who hears the case against them will deny that the Forms exist at all. And even if they do exist, he'll say they must be unknowable to human beings. He'll seem to have good reasons on his side, and he'll be extremely hard to convince. It would take a person of extraordinary ability to learn that everything has its own class and absolute essence. And even more remarkable would be the person who discovers all this on their own, works through the problems thoroughly, and can teach it all to others."

"I agree with you, Parmenides," said Socrates. "What you say is very much what I think too."

"And yet, Socrates," said Parmenides, "if someone, fixing their attention on these difficulties and others like them, does away with the Forms entirely — refuses to admit that every individual thing has its own determinate Form, always one and the same — they'll destroy the very power of reasoning. They'll have nothing for the mind to rest on. You seem to have noticed this yourself."

"That's very true," said Socrates.

"So what's to become of philosophy? Which way do we turn, if the Forms are unknowable?"

"I certainly don't see my way forward right now."

"That, Socrates," said Parmenides, "is because you're trying to define Beauty, Justice, Goodness, and the rest of the Forms without enough prior training. I noticed the same tendency when I heard you talking the other day with your friend Aristoteles. The impulse that draws you toward philosophy is noble and divine. But there's a method of inquiry that most people dismiss as idle chatter and think is useless. You need to train yourself in it while you're still young, or the truth will slip through your fingers."

"What kind of training do you mean, Parmenides?"

"The kind Zeno was practicing. Though I give you credit for telling him that you weren't interested in examining the puzzles as they apply to visible things — only to objects of thought, to what we might call the Forms."

"Yes," said Socrates, "because it seems easy enough to show that visible things are both like and unlike, or experience any number of opposite qualities. There's no difficulty in that."

"True," said Parmenides. "But you need to go a step further. Don't just consider the consequences that follow from a given hypothesis. Consider also the consequences that follow from denying it. That will be much better training."

"What do you mean?"

"Take Zeno's hypothesis about the Many. You should investigate not only what follows for the Many in relation to themselves and to the One, and for the One in relation to itself and the Many — assuming the Many exist. You should also investigate what follows for the One and the Many, in their relation to themselves and to each other, if the Many do not exist.

"Or again, take Likeness. If Likeness exists, or if it doesn't — what follows in either case, both for the things in question and for everything else, in their relation to themselves and to each other?

"The same goes for Unlikeness, Motion and Rest, Coming-into-Being and Destruction, and even Being and Not-Being themselves. In a word: whenever you suppose something to be or not to be, or to be affected in any way, you must examine the consequences for the thing itself and for any other things you choose — each one individually, several together, and all of them. And then you must look at those other things in relation to themselves and to whatever else you suppose to exist or not exist. If you want to train yourself perfectly and see the real truth, that's what you have to do."

"Parmenides!" said Socrates. "That's an enormous task. I'm not sure I fully understand it. Would you take some hypothesis and work through the steps? Then I'd grasp what you mean."

"That's a lot to ask of a man my age, Socrates."

"Then would you do it, Zeno?" said Socrates.

Zeno smiled. "Let's direct our request to Parmenides himself. He's quite right that you barely realize how much work you're asking for. And if there were a bigger audience I wouldn't press him — these aren't subjects anyone, especially at his age, should speak about before a crowd. Most people don't realize that this roundabout journey through every possibility is the only way the mind can arrive at truth and wisdom. So I'll join your request, Parmenides — I haven't heard you run through this exercise in a long time."

At this point — according to what Antiphon told us Pythodorus had said — Pythodorus himself, along with Aristoteles and the whole group, urged Parmenides to demonstrate the method.

"I can't refuse," said Parmenides. "Though I feel rather like old Ibycus — the poet who fell in love in his old age, against his will, and compared himself to an old racehorse trembling at the starting gate, knowing the course all too well. That's how I feel right now, trembling at the thought of the ocean of arguments I have to wade through at my age. But I must oblige you, as Zeno says. And since we're among friends — where shall I begin? What hypothesis shall we take on first, if I'm to attempt this exhausting exercise? Shall I begin with my own hypothesis — the One itself? Shall we examine what follows from the assumption that the One exists, and also what follows if it doesn't?"

"By all means," said Zeno.

"And who will answer my questions?" said Parmenides. "I propose the youngest. He'll be the most agreeable, the most likely to say what he really thinks, and his answers will give me time to catch my breath."

"That's me, Parmenides," said Aristoteles. "I'm the youngest, and I'm at your service. Ask, and I'll answer."

HYPOTHESIS I.a: IF THE ONE IS (taken strictly) — What follows for the One itself

"Very well," said Parmenides. "If the One is — if it truly is one — then it can't be many, can it?"

"No, it can't."

"Then it can't have parts, and it can't be a whole."

"Why not?"

"Because every part is part of a whole."

"Yes."

"And what's a whole? Isn't a whole something from which no part is missing?"

"Yes."

"Then either way — whether as a whole made of parts, or as something with parts — the One would be made up of parts."

"That's right."

"And either way, the One would be many, not one."

"True."

"But it's supposed to be one, not many."

"Yes."

"So if the One is to remain one, it won't be a whole and won't have parts."

"Right."

"And if it has no parts, it can't have a beginning, middle, or end — because those would be parts of it."

"That follows."

"But a beginning and an end are the limits of everything."

"Yes."

"So the One, having neither beginning nor end, is unlimited."

"Unlimited, yes."

"And therefore shapeless. It can't be round or straight."

"Why not?"

"Because 'round' means all the outer points are equidistant from the center."

"Right."

"And 'straight' means the center lies between the two endpoints."

"Yes."

"But the One would need to have parts to be either round or straight. Since it has no parts, it's neither."

"That follows."

"And being like this, it can't be anywhere — neither in something else nor in itself."

"Why?"

"If it were in something else, it would be surrounded by whatever contained it, and would be touched at many points and on many sides. But something that's one and indivisible and has no roundness can't be touched all around at many points."

"Certainly not."

"On the other hand, if the One were in itself, it would be contained by nothing other than itself — which is what 'being in itself' would mean."

"Right."

"But then, the container would have to be different from the contained. The same thing can't do both at once. So the One would have to be two things."

"True."

"So the One can't be anywhere — not in itself, not in anything else."

"It can't."

"Now consider: can something like this have motion or rest?"

"Why not?"

"Because motion is either change of place or change of nature."

"Right."

"And if the One changes its nature and becomes something different, it's no longer one."

"Clearly not."

"So it can't experience that kind of motion."

"No."

"What about moving through space?"

"If the One moves through space, it either spins in one spot or goes from one place to another."

"Yes."

"But to spin, it would need to rest on a center and have different parts at different distances from that center. Something with no center and no parts can't spin."

"Impossible."

"Well, does it travel from one place to another?"

"Maybe — if it moves at all."

"But we already showed it can't be in anything."

"Right."

"So it's even more impossible for it to come to be in something."

"How so?"

"Because anything that's in the process of arriving somewhere is partly in and partly out of its destination. But something without parts can never be partly in and partly out of anything."

"True."

"And it's even more impossible for something without parts, something that isn't even a whole, to arrive somewhere — since it can't arrive either as a part or as a whole."

"That follows."

"So the One doesn't change place by spinning, doesn't come into being somewhere new, and doesn't change its own nature."

"Right."

"Then with respect to every kind of motion, the One is immovable."

"Immovable."

"But we also said it can't be in anything."

"We did."

"So it's never in the same place."

"Why not?"

"Because 'the same place' would be something it's in, and we said it can't be in anything."

"Exactly."

"And it can't be in itself, and can't be in anything else."

"Right."

"So the One is never in the same place."

"Apparently not."

"But what's never in the same place is never at rest."

"Right."

"So the One is neither at rest nor in motion."

"That seems to follow."

"Furthermore, it can't be the same as anything else, or different from anything else. And it can't be the same as itself, or different from itself."

"How so?"

"If it were different from itself, it would be different from one — and wouldn't be one."

"True."

"And if it were the same as something else, it would be that other thing, not itself. It wouldn't have the nature of one — it would be other than one."

"Right."

"So it won't be the same as something else, or different from itself."

"It won't."

"And it can't be different from something else while remaining one. 'Different' isn't a property of one as such — it belongs to 'the different' and nothing else."

"Right."

"So it's not by being one that it's different from anything."

"No."

"And if not by being one, then not by being itself. And if not by being itself, then it isn't itself different. And since it's not different at all, it won't be different from anything."

"Correct."

"Neither can the One be the same as itself."

"Why not?"

"Because the nature of 'the same' is not the nature of 'the one.'"

"How so?"

"When something becomes the same as something, it doesn't become one."

"What do you mean?"

"If something becomes the same as many things, it becomes many, not one."

"True."

"But if there were no difference between 'one' and 'the same,' then whenever something became 'the same,' it would also become 'one,' and vice versa."

"Yes."

"So if the One were the same as itself, it wouldn't be one with itself — it would be one and also not one."

"That's impossible."

"Therefore the One can be neither different from something else nor the same as itself."

"Right."

"And so the One can be neither the same nor different, either in relation to itself or to anything else."

"That follows."

"Now: the One will be neither like nor unlike anything — not itself, not anything else."

"Why?"

"Because likeness is sameness of properties."

"Yes."

"And we showed that sameness has a different nature from oneness."

"We did."

"And if the One had any property other than being one, that would make it more than one — which is impossible."

"Yes."

"So the One can never have the same properties as anything else — or as itself."

"Clearly not."

"Then it can't be like anything — not another thing, not itself."

"No."

"And it can't be affected so as to be different either — because that would make it more than one."

"Right."

"Something affected in a way different from itself or from another would be unlike itself or the other — since sameness of properties is likeness."

"Yes."

"But the One is never affected differently, so it's never unlike."

"Never."

"So the One is neither like nor unlike — not itself, not anything else."

"Plainly not."

"And being of this nature, it can be neither equal nor unequal — not to itself, not to anything else."

"Why?"

"Because to be equal, it would need to have the same measures as what it's equal to."

"Yes."

"And to be greater or less than something commensurable, it would need more or fewer measures."

"Right."

"And for things not commensurable with it, it would be larger-measured than the smaller and smaller-measured than the larger."

"Yes."

"But something that doesn't share in sameness can't have the same measures, or the same anything."

"Impossible."

"And without the same measures, it can't be equal to itself or anything else."

"It seems not."

"But if it had more or fewer measures, it would have as many parts as measures — and so the One would no longer be one but many."

"Right."

"And if it were of exactly one measure, it would be equal to that measure — but we just showed it can't be equal to anything."

"We did."

"So the One has no share in one measure or many or few, no share in sameness at all. It's not equal to itself or anything else. It's not greater or less than itself or anything else."

"That all follows."

"Now: do we think the One can be older or younger than anything, or the same age?"

"Why couldn't it?"

"Because something the same age as itself or anything else would have to share in equality or likeness of time. And we said the One doesn't share in either."

"We did."

"And we said it doesn't share in inequality or unlikeness either."

"Yes."

"So how can the One, being like this, be older or younger than anything, or the same age?"

"It can't."

"Then the One can't be older, younger, or the same age as anything — not itself, not anything else."

"Clearly not."

"But then the One can't be in time at all. Because anything in time must always be growing older than itself."

"Necessarily."

"And what's older is always older than something younger."

"Yes."

"So what becomes older than itself simultaneously becomes younger than itself — since it has to have something younger to be older than."

"What do you mean?"

"Here's what I mean. Something doesn't need to become different from what's already different from it — it already is different. If the difference has come about, it has become different. If it will come about, it will be different. But what's in the process of becoming different can only be becoming different from what's also becoming — not from what has been or will be."

"That's necessarily true."

"But 'older' is a difference relative to 'younger' — and nothing else."

"Yes."

"So what becomes older than itself must simultaneously become younger than itself."

"Right."

"But it also can't become for a longer or shorter time than itself — it must become and exist and have existed for exactly the same time as itself."

"That's also necessary."

"So things that are in time and share in time must be the same age as themselves, and must also simultaneously become both older and younger than themselves."

"It seems so."

"But the One doesn't share in any of those properties."

"Not at all."

"So the One doesn't share in time and isn't in any time."

"That's what the argument shows."

"And 'was,' 'has become,' and 'was becoming' — don't those words signify participation in past time?"

"Yes."

"And 'will be,' 'will become,' 'will have become' — participation in future time?"

"Yes."

"And 'is' and 'becomes' — participation in present time?"

"Certainly."

"So if the One has absolutely no participation in time, then it never came to be, never was becoming, never was. It hasn't now come to be, isn't becoming, isn't. It will not come to be, will not have come to be, will not be."

"That's absolutely right."

"But can anything participate in being in any way other than through these?"

"It can't."

"Then the One can't participate in being at all."

"It seems not."

"Then the One doesn't exist in any way."

"Apparently not."

"It doesn't even exist enough to be one. Because if it were one, it would already exist and participate in being. But as the argument shows, the One neither is nor is one."

"That seems right."

"And what doesn't exist can't have any attribute or relation."

"Of course not."

"Then there's no name for it, no description, no perception, no opinion, no knowledge of it."

"Clearly not."

"It isn't named, isn't spoken of, isn't the subject of any opinion, isn't known, and nothing that exists perceives it."

"That seems to follow."

"But can all this really be true about the One?"

"I don't think it can."

HYPOTHESIS I.b: IF THE ONE IS (taken as participating in being) — What follows for the One itself

"Then let's go back to the beginning and start again. Let's see whether, on further review, things look different."

"I'm very happy to do that."

"We're asking: if the One is, what are all the consequences, whatever they may be?"

"Yes."

"Let's start at the very beginning. If the One is — if it exists — can it exist without participating in being?"

"No, it can't."

"Then the One has being. But its being isn't the same thing as the One. If it were, 'being' wouldn't be the being of the One, and the One wouldn't have participated in being — saying 'the One is' would just mean 'the One is one.' But our hypothesis isn't 'if the One is one, what follows?' It's 'if the One is' — right?"

"Exactly right."

"So 'is' means something different from 'one'?"

"Yes."

"When we say briefly 'the One is,' we're saying 'the One participates in being'?"

"Exactly."

"So let's ask again: if the One is, what follows? Doesn't this hypothesis imply that the One has parts?"

"How so?"

"Like this: if 'being' is predicated of the One — the One is — and 'one' is predicated of being — being is one — and if being and one aren't the same thing, then since the One that we've assumed does exist, it must be a whole whose parts are 'one' and 'being.'"

"Necessarily."

"And is each of these parts — 'one' and 'being' — simply a part, or is the word 'part' relative to the word 'whole'?"

"It's relative to the whole."

"So what exists as one is both a whole and has parts."

"Yes."

"Now, take each part of the One-that-is — that is, the 'being' part and the 'one' part. Can either one lack the other? Can the one-part lack being, or the being-part lack oneness?"

"No, impossible."

"So each part also contains both 'one' and 'being' — each part is itself made up of at least two parts. And the same principle keeps going forever: every part always has these two elements, because being always involves one and one always involves being. So the one is always disappearing into two."

"Exactly."

"Then the One, if it is, must be infinite in multiplicity?"

"It seems so."

"Let's try a different approach."

"Which one?"

"We said the One participates in being, and therefore it is."

"Yes."

"And in this way, the One turns out to be many."

"Right."

"Now, let's mentally separate the One from the being it participates in. Consider just the One alone, apart from its being. Will this abstract One be just one, or many?"

"Just one, I think."

"Let's see. The being of the One must be different from the One — because the One is not being; rather, it's the One that participated in being."

"Yes."

"Now, if 'being' and 'the one' are two different things, it's not because the one is one that it differs from being, and it's not because being is being that it differs from the one. They differ from each other by virtue of Difference and Otherness."

"Yes."

"So Difference is not the same as either the One or Being."

"Clearly not."

"Now, if we pick any two of these three — Being and Difference, or Being and the One, or the One and Difference — in every case we've picked two things that can rightly be called 'both.'"

"What do you mean?"

"You can speak of Being?"

"Yes."

"And of the One?"

"Yes."

"So now we've spoken of each of them?"

"We have."

"And when I say 'Being and the One,' I speak of them both?"

"Yes."

"And 'Being and Difference,' or 'the One and Difference' — in each case, I'm speaking of a 'both'?"

"Right."

"And what's correctly called 'both' must be two?"

"Undoubtedly."

"And of two things, how could either one not be one?"

"It couldn't."

"So if the items in each pair are two, each item must be one."

"Yes."

"And if each is one, then adding any one to any pair makes three."

"Yes."

"And three is odd, and two is even."

"Of course."

"And if there are two, there must be twice, and if there are three, there must be thrice — since twice-one makes two, and thrice-one makes three."

"Necessarily."

"And if there are two and twice, there's twice-two; if three and thrice, there's thrice-three."

"Of course."

"And if there are three and twice, there's twice-three; and if two and thrice, there's thrice-two."

"Undoubtedly."

"So we have even-times-even, odd-times-odd, even-times-odd, and odd-times-even."

"Yes."

"And if that's so, is there any number that's left out? Any number that doesn't necessarily exist?"

"None at all."

"Then if the One is, number must also exist."

"Necessarily."

"But if number exists, there must be many things — in fact, an infinite multiplicity of beings. Because number is infinite in multiplicity, and every number participates in being, doesn't it?"

"It certainly does."

"And if all number participates in being, then every part of number participates too?"

"Yes."

"So being is distributed across the entire multitude of things, and nothing that exists — however small or however large — is without it. And really, how could something that exists be without being? That's absurd on its face."

"Completely absurd."

"So being is divided up into things of every size — the greatest and the smallest and everything in between — and its divisions have no limit."

"Right."

"So being has the greatest number of parts?"

"The greatest."

"Is there any part that's a part of being yet somehow not a part at all?"

"Impossible."

"Because as long as it exists — for as long as it is — it must be one thing and can't be nothing?"

"Necessarily."

"So 'one' attaches to every single part of being — it doesn't fail in any part, whether large or small or whatever its size."

"Right."

"But think: can the One, in its entirety, be in many places at the same time?"

"No — I can see that's impossible."

"So if not in its entirety, then it must be divided. Because it can't be present with all the parts of being unless it's divided."

"Right."

"And what has parts will be as many as its parts."

"Necessarily."

"So we were wrong just now to say that being is divided into the greatest number of parts. Being isn't divided into more parts than the One. They're equal: the One is never absent from being, nor being from the One. The two run side by side, co-equal and co-extensive."

"That does seem right."

"So the One itself, broken up by being, is many and infinite."

"Apparently so."

"Not only does 'the One that has being' turn out to be many — the One itself, distributed by being, must also be many."

"It must."

"Furthermore, since the parts are parts of a whole, the One as a whole must be limited. Aren't the parts contained by the whole?"

"They must be."

"And what contains is a limit."

"Of course."

"Then the One, if it has being, is both one and many, whole and parts — limited and yet unlimited in number."

"Yes."

"And having limits, it must have extremes?"

"Necessarily."

"And if it's a whole, it must have a beginning, middle, and end. Can anything be a whole without those three? And if any of them is missing, is it still a whole?"

"No."

"Then the One has beginning, middle, and end."

"It does."

"And the middle is equidistant from the extremes, or it wouldn't be in the middle."

"Right."

"So the One will have some shape — either straight, or round, or some combination."

"Yes."

"And if so, it will be both in itself and in something else."

"How?"

"Every part is in the whole, and none is outside it."

"Yes."

"And all the parts are contained by the whole."

"Yes."

"And the One is all its parts — no more, no less."

"Right."

"And the One is the whole."

"Yes."

"So if all the parts are in the whole, and the One is both all the parts and the whole, and they're all contained by the whole — then the One is contained by the One. And thus the One is in itself."

"That's true."

"But then again, the whole is not in the parts — not in all of them, not in any single one. If it were in all of them, it would have to be in each one. But if there's even one part it's not in, then it can't be in all the parts. And that one part is one of 'all' — so if the whole isn't in it, how can it be in all of them?"

"It can't."

"And the whole can't be in just some of the parts. If the whole were in some parts, the greater would be in the less — which is impossible."

"Yes, impossible."

"And if the whole isn't in one part, or several, or all of the parts, it must be in something else — or it's nowhere at all."

"Right."

"If it were nowhere, it would be nothing. But since it is a whole, and it's not in itself, it must be in something else."

"Exactly."

"So the One, considered as a whole, is in something else. But considered as all its parts, it's in itself. And therefore the One must be both in itself and in something else."

"It must."

"Given this nature, the One must be both at rest and in motion."

"How?"

"It's at rest because it's in itself. If it's in one thing and doesn't leave that thing, it stays in the same place — namely, itself."

"Yes."

"And what's always in the same place must be at rest."

"Right."

"But on the other hand, what's always in something else can never be in the same place. And if it's never in the same place, it's never at rest. And if not at rest, then in motion."

"True."

"So the One, being always both in itself and in something else, must always be both at rest and in motion."

"It must."

"And it must be the same as itself, and different from itself; and likewise the same as the others, and different from the others. This follows from what we've already shown."

"How?"

"Everything, in relation to everything else, is either the same as it, or different from it. Or if neither the same nor different, then one is a part of the other, or one is a whole of which the other is a part."

"Clearly."

"Now, is the One a part of itself?"

"Certainly not."

"And since it's not a part of itself, it's not related to itself as whole to part."

"No."

"Is the One different from the One?"

"No."

"So it's not different from itself."

"Certainly not."

"If it's neither different from itself, nor a whole to its own part, nor a part of its own whole — then it must be the same as itself."

"It must."

"But then again, a thing that is in a different place from 'itself' — while 'itself' remains in the same place with itself — must be different from 'itself,' mustn't it?"

"I think so."

"And we showed that the One is simultaneously in itself and in something else."

"We did."

"So, it seems, the One will be different from itself."

"It does seem so."

"Now, if anything is different from anything, won't it be different from what is different?"

"Necessarily."

"And everything that's not-one is different from the One, and the One is different from everything that's not-one?"

"Of course."

"So the One is different from the others."

"Different."

"But consider this: 'the same' and 'the different' are opposites of each other, aren't they?"

"Yes."

"Can the same ever be in the different, or the different in the same?"

"No."

"If the different is never in the same, then there's nothing in which the different resides for any span of time — because during that time, however brief, the different would be in the same. Right?"

"Right."

"And since the different is never in the same, it can never be in anything that exists."

"True."

"So the different isn't in the not-one, and it isn't in the One."

"Certainly not."

"Then it's not by virtue of Difference that the One is different from the not-one, or the not-one different from the One."

"No."

"And they're not different from each other by virtue of themselves — not if they don't share in Difference."

"How could they be?"

"So if they're not different by virtue of themselves or by virtue of Difference, they must completely escape being different from one another."

"They must."

"But the not-one can't share in the One either — otherwise it wouldn't be not-one. It would be one in some way."

"True."

"And the not-one can't be a number — because if it had number, it wouldn't be entirely not-one."

"It would not."

"And is the not-one a part of the One? But then it would share in the One."

"It would."

"So if the One and the not-one are utterly distinct from each other in every way — the One isn't part or whole of the not-one, and the not-one isn't part or whole of the One..."

"Right."

"But we said that things that are neither parts nor wholes of each other, nor different from each other, will be the same as each other."

"We did."

"Then shall we say the One, standing in this relation to the not-one, is the same as it?"

"Let's say so."

"So the One is both the same as itself and the same as the others, and also different from itself and different from the others."

"That appears to be the conclusion."

"And it will be both like and unlike itself and the others."

"How?"

"Since the One was shown to be different from the others, the others are also different from the One."

"Yes."

"And the One is different from the others to the same degree that the others are different from it — neither more nor less."

"Right."

"And if neither more nor less, then to a like degree."

"Yes."

"So insofar as the One is affected by being different from the others, and the others are affected in the same way relative to it, the One is affected in the same way as the others."

"What do you mean?"

"Think of it with names. You give a name to something?"

"Yes."

"And you can say the name once, or many times?"

"Yes."

"When you say it once, you name the thing the name belongs to. And when you say it many times, is it something different you're naming? Or is it always the same thing, whether you say the name once or a hundred times?"

"The same thing, of course."

"Now, 'different' is a name given to something?"

"Yes."

"So whenever you use the word 'different' — once or many times — you're naming the thing that word applies to, and nothing else."

"Necessarily."

"So when we say that the others are different from the One and the One is different from the others, we're using the word 'different' twice, but we're applying it to the same nature — the nature of Difference. Right?"

"Yes."

"Then the One, being different from the others, and the others, being different from the One — they share the same affection of 'being different.' And what shares the same affection is alike."

"Yes."

"So insofar as the One is different from the others, everything will be like everything else — because everything is different from everything else."

"It seems so."

"But the like is the opposite of the unlike."

"Yes."

"And the different is the opposite of the same."

"Yes."

"And we also showed that the One is the same as the others."

"We did."

"And being the same as the others is the opposite of being different from them."

"Right."

"And insofar as it was different, it was shown to be like."

"Yes."

"But insofar as it's the same, it will be unlike — because the affection of sameness is the opposite of the affection of difference, and it was the affection of difference that made it like."

"Yes."

"So the sameness makes it unlike. Otherwise sameness wouldn't be the opposite of difference."

"That follows."

"Then the One is both like and unlike the others — like insofar as it's different, and unlike insofar as it's the same."

"That argument works."

"And there's another argument too."

"What?"

"Insofar as it's affected in the same way, it's not affected differently. And not being affected differently, it's not unlike. And not being unlike, it's like. But insofar as it's affected by being different, it's affected otherwise. And being affected otherwise, it's unlike."

"True."

"So because the One is both the same as the others and different from the others — on either ground, or on both together — it will be both like and unlike the others."

"Certainly."

"And in the same way, since it was shown to be both different from itself and the same as itself — on either ground and on both — it will be both like and unlike itself."

"Necessarily."

"And what about this: can the One touch or not touch itself and the others? Let's consider."

"Let's."

"We showed that the One is in itself as a whole."

"Yes."

"And also in other things."

"Yes."

"Insofar as it's in other things, it would touch them. Insofar as it's in itself, it would be prevented from touching them and would touch only itself."

"That follows."

"So it would touch both itself and the others."

"It would."

Parmenides (Part 2)

"But consider a new point. For something to touch something else, mustn't it be right next to it — occupying the adjacent position?"

"It must."

"So the One, if it's to touch itself, would need to be situated right next to itself, occupying the position next to its own."

"Yes."

"But that would require the One to be two things, in two places at once. And as long as it's one, that can never happen."

"It can't."

"So the One can't touch itself, any more than it can be two."

"Right."

"And it can't touch the others either."

"Why not?"

"Because for two things to be in contact, whatever touches the other must be separate from it but right next to it, with nothing between them."

"True."

"So you need at least two things to have contact."

"Yes."

"And if you add a third item in sequence, you get three terms and two contacts."

"Right."

"And every additional term adds one more contact. So the number of contacts is always one fewer than the number of terms. The first two terms exceeded the contacts by one, and every term added after that maintains the same pattern: the total number of terms always exceeds the total number of contacts by one."

"Right."

"So whatever the total number of things, the contacts are always one fewer."

"Yes."

"But if there's only one thing, and not two, there can be no contact."

"How could there be?"

"Now, we said that the others — being other than the One — are not one and have no part in the One."

"Right."

"So they have no number, since they have no one-ness in them."

"Of course not."

"Then the others are neither one, nor two, nor can they be called by any number at all."

"No."

"So the One alone is one, and two doesn't exist."

"Clearly not."

"And without two, there's no contact."

"There is not."

"So neither does the One touch the others, nor the others touch the One — since there is no contact."

"There isn't."

"Therefore, for all these reasons, the One both touches and does not touch — both itself and the others."

EQUAL AND UNEQUAL

"Next: is the One equal and unequal to itself and the others?"

"How do you mean?"

"If the One were greater or less than the others, or the others greater or less than the One, that wouldn't be because of their being the One and the others as such. It would only be if, in addition to being what they are, they also had equality, or if one side had Greatness and the other Smallness — or vice versa."

"Of course."

"So there must be two real natures — Greatness and Smallness. If they didn't exist, they couldn't be opposed to each other or present in things."

"Right."

"Now, if Smallness is present in the One, it would be either in the whole or in a part of it."

"It would have to be."

"Suppose it's in the whole. Then it would either be spread equally throughout the One, co-extensive with it — or it would contain the One."

"Yes."

"If Smallness were co-extensive with the One, it would be equal to the One. And if it contained the One, it would be greater than the One."

"Yes."

"But can Smallness be equal to something, or greater than something? Those are the functions of Equality and Greatness — not of Smallness."

"Impossible."

"So Smallness can't be in the whole of the One. If anywhere, only in a part."

"Right."

"But not in all of a part either — because then the same problem recurs. It would be equal to or greater than whatever part it's in."

"Right."

"So Smallness won't be in anything — not in a whole, not in a part. Nothing will be small except Smallness itself."

"It seems so."

"And Greatness won't be in the One either. Because if Greatness were in something, there would be something else — besides Greatness itself — that is greater: namely, the thing containing it. And this would be so even though Smallness isn't present for the great thing to exceed. But that's impossible, since Smallness is entirely absent."

"True."

"Now, absolute Greatness is only greater than absolute Smallness, and absolute Smallness is only smaller than absolute Greatness."

"Right."

"So the others are neither greater nor less than the One — since they have neither Greatness nor Smallness. And Greatness and Smallness have no power of exceeding or being exceeded in relation to the One — only in relation to each other. And the One can't be greater or less than them or the others — since it too has neither Greatness nor Smallness."

"It seems not."

"So if the One is neither greater nor less than the others, it can't exceed them or be exceeded by them."

"No."

"And what neither exceeds nor is exceeded must be on an equal footing. And being on an equal footing, it must be equal."

"Yes."

"And the same holds for the One in relation to itself. Having neither Greatness nor Smallness within itself, it can't exceed or be exceeded by itself. So it's on an equal footing with and equal to itself."

"That follows."

"Then the One is equal to both itself and the others."

"Clearly."

"And yet, the One, being in itself, also surrounds itself and is outside itself. As the container, it's greater than itself; as the contained, it's less than itself. So the One is both greater and less than itself."

"It is."

"Now, there can't possibly be anything that isn't included in either the One or the others, can there?"

"Of course not."

"And whatever exists must be somewhere."

"Yes."

"And what's in something is less than what it's in — the container is always greater than the contained."

"Right."

"Since there's nothing besides the One and the others, and they must be in something, they must be in each other — the One in the others and the others in the One. There's nowhere else for them to be."

"That's clear."

"Now, insofar as the One is in the others, the others are greater than the One because they contain it, and the One is less because it's contained. But insofar as the others are in the One, the One is greater than the others by the same principle, and the others are less than the One."

"It seems so."

"So the One is equal to, and greater than, and less than both itself and the others."

"It is."

"And if greater, less, and equal — then it has equal measures, more measures, and fewer measures than itself and the others. And if it has different measures, it also has different parts."

"Of course."

"And having equal, more, and fewer measures — it would also be equal, greater, and less in number than itself and the others."

"How so?"

"It has more measures than what it exceeds, and as many parts as measures. The same for what it's equal to, and for what it's less than."

"Yes."

"So being greater, less, and equal to itself — it has equal measures, more measures, and fewer measures than itself. And if measures, then parts."

"Right."

"And having equal parts, it's numerically equal to itself. Having more parts, more in number. Having fewer parts, fewer in number."

"Obviously."

"And the same applies to its relation to the others: insofar as it's greater, it's more in number; insofar as it's smaller, fewer; insofar as it's equal in size, equal in number."

"Necessarily."

"So once again, the One is equal in number to, and more than, and fewer than, both itself and all the others."

"It is."

TIME AND BECOMING

"Does the One also participate in time? Does it become older and younger than itself and the others — and also neither younger nor older?"

"What do you mean?"

"If the One is, then 'being' must be attributed to it."

"Yes."

"And 'to be' is just participation in being in the present time. 'To have been' is participation in being at a past time. 'To be about to be' is participation in being at a future time."

"Right."

"So the One, since it participates in being, participates in time."

"Yes."

"And isn't time always moving forward?"

"It is."

"Then the One is always becoming older than itself, since it moves forward in time."

"Yes."

"And remember — what's older is older relative to what's younger?"

"I remember."

"So since the One becomes older than itself, it's becoming older than something that's becoming younger. And that something is itself. So it becomes younger than itself at the same time."

"It must."

"So the One becomes both older and younger than itself."

"Yes."

"And it is older when, in the process of becoming, it reaches the present moment — the point between 'was' and 'will be.' Because surely, in moving from the past to the future, it can't skip over the present."

"No, it can't."

"And when it reaches the present, it stops becoming older. It no longer becomes — it is. If it kept going, the present would never catch it. It's the nature of what's in motion to touch both the present and the future — letting go of the present and reaching for the future — passing between them as it becomes."

"True."

"But what's in the process of becoming can't skip the present. When it reaches the present, it stops becoming and just is whatever it happens to be becoming."

"Right."

"So the One, when in the process of becoming older it reaches the present, stops becoming and is older."

"Yes."

"And it's older than what it was becoming older than — namely, itself."

"Yes."

"And what's older is older than what's younger?"

"Yes."

"So the One is younger than itself — at the moment when, becoming older, it reaches the present."

"That follows."

"But the present is always present with the One throughout all its existence. Whenever it is, it's always now."

"Of course."

"Then the One always both is and is becoming older and younger than itself."

"It seems so."

"And does it exist or become for a longer time than itself, or the same time?"

"The same time."

"But what exists for the same time as itself is the same age as itself."

"Of course."

"And what's the same age is neither older nor younger."

"No."

"So the One, existing and becoming for the same time as itself, is neither older nor younger than itself."

"I'd say not."

"Now, what about its relation to the others? Does it become older or younger than they?"

"I can't say."

"But you can at least say this: the things other than the One are more than one — since the others are plural, not singular."

"Yes, they're many."

"And a multitude has a number greater than one."

"Of course."

"Now, which comes first — the lesser or the greater?"

"The lesser."

"And the least is the first. And that's the One."

"Yes."

"So the One, of all things that have number, came into being first. And all the other things also have number, since they're many."

"They do."

"And what came first must have come before the others. The others came later. And what comes later is younger than what came before."

"Yes."

"So the others are younger than the One, and the One is older."

"It would seem so."

"But what about this: can the One have come into being contrary to its own nature?"

"Impossible."

"And yet, we showed that the One has parts — and if parts, then a beginning, middle, and end."

"Yes."

"And a beginning — of the One itself, and of everything else — comes into being first, doesn't it? After the beginning come the rest of the parts, all the way to the end."

"Yes."

"And all these 'rest of the parts' are parts of the whole — of the One. The One becomes whole and one only when the end is reached."

"Exactly."

"But the end comes last. And the One, by its nature, comes into being with the last part — simultaneously with the end. Since the One can't violate its own nature, its nature requires it to come into being together with the end, after everything else."

"That's right."

"So the One is younger than the others, and the others are older."

"That also seems right."

"But consider: must not a beginning, or any other part of something — if it's truly a part and not multiple parts — be itself one thing?"

"Necessarily."

"So the One comes into being together with each part as it comes into being — with the first part, the second, and all the rest. It's present throughout the process. It isn't absent from any part being added to any other, all the way to the last, when the whole becomes one. The One is missing from nothing — not the middle, not the first, not the last, not any of them."

"Right."

"Then the One is the same age as all the others. So if the One doesn't contradict its own nature, it came into being neither before nor after the others — but simultaneously. And by this argument, the One is neither older nor younger than the others, nor they than it. But by the previous argument, the One was both older and younger than the others, and the others than the One."

"Exactly."

"So much for how it is and has become. But what about whether it becomes older and younger, or neither? The same question arises for becoming as for being. What do we say?"

"I can't answer."

"But I can venture this much: even if one thing is older or younger than another, it can't become older or younger by a greater difference than it started with. When you add equals to unequals — whether periods of time or anything else — the difference between them stays the same."

"Of course."

"So something that exists can't become older or younger than something else that exists — the age difference is always the same. The One is older and has become older, and the other is younger and has become younger. But they don't keep becoming more so."

"True."

"So the One, which exists, doesn't keep becoming older or younger than the others, which exist."

"No."

"But consider whether they might become older and younger in another way."

"What way?"

"The One was shown to be older than the others, and the others older than the One."

"Yes."

"When the One is older than the others, it has been in existence for a longer time."

"Right."

"But think: if you add an equal amount of time to a longer time and a shorter time, the longer will differ from the shorter by a smaller proportion than before."

"Yes."

"So the difference in age between the One and the others won't be as great afterwards as it was at first. If equal time is added to both, the age difference becomes proportionally smaller."

"Right."

"And what differs in age from something else by less than before — isn't it becoming younger relative to what it used to be older than?"

"Yes, younger."

"And if the One is becoming younger relative to the others, then the others are becoming older relative to the One."

"Yes."

"So what had become younger keeps becoming older relative to what had become and was older. They never actually are older or younger — they're always in the process of becoming so. The One keeps becoming younger relative to the others because it started out older and prior, and the others keep becoming older relative to the One because they came into being later. And the same relationship runs in the other direction too: the others were shown to be older and prior to the One, so the same process applies in reverse.

"They can't have finished becoming, though — because if they had, they would be, not just be becoming. But that's impossible. They're always in the process of becoming both older and younger than each other."

"That's clear."

"So: insofar as the One and the others don't become older or younger than each other — because they always differ by the same amount — the One doesn't become older or younger than the others, nor the others than the One. But insofar as what came into being earlier and what came later must differ by a continually changing proportion — in that respect, they must keep becoming older and younger than each other: the One relative to the others, and the others relative to the One."

"Exactly."

"For all these reasons, then, the One both is and becomes older and younger than itself and the others, and neither is nor becomes older or younger than itself and the others."

"Precisely."

"And since the One participates in time and in becoming older and younger, it must also participate in past, present, and future."

"Of course."

"Then the One was, and is, and will be. It was becoming, is becoming, and will become."

"Right."

"And there is, was, and will be something that stands in relation to it and belongs to it."

"Yes."

"And since right now we have opinion and knowledge and perception of the One, there is opinion and knowledge and perception of it."

"Quite right."

"And there's a name and a description for it. It is named and described. And everything of this kind that belongs to other things also belongs to the One."

"That is certainly true."

THE INSTANT (The Moment Between)

"Now, one more time — for the third time — let's consider this: if the One is both one and many, as we've described, and is also neither one nor many, and participates in time — then, insofar as it's one, mustn't it sometimes participate in being, and insofar as it's not one, sometimes not participate in being?"

"Necessarily."

"But can it participate in being at the very time it's not participating? Or not participate at the very time it is?"

"Impossible."

"So it participates and doesn't participate at different times. That's the only way it can both have and lack the same thing."

"Right."

"And isn't there a time when it takes on being and a time when it lets go of being? How else could it have the same thing at one time and lack it at another, unless it receives and gives it up?"

"No other way."

"Receiving being — isn't that what you'd call coming into being?"

"I would."

"And giving up being — isn't that destruction?"

"Yes."

"So the One, it seems, comes into being and is destroyed — by taking on and letting go of being."

"Necessarily."

"And being both one and many, and in the process of becoming and being destroyed — when it becomes one, it ceases to be many; when it becomes many, it ceases to be one."

"Of course."

"And as it becomes one and many, mustn't it experience separation and combination?"

"It must."

"And whenever it becomes like and unlike, it must undergo assimilation and dissimilation?"

"Yes."

"And when it becomes greater, less, or equal, it must grow, diminish, or be equalized?"

"Right."

"But when it's in motion and then comes to rest, or when it's at rest and then begins to move — it surely can't be in any time at all."

"How so?"

"Think about it: something that's first at rest and then in motion, or first in motion and then at rest — can't do that without changing."

"Of course not."

"And surely there's no time in which something can be simultaneously neither in motion nor at rest."

"There can't be."

"But it also can't change without changing."

"No."

"So when does it change? It can't change while at rest, or while in motion, or while in time."

"Right."

"Does this strange thing really exist — this thing in which it is at the moment of changing?"

"What thing?"

"The instant. The instant seems to be something from which change takes place into one state or another. Change doesn't come from rest as such, or from motion as such. Rather, there's this peculiar nature — the instant — that lies between rest and motion, outside of time. And it's into this and out of this that what's in motion changes into rest, and what's at rest changes into motion."

"So it seems."

"Then the One, since it's both at rest and in motion, must change from one to the other — because only in this way can it be in both states. And in changing, it changes in an instant. And at the moment of changing, it's in no time at all, and is therefore neither in motion nor at rest."

"Right."

"And the same applies to its other transitions: when it passes from being to ceasing-to-be, or from not-being to coming-into-being, it passes between certain states of motion and rest, and at that moment it neither is nor is not, neither comes into being nor is destroyed."

"It seems so."

"And by the same principle, in the passage from one to many and from many to one, it's neither one nor many, neither being separated nor being combined. In the passage from like to unlike and back, it's neither like nor unlike, neither becoming similar nor dissimilar. In the passage from small to great and equal and back again, it's neither small nor great nor equal — neither growing, shrinking, nor being equalized."

"It seems so."

"All these, then, are the consequences for the One, if the One has being."

"Yes."

HYPOTHESIS I.aa: IF THE ONE IS — What follows for the Others

"But shouldn't we also consider what happens to the others, if the One is?"

"We should."

"Then let's show what consequences follow for the things other than the One, if the One is."

"Let's do it."

"Since there are things other than the One, the others are not the One. If they were, they couldn't be other."

"Right."

"But the others are not entirely without the One either. In a way, they participate in it."

"How so?"

"The others are other than the One because they have parts. If they had no parts at all, they would just be one."

"Right."

"And parts, we agree, belong to a whole."

"Yes."

"And this whole must be one thing made up of many. The parts are parts of this one whole — each part is a part not of the many, but of the whole."

"What do you mean?"

"If something were a part of many things, including itself, it would be a part of itself — which is absurd. And it would be a part of each of the other parts, if it's a part of all. But if it's not a part of some particular one, then it would be a part of all the others except that one — and so it wouldn't be a part of each one. And if not a part of each one, it can't be a part of any of the many. And if it's not a part of any of them, it can't be a part or anything else of all those things of which it's a part of none."

"That's clear."

"So a part isn't a part of many things or of all things, but of a single thing — a single nature that we call a 'whole': one complete unity made up of all the parts. That is what the part is a part of."

"Exactly."

"So if the others have parts, they participate in the whole and in the One."

"Precisely."

"Then the things other than the One must be one complete whole with parts."

"They must."

"And the same argument applies to each individual part. Each part must participate in the One too. If each part is a part, 'each' means it's one thing, separate from the rest and existing on its own. Otherwise we couldn't say 'each.'"

"Right."

"But when we say the part participates in the One, it must be something other than the One. If it weren't, it wouldn't merely participate — it would be the One. And nothing can be the One except the One itself."

"Nothing."

"So both the whole and each part must participate in the One. The whole is one whole whose parts are its parts. And each part is one part of the whole."

"Right."

"And won't the things that participate in the One be other than the One?"

"Of course."

"And the things other than the One must be many. If they were neither one nor more than one, they'd be nothing."

"True."

"But since the things that participate in 'the One as a part' and in 'the One as a whole' are more than one — mustn't those very things be infinite in number?"

"How?"

"Look at it this way. When they come to participate in the One, they don't yet have the One, and they're not participating at the very moment they acquire it, right?"

"Right."

"So at that point, they're multitudes in which the One is not present."

"Yes."

"And if we were to abstract the very smallest fraction from them in thought — that smallest fraction, if it doesn't participate in the One, must itself be a multitude and not one."

"It must."

"And if we keep looking at this other nature — the nature of what's other than the Form — considered purely in itself, then as far as we can see, it's unlimited in number."

"Yes."

"And yet, when each part becomes a part, the parts immediately have a limit in relation to the whole and to each other, and the whole has a limit in relation to the parts."

"Exactly."

"So the result for the others is this: their union with the One creates a new element in them — something that gives them limitation in relation to one another. But in their own nature, they have no limit."

"That's clear."

"Then the things other than the One, both as wholes and as parts, are infinite — and also share in limit."

"Yes."

"So they're both like and unlike one another and themselves."

"How?"

"Insofar as they're unlimited in their own nature, they're all affected in the same way."

"Yes."

"And insofar as they all share in limit, they're all affected in the same way."

"Right."

"But insofar as they're both limited and unlimited, they're affected in opposite ways."

"Yes."

"And opposites are the most unlike of things."

"True."

"So considered with respect to either property alone, they're like themselves and each other. Considered with respect to both properties together, they're maximally opposed and maximally unlike."

"It seems so."

"Then the others are both like and unlike themselves and one another."

"They are."

"And they're the same and different from one another, and in motion and at rest, and subject to every sort of opposite property. All of this can be proved without difficulty, since we've already shown they have the properties we described."

"That's right."

HYPOTHESIS I.bb: IF THE ONE IS (taken strictly) — What follows for the Others

"Now let's set aside the further development of these points — they're evident enough. Let's go back and consider: if the One is, is the opposite equally true of the others?"

"By all means."

"If the One is, what must happen to the others? Let's ask."

"Yes."

"The One must be distinct from the others, and the others from the One."

"Why?"

"Because there's nothing else besides them that is distinct from both. The phrase 'the One and the others' covers everything."

"Everything."

"So there's nothing outside them in which they could both exist."

"Nothing."

"Then the One and the others are never in the same thing."

"It seems not."

"So they're separated from each other."

"Yes."

"And we said that what is truly one has no parts."

"Of course."

"Then the One can't be in the others as a whole or as a part, if it's separated from them and has no parts."

"No."

"So there's no way the others can participate in the One — if they can't share in it either as a whole or as a part."

"It seems not."

"Then there's no way the others are one, and they have no unity in them whatsoever."

"There isn't."

"And the others aren't many either. If they were many, each part of them would be a part of the whole. But the others, not participating in the One in any way, are neither one nor many, neither whole nor part."

"Right."

"So the others neither are nor contain two or three — since they're entirely deprived of the One."

"Right."

"And the others are neither like nor unlike the One, and they don't contain likeness or unlikeness. If they were like and unlike, or contained likeness and unlikeness, they'd have two natures in them that are opposite to each other."

"That's clear."

"But it's impossible for something that participates in nothing to participate in two things."

"Impossible."

"So the others are neither like nor unlike, nor both. If they were like or unlike, they'd participate in one of those natures — which would be one thing. If they were both, they'd participate in two opposites — which would be two things. And we showed both are impossible."

"Right."

"Therefore they're neither the same nor different, neither in motion nor at rest, neither coming into being nor being destroyed, neither greater nor less nor equal. They don't experience anything of that sort. If they did, they'd be participating in one and two and three, in odd and even — and we proved they can't participate in any of these, since they're completely and utterly devoid of the One."

"That's right."

"Therefore, if the One is, the One is everything and also nothing, both in relation to itself and to the others."

"Exactly."

HYPOTHESIS II.a: IF THE ONE IS NOT (taken as meaningful negation) — What follows for the One

"Very well. Shouldn't we next consider what follows if the One is not?"

"Yes, we should."

"What does this hypothesis mean: 'if the One is not'? Is it different from saying 'if the not-One is not'?"

"Of course it's different."

"Just different? Or are the two expressions — 'if the One is not' and 'if the not-One is not' — actually complete opposites?"

"Complete opposites."

"Now, when someone says 'if Greatness is not' or 'if Smallness is not' or anything like that — whenever they use such an expression, they clearly mean that what 'is not' is other than other things. Agreed?"

"Yes."

"So when someone says 'if the One is not,' they clearly mean that what 'is not' is other than everything else. We know what they mean."

"We do."

"When someone says 'the One,' they're referring to something known. And secondly, something other than everything else. It makes no difference whether they say the One exists or doesn't exist — what 'does not exist' is still known to be something, and is still distinguished from other things."

"Necessarily."

"So let me start from the beginning. If the One is not, what follows? First, it seems, there must be knowledge of it — otherwise, the phrase 'if the One is not' wouldn't even be meaningful."

"True."

"Second, the others must differ from it — otherwise, it couldn't be described as different from the others."

"Right."

"So Difference belongs to it, as well as knowledge. When we speak of the One as different from the others, we're not talking about a difference in the others — we're talking about a difference in the One."

"Clearly."

"Furthermore, the One-that-is-not is something. It participates in relation to 'that,' 'this,' 'these,' and the like. It's an attribute of 'this.' Because the One, and the things other than the One, couldn't have been spoken of at all — nor could any attribute or relation of the One-that-is-not have been mentioned — if the One didn't participate in 'some' and in these other relations."

"Right."

"Being can't be attributed to the One, since the One is not. But the One-that-is-not may — indeed must — participate in many things, if it and nothing else is what is not. If we were talking about something else not-being, not the One specifically, we couldn't say anything about it. But if it's specifically the One that is not, then it must participate in 'that' and in many other predicates."

"Certainly."

"And it will have unlikeness in relation to the others. The others, being different from the One, are of a different kind."

"Yes."

"And things of a different kind are other in kind?"

"Of course."

"And things other in kind are unlike?"

"They are."

"So if the others are unlike the One, then the One — that which they're unlike — must be unlike them."

"Clearly."

"Then the One has unlikeness, in respect of which the others are unlike it."

"It seems so."

"And if it has unlikeness to the others, mustn't it have likeness to itself?"

"How so?"

"If the One had unlikeness to the One, we wouldn't be talking about something with the nature of the One. Our hypothesis wouldn't be about the One at all — it would be about something other than the One."

"Right."

"But that can't be."

"No."

"So the One must have likeness to itself."

"It must."

"Again: the One is not equal to the others. If it were equal, it would already exist and be like them by virtue of the equality. But if the One has no being, then it can neither exist nor be like."

"No, it can't."

"And since the One isn't equal to the others, the others can't be equal to it either."

"Certainly not."

"And things that are not equal are unequal?"

"Yes."

"And they're unequal to something unequal?"

"Yes."

"So the One participates in inequality — and in respect of this inequality, the others are unequal to it."

"It does."

"And inequality implies Greatness and Smallness."

"It does."

"So the One, being of this nature, has both Greatness and Smallness."

"It appears so."

"And Greatness and Smallness always stand apart from each other."

"Yes."

"So there's always something between them."

"Yes."

"Can you think of anything between them other than Equality?"

"No — it's Equality that lies between them."

"Then whatever has Greatness and Smallness also has Equality, which lies between them."

"That's clear."

"So the One-that-is-not, it seems, participates in Greatness, Smallness, and Equality."

"It seems so."

"And it must also, in some way, participate in being."

"How?"

"It must be the case that things are as we're saying. Because if they're not, then we're not speaking the truth when we say the One is not. But if we are speaking the truth, then clearly we're saying what is. Right?"

"Right."

"And since we affirm that we speak truly, we must be saying what is."

"We must."

"So the One-that-is-not has being — in a sense. It has the being of not-being. If it were to let go of not-being, it would at once be. So it must hold onto the being of not-being in order to maintain its not-being."

"Exactly."

"Just as what-is must have the not-being of not-being in order to fully be, so what-is-not must have the being of not-being in order to fully not-be. The truest statement about being is that being participates in being — not in the being of not-being. And the truest statement about not-being is that not-being participates in the being of not-being — not in the not-being of not-being."

"Absolutely."

"So since what-is participates in not-being, and what-is-not participates in being, the One — in order not to be — must participate in being."

"It must."

"Then the One, if it is not, clearly has being."

"Clearly."

"And it has not-being too — since it is not."

"Of course."

"Now, can something that's in one state pass to another state without changing?"

"Impossible."

"So everything that both is and is not in some state implies change."

"Yes."

"And change is motion."

"Yes."

"And the One was shown both to be and not to be."

"It was."

"So it both is and is not in the same state."

"Yes."

"Then the One-that-is-not has been shown to be in motion, since it changes from being to not-being."

"It seems so."

"But if it's nowhere among the things that are — and it is nowhere, since it is not — then it can't change from one place to another."

"Of course not."

"So it can't move by changing place."

"No."

"Nor can it spin in the same spot, because it nowhere touches 'the same.' 'The same' is something that is, and what is not can't be among the things that are."

"Right."

"So the One, if it is not, can't spin in that in which it is not."

"No."

"And the One, whether it is or is not, can't be altered into something other than itself. If it were altered and became different from itself, we'd no longer be talking about the One — we'd be talking about something else."

"Right."

"But if it's not altered, and doesn't spin, and doesn't change place — can it be in motion at all?"

"It seems not."

"And what's unmoved must be at rest. And what's at rest must stand still."

"It must."

"So the One-that-is-not both stands still and is in motion."

"It seems so."

"But if it's in motion, it must undergo alteration. Anything that moves, insofar as it moves, is no longer in the same state but in a different one."

"Right."

"So the One, being in motion, is altered."

"Yes."

"And if not in motion in any way, then not altered in any way."

"No."

"So insofar as the One-that-is-not is in motion, it's altered. But insofar as it's not in motion, it's not altered."

"Right."

"Then the One-that-is-not is both altered and not altered."

"That's clear."

"And mustn't what's altered become other than it previously was, and lose its former state — which is destruction? And mustn't what's not altered neither come into being nor be destroyed?"

"Yes."

"So the One-that-is-not, being altered, both comes into being and is destroyed. And not being altered, it neither comes into being nor is destroyed. And so the One-that-is-not both comes into being and is destroyed — and neither comes into being nor is destroyed."

"Right."

HYPOTHESIS II.b: IF THE ONE IS NOT (taken absolutely) — What follows for the One

"Now let's go back to the beginning once more, and see whether the same conclusions follow or different ones."

"Let's do that."

"If the One is not, we're asking: what follows for the One?"

"Yes."

"When we say 'is not,' don't we mean a complete absence of being from whatever we apply those words to?"

"Completely."

"So when we say something 'is not,' we mean it is in no way and in no sense whatsoever. What is not has absolutely no participation in being."

"Absolutely."

"Then what is not can't be, and can't participate in being in any way."

"No."

"And didn't we define coming into being as the assumption of being, and destruction as the loss of being?"

"We did."

"Then something with no participation in being can neither assume nor lose it."

"No."

"So the One, since it in no way is, can't take on, lose, or have being in any way."

"Right."

"Then the One-that-is-not doesn't perish and doesn't come into being — since it in no way participates in being."

"No."

"And it's not altered at all. If it were, it would be coming into being and being destroyed."

"True."

"And if it's not altered, it can't be in motion."

"It can't."

"And we can't say it stands still either, if it's nowhere. What stands still must always be in one and the same place."

"Of course."

"So the One-that-is-not never stands still and never moves."

"No."

"And nothing that exists can be attributed to it. If anything could, it would participate in being."

"That's clear."

"So neither Smallness, nor Greatness, nor Equality can be attributed to it."

"No."

"Nor Likeness, nor Difference — either in relation to itself or to the others."

"Clearly not."

"And can the others be attributed to it? No — because nothing at all can be attributed to it."

"Right."

"So the others can't be like it or unlike it, the same as it or different from it."

"They can't."

"And what is not can't be anything, or be this thing, or be related to this or that or another. It can't be past, present, or future. Knowledge, opinion, perception, language, a name — nothing that exists has any connection with it."

"Nothing."

"Then the One-that-is-not has no condition of any kind."

"That seems to be the conclusion."

HYPOTHESIS II.aa: IF THE ONE IS NOT (taken as meaningful negation) — What follows for the Others

"Once more: if the One is not, what happens to the others? Let's figure that out."

"Yes, let's."

"The others must exist in some way — because if they didn't, we couldn't even be talking about them."

"True."

"And to speak of 'the others' implies difference. 'Other' and 'different' are synonymous."

"Yes."

"'Other' means other than something. 'Different' means different from something."

"Yes."

"So if there are others, there must be something they're other than."

"There must."

"And what could that be? Not the One — since the One is not."

"Not the One."

"Then they're other than each other. That's the only remaining option — unless they're other than nothing."

"Right."

"And they're each other than one another as groups or masses — they can't be other as individual units, since the One is not. Rather, every mass of them is infinite in number. Even if you take what appears to be the smallest fraction, it instantly dissolves into many — like something in a dream. What seemed one and smallest suddenly turns out to be vast, compared to the fragments it splits into."

"Right."

"And it's in such masses that the others are other than one another, if the others exist but the One does not."

"Exactly."

"And there will be many such masses, each appearing to be one but not actually being one — since the One doesn't exist."

"Right."

"And it would seem that number can be applied to them — since each one appears to be one, even though it's really many."

"Yes."

"And there will seem to be odd and even among them — but none of this is real, if the One is not."

"No."

"And there will appear to be a smallest among them. But even this smallest appears large and manifold, compared to the many small fractions it contains."

"Right."

"And each mass will seem equal to the many small parts within it. It couldn't seem to pass from larger to smaller without appearing to pass through equality in between."

"That makes sense."

"And each mass will appear to have a limit in relation to the others and to itself — even though it has neither beginning, middle, nor end."

"How?"

"Because whenever you think of any one of these as having a beginning, another beginning always appears before it. After every end, there's always another end remaining. And in every middle, there are truer middles within — but smaller ones. You can't conceive of any of them as a unity, since the One doesn't exist."

"Right."

"So all being, whatever we think of, must shatter into fragments. Every particle has to be conceived without unity."

"Necessarily."

"And such being, when seen indistinctly and from a distance, appears to be one. But when seen up close and with a sharp mind, each individual thing appears to be infinite — since it's deprived of the One, which doesn't exist."

"Nothing is more certain."

"Then each of the others must appear to be both infinite and finite, one and many — if the One is not and the others exist."

"They must."

"And won't they appear to be like and unlike?"

"In what way?"

"Think of it like a painting. Things in a painting appear to be all one thing to someone standing at a distance — they look like they're in the same condition, all alike."

"Yes."

"But when you get closer, they appear to be many and different. And because of the appearance of difference, they seem different in kind from one another — unlike."

"Yes."

"So the masses must appear to be like and unlike themselves and each other."

"They must."

"And they'll appear to be the same and yet different from one another, in contact with themselves yet separated, having every kind of motion and every kind of rest, coming into being and being destroyed and in neither state. They'll have all such properties — as we could easily spell out — if the One is not and the many are."

"Very true."

HYPOTHESIS II.bb: IF THE ONE IS NOT (taken absolutely) — What follows for the Others

"Now, one last time. Let's go back to the beginning and ask: if the One is not, and the others of the One are — what follows?"

"Let's ask."

"First, the others will not be one."

"Obviously."

"And they won't be many either. Because if they were many, the One would be contained in them. And if none of them is one, they're all nothing — and therefore not many."

"True."

"If there's no One in the others, the others are neither many nor one."

"They're not."

"And they don't even appear to be one or many."

"Why not?"

"Because the others have no connection of any kind with anything that is not. Nothing that is not can be associated with any of the others — because what is not has no parts."

"True."

"So there's no appearance or impression of not-being in the others. Not-being is never in any way attributed to the others."

"No."

"Then if the One is not, none of the others can be conceived of as one or as many. Because you can't conceive of many without the One."

"You can't."

"So if the One is not, the others neither are nor can be conceived to be either one or many."

"It would seem not."

"Nor like or unlike."

"No."

"Nor the same or different. Not in contact or separated. Not in any of the states we just described as appearing to belong to them. The others neither are nor appear to be any of these things, if the One is not."

"True."

"Then may we not sum up the whole argument in a word and say truly: if the One is not, then nothing is?"

"We may indeed."

"Then let this much be said. And let us further affirm what seems to be the truth: whether the One is or is not, the One and the others, in relation to themselves and to one another — all of them, in every way — both are and are not, and both appear to be and appear not to be."

"Most true."

Sophist (Part 1)

Persons of the dialogue:
  Theodorus
  Theaetetus
  Socrates
  An Eleatic Stranger, whom Theodorus and Theaetetus bring with them
  The younger Socrates, who is a silent auditor

Theodorus: Here we are, Socrates, right on schedule as we agreed yesterday. And we've brought a guest with us — a stranger from Elea, a student of Parmenides and Zeno. A true philosopher.

Socrates: Are you sure he's not a god in disguise, Theodorus? Homer says the gods — especially the god of strangers — travel alongside the humble and the just, watching how humans behave, good and bad alike. Maybe your companion here is one of those higher powers, a cross-examining deity who's come to test our arguments and expose our weaknesses.

Theodorus: No, Socrates, he's not the argumentative type — he's too good for that. Still, I wouldn't call him a god exactly. But he's certainly divine. That's a title I'd give to all genuine philosophers.

Socrates: Well said, my friend! Though I'd add that philosophers are nearly as hard to recognize as gods. The real ones — not the ones who just play the part — show up in all kinds of forms, and most people don't recognize them. They "hover about cities," as Homer puts it, looking down on human life from above. Some people think nothing of them. Others can't stop thinking about them. Sometimes they show up looking like statesmen, sometimes like sophists, and sometimes — to many people — they look like outright lunatics. I'd love to ask our Eleatic friend here what people back in Italy think about all this, and who gets called what.

Theodorus: What do you mean? Which terms?

Socrates: Sophist, statesman, philosopher.

Theodorus: What's the difficulty? What made you ask?

Socrates: I want to know whether people in his part of the world think these are one thing, or two, or — since there are three names — three genuinely different kinds of person.

Theodorus: I'm sure the Stranger wouldn't mind discussing that. What do you say, Stranger?

Stranger: Not at all, Theodorus. I've got no problem answering: we consider them to be three distinct types. But defining precisely what each one is — that's no small or easy task.

Theodorus: Well, Socrates, you've happened to ask almost the exact question we were putting to our friend on the way here. He gave us the same excuse he's giving you now — though he admitted the topic had been thoroughly discussed before, and that he remembered the arguments well.

Socrates: Then please, Stranger, don't deny us the very first favor we ask. Just tell me this: do you usually prefer to work through a topic by giving a long speech, or do you prefer the question-and-answer method? I remember hearing a truly remarkable discussion once, when Parmenides himself used the question-and-answer approach. I was a young man then, and he was very old.

Stranger: I prefer talking with someone who responds agreeably and is easy to work with. If not, I'd rather just give a speech on my own.

Socrates: Well, anyone here would be happy to oblige, so take your pick. But I'd suggest you choose a young person — Theaetetus, for example — unless you'd prefer someone else.

Stranger: I'll be honest, Socrates — being a newcomer to your group, I feel a bit awkward launching into a long monologue instead of having a proper conversation. It would look like I'm showing off. The real answer to this question is going to be very long — much longer than you'd expect from what seems like a simple question. At the same time, it would be rude to refuse your request, especially after what you've said. So I'm happy to take Theaetetus as my conversation partner, since I've already talked with him and you recommend him.

Theaetetus: But are you sure, Stranger, that the rest of the group will be as happy with this arrangement as Socrates thinks?

Stranger: You hear them clapping, Theaetetus. That settles it. All right then — I'll be working through this with you, and if you get tired of the argument, blame your friends, not me.

Theaetetus: I don't think I'll get tired. But if I do, I've got my friend here — young Socrates, the namesake of the older Socrates — to help out. He's about my age, my training partner at the gymnasium, and we work together all the time.

Stranger: Good. You can make that call as we go. For now, let's begin together by investigating the nature of the sophist — the first of our three types. I'd like you to work out what he actually is and bring him into the light through discussion. Right now, we only agree on the name. But what exactly the thing is that we're both calling a "sophist" — we might each have a different idea. And we should always try to reach agreement about the thing itself through a clear definition, not just agree on the name without one.

Now, the tribe of sophists isn't easy to catch or define. And it's a well-established principle that if you want to tackle big subjects properly, you should practice on smaller, easier examples first. So since the sophist is a tricky and elusive target, I'd suggest we warm up our method on something simpler before we go after him. Unless you've got a better approach?

Theaetetus: I don't, actually.

Stranger: Then how about we work through some lesser example that can serve as a pattern for the bigger one?

Theaetetus: Sounds good.

Stranger: What's something familiar and unimportant that's just as open to definition as anything grand? How about an angler? Everyone knows what one is, and he's not exactly a fascinating subject.

Theaetetus: He's not.

Stranger: And yet I suspect he'll give us exactly the kind of definition and line of inquiry we need.

Theaetetus: Works for me.

Stranger: Let's start by asking: is the angler a man with a skill, or someone without any skill who has some other kind of ability?

Theaetetus: He's clearly a man with a skill.

Stranger: And there are two kinds of skill, aren't there?

Theaetetus: What are they?

Stranger: There's farming, the care of living creatures, the building and shaping of tools and containers, and the art of imitation — all of these can be grouped under a single heading.

Theaetetus: What heading?

Stranger: When someone brings into existence something that didn't exist before, we say he's a producer, and the thing he brings into existence is said to be produced.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: And all the skills I just mentioned have this power of producing?

Theaetetus: They do.

Stranger: Then let's group them under the name productive or creative skill.

Theaetetus: Very good.

Stranger: Now, the other whole class includes learning, gaining knowledge, trade, fighting, and hunting. None of these produces anything. They're all about acquiring — capturing by word or deed, or preventing others from capturing, things that already exist. So across all these branches, there seems to be a skill we could call acquisitive.

Theaetetus: Yes, that's the right name.

Stranger: So all skills are either acquisitive or creative. Which class does angling belong to?

Theaetetus: Clearly the acquisitive class.

Stranger: And the acquisitive can be split into two parts. There's exchange, which is voluntary — gifts, hiring, purchasing. And then there's the other part, which takes things by force of word or deed. We could call that conquest.

Theaetetus: That follows from what we've said.

Stranger: And can't conquest be divided further?

Theaetetus: How?

Stranger: Open force we'll call fighting. Secret force we'll call hunting.

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: And there's no reason we can't divide hunting further.

Theaetetus: How would you divide it?

Stranger: Into the hunting of living things and the hunting of lifeless things.

Theaetetus: Sure, if both kinds exist.

Stranger: Of course they do. But hunting lifeless things doesn't really have a proper name — aside from a few minor cases like diving and the like — so let's set that aside. The hunting of living things we'll call animal hunting.

Theaetetus: Fine.

Stranger: And animal hunting has two divisions: land-animal hunting, which has many forms and names, and water-animal hunting — hunting creatures that swim.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: And among swimming creatures, some live in the air and some in the water.

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: Hunting birds in general we call fowling.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: And hunting creatures that live in the water we generally call fishing.

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: Now, can't this kind of hunting be divided into two main types?

Theaetetus: What are they?

Stranger: One type catches fish with nets, the other strikes them with a blow.

Theaetetus: What do you mean? How do you tell them apart?

Stranger: Well, anything that surrounds and encloses something to keep it from getting out can properly be called an enclosure.

Theaetetus: Very true.

Stranger: So wicker traps, casting nets, snares, creels, and the like would all count as enclosures?

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: So we can call this first kind of capture "enclosure fishing," or something like that.

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: The other kind, which uses a blow — with hooks and trident-style spears — we could call strike fishing. Unless you've got a better name, Theaetetus?

Theaetetus: Don't worry about the name. What you've suggested works fine.

Stranger: There's one kind of strike fishing done at night, by firelight. The fishermen themselves call it torch fishing or fire-spearing.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: And fishing by day is called barb fishing, since the spears are barbed at the point.

Theaetetus: Yes, that's the term.

Stranger: In barb fishing, the type that strikes downward at fish below is called spearing — that's how three-pronged spears are usually used.

Theaetetus: Yes, people do call it that.

Stranger: Now there's only one kind left.

Theaetetus: What's that?

Stranger: When you use a hook, and instead of hitting the fish on just any part of its body like a spear does, you catch it by the head and mouth, then draw it upward from below with a rod and line — what's the right name for that, Theaetetus?

Theaetetus: I think we've just found what we were looking for.

Stranger: So now you and I agree not just on the name "angler" but on the definition of the thing itself. Here's the full chain: half of all skill is acquisitive. Half of acquisitive skill is conquest. Half of conquest is hunting. Half of hunting is animal hunting. Half of animal hunting is water hunting. The lower half of water hunting is fishing. Half of fishing is strike fishing. Half of strike fishing is barb fishing. And the part of barb fishing that strikes with a hook and draws the fish upward from below — that's the skill we've been looking for. From the nature of the operation, it's called angling.

Theaetetus: That's been worked out very satisfactorily.

Stranger: Now, following this pattern, let's try to figure out what a sophist is.

Theaetetus: Absolutely.

Stranger: Our first question about the angler was whether he was a skilled practitioner or unskilled.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: So should we call our new subject unskilled, or a thorough master of his craft?

Theaetetus: Certainly not unskilled. His very name — "sophist" — implies some kind of expertise.

Stranger: Then he must have some skill. But what kind?

Theaetetus: What kind?

Stranger: Good heavens — they're cousins! I never noticed it before.

Theaetetus: Who are cousins?

Stranger: The angler and the sophist.

Theaetetus: How are they related?

Stranger: They both look like hunters to me.

Theaetetus: What does the sophist hunt? We've already covered the angler.

Stranger: Remember how we divided hunting into water-animal hunting and land-animal hunting?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: And we went through the water side but left land animals alone, noting that there were many kinds?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: So up to that point, the sophist and the angler travel the same road — both starting from the acquisitive skill.

Theaetetus: So it seems.

Stranger: They split apart at animal hunting. The angler heads for the shore, the rivers, the lakes, fishing for the creatures in them.

Theaetetus: Exactly.

Stranger: But the sophist heads for dry land — or rather, a different kind of water: rivers of wealth and rich meadows full of generous young people. He's hunting the creatures that live there.

Theaetetus: What do you mean?

Stranger: Land hunting has two main divisions.

Theaetetus: What are they?

Stranger: Hunting tame animals and hunting wild ones.

Theaetetus: Wait — are tame animals really hunted?

Stranger: They are, if you count humans as tame animals. But it's up to you: you could say there are no tame animals, or that humans aren't tame, or that humans are tame but aren't hunted. Your call.

Theaetetus: I'd say humans are tame animals, and yes, they're hunted.

Stranger: Then let's divide the hunting of tame animals into two.

Theaetetus: How?

Stranger: Piracy, kidnapping, tyranny, the entire military profession — let's lump all of those together as hunting by force.

Theaetetus: Good.

Stranger: But lawyering, public speaking, and the art of conversation — those we can group together as the art of persuasion.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: And persuasion has two kinds.

Theaetetus: What are they?

Stranger: Private and public.

Theaetetus: Yes, each of those is a distinct class.

Stranger: And within private persuasion, one type collects payment, and the other offers gifts.

Theaetetus: I don't follow you.

Stranger: You've apparently never noticed how lovers hunt.

Theaetetus: What do you mean?

Stranger: I mean that on top of their other persuasive tactics, they shower their targets with gifts.

Theaetetus: Very true.

Stranger: So let's call that the art of courtship.

Theaetetus: Fine.

Stranger: Now the other kind — the type where a person's conversation is pleasant and he baits his hook entirely with pleasure, asking nothing in return except his own upkeep — I think we'd all call that flattery, or the art of making things pleasant.

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: But what about the type that claims to seek people's company purely for the sake of virtue, while demanding payment in cash? Doesn't that deserve a different name?

Theaetetus: It does.

Stranger: And what name would that be? Can you tell me?

Theaetetus: It's obvious enough. I think we've found the sophist. That's the right name for this class.

Stranger: So to trace his family tree: the sophist's skill belongs to the acquisitive family — specifically the branch that hunts animals, living ones, on land, tame ones — that is, humans — in private, for payment, under the pretense of education. And this is called sophistry: the hunting of wealthy and prominent young men.

Theaetetus: Exactly.

Stranger: But let's look at another branch of his family tree. He's a practitioner of a vast, many-sided skill, and if we look back at what we've already done, we can see he has another aspect besides the one we just described.

Theaetetus: In what way?

Stranger: There were two sorts of acquisitive skill: one concerned with hunting, the other with exchange.

Theaetetus: There were.

Stranger: And the art of exchange has two divisions: giving and selling.

Theaetetus: Let's grant that.

Stranger: Now we'll split selling into two parts.

Theaetetus: How?

Stranger: One part is selling your own products. The other is trading in other people's goods.

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: And isn't the part of trade that happens within a single city — roughly half the whole thing — called retail?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: And the kind that moves goods from one city to another through buying and selling — that's merchant trade?

Theaetetus: Of course.

Stranger: And you realize that merchant trade has two branches: one deals with food for the body, the other with food for the soul, bought and sold for money.

Theaetetus: What do you mean?

Stranger: You want to know what I mean by "food for the soul"? The other kind you understand, I'm sure.

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: Think of music, painting, puppet shows, and many other things that are bought in one city and shipped to another to be sold — some for instruction, some for entertainment. Can't the person who hauls them around and sells them be called a merchant just as legitimately as someone who sells food and drink?

Theaetetus: Absolutely.

Stranger: And wouldn't you use the same name for someone who buys up knowledge and goes from city to city trading it for money?

Theaetetus: I certainly would.

Stranger: Of this soul-merchandise, one part could fairly be called the art of display. But there's another part that's just as absurd — it's a trade in learning, and it needs a name that suits it.

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: This learning-trade should have two names: one for the sale of knowledge about virtue, and another for the sale of all other kinds of knowledge.

Theaetetus: Of course.

Stranger: "Skill-seller" covers the second kind well enough. But you'll have to come up with a name for the first.

Theaetetus: It has to be the sophist. He's the one we're tracking, and no other name fits.

Stranger: None other. So our friend the sophist turns up again — this time as a dealer in virtue. His family tree now runs from acquisitive skill through exchange, trade, and merchandise, arriving at a commerce in learning and ideas — specifically, the knowledge of virtue.

Theaetetus: Exactly right.

Stranger: And he could show up a third way too. Suppose he settles down in a city and, instead of just buying and reselling, he manufactures these same intellectual wares himself, intending to make a living selling them. He'd still be called a sophist, wouldn't he?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: So the part of acquisitive skill that exchanges goods — whether selling his own products or retailing others' — as long as it sells the knowledge of virtue, you'd call it sophistry again?

Theaetetus: I'd have to, if I want to keep up with the argument.

Stranger: Let's see if there's yet another face of sophistry.

Theaetetus: What is it?

Stranger: Within the acquisitive branch, there was a subdivision for combat or fighting.

Theaetetus: There was.

Stranger: Maybe we should divide that further.

Theaetetus: What are the divisions?

Stranger: There's the competitive kind and the combative kind.

Theaetetus: Good.

Stranger: The combative kind that involves physical contests of strength — we could call that something like violent combat.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: And when the war is waged with words, we can call it controversy.

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: And controversy comes in two varieties.

Theaetetus: Which are?

Stranger: When long speeches answer long speeches, and the debate is public and about justice and injustice — that's courtroom controversy, or forensic debate.

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: But there's also a private kind, chopped up into questions and answers. That's commonly called disputation.

Theaetetus: Yes, that's the name.

Stranger: And within disputation, the type that's just casual arguing about contracts and everyday matters — done randomly, without any method — well, we can recognize it as a distinct type, but it's never gotten a proper name, and it doesn't deserve one from us.

Theaetetus: No, because the varieties are too small and random to bother with.

Stranger: But the kind that proceeds by method and argues about justice and injustice in their own right, and about general principles — that's what we normally call eristic, or contentious argumentation.

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: And eristic comes in two forms: one that wastes money, and one that makes it.

Theaetetus: Very true.

Stranger: Let's try to name each one.

Theaetetus: Let's.

Stranger: I'd say the habit that leads a man to neglect his own business for the sheer pleasure of arguing — in a style that most listeners don't enjoy — can fairly be called idle chatter, or talkativeness.

Theaetetus: That's the common name for it.

Stranger: And who's the other one — the person who makes money from private disputation? It's your turn to say.

Theaetetus: There's only one possible answer: it's our wonderful sophist, popping up for the fourth time.

Stranger: Yes, and with a fresh pedigree. He's the money-making branch of the eristic, disputatious, controversial, combative, acquisitive family. The argument has proven it.

Theaetetus: Exactly.

Stranger: See how true our observation was — that the sophist is a many-sided creature, not to be caught with one hand, as they say!

Theaetetus: Then you'll have to catch him with two.

Stranger: Yes, we'll have to, if we can. So let's try another track. You know that there are certain household tasks — the kind servants do — that have their own names?

Theaetetus: Yes, there are plenty. Which ones do you mean?

Stranger: Things like sifting, straining, winnowing, threshing.

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: And on top of those, there are many others: carding, spinning, weaving the warp and woof. Thousands of similar terms are used in the various crafts.

Theaetetus: What's the point of listing these? What are they a pattern for?

Stranger: I think all of these activities involve some idea of separating or dividing.

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: Then if there's one overarching skill that includes them all, shouldn't it have one name?

Theaetetus: What name?

Stranger: The art of discriminating — or separating.

Theaetetus: Good.

Stranger: Now see if you can divide that.

Theaetetus: I'd need to think about it for a while.

Stranger: In all the processes I just mentioned, either like is being separated from like, or better from worse.

Theaetetus: I see what you mean now.

Stranger: There's no standard name for the first kind of separation. But the second kind — which throws away the worse and keeps the better — I do know a name for that.

Theaetetus: What is it?

Stranger: Every act of discrimination that separates the worse from the better is called purification.

Theaetetus: Yes, that's the usual term.

Stranger: And anyone can see that purification comes in two kinds.

Theaetetus: Maybe, given enough time to think. But I don't see it right now.

Stranger: There are many forms of bodily purification that can be grouped under one heading.

Theaetetus: What are they, and what's the heading?

Stranger: There's the purification of the body's interior and exterior. The internal kind is handled by medicine and exercise. The external kind is handled by the not very glamorous art of bathing. Then there's the purification of lifeless objects — the work of fullers and polishers, with all their various specialized names that people think are rather silly.

Theaetetus: Very true.

Stranger: People do find them silly. But here's the thing, Theaetetus: the method of philosophical inquiry — dialectic — doesn't care whether one form of purification is grander or more ridiculous than another. It doesn't consider sponging any less dignified than medicine. What it wants to know is: what's kindred to what across all skills? Its goal is understanding. And in pursuit of that goal, it treats every skill with equal respect. When it compares them, it doesn't find one more ridiculous than another. It doesn't think a general who illustrates "hunting" is any more dignified than an exterminator — just a bigger pretender.

Now, as for what to call the art that covers all these physical purifications — of living bodies and lifeless objects alike — dialectic isn't picky about fine words, so long as it's allowed to have a general term for everything that purifies things other than the soul. Because what it really cares about right now is the purification of the soul — the purification of the mind. That's what it's aiming at.

Theaetetus: Yes, I understand. And I agree there are two sorts of purification: one concerned with the body, the other with the soul.

Stranger: Excellent. Now listen to what I'm going to say, and try to divide the first of these two — soul-purification — even further.

Theaetetus: Whatever line of division you suggest, I'll do my best to follow.

Stranger: Do we accept that virtue is distinct from vice in the soul?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: And purification means keeping the good and casting out the bad?

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: So any removal of evil from the soul can properly be called purification?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: And there are two kinds of evil in the soul.

Theaetetus: What are they?

Stranger: One is comparable to disease in the body. The other is comparable to ugliness or deformity.

Theaetetus: I don't understand.

Stranger: Maybe you've never considered that disease and internal conflict are the same thing?

Theaetetus: I'm not sure what to say to that.

Stranger: You'd agree that discord is a breakdown of things that naturally belong together, caused by some kind of disagreement?

Theaetetus: Exactly.

Stranger: And deformity — isn't that just a lack of proper proportion, which is always unsightly?

Theaetetus: Exactly.

Stranger: And don't we see that in the souls of bad people, beliefs fight against desires, pleasure against anger, reason against pain — all these elements at war with each other?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: And yet all of these elements belong to the same soul — they're supposed to be kindred?

Theaetetus: Of course.

Stranger: Then we'd be right to call vice a kind of internal discord and disease of the soul?

Theaetetus: Absolutely.

Stranger: And when things that are in motion, aiming at a target, keep missing and veering off course — is that the result of proper proportion among them, or a lack of it?

Theaetetus: Clearly a lack of proportion.

Stranger: But surely we know that no soul is voluntarily ignorant of anything?

Theaetetus: Certainly not.

Stranger: And what is ignorance, really, except the wandering of a mind that's aiming at truth, where the process of understanding has gone astray?

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: So we should consider an unintelligent soul to be deformed — out of proportion?

Theaetetus: Very true.

Stranger: So there are these two kinds of evil in the soul. The first — what everyone calls vice — is clearly a disease of the soul.

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: And then there's the other one — ignorance — which people won't admit is a vice, even though it exists only in the soul.

Theaetetus: I'll grant what I resisted at first: there really are two kinds of evil in the soul. We should consider cowardice, excess, and injustice to be forms of disease in the soul. And ignorance — which comes in all sorts of varieties — should be considered deformity.

Stranger: And for the body, aren't there two skills that deal with these two conditions?

Theaetetus: What are they?

Stranger: Exercise deals with deformity, and medicine deals with disease.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: And where there's arrogance, injustice, and cowardice — isn't punishment the skill that's most needed?

Theaetetus: That certainly seems to be what people think.

Stranger: And for the various kinds of ignorance, wouldn't instruction be the right remedy?

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: Now, would we say there's one kind of instruction, or many? There are at least two principal ones. Think about it.

Theaetetus: I will.

Stranger: I think I see how we can reach the answer quickest.

Theaetetus: How?

Stranger: By finding a line that divides ignorance into two halves. If ignorance splits into two parts, then instruction must also be twofold, matching each division.

Theaetetus: And do you see what you're looking for?

Stranger: I think I see one very large and bad kind of ignorance that stands apart — it could be weighed against all the other kinds put together.

Theaetetus: What is it?

Stranger: Thinking you know something when you actually don't. That seems to be the source of all the errors of the intellect.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: And this, if I'm not mistaken, is the kind of ignorance that specifically earns the label of stupidity.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: So what should we call the kind of instruction that cures this?

Theaetetus: I'd say, Stranger, that what you're describing isn't the teaching of practical skills, but what we here in Greece have come to call education.

Stranger: Yes, Theaetetus, and nearly all Greeks call it that. But we still need to consider whether education can be divided further.

Theaetetus: We do.

Stranger: I think it can be divided at a certain point.

Theaetetus: Where?

Stranger: There's a rougher method of education and a smoother one.

Theaetetus: How do we tell them apart?

Stranger: There's the old-fashioned approach our fathers commonly used with their sons, and which many still use — either scolding them harshly for their mistakes, or advising them gently. Both of these fall under the general heading of admonition.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: But some people have concluded that all ignorance is involuntary — that nobody who thinks he's already clever will ever be willing to learn the very things he's convinced he already knows. And they've noticed that the admonishing approach, no matter how much effort it takes, doesn't accomplish much.

Theaetetus: They're quite right about that.

Stranger: So these people set about rooting out the spirit of false confidence in a different way.

Theaetetus: What way?

Stranger: They cross-examine a person's stated beliefs. When he thinks he's saying something meaningful but is actually saying nothing coherent, they easily expose the contradictions in his opinions. They collect these contradictions through the dialectical process, lay them side by side, and show that the person holds opposing views about the same things, in the same respects, at the same time. The person, seeing this, becomes angry with himself and gentler toward others. He's entirely freed from the big prejudices and rigid opinions that had been blocking him. And the process is wonderfully entertaining for anyone listening, while producing the most lasting benefit for the person undergoing it.

Here's the principle, Theaetetus: just as a doctor knows the body won't benefit from food until internal blockages are removed, the purifier of the soul understands that his patient won't benefit from new knowledge until he's been shown his errors. Through refutation, the patient learns humility. He has to be purged of his false beliefs first and brought to think he knows only what he actually knows — nothing more.

Theaetetus: That's certainly the best and wisest state of mind.

Stranger: For all these reasons, Theaetetus, we have to say that refutation is the greatest and most important of all purifications. A person who hasn't been refuted — even if he's the Great King of Persia himself — lives in a terrible state of impurity. He's uneducated and deformed in exactly the areas where someone who wants to be truly fulfilled ought to be at their best.

Theaetetus: Very true.

Stranger: And who practices this art? I'm almost afraid to say: the sophists.

Theaetetus: Why afraid?

Stranger: Because I don't want to give them too much credit.

Theaetetus: And yet the sophist does bear a certain resemblance to this practitioner of purification.

Stranger: Yes — the same kind of resemblance a wolf has to a dog. Wolves are the fiercest of animals, dogs the gentlest. Anyone who wants to avoid mistakes had better be very careful with comparisons, because they're extremely slippery. But let's go ahead and assume the sophists are these practitioners. I say it provisionally, because I think the line between them will become clear enough if we're careful.

Theaetetus: Likely enough.

Stranger: So let's grant this: starting from the art of discrimination comes purification. From purification we separate off the kind concerned with the soul. Within soul-purification, there's instruction. Within instruction, there's education. And within education, there's the refutation of empty self-conceit — which our present argument has uncovered. Let's call this the noble art of sophistry.

Theaetetus: Fair enough. But given how many forms the sophist has appeared in, I'm starting to wonder how I can say with any confidence what the sophist really is.

Stranger: You're naturally confused. But he must be even more confused trying to escape us. As the proverb says, when every way is blocked, there's no getting out. Now is the time to press our attack.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: But first, let's pause and catch our breath. While we're resting, let's count up how many forms he's appeared in. First, he turned out to be a paid hunter of wealthy young men.

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: Second, he was a wholesaler of intellectual goods — food for the soul.

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: Third, he showed up as a retailer of the same merchandise.

Theaetetus: Yes, and fourth, he turned out to manufacture the intellectual wares he sells.

Stranger: Right. And the fifth — I'll try to remember it myself. He belonged to the combat class, specifically as a champion of debate who practiced eristic argumentation.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: The sixth was doubtful, but we eventually agreed: he was a purifier of souls, clearing away beliefs that obstruct knowledge.

Theaetetus: Very true.

Stranger: Now, do you see the problem? When someone who's supposed to be a practitioner of one skill has this many names, something's wrong. The fact that so many names get applied to him shows that the common principle underlying all these branches of activity isn't understood.

Theaetetus: I'd think so.

Stranger: Well, we're going to understand him, and no laziness is going to stop us. Let's start again and reexamine some of our findings about the sophist. There was one trait that struck me as especially characteristic.

Theaetetus: What are you referring to?

Stranger: We said he was a disputer, didn't we?

Theaetetus: We did.

Stranger: And doesn't he also teach others the art of disputation?

Theaetetus: He certainly does.

Stranger: And what does he claim to teach people to dispute about? Let's start at the beginning. Does he make them able to argue about divine matters — things that are invisible to ordinary people?

Theaetetus: He's certainly said to do so.

Stranger: And what about the visible things — the heavens, the earth, and everything like that?

Theaetetus: He disputes about those and teaches others to do the same.

Stranger: And in private conversation, whenever some general claim is made about coming-into-being or existence itself, we know these people are tremendous arguers who can pass their skill along to others.

Theaetetus: Without a doubt.

Stranger: And don't they claim to make people able to argue about law and politics in general?

Theaetetus: Of course — nobody would bother with them if they didn't make that claim.

Stranger: In every craft and profession, what the expert should say in response to any question has been written down in accessible form, and anyone who wants to can learn it.

Theaetetus: I take it you're talking about the kind of instructional manuals that Protagoras wrote about wrestling and other skills?

Stranger: Yes, my friend, and about a great many other things. In fact, isn't the art of disputation basically the power to argue about everything?

Theaetetus: Certainly. Nothing seems to be left out.

Stranger: But my dear young friend — do you really think that's possible? Your young eyes may see things that our duller vision misses.

Theaetetus: What are you getting at? I'm not sure I follow your question.

Stranger: What I'm asking is: can anyone actually know everything?

Theaetetus: Humanity would be blessed if such a thing were possible!

Socrates: But how can someone who's ignorant argue rationally against someone who actually knows?

Theaetetus: He can't.

Stranger: Then what is this mysterious power of the sophist's art?

Theaetetus: What do you mean?

Stranger: How do sophists make young people believe they're supremely wise about everything? Because if they didn't actually dispute, or at least appear to dispute well — and if they didn't seem wiser for their argumentative skill — then, as you pointed out, nobody would pay them money or want to study with them.

Theaetetus: They certainly wouldn't.

Stranger: But people are willing.

Theaetetus: They are.

Stranger: Because, I'd imagine, the sophists appear to have knowledge of the things they argue about.

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: And they argue about everything?

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: So to their students, they seem to be all-knowing?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: But they're not. We've shown that's impossible.

Theaetetus: Impossible, of course.

Stranger: So the sophist has been shown to possess a kind of apparent knowledge, a semblance of expertise about everything — not the truth.

Theaetetus: Exactly. No better description of him could be given.

Stranger: Let's try an analogy that will make his nature even clearer.

Theaetetus: What is it?

Stranger: I'll tell you, and please pay very close attention. Suppose someone claimed — not just that he could argue about everything, but that through a single skill he could actually make and do everything.

Theaetetus: Everything?

Stranger: I see you don't catch my meaning right away. You don't understand the scope of "everything."

Theaetetus: No, I don't.

Stranger: By "everything," I include you and me, and also animals and trees.

Theaetetus: What do you mean?

Stranger: Suppose someone said he'd make you, me, and every living creature.

Theaetetus: What would "make" mean? He can't be a farmer — you said he's a maker of animals.

Stranger: Yes, and I'm saying he also makes the sea, the earth, the heavens, the gods, and everything else. What's more, he can make them all in no time and sell them for a few coins.

Theaetetus: That has to be a joke.

Stranger: And when someone says he knows everything and can teach it all to another person cheaply and quickly — isn't that also a joke?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: And is there any more artful or elegant form of joking than imitation?

Theaetetus: No. And imitation is an incredibly broad category, covering the most diverse kinds of things.

Stranger: Now, we know that a person who claims to make everything through one skill is really a painter. He creates images of real things that share the same names as the originals. And he can fool the less sophisticated sort of children by showing them his pictures from a distance, making them believe he can create anything he wants.

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: Well, couldn't there be an imitative art of reasoning too? Isn't it possible to enchant the minds of young people by pouring words into their ears when they're still far from the truth of things — showing them verbal illusions and making them think those arguments are real, and that the speaker is the wisest of all people on every subject?

Theaetetus: Yes, why shouldn't there be such an art?

Stranger: But as time goes on, and the listeners grow older and come into closer contact with reality, and learn through painful experience to see and feel how things actually are — aren't most of them forced to reverse many opinions they once held? Doesn't what seemed great look small, what seemed easy look hard, and all their dreamy speculations get overturned by the facts of life?

Theaetetus: That's how it seems to me, as far as I can judge — though at my age, I might still be one of those seeing things from a distance.

Stranger: And all of us who are your friends want nothing more than to bring you as close to the truth as possible, without the painful reality of learning it the hard way. Now tell me: isn't the sophist clearly a kind of magician, an imitator of real things? Or are we still inclined to think he might have genuine knowledge of all the subjects he argues about?

Theaetetus: But how could he, Stranger? After everything we've said, isn't it clear he belongs in one of the categories of children's play?

Stranger: Then we have to classify him as a magician and a mimic.

Theaetetus: We certainly do.

Stranger: And now our job is to not let the animal escape. We've got him in a kind of dialectical net, and there's one conclusion he definitely won't get around.

Theaetetus: What's that?

Stranger: That he's a kind of illusionist.

Theaetetus: That's exactly my own view of him.

Stranger: So we need to divide the image-making art as quickly as possible and go deeper into the net. If the sophist doesn't slip away, we'll seize him according to our orders and hand him over to reason — the lord of this hunt — and announce his capture. And if he creeps into the corners of the imitative art and hides in one of its subdivisions, we'll divide again and track him down until we catch him. Our method of cornering any quarry is one that neither he nor any other creature will ever escape.

Theaetetus: Well said. Let's do it.

Stranger: All right, following the same analytical method as before, I think I can make out two divisions of the imitative art. But I can't yet see which one our target is hiding in.

Theaetetus: Tell me first what the two divisions are.

Stranger: One is the art of making likenesses. A likeness is generally produced by creating a copy that matches the original's proportions — the same length, breadth, and depth, with the right colors assigned to each part.

Theaetetus: Isn't that always what imitation aims at?

Stranger: Not always. In large works of sculpture or painting, there's a deliberate element of deception. If artists used the true proportions of their beautiful works, the upper parts — being farther away — would look too small compared to the lower parts, which are closer to the viewer. So they abandon the real proportions and create only the ones that look right, ignoring accuracy.

Theaetetus: Quite true.

Stranger: Now, something that's different from the original but resembles it — can't we fairly call it a likeness or image?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: And the part of the imitative art that makes such faithful copies — can we call it the art of likeness-making?

Theaetetus: Let's call it that.

Stranger: And what should we call those imitations that only look like the beautiful original because of the viewer's unfavorable position — where if someone could get a proper look at them, they wouldn't even resemble what they claim to represent? Since they only appear to be likenesses without actually being accurate, shouldn't we call them "appearances"?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: And there's a great deal of this in painting and in all imitation.

Theaetetus: Of course.

Stranger: The art that produces an appearance rather than a true likeness — can we fairly call it the art of appearance-making, or the fantastic art?

Theaetetus: Most fairly.

Stranger: So these are the two kinds of image-making: the art of making likenesses, and the fantastic art — the art of making mere appearances.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: I was uncertain before about which of them to place the sophist in, and I'm still not able to see clearly. He really is a remarkable and baffling creature. He's managed to slip into an impossible position.

Theaetetus: He certainly has.

Stranger: Are you speaking from real understanding, or are you just reflexively agreeing out of habit?

Theaetetus: What are you referring to?

Stranger: My dear friend, we're dealing with a very deep problem here — no question about that. How can something appear and seem to be, yet not actually be? And how can someone say something that isn't true? These have always been, and still remain, deeply puzzling questions. Because, Theaetetus, how can anyone claim that falsehood genuinely exists without getting tangled in contradictions? The task is genuinely difficult.

Theaetetus: Why?

Stranger: Because anyone who says falsehood exists is boldly asserting that not-being has being. That's what's implied by the very possibility of falsehood. But when I was a young man, the great Parmenides protested against this idea, and he kept saying it until the end of his life — repeating it in both verse and prose:

"Keep your mind from this way of inquiry, for you will never show that not-being is."

That's his testimony, and when you examine the words carefully, it holds up. Would you mind starting by considering the words themselves?

Theaetetus: Don't worry about me. Just carry the argument wherever it needs to go, and take me with you.

Stranger: Good. Now tell me: do we dare to utter the forbidden words, "not-being"?

Theaetetus: Of course we do.

Stranger: Then let's be serious about this — no quarreling, no playing around. Suppose one of Parmenides' followers were asked: "What exactly should the term 'not-being' be applied to?" Do you know what sort of thing he'd point to in response?

Theaetetus: That's a hard question — way too hard for someone like me.

Stranger: Well, one thing is clear: you can't apply the label "not-being" to anything that exists.

Theaetetus: Certainly not.

Stranger: And if not to anything that exists, then not to something.

Theaetetus: Of course not.

Stranger: And it's also clear that when we say "something," we're talking about a thing that exists. To speak of a bare, abstract "something" stripped of all existence is impossible.

Theaetetus: Impossible.

Stranger: Do you see what you're implying by agreeing? Whoever says "something" must be saying some one thing?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: Because "something" in the singular points to one thing, "a pair of somethings" points to two, and "some things" in the plural points to many.

Theaetetus: Exactly.

Stranger: Then whoever says "not-something" must be saying absolutely nothing.

Theaetetus: That has to be right.

Stranger: And since we can't allow that a person speaks while saying nothing, whoever says "not-being" doesn't really speak at all.

Theaetetus: The difficulty of the argument can't go any further than that.

Stranger: Don't declare victory yet, my friend. There's still the biggest and most fundamental difficulty remaining.

Theaetetus: What do you mean? Don't hold back.

Stranger: To something that exists, you can attach some other existing thing, right?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: But can anything that exists be attached to what doesn't exist?

Theaetetus: Impossible.

Stranger: And number is something that exists?

Theaetetus: Yes — if anything has real existence, number does.

Stranger: Then we must not try to attribute number — whether singular or plural — to not-being.

Theaetetus: The argument does seem to say we'd be wrong to do that.

Stranger: But how could anyone even express in words, or even think about, things that don't exist or a thing that doesn't exist, without number?

Theaetetus: How indeed?

Stranger: When we say "things that are not," aren't we attaching plurality to not-being?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: And when we say "what is not," aren't we attaching unity?

Theaetetus: Clearly.

Stranger: And yet we maintain that you shouldn't and can't attach being to not-being.

Theaetetus: Absolutely true.

Stranger: Do you see, then? Not-being in itself can't be spoken, uttered, or thought. It's unthinkable, unsayable, unpronounceable, indescribable.

Theaetetus: Completely true.

Stranger: But if that's right, then I was wrong a moment ago when I said the biggest difficulty was still coming.

Theaetetus: What? There's an even bigger one?

Stranger: I'm amazed that, after everything we've said, you don't see the bind that anyone who tries to refute the idea of not-being gets caught in. He's forced to contradict himself the moment he tries.

Theaetetus: What do you mean? Spell it out.

Stranger: Don't expect perfect clarity from me on this. I'm the one who claims not-being has no share in either oneness or plurality — yet just now I said, and I'm still saying, "not-being" — as if it were one thing. Do you follow?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: And a little while ago I said that not-being is "unsayable, unpronounceable, indescribable." You're keeping up?

Theaetetus: More or less.

Stranger: But when I said "is," didn't I contradict myself?

Theaetetus: Clearly.

Stranger: And in using a singular verb, wasn't I treating not-being as one thing?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: And when I called it "indescribable," "unsayable," and "unpronounceable" — using each of those singular words — wasn't I referring to not-being as if it were a single thing each time?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: And yet we say that strictly speaking, not-being shouldn't be defined as one or many. It shouldn't even be called "it," since using the word "it" implies a form of unity.

Theaetetus: Exactly right.

Stranger: So how can anyone trust what I'm saying? Here, as always, I'm failing at the refutation of not-being. So as I said, don't look to me for the right way to talk about not-being. Come on — let's try with you instead.

Theaetetus: What do you mean?

Stranger: Summon your courage, as a young person should. Try with all your might to say something about not-being in a proper way — without smuggling in existence, unity, or plurality.

Theaetetus: It would take remarkable boldness to make the attempt after watching you struggle like this.

Stranger: Fine, let's leave ourselves out of it. But until we find someone who can talk about not-being without using number, we have to admit that the sophist is a clever rogue who won't be flushed from his hiding place.

Theaetetus: Absolutely true.

Stranger: And if we tell him he practices an art of creating appearances, he'll grab our argument and turn it against us. When we call him an image-maker, he'll say: "What exactly do you mean by an image?" And I'd like to know, Theaetetus, how we'd answer that question.

Theaetetus: We'd obviously point to images reflected in water or in mirrors, and to sculptures, paintings, and other copies.

Stranger: Theaetetus, I can see you've never actually dealt with a real sophist.

Theaetetus: Why do you say that?

Stranger: He'll pretend his eyes are shut, or that he doesn't have any.

Theaetetus: What do you mean?

Stranger: When you point to things in mirrors or carvings and talk to him as if he has eyes, he'll laugh at you. He'll claim to know nothing about mirrors, streams, or even sight itself. He'll say he's only asking about the idea.

Theaetetus: What idea?

Stranger: The common quality running through all these things you're listing as "many," yet calling by the single name "image" — as though they were all one thing. So how will you hold your ground against him?

Theaetetus: How else, Stranger, can I define an image except as something shaped in the likeness of the real thing?

Stranger: And by "the real thing," you mean some other true thing? Or what?

Theaetetus: Not another true thing — just a resemblance.

Stranger: And by "true" you mean what really exists?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: And "not true" is the opposite of true?

Theaetetus: Exactly.

Stranger: So a resemblance isn't really real, since you say it's not true?

Theaetetus: Well, it is real in a certain sense.

Stranger: You mean, not in a genuinely true sense?

Theaetetus: Right. It's really only an image.

Stranger: So what we call an image is something that's really... not real.

Theaetetus: What a strange tangle of being and not-being we've gotten ourselves into!

Stranger: Strange indeed! See how this many-headed sophist has forced us — completely against our will — to admit that not-being somehow exists?

Theaetetus: Yes, I see it now.

Stranger: The difficulty is this: how do we define his art without falling into contradiction?

Theaetetus: What do you mean? Where's the danger?

Stranger: When we say he deceives us with illusions, and that his art is illusory — do we mean that his art leads our souls to think what's false? Or what else could we mean?

Theaetetus: That's exactly what we mean. What else could it be?

Stranger: And false opinion is opinion that thinks the opposite of the truth? You'd agree?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: So you're saying that false opinion thinks what is not.

Theaetetus: Of course.

Stranger: Does false opinion think that things which don't exist absolutely don't exist — or that in some sense they do?

Theaetetus: Things that don't exist must be imagined to exist in some sense, if any degree of falsehood is going to be possible.

Stranger: And doesn't false opinion also think that things which definitely do exist don't exist at all?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: And that too is falsehood?

Theaetetus: Yes — falsehood.

Stranger: And along the same lines, a false statement would be one that asserts the nonexistence of things that exist, or the existence of things that don't exist.

Theaetetus: There's no other way a false statement could arise.

Stranger: There isn't. But the sophist will deny all of this. And really, how can any reasonable person accept it, when we ourselves acknowledged just a moment ago that not-being is unsayable, unpronounceable, unthinkable, and indescribable? Do you see his point, Theaetetus?

Theaetetus: Of course. He'll say we're contradicting ourselves by claiming that falsehood exists in opinion and speech. Because to maintain that, we'd have to keep asserting that not-being has being — which we just admitted is utterly impossible.

Stranger: You remember well! And now it's time to figure out what to do about the sophist. Because if we keep looking for him in the category of illusion-workers and magicians, you can see that the objections and difficulties will be endless.

Theaetetus: They certainly will.

Stranger: We've barely gone through a fraction of them, and they really are infinite.

Theaetetus: If that's the case, we'll never catch the sophist.

Stranger: So should we lose heart and give up?

Theaetetus: Absolutely not — not if there's even the slightest chance of getting hold of him.

Stranger: Then you'll forgive me if I flinch a little in the grip of such a powerful argument?

Theaetetus: Of course I will.

Stranger: I have an even more urgent request to make.

Theaetetus: What is it?

Stranger: Promise you won't think of me as a parricide.

Theaetetus: Why would I?

Stranger: Because in self-defense, I'm going to have to put my father Parmenides' philosophy to the test. I'm going to have to prove, by main force, that in a certain sense not-being is — and that being, on the other hand, in a certain sense is not.

Theaetetus: That kind of attempt is clearly necessary.

Stranger: Yes — even a blind man could see that. Unless these questions are settled one way or another, nobody who talks about false words, false opinions, images, imitations, or appearances — or about any of the arts that deal with them — can avoid falling into ridiculous contradictions.

Theaetetus: Very true.

Stranger: And that's why I have to take on my father's argument. If I'm too squeamish about it, I'll have to abandon the whole inquiry.

Theaetetus: Nothing in the world should make us do that.

Stranger: I have one more small request.

Theaetetus: What?

Stranger: You heard me say — and I've always felt this way — that I have no stomach for this argument?

Theaetetus: I did.

Stranger: I'm trembling at the thought of what I've said, and I expect you'll think I've lost my mind when you see how I keep shifting and changing direction. But understand: I'm pursuing this investigation entirely for your sake.

Theaetetus: Don't worry. There's nothing improper about attempting this refutation and proof. Take heart and proceed.

Stranger: Then where do I begin this perilous enterprise? I think the road I need to take is this —

Theaetetus: Which road? Tell me.

Stranger: I think we need to start by reexamining the things currently taken for granted. We may have fallen into confusion and been too quick to agree with each other, imagining we had clarity when we didn't.

Theaetetus: Say more precisely what you mean.

Stranger: I think Parmenides, and everyone who's ever tried to determine the number and nature of the things that exist, talked to us rather casually.

Theaetetus: How so?

Stranger: As if we were children, and they were each telling us their own favorite story. One said there are three fundamental principles, that sometimes they're at war and sometimes at peace — they marry and have children and raise them. Another said there are two principles — wet and dry, or hot and cold — and made them marry and live together. Our own Eleatic school, in our part of the world, says that all things are many in name but one in nature — that's their story, going back to Xenophanes and even earlier.

Then there are Ionian thinkers, and more recently Sicilian ones, who decided it's safer to combine both views and say that being is both one and many, held together by enmity and friendship — always separating, always coming back together. The sterner school insists on perpetual strife and reconciliation. The gentler school allows for some relaxation and alternation — sometimes peace and unity prevail under Aphrodite, sometimes multiplicity and war under a principle of conflict.

Whether any of them got it right is hard to say. And ancient, famous thinkers deserve respect — they shouldn't face frivolous accusations. But one thing can be said about all of them without offense —

Theaetetus: What's that?

Stranger: They went on their way without bothering about people like us. They didn't care whether they were bringing us along or leaving us behind.

Theaetetus: How do you mean?

Stranger: I mean that when they talk about one, two, or more elements that exist or come into being, or about heat mixing with cold, or about separations and mixtures somewhere else in their systems — tell me, Theaetetus, do you actually understand what they mean by all this? When I was younger, I used to think I understood perfectly well what "not-being" meant — the very topic we're struggling with right now. And look what a mess we're in over it.

Theaetetus: I see.

Stranger: And quite possibly we're in the same confusion about "being." We might think we understand it perfectly whenever anyone uses the word, while actually being just as ignorant about it as we are about not-being.

Theaetetus: That's possible.

Stranger: And the same goes for all the other terms we just mentioned.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: We can come back to most of them later. But right now, let's tackle the chief term — the leader of the pack.

Theaetetus: Which one? You clearly think we need to start by investigating what people mean by "being."

Stranger: You're right on my heels, Theaetetus. Here's the approach I have in mind. Let's summon the dualists — the philosophers who say there are two fundamental principles — and question them.

"Come," we'll say, "you who claim that hot and cold, or any other pair, constitute all of reality — what is this word 'are' that you apply to both of them? What do you mean when you say both of them 'are'? How should we understand this? Are we to suppose there's a third thing — 'being' — over and above the two, making three in all instead of two?

"Because you obviously can't say that one of your two principles is being while the other isn't — yet claim both equally exist. If you identified being with just one of the two, that one would contain the other, and they'd end up being one thing, not two."

Theaetetus: Very true.

Stranger: "But maybe you mean to call them both together 'being'?"

Theaetetus: Quite likely.

Stranger: "But then, friends," we'd reply, "those two are still going to collapse into one."

Theaetetus: Exactly right.

Stranger: "So since we're stuck, please just tell us what you mean when you say 'being.' You've clearly always understood your own meaning, while we only thought we understood you. But now we're at a total loss. Please start by explaining this, and don't let us go on thinking we understand you when we completely don't."

There'd be nothing wrong with demanding this answer from the dualists or the pluralists, would there?

Theaetetus: Not at all.

Stranger: And what about those who say everything is one? Don't we need to find out what they mean by "being" too?

Theaetetus: Absolutely.

Stranger: Then let them answer this: "You say only one thing exists?" "Yes," they'll reply.

Theaetetus: Right.

Stranger: "And there's something you call 'being'?"

Theaetetus: "Yes."

Stranger: "Is 'being' the same as 'one'? Are you using two names for the same thing?"

Theaetetus: What will they say, Stranger?

Stranger: It's clear, Theaetetus, that anyone who holds the unity of being will have a hard time answering this — or any other question.

Theaetetus: Why?

Stranger: Admitting two names while insisting there's nothing but unity is pretty ridiculous, isn't it?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: And it's equally irrational to admit that a name exists as something real.

Theaetetus: How so?

Stranger: Because distinguishing the name from the thing implies duality.

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: And yet if you identify the name with the thing, you're forced to say the name is a name of nothing. Or if you say it's the name of something, the name turns out to be merely the name of a name, and of nothing else.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: And "the one" will turn out to be merely the one of one — and being, as absolute unity, will amount to nothing but a bare name.

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: Now, would they say "the whole" is something different from "the one that is," or the same?

Theaetetus: They'd certainly answer — and they actually do say it's the same.

Stranger: But if being is a whole — as Parmenides sings:

"Every way like the fullness of a well-rounded sphere, equally balanced from the center on every side, and neither greater nor less in any way, neither on this side nor on that" —

then being has a center and extremities. And if it has those, it must have parts.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: Now, something that has parts could still have the attribute of unity across all its parts. Being everything and being a whole, it could still in that way be one.

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: But something in that condition can't be absolute unity, can it?

Theaetetus: Why not?

Stranger: Because what is truly one, according to right reason, must be absolutely indivisible.

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: But something made up of many parts while being called indivisible — that contradicts reason.

Theaetetus: I understand.

Stranger: So should we say being is one and a whole because it has the attribute of unity? Or should we say being isn't a whole at all?

Theaetetus: That's a hard choice.

Stranger: It really is. Because being, while having in a certain sense the attribute of oneness, turns out not to be the same as "the one." So "the all" is more than one.

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: And yet if being isn't a whole — if it merely has the attribute of unity, and if wholeness itself exists as something real — then being falls short of itself. It lacks something.

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: And on this reasoning, being, by lacking being, will become not-being.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: And once again, "the all" becomes more than one, because being and the whole will each have their own separate nature.

Theaetetus: Yes.

Sophist (Part 2)

Stranger: But if the whole doesn't exist at all, then all the same difficulties remain — plus a new one. Because besides having no being, being could never have come into being.

Theaetetus: Why not?

Stranger: Because whatever comes into being always comes into being as a whole. So anyone who doesn't count wholeness among the things that exist can't speak of either existence or coming-into-being at all.

Theaetetus: Yes, that certainly seems right.

Stranger: And here's another thing: how can something that isn't a whole have any specific quantity? Because whatever has a certain quantity must be the whole of that quantity.

Theaetetus: Exactly.

Stranger: There will be countless other problems too, each generating endless headaches for anyone who says being is either one or two.

Theaetetus: The difficulties that are now coming into view prove that. Each objection links to the next, and they keep dragging everything that came before into greater and worse confusion.

Stranger: We're far from having exhausted the more rigorous thinkers who deal with being and not-being. But let's leave them and move on to those who speak less precisely. What we'll find, as a result of examining all of them, is that the nature of being is just as hard to grasp as that of not-being.

Theaetetus: Then let's go to the others.

Stranger: There seems to be a kind of War of Gods and Giants going on among them. They're fighting with each other about the nature of reality.

Theaetetus: How so?

Stranger: Some of them are dragging everything down from heaven and the unseen world to earth. They literally grasp rocks and trees in their hands. They hold onto these things and stubbornly insist that only what you can touch and handle has being or reality. They define being and body as one and the same. If anyone else says that something without a body exists, they utterly despise him and refuse to listen to anything but body.

Theaetetus: I've met men like that. They're a rough bunch.

Stranger: And that's exactly why their opponents defend themselves from above, from an unseen world. They argue fiercely that true reality consists of certain intelligible, incorporeal Forms. The bodies that the materialists claim are the ultimate truth, they break to pieces with their arguments and call them not real being, but just becoming — a process of generation and motion. Between these two armies, Theaetetus, there's been an endless battle raging.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: Let's ask each side in turn to give an account of what they mean by reality.

Theaetetus: How are we going to get it out of them?

Stranger: With the people who locate reality in the Forms, it'll be less difficult — they're civilized enough. But getting an answer out of the ones who drag everything down to matter is going to be very hard — maybe impossible. Here's what we should do.

Theaetetus: What?

Stranger: If we could actually improve them, we would. But if that's impossible, let's at least imagine them as better and more reasonable than they are — more willing to answer according to the rules of argument. After all, what better people agree to has more weight than what worse people agree to. And we're not interested in people — we're seeking truth.

Theaetetus: Very good.

Stranger: Then let's address our improved materialists and ask them to state their views. You can interpret for them.

Theaetetus: Agreed.

Stranger: Would they admit that there's such a thing as a mortal animal?

Theaetetus: Of course.

Stranger: And they'd acknowledge that a mortal animal is a body that has a soul?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: Meaning the soul is something that exists?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: And they'd say that one soul is just and another unjust, that one soul is wise and another foolish?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: And that a soul becomes just and wise by possessing justice and wisdom, and the opposite by possessing their opposites?

Theaetetus: Yes, they'd say that.

Stranger: But surely they'd admit that anything which can be present or absent is something that exists?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: So they grant that justice, wisdom, the other virtues, and their opposites exist, and that a soul in which they reside exists. But would they say any of these things are visible and tangible, or are they all invisible?

Theaetetus: They'd say that hardly any of them are visible.

Stranger: And would they say they're corporeal — that they have bodies?

Theaetetus: They wouldn't give a single answer to that. They'd say the soul does have a body. But as for the qualities themselves — justice, wisdom, and the rest — they wouldn't dare either deny that they exist or insist that they're all bodily things.

Stranger: Well, Theaetetus, I see genuine improvement in them! The real hard-liners — the original earth-born types, children of the dragon's teeth — wouldn't have shown any shame at all. They'd have stubbornly insisted that nothing exists that they can't squeeze in their hands.

Theaetetus: That's pretty much their attitude.

Stranger: Let's push the question further. If they'll admit that even the smallest fraction of being is incorporeal, that's enough. They then need to say what's the common nature shared by both corporeal and incorporeal things — what they have in mind when they say both of them "are." They may be stuck. And if so, there's a possibility they'll accept a proposal of ours about the nature of being, since they don't have one of their own to offer.

Theaetetus: What's the proposal? Tell me, and we'll see.

Stranger: My proposal is this: anything whatsoever that has any capacity at all to affect something else, or to be affected by something else — even for a single moment, even if the cause is trivial and the effect is slight — that thing has real existence. I'm putting forward this definition: being is simply power.

Theaetetus: They accept your proposal, since they've got nothing better to offer.

Stranger: Good. Maybe we'll change our minds about this later — and so might they. But for now, let's treat this as our working agreement with them.

Theaetetus: Agreed.

Stranger: Now let's turn to the Friends of the Forms. You'll interpret their views for us too.

Theaetetus: I will.

Stranger: We'll say to them: "You distinguish between true being and becoming, correct?"

Theaetetus: "Yes," they reply.

Stranger: "And you'd say that through the body and through perception we participate in becoming, but through the soul and through thought we participate in true being. And you'd say that being is always the same and unchanging, while becoming constantly varies?"

Theaetetus: Yes, that's what we'd say.

Stranger: "Well then, distinguished friends," we'll say, "what is this 'participation' you're talking about in both cases? Do you agree with the definition we just gave?"

Theaetetus: What definition?

Stranger: We said being is an active or passive capacity, arising from powers meeting one another. But, Theaetetus, maybe your ears won't catch their answer — I know it because I'm used to hearing it.

Theaetetus: What do they say?

Stranger: They reject what we just told the materialists about existence.

Theaetetus: What did we tell them?

Stranger: That any capacity for acting or being acted upon, however slight, is a sufficient definition of being.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: They deny this. They say that the capacity for acting and being acted upon belongs to becoming, but that neither capacity applies to being.

Theaetetus: And isn't there some truth in what they say?

Stranger: Yes. But our reply will be that we need to learn more from them — specifically, whether they also agree that the soul knows, and that being is known.

Theaetetus: They certainly say so.

Stranger: And is knowing an activity, or a passivity, or both? Or is one of them an activity and the other a passivity? Or does neither involve either acting or being acted upon?

Theaetetus: Clearly neither involves either — otherwise they'd be contradicting themselves.

Stranger: I see your point. But here's what they'd have to accept: if knowing is active, then being known must be passive. And on that view, being — insofar as it's known — is acted upon by knowledge, and is therefore in motion. Because something at rest can't be acted upon.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: And by heaven — can we really be persuaded that motion, life, soul, and mind are absent from perfect being? Can we imagine that being just sits there, solemn and mindless, in awful frozen emptiness — an everlasting fixture without thought?

Theaetetus: That would be a dreadful thing to accept, Stranger.

Stranger: But should we say being has mind and no life?

Theaetetus: How could that be?

Stranger: Or that it has both mind and life, but no soul to contain them?

Theaetetus: How else would it contain them?

Stranger: Or that it has mind, life, and soul, but — though ensouled — remains absolutely motionless?

Theaetetus: All three of those options seem irrational to me.

Stranger: Then we have to include motion, and things that move, within being.

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: So, Theaetetus, our conclusion is this: if there's no motion, there's no mind anywhere, about anything, belonging to anyone.

Theaetetus: Exactly.

Stranger: And yet this equally follows if we grant that everything is in constant motion — on that view too, mind can't exist.

Theaetetus: How so?

Stranger: Do you think sameness — of condition, manner, and subject — could ever exist without some principle of stability?

Theaetetus: Certainly not.

Stranger: And can you see how mind could exist, or ever come into existence, without stability?

Theaetetus: No.

Stranger: And surely we must fight with everything we have against anyone who would destroy knowledge, reason, and mind — and yet still dares to speak confidently about anything.

Theaetetus: Yes, with all our might.

Stranger: Then the philosopher who truly reveres these things can't possibly accept the view of those who say everything is at rest — whether as a unity or in many forms. And he'll be equally deaf to those who say everything is in constant motion. Like children begging, "Give us both!" the philosopher must include both motion and rest in his definition of being and reality.

Theaetetus: Absolutely true.

Stranger: Well then — do we seem to have a good understanding of being now?

Theaetetus: Yes, I'd say we do.

Stranger: Oh no, Theaetetus. I think we're only just beginning to see the real difficulty of inquiring into being's nature.

Theaetetus: What do you mean?

Stranger: My friend, don't you see how deeply ignorant we still are, even though we feel like we're making progress?

Theaetetus: I certainly thought we were! And I have no idea how we ended up in this desperate position.

Stranger: Think about it. Now that we've made these admissions, can't we fairly be asked the same questions we were just asking the people who said everything is hot and cold?

Theaetetus: What questions? Remind me.

Stranger: I will — by putting those same questions to you right now. That'll move us forward.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: Wouldn't you say that rest and motion are completely opposed to each other?

Theaetetus: Of course.

Stranger: And yet you'd say that both of them equally are — that both exist?

Theaetetus: I would.

Stranger: And when you say both of them "are," do you mean both of them are in motion?

Theaetetus: Certainly not.

Stranger: Or that they're both at rest?

Theaetetus: Of course not.

Stranger: Then you're conceiving of being as some third, distinct nature — something under which both rest and motion are equally included. You're observing that they both participate in being, and on that basis declaring that they both exist.

Theaetetus: It does seem like we're glimpsing being as a third thing, when we say both rest and motion exist.

Stranger: So being isn't the combination of rest and motion. It's something different from both of them.

Theaetetus: So it would seem.

Stranger: Being, then, by its own nature, is neither in motion nor at rest.

Theaetetus: That does seem to be the truth.

Stranger: Then where's a person supposed to turn who wants to have any clear or settled idea of being?

Theaetetus: Where indeed?

Stranger: I'd say he can hardly turn anywhere. Because what isn't in motion must be at rest, and what isn't at rest must be in motion. But being has been placed outside both of these categories. Is that even possible?

Theaetetus: Utterly impossible.

Stranger: Here's something else we should keep in mind.

Theaetetus: What?

Stranger: When we were asked what to attach the term "not-being" to, we were in the deepest confusion. Remember?

Theaetetus: Of course.

Stranger: And aren't we now in just as much confusion about being?

Theaetetus: If anything, Stranger, we're in even deeper trouble.

Stranger: Then let's acknowledge the difficulty. And since being and not-being are tangled up in the same confusion, there's hope: when one of them becomes clearer, the other will too. And if we can't make out either one, we may at least be able to steer between them without too much embarrassment.

Theaetetus: Good.

Stranger: Let's investigate how we come to apply many names to the same thing.

Theaetetus: Give me an example.

Stranger: Take a human being. We refer to the same person under many names — we attribute colors, shapes, sizes, virtues, and vices to him. In all these cases, and ten thousand others, we don't just say he's a man, but also that he's good, and apply countless other attributes. The same goes for anything else: we start with something we treat as one thing, then describe it as many, under many names.

Theaetetus: That's true.

Stranger: And this gives beginners — whether young or old — a rich feast to argue about. There's nothing easier than insisting that the one can't be many, or the many one. They love denying that a man is good — because, they say, man is man and good is good. You must have met people who are thrilled by these sorts of discoveries. They're often elderly folks whose limited intellects are blown away by such insights, which they think represent the height of wisdom.

Theaetetus: I certainly have.

Stranger: Then let's address our questions to these people too, along with everyone else who's ever speculated about being. Let's leave nobody out.

Theaetetus: What questions?

Stranger: Should we refuse to attach being to motion and rest, or anything to anything, treating everything as incapable of mixing with anything else? Or should we throw everything together into one class where everything connects with everything? Or should we say some things mix with some and others don't? Which of these will they prefer, Theaetetus?

Theaetetus: I can't answer for them. Why don't you take each option in turn and see what follows?

Stranger: Good idea. First, let's assume they say nothing can participate in anything else in any way. Then rest and motion can't participate in being at all.

Theaetetus: They can't.

Stranger: But would either of them exist if they don't participate in being?

Theaetetus: No.

Stranger: Well, that concession immediately demolishes everything: the doctrine that everything is in motion, the doctrine that everything is at rest, and the doctrine that being consists of unchanging, eternal Forms. Because all of these attach a notion of being — claiming things "truly are" in motion, or "truly are" at rest.

Theaetetus: Exactly.

Stranger: And the thinkers who sometimes combine things and sometimes separate them — whether they create unity from plurality or infinity from unity, whether they produce finite elements and build compounds from them, whether they think creation happens in stages or continuously — none of this talk makes any sense if there's no mixing at all.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: And the most ridiculous of all would be the very people who insist on this no-mixing rule and yet won't let us call anything by another name because it participates in some quality from something else.

Theaetetus: Why's that?

Stranger: Because they're forced to use words like "is," "apart," "from others," "in itself" — and ten thousand more. They can't give these up. These words are the connecting links of all speech. So they don't need anyone else to refute them. As the saying goes, the enemy lives inside their own house. They're constantly carrying an adversary around in their bellies, like that famous ventriloquist Eurycles, contradicting them out loud from within.

Theaetetus: That's exactly right — a very accurate picture.

Stranger: Now, suppose we assume the opposite: that everything has the power to mix with everything.

Theaetetus: Even I can figure out what goes wrong there.

Stranger: How?

Theaetetus: Because motion itself would be at rest, and rest would be in motion — if they could be attributed to each other.

Stranger: And that's utterly impossible.

Theaetetus: Of course.

Stranger: So only the third option remains.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: Because one of these three must be the case: either everything mixes with everything, or nothing mixes with anything, or some things mix with some and others don't.

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: And the first two have been shown to be impossible.

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: So anyone who wants to give a truthful answer will go with the third option: some things mix with some, and others don't.

Theaetetus: Exactly right.

Stranger: This selective mixing can be illustrated by letters. Some letters don't fit together, while others do.

Theaetetus: Of course.

Stranger: And the vowels, especially, are a kind of bond running through all the other letters. Without a vowel, no consonant can be joined to another consonant.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: But does everyone know which letters combine with which? Or does that require a skill?

Theaetetus: It requires a skill.

Stranger: Which skill?

Theaetetus: Grammar.

Stranger: And isn't the same true of musical notes, high and low? The person who has the skill to know which sounds blend together is a musician, and the person who doesn't know isn't?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: And we'll find this pattern holds everywhere — in every case of having or lacking skill.

Theaetetus: Of course.

Stranger: So since we've agreed that categories of being — like letters — are sometimes capable and sometimes incapable of mixing, anyone who wants to correctly show which kinds combine and which don't must proceed through argument with the help of knowledge. And he'll need to ask whether there are universal connecting threads that run through everything, making mixing possible — and again, in cases of division, whether there are other universal categories that make those divisions possible.

Theaetetus: He'll definitely need knowledge for that — and if I'm not mistaken, the very greatest knowledge there is.

Stranger: And what should we call it? By Zeus — have we stumbled upon the philosopher's own science without realizing it? Were we looking for the sophist and accidentally found the philosopher?

Theaetetus: What do you mean?

Stranger: Shouldn't we say that the division according to classes — which neither confuses what's different with what's the same, nor treats what's the same as if it were different — is the business of the dialectical science?

Theaetetus: Yes, that's what we should say.

Stranger: Then the person who can do this rightly is able to perceive clearly: one Form pervading a scattered multitude, and many different Forms contained under one higher Form. And again: one Form knit together into a single whole but pervading many such wholes. And many Forms existing only in separation and isolation. This is the knowledge of classes — knowing where they can combine with one another and where they can't.

Theaetetus: Exactly right.

Stranger: And you'd assign the art of dialectic only to the pure and genuine philosopher?

Theaetetus: Who else could be worthy of it?

Stranger: In this region we'll always find the philosopher, if we look for him. But like the sophist, he's not easy to see — though for a different reason.

Theaetetus: What reason?

Stranger: The sophist runs away into the darkness of not-being, where he's learned to feel his way around by habit. He can't be found because of the darkness of the place.

Theaetetus: That seems right.

Stranger: But the philosopher, always conversing through reason with the Form of being, is also hard to see — but because of excess of light. The souls of most people have no eyes that can endure the vision of the divine.

Theaetetus: Yes, that seems just as true as the other.

Stranger: We may come back to the philosopher later if we feel like it. But the sophist clearly can't be allowed to escape until we've gotten a good look at him.

Theaetetus: Agreed.

Stranger: Since we've established that some classes mix with each other and some don't, and that some mix with a few and others with many, and that there's no reason some shouldn't mix with everything — let's pursue the inquiry as the argument suggests. We won't try to deal with all the Forms, or we'll get lost in the sheer number. Instead, let's select a few of the most important ones and examine their natures and their capacity for combining with each other. That way, even if we can't grasp being and not-being with perfect clarity, we may at least not fall short in our examination of them — as far as this inquiry allows — and perhaps we can assert the reality of not-being and escape unharmed.

Theaetetus: We must do that.

Stranger: The most important of all the categories are the ones we were just talking about: being, rest, and motion.

Theaetetus: By far.

Stranger: And we've said that two of them can't mix with each other.

Theaetetus: They absolutely can't.

Stranger: But being surely mixes with both, since both of them exist.

Theaetetus: Of course.

Stranger: So there are three.

Theaetetus: Right.

Stranger: And each of them is different from the other two, but the same as itself.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: But what do we actually mean by "same" and "different"? Are they two additional kinds beyond our three — kinds that necessarily intermingle with the other three? If so, are we dealing with five kinds instead of three? Or when we say "same" and "different," are we unconsciously referring to one of the original three?

Theaetetus: We might be.

Stranger: But motion and rest are certainly neither "the same" nor "the different."

Theaetetus: How so?

Stranger: Whatever we apply to both motion and rest in common can't itself be either of them.

Theaetetus: Why not?

Stranger: Because motion would be at rest and rest would be in motion. Whichever one of them — same or different — gets attributed to both will force the other to change into its own opposite, since it would be participating in its opposite.

Theaetetus: Exactly right.

Stranger: And yet both motion and rest do partake of sameness and of difference?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: So we can't say that motion is the same, any more than we can say rest is the same, or that motion is the different.

Theaetetus: No, we can't.

Stranger: But what about being and the same — could they be identical?

Theaetetus: Maybe.

Stranger: But if they were, then by saying motion and rest "have being," we'd also be saying they're "the same." And that clearly can't be right.

Theaetetus: Certainly not.

Stranger: So being and the same can't be one thing.

Theaetetus: Hardly.

Stranger: Then we should treat "the same" as a fourth category, to be added to the other three.

Theaetetus: Absolutely.

Stranger: And should we call "the different" a fifth? Or should we consider "being" and "the different" to be two names for one category?

Theaetetus: That's possible.

Stranger: But you'd agree that some things that exist are what they are in themselves, while others are always in relation to other things?

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: And "the different" is always relative — always in relation to something else?

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: But that wouldn't be the case if being and the different were the same thing. Because if "the different" were absolute as well as relative — like being — then there would be some instance of "the different" that isn't different from anything. But in fact, we find that whatever is different is necessarily what it is in relation to some other thing.

Theaetetus: That's exactly right.

Stranger: Then we have to accept "the different" as our fifth category among the ones we've selected.

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: And this fifth category pervades all the others. Because each of them is different from the rest — not because of its own nature, but because it participates in the nature of "the different."

Theaetetus: Exactly.

Stranger: Now let's work through each of the five, one at a time.

Theaetetus: How?

Stranger: First, take motion. We affirm that it's absolutely different from rest. What else can we say?

Theaetetus: It is.

Stranger: And therefore it is not rest.

Theaetetus: Certainly not.

Stranger: And yet it exists — because it partakes of being.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: And motion is different from the same?

Theaetetus: Basically, yes.

Stranger: So it's not the same.

Theaetetus: It's not.

Stranger: And yet motion is the same — because everything partakes of the same.

Theaetetus: Very true.

Stranger: So we have to accept this and not object: motion is the same and is not the same. When we say these two things, we don't mean them in the same way. We call it "the same" in relation to itself, because it partakes of the same. And we call it "not the same" because, through its connection with "the different," it gets separated from the same — it becomes not that, but other. So it's correctly called "not the same."

Theaetetus: Of course.

Stranger: And if motion itself somehow partook of rest, there'd be nothing wrong with calling motion "stationary."

Theaetetus: Right — assuming some categories mix with each other and others don't.

Stranger: And we already proved that this kind of mixing among categories is natural, before we got to this part of the discussion.

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: Let's continue. Can we say motion is different from "the different"? After all, we've already shown it's different from "the same" and different from rest.

Theaetetus: That's certain.

Stranger: So motion is different and also not different?

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: What's next? Should we say motion is different from three of the five but not the fourth? Because we agreed there are five categories we're examining.

Theaetetus: We surely can't reduce the number below what we found just now.

Stranger: Then we can assert without fear that motion is different from being?

Theaetetus: Without the slightest fear.

Stranger: So the clear result is this: motion, since it partakes of being, really is — and also is not.

Theaetetus: Nothing could be plainer.

Stranger: Then not-being necessarily exists in the case of motion, and in every category. Because the nature of "the different" enters into all of them, making each of them different from being and therefore, in that sense, nonexistent. So we can truly say of all of them that they are not. And equally, because they partake of being, they are and they exist.

Theaetetus: That seems right.

Stranger: Every category, then, has plenty of being and an unlimited amount of not-being.

Theaetetus: So it seems.

Stranger: And being itself can be said to be different from the other categories.

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: Then we can conclude that being is not, insofar as there are other things. Because since it's not those other things — which are unlimited in number — it is itself one thing, and is not all the rest.

Theaetetus: That's close to the truth.

Stranger: We shouldn't quarrel with this result. It's in the nature of categories to mix with one another. And if anyone denies what we're saying now — that being, in a sense, is not — let him first refute our earlier conclusion about how categories interact, and then he can argue with what follows.

Theaetetus: Nothing could be fairer.

Stranger: Let me ask you to consider one more thing.

Theaetetus: What?

Stranger: When we speak of not-being, we're not, I think, talking about something opposed to being. We're only talking about something different.

Theaetetus: What do you mean?

Stranger: When we say something is "not great," does that seem to imply "small" any more than it implies "equal"?

Theaetetus: Certainly not.

Stranger: So when we use negative words — "not" this or "non-" that — they don't imply the opposite of the word that follows. They only imply something different from it, or more precisely, something different from the things those words represent.

Theaetetus: Exactly.

Stranger: There's another point to consider, if you don't mind.

Theaetetus: What is it?

Stranger: The nature of "the different" seems to me to be divided into parts — just like knowledge.

Theaetetus: How so?

Stranger: Knowledge is one thing, and yet its various branches each have their own particular name. That's why there are many arts and kinds of knowledge.

Theaetetus: Quite true.

Stranger: And isn't the same true of the parts of "the different," which is also one thing?

Theaetetus: Probably. But how?

Stranger: There's some part of "the different" that's set against the beautiful?

Theaetetus: There is.

Stranger: Does it have a name, or not?

Theaetetus: It does. Whatever we call "not-beautiful" is what's different from the beautiful — not different from something else.

Stranger: Now tell me one more thing.

Theaetetus: What?

Stranger: The not-beautiful — isn't it simply a portion of existence that's been marked off from a certain kind of existence and then set against another existing thing?

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: So the not-beautiful turns out to be a case of one being set against another being?

Theaetetus: Very true.

Stranger: Then on this view, is the beautiful more real than the not-beautiful? Is the not-beautiful less real?

Theaetetus: Not at all.

Stranger: And "the not-great" exists just as fully as "the great"?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: And in the same way, "the just" has to be put in the same class as "the not-just" — neither one has any more existence than the other.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: The same applies to everything else. Since the nature of "the different" has real existence, its parts must be considered equally real.

Theaetetus: Of course.

Stranger: Then it seems that the contrast between a part of "the different" and a part of being is, if I may put it this way, just as real as being itself. It doesn't imply the opposite of being — only what is different from being.

Theaetetus: Beyond question.

Stranger: Then what should we call it?

Theaetetus: Obviously, not-being. And this is exactly the nature of not-being that the sophist forced us to search for.

Stranger: And doesn't it have just as real an existence as any other category, as you were saying? Can I say with confidence that not-being has a secure existence and a nature of its own? Just as the great was found to be great and the beautiful beautiful, and the not-great not-great and the not-beautiful not-beautiful — in the same way, not-being has been found to be and is not-being. It should be counted as one among the many categories of being. Do you still have any doubt about this, Theaetetus?

Theaetetus: None whatsoever.

Stranger: Do you see that our investigation has carried us beyond the limits Parmenides set?

Theaetetus: In what way?

Stranger: We've pushed further than he forbade us to go, and we've shown him more than he ever wanted investigated.

Theaetetus: How so?

Stranger: Because he says:

"Not-being never is, and keep your thoughts from this way of inquiry."

Theaetetus: Yes, that's what he says.

Stranger: But we've not only proved that things which are not, are — we've shown what Form not-being actually takes. We've shown that the nature of "the different" exists and is distributed across all things in their relations to one another. And whatever part of "the different" is contrasted with being — that is precisely what we've dared to call not-being.

Theaetetus: And I think we were absolutely right, Stranger.

Stranger: Then let no one say that we're asserting some sort of opposite of being and then claiming that opposite exists. We said goodbye to the question of whether being has an opposite long ago — it may or may not, and it may or may not be definable. But as for our account of not-being: let someone either prove us wrong, or, as long as he can't, let him say what we're saying — that categories mix with one another; that being and difference pervade everything and interpenetrate each other; that "the different" partakes of being and therefore is, yet is not the same as what it partakes of, but other; and being other than being, it's clearly and necessarily not-being.

And being itself, through partaking of "the different," becomes a category different from the rest. Being different from all of them, it is not each one of them, and is not all the rest. So undoubtedly, there are thousands upon thousands of cases in which being is not. And all other things, whether considered individually or collectively, in many respects are and in many respects are not.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: And if anyone is skeptical about this seeming contradiction, he needs to come up with something better. Or if his idea of fun is dragging words this way and that, our argument proves he's not making worthy use of his talents. There's no charm in such puzzles, and there's no difficulty in spotting them. But we can point him toward something else — something that's noble and also difficult.

Theaetetus: What's that?

Stranger: Something I've already mentioned. Forget these word games — they're not hard. Instead, a person should be able to follow and critique every argument in detail. When someone says that "the same" is in some way "different," or that "the different" is in some way "the same," he should be able to understand and respond from the speaker's own point of view, in the very respect in which the claim is being made. But to show that somehow the same is different, the different is same, the great is small, or the like is unlike — and to take delight in endlessly trotting out such contradictions — that's no real refutation. It's the work of someone who's just beginning to grapple with the problem of being.

Theaetetus: Absolutely.

Stranger: Because, my friend, trying to separate everything from everything else is crude and utterly unworthy of an educated or philosophical mind.

Theaetetus: Why?

Stranger: Total separation is the complete destruction of all reasoning. We can only achieve rational discourse through the weaving together of concepts with one another.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: And notice that we were just in time in resisting those separatists and forcing them to admit that things do mix with one another.

Theaetetus: Why was the timing so important?

Stranger: So that we could establish discourse itself as a genuine kind of being. If we couldn't, the worst possible consequence would follow: we'd lose philosophy entirely. And the need to determine the nature of discourse is pressing right now. If we were completely deprived of it, we couldn't hold discourse at all. And we'd be deprived of it if we admitted that there's no mixing of categories whatsoever.

Theaetetus: That's true. But I don't see why we need to determine the nature of discourse right at this moment.

Stranger: Maybe this will help you see.

Theaetetus: What?

Stranger: We've established that not-being is one category among many, distributed across all being.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: And now the question is: does not-being mix with opinion and speech?

Theaetetus: How so?

Stranger: If not-being plays no part in statements, then everything we say must be true. But if not-being does play a part, then false opinion and false speech become possible. Because to think or say what is not — that's what falsehood is. Falsehood arises in the domain of thought and speech.

Theaetetus: Exactly right.

Stranger: And where there's falsehood, there must be deception.

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: And if there's deception, then the world must be full of images, likenesses, and illusions.

Theaetetus: Of course.

Stranger: And we said the sophist had escaped into that territory and was denying the very possibility of falsehood. Nobody, he argued, either thinks or utters falsehood, since not-being has no part in being.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: But now we've shown that not-being does partake of being. So the sophist won't be able to hold that line anymore. But he'll probably shift his ground and say that some Forms partake of not-being and some don't, and that speech and opinion are among the ones that don't. And he'll keep fighting to the death against the image-making and appearance-making art — the one we've placed him in — because, he'll argue, if opinion and speech don't partake of not-being, there can be no such thing as falsehood.

So to counter this evasion, we need to start by investigating the nature of speech, opinion, and imagination. We need to find them, show they have a connection with not-being, and by proving that connection, prove that falsehood exists. Then we'll imprison the sophist there, if he deserves it — or if not, we'll let him go and look for him in another category.

Theaetetus: What you said about the sophist at the beginning is certainly proving true, Stranger — he's not easily caught. He seems to have an endless supply of defenses, and every single one has to be broken through before we can reach the man himself. We just barely got through his first defense — the claim that not-being doesn't exist — and now here's another: we still have to prove that falsehood exists in speech and opinion. And after that, there'll be another, and another, with no end in sight.

Stranger: Anyone who can make even a little progress should take heart, Theaetetus. What would someone who's discouraged by small gains do if he were making no progress at all — or even losing ground? A faint heart, as the proverb says, will never take a city. But now that we've come this far, the citadel is ours. What remains is easier.

Theaetetus: Very true.

Stranger: Then, as I was saying, let's first work out a clear idea of speech and opinion. That will give us a solid basis for determining whether not-being has anything to do with them — or whether they're always true and never false.

Theaetetus: Right.

Stranger: Now then — let's talk about words, the way we were talking earlier about Forms and letters. That's the direction the answer lies.

Theaetetus: And what's the question about words?

Stranger: Whether all words can be connected with each other, or none, or only some.

Theaetetus: Clearly the last one.

Stranger: I think you mean that words which form a meaningful sequence can be connected, but words that have no meaning in sequence can't?

Theaetetus: What exactly are you saying?

Stranger: What I thought you were implying when you agreed. There are two basic kinds of vocal signs that indicate being.

Theaetetus: What are they?

Stranger: One kind is called nouns, the other verbs.

Theaetetus: Describe them.

Stranger: The sign that indicates an action we call a verb.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: And the sign that identifies the one performing the action we call a noun.

Theaetetus: Right.

Stranger: Now, a string of nouns by itself doesn't make a sentence. Neither does a string of verbs by itself.

Theaetetus: I don't follow.

Stranger: I see. When you agreed just now, you had something different in mind. But my point is simply that a bare sequence of nouns or verbs isn't discourse.

Theaetetus: What do you mean?

Stranger: I mean that words like "walks," "runs," "sleeps" — or any other words indicating actions — no matter how many you string together, they don't make a sentence.

Theaetetus: How could they?

Stranger: And again, when you say "lion," "stag," "horse," or any other words indicating agents — you don't get a sentence this way either. In neither case do the sounds express any action or inaction, or the existence or nonexistence of anything. Not until verbs are combined with nouns. Then the words fit together, and the smallest such combination produces speech — the simplest and shortest form of discourse.

Theaetetus: What do you mean?

Stranger: When someone says "A man learns" — would you call that the simplest and shortest sentence?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: Because now he's conveying something about something that is, or is becoming, or has become, or will be. He's not just naming — he's doing something by connecting a verb with a noun. That's why we say he's engaging in discourse, and we call this connection of words a statement.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: And just as some things fit together and others don't, some vocal signs combine to form discourse and others don't.

Theaetetus: Exactly.

Stranger: There's one more small point.

Theaetetus: What?

Stranger: A sentence has to have a subject. It can't help it.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: And it has to have a certain quality — a character.

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: Now let's pay close attention to what we're doing.

Theaetetus: We must.

Stranger: I'll give you a sentence that combines a subject and an action, using a noun and a verb. You tell me who the sentence is about.

Theaetetus: I'll do my best.

Stranger: "Theaetetus sits." Not a very long sentence.

Theaetetus: Not very.

Stranger: Now tell me: who does the sentence speak about? Who's the subject?

Theaetetus: Me. I'm the subject.

Stranger: And how about this sentence —

Theaetetus: What sentence?

Stranger: "Theaetetus, with whom I'm now speaking, is flying."

Theaetetus: That's also a sentence everyone would agree speaks about me and applies to me.

Stranger: And we agreed that every sentence must have a certain quality.

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: So what's the quality of each of these two sentences?

Theaetetus: I'd say one is false and the other is true.

Stranger: And the true one says what's true about you?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: And the false one says what's different from the truth?

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: It speaks of things that are not as though they were?

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: It says things are real about you that are not real. Because, as we were saying, for every person and thing, there's much that is and much that is not.

Theaetetus: Exactly.

Stranger: Now, the second sentence about you was first of all an example of the shortest form of sentence we defined.

Theaetetus: Yes, we agreed on that.

Stranger: And second, it was about a subject.

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: A subject that has to be you and can't be anyone else.

Theaetetus: Unquestionably.

Stranger: And it wouldn't be a sentence at all if it had no subject. We proved that a sentence without a subject is impossible.

Theaetetus: Right.

Stranger: So when "the different" is asserted of you as if it were "the same" — when not-being is asserted as being — that kind of combination of nouns and verbs is really and truly false discourse.

Theaetetus: Absolutely true.

Stranger: And from this it follows that thought, opinion, and imagination exist in our minds as both true and false.

Theaetetus: How so?

Stranger: You'll understand better if you first grasp what each of them is and how they differ from one another.

Theaetetus: Then explain it to me.

Stranger: Aren't thought and speech the same thing, with one difference: what we call thought is the soul's silent, internal conversation with itself?

Theaetetus: Exactly.

Stranger: But when that stream of thought flows out through the lips and becomes audible, it's called speech?

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: And we know that within speech there exists —

Theaetetus: What?

Stranger: Affirmation and denial.

Theaetetus: Yes, we know that.

Stranger: And when affirmation or denial happens silently, in the mind alone — what do you call it besides opinion?

Theaetetus: That's the only name for it.

Stranger: And when opinion arises not on its own but through some form of perception — would you call that anything other than imagination?

Theaetetus: Certainly not.

Stranger: So: since speech can be true or false, and since thought is the soul's conversation with itself, and opinion is the conclusion of thinking, and imagination is the fusion of perception with opinion — it follows that some of these, being akin to speech, must contain an element of falsehood as well as truth.

Theaetetus: Certainly.

Stranger: Do you realize, then, that we've discovered false opinion and false speech sooner than we expected? Just a moment ago, it looked like we were taking on a task that would never be finished.

Theaetetus: I do realize it.

Stranger: Then let's not be discouraged about what's ahead. Now that we've made this breakthrough, let's go back to our earlier classification.

Theaetetus: Which classification?

Stranger: We divided image-making into two kinds: likeness-making and appearance-making — the fantastic art.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: And we said we weren't sure which one the sophist belonged to.

Theaetetus: We did.

Stranger: And our heads started spinning when it was claimed that there's no such thing as an image, a likeness, or an appearance, because falsehood can't exist in any way, at any time, in any place.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: But now we've shown that false speech and false opinion exist. And that means there can be imitations of real things, and from that condition of the mind an art of deception can arise.

Theaetetus: That's certainly possible now.

Stranger: And we already established that the sophist was lurking in one of the two divisions of image-making.

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: Then let's make a fresh attempt. When we divide any class, let's always take the part on the right — holding on to whatever contains the sophist — until we've stripped away every general property he shares with others and exposed his specific difference, his unique nature. Then we can display him in his true form, first to ourselves, then to those with a kindred philosophical spirit.

Theaetetus: Very good.

Stranger: You may recall that all skill was originally divided into creative and acquisitive.

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: And the sophist kept showing up in the acquisitive class — under hunting, competition, commerce, and so on.

Theaetetus: Very true.

Stranger: But now that the imitative art has enclosed him, it's clear we need to start by dividing the art of creation. Because imitation is a kind of creation — the creation of images, not real things.

Theaetetus: Exactly.

Stranger: First, there are two kinds of creation.

Theaetetus: What are they?

Stranger: One is human, the other divine.

Theaetetus: I don't follow.

Stranger: Remember, we originally defined creative power as anything that brings into existence something that didn't exist before.

Theaetetus: I remember.

Stranger: Now look at the world — all the animals and plants, the things that grow from seeds and roots, the inanimate substances formed within the earth, both those that melt and those that don't. Should we say these come into existence — having not existed before — through the creation of God? Or should we go along with the common opinion?

Theaetetus: Which opinion?

Stranger: That nature produces them from some spontaneous, mindless cause. Or should we say they're created by divine reason and knowledge that comes from God?

Theaetetus: I admit I probably waver on this because of my age. But when I look at you and see you're inclined to credit them to God, I'll defer to your judgment.

Stranger: Well said, Theaetetus. And if I thought you were the kind of person who'd later change his mind, I'd have argued with you gently and made you agree. But since I can see you'll arrive at that belief on your own — without any argument from me — toward the view that already attracts you, I won't try to rush what time will accomplish.

So let's suppose that things produced by nature are the work of divine craft, and things made by humans from natural materials are works of human craft. There are two kinds of making: human and divine.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: Now subdivide each of those two sections once more.

Theaetetus: How do you mean?

Stranger: Just as we made a horizontal division of production into divine and human, now make a vertical one.

Theaetetus: Done.

Stranger: So there are four parts in all. Two relate to us and are human. Two relate to the gods and are divine.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: And taking the other division: within each half, one part is the making of real things, while the other two parts are the making of likenesses or images. So creative skill is again divided into two.

Theaetetus: Walk me through the divisions again.

Stranger: We, other animals, and the elements from which things are made — fire, water, and the like — are all understood to be the creation and work of God.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: And then there are images of them — things that are not the originals but correspond to them. These too are the creation of a wonderful skill.

Theaetetus: What kind of images?

Stranger: The appearances that arise spontaneously — in sleep or by day. Things like shadows, which appear when darkness falls across a source of light. Or reflections, which are produced when light from a bright, smooth surface meets an external light and creates a perception that reverses our ordinary sight.

Theaetetus: Yes — those images are just as much the work of a divine hand as the originals are.

Stranger: And what about human creation? Don't we build one house with the art of construction, and another with the art of drawing — a sort of dream created by humans for people who are awake?

Theaetetus: Exactly.

Stranger: And all other products of human creation come in pairs the same way: the real thing, made by the art of making the thing itself, and the image, made by the art of imitation.

Theaetetus: Now I understand. And I'm ready to acknowledge that there are two kinds of production, each of them twofold. In the horizontal division, there's divine and human production. In the vertical division, there are real things and images of them.

Stranger: And let's not forget: within the imitative class, one part was supposed to be likeness-making and the other appearance-making — if it could be shown that falsehood actually exists and belongs to the class of real things.

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: And that has been shown. So now, without hesitation, we can count the two kinds as distinct.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: Then let's divide the art of appearance-making once more.

Theaetetus: Where do we make the cut?

Stranger: There's one kind where the appearance is produced using a tool or instrument, and another where the creator of the appearance is himself the instrument.

Theaetetus: What do you mean?

Stranger: When someone makes himself look or sound like another person, that part of the appearance-making art is called mimicry.

Theaetetus: Yes.

Stranger: Let's call this branch the art of mimicry and assign it its territory. As for the other branch — using tools — we're tired, so let's leave it to someone else to classify and name.

Theaetetus: Fair enough. Let's give one its territory and leave the other.

Stranger: But there's one more distinction within mimicry, Theaetetus, that's worth our attention. I'll tell you why.

Theaetetus: Go ahead.

Stranger: Some imitators know what they're imitating. Others don't. And what greater line of distinction could there possibly be than the one between ignorance and knowledge?

Theaetetus: None.

Stranger: Now, the kind of imitation we were just talking about — wasn't it the imitation of those who know? Someone who wants to imitate you would surely have to know you and what you look like.

Theaetetus: Naturally.

Stranger: But what about the Form of justice, or virtue in general? Aren't we well aware that many people, who have no real knowledge of these things but only a sort of opinion, do their best to make it seem like they genuinely hold these opinions — expressing them as convincingly as they can in word and deed?

Theaetetus: Yes, that's very common.

Stranger: And do they always fail at appearing just when they're not? Or is the opposite true?

Theaetetus: The opposite. They often succeed.

Stranger: Then this kind of person should be called an imitator too — but distinguished from the other kind, the way the ignorant are distinguished from the knowledgeable.

Theaetetus: True.

Stranger: Can we find a good name for each? This clearly isn't easy. The ancients had a certain confusion about dividing categories into species, so there aren't many names ready to hand. But for the sake of clarity, I'll be bold. Let's call imitation that coexists with mere opinion the imitation of appearances. And imitation that coexists with knowledge we'll call learned or informed imitation.

Theaetetus: Granted.

Stranger: The first kind is what we care about right now. Because the sophist was classified among imitators, but not among those with knowledge.

Theaetetus: Very true.

Stranger: Then let's examine our imitator-of-appearances and see if he rings solid like good iron, or if there's still a crack in him.

Theaetetus: Let's check.

Stranger: There's quite a substantial crack. Look: within the two classes of imitators, one is a simple creature who genuinely believes he knows what he only thinks he knows. The other type has been knocked around among arguments long enough to suspect and fear that he's actually ignorant of what he pretends to know in front of others.

Theaetetus: There are definitely both kinds, just as you describe.

Stranger: Should we call the first the sincere imitator, and the second the ironic or dissembling imitator?

Theaetetus: That sounds right.

Stranger: And should we say the dissembling type has one division or two?

Theaetetus: You tell me.

Stranger: On reflection, I see two. There's the dissembler who delivers long speeches to crowds in public. And there's the dissembler who works in private, using short questions and answers to force the person he's talking with into contradicting himself.

Theaetetus: That's absolutely right.

Stranger: And who's the one who makes the long speeches? The statesman, or the popular orator?

Theaetetus: The popular orator.

Stranger: And what should we call the other one? Is he the philosopher or the sophist?

Theaetetus: He can't be the philosopher — we've established that he's ignorant. But since he imitates the wise, he'll have a name derived from "wise" — sophos. What should we call him? I'm pretty confident I can't be wrong in calling him the true and genuine sophist.

Stranger: Then shall we tie up his name the way we did before — tracing a chain from one end of his genealogy to the other?

Theaetetus: Absolutely.

Stranger: Here, then, is the pedigree of his art: he belongs to the conscious, dissembling section of the art of producing self-contradiction. He's an imitator of appearances — separated out from the fantastic branch, which itself is a branch of image-making, which is part of creation. And his creation is human, not divine — the juggling of words. Anyone who says the real sophist is of this blood and lineage will be speaking the absolute truth.

Theaetetus: Without a doubt.

Statesman (Part 1)

Persons of the dialogue:
  Theodorus
  Socrates
  The Eleatic Stranger
  Young Socrates

Socrates: I owe you a real debt of thanks, Theodorus, for introducing me to both Theaetetus and our visitor from Elea.

Theodorus: And before long, Socrates, you'll owe me three times as much — once they've finished working out the definition of the Statesman and the Philosopher for you, on top of the Sophist.

Socrates: Sophist, statesman, philosopher! My dear Theodorus, are my ears hearing right? Is that really how the great mathematician and geometer ranks them — all at the same value?

Theodorus: What do you mean, Socrates?

Socrates: I mean you're treating them as equals, when in reality they're separated by a distance no geometric ratio could express.

Theodorus: By Ammon, god of Cyrene — that's a fair hit, Socrates, and it shows you haven't forgotten your geometry! I'll get you back for that another time. But for now, let me ask our visitor — who I hope won't tire of being so generous with us — to take up whichever he prefers next, the Statesman or the Philosopher.

Stranger: That's my obligation, Theodorus. I've started, so I can't leave the job unfinished. But what should we do about Theaetetus?

Theodorus: What do you mean?

Stranger: Should we give him a break and swap in his companion, Young Socrates, instead? What do you think?

Theodorus: Yes, rotate them in, as you suggest. Young people always do better with rest breaks.

Socrates: I think, Stranger, that both of them could be called relatives of mine in some way. One of them, as you've pointed out, has the same ugly face I do. The other shares my name. And we should always be on the lookout for family resemblances in conversation. I was talking with Theaetetus yesterday and just now listened to him answer your questions. But my namesake I haven't examined yet — that'll have to wait for another time. Today let him answer you.

Stranger: Very well. Young Socrates, do you hear what the elder Socrates is proposing?

Young Socrates: I do.

Stranger: And you agree?

Young Socrates: Absolutely.

Stranger: Since you have no objection, I certainly can't either. After the Sophist, then, the Statesman naturally comes next in our investigation. So tell me — should the statesman also be counted among those who possess a kind of knowledge?

Young Socrates: Yes.

Stranger: Then we'll need to divide the branches of knowledge, as we did before?

Young Socrates: I'd think so.

Stranger: But the division won't be along the same lines.

Young Socrates: How will it differ?

Stranger: We'll cut at a different point.

Young Socrates: All right.

Stranger: Where do we find the path to the Statesman? We need to locate it, separate it out, and mark it clearly, while putting a different label on every diverging path. That way the mind can conceive of all forms of knowledge under two main classes.

Young Socrates: Finding that path is your job, Stranger, not mine.

Stranger: True, Socrates, but once it's found, it belongs to both of us.

Young Socrates: Fair enough.

Stranger: Now, aren't arithmetic and certain related disciplines purely abstract knowledge — completely separate from action?

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: But in carpentry and all the other manual crafts, the craftsman's knowledge is embedded in his work. He doesn't just know things — he also makes things that didn't exist before.

Young Socrates: Certainly.

Stranger: Then let's divide all branches of knowledge into two groups: those that are purely theoretical, and those that are practical.

Young Socrates: Let's treat these as two divisions of knowledge, which is one unified whole.

Stranger: Now, are "statesman," "king," "master of a household," and "slave-owner" all the same thing? Or is there a distinct skill corresponding to each of these titles? Actually, let me put it another way.

Young Socrates: Go ahead.

Stranger: If someone in private life has the expertise to advise one of the public physicians, shouldn't he also be called a physician?

Young Socrates: Yes.

Stranger: And if someone in private life is capable of advising the ruler of a country, wouldn't we say he possesses the same knowledge the ruler ought to have?

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: And the knowledge of a true king is the royal science?

Young Socrates: Yes.

Stranger: So anyone who possesses this knowledge — whether he happens to hold power or is just a private citizen — would properly be called "royal," purely on the basis of his expertise?

Young Socrates: He certainly should be.

Stranger: And a household manager and a master amount to the same thing?

Young Socrates: Of course.

Stranger: And a large household can be compared to a small state — as far as governance goes, is there any real difference?

Young Socrates: None at all.

Stranger: Then, returning to the point we were just discussing, it's clear that there's one science covering all of these. Call it royal, political, or household management — we won't quarrel about the name.

Young Socrates: Certainly not.

Stranger: This much is also clear: a king doesn't maintain his rule primarily through manual labor or physical strength. He does it through the intelligence and power of his mind.

Young Socrates: Obviously.

Stranger: So would we say the king has more in common with theoretical knowledge than with manual crafts and practical life in general?

Young Socrates: Definitely.

Stranger: Then we can treat statesmanship and the statesman as identical with the royal science and the king.

Young Socrates: Clearly.

Stranger: And now we'll be proceeding correctly if we subdivide the sphere of theoretical knowledge?

Young Socrates: Very good.

Stranger: See if you can find a natural joint in it — a dividing line.

Young Socrates: What kind of division do you have in mind?

Stranger: Something like this: remember how we identified the art of calculation?

Young Socrates: Yes.

Stranger: That's unmistakably a branch of theoretical knowledge?

Young Socrates: Certainly.

Stranger: And the only function we'd assign to calculation is judging the differences between numbers — it doesn't do anything beyond that?

Young Socrates: How could we say otherwise?

Stranger: Now, you know that a master builder doesn't work with his own hands — he directs the workers.

Young Socrates: Yes.

Stranger: He contributes knowledge, not manual labor.

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: So he can fairly be said to participate in theoretical knowledge?

Young Socrates: Quite right.

Stranger: But unlike the mathematician, he shouldn't consider his job done once he's made a judgment. He has to assign the individual workers their specific tasks and keep directing them until the work is complete.

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: So all such knowledge is theoretical, just like arithmetic. But there's a difference between the two types: one merely judges, while the other also directs.

Young Socrates: That seems right.

Stranger: So can we say that all theoretical knowledge divides into two branches — one that judges and one that directs?

Young Socrates: I'd say so.

Stranger: And when people work together, isn't it desirable that they be of one mind?

Young Socrates: Very much so.

Stranger: Well, as long as we agree between ourselves, we needn't worry about what others think.

Young Socrates: Certainly not.

Stranger: Now, in which of these divisions do we place the king? Is he a judge and spectator? Or do we assign him to the directive branch — since he's a ruler?

Young Socrates: The directive branch, clearly.

Stranger: Then we need to see whether the art of directing can be further divided. Here's what I'm thinking: there's a distinction similar to the one between a manufacturer and a retailer, and it separates the king from a herald.

Young Socrates: How so?

Stranger: Well, doesn't a retailer receive goods that others have already produced and sell them on?

Young Socrates: He certainly does.

Stranger: And similarly, a herald receives orders from above and passes them on to others?

Young Socrates: Very true.

Stranger: Then should we lump the king's art together with the arts of the herald, the interpreter, the boatswain, the prophet, and all the similar arts that involve passing along commands? Or — just as we earlier distinguished manufacturers who sell their own products from retailers — should we recognize that supreme rulers issue their own commands? The class of "self-directing rulers" barely has a name, but that's where kings belong. Let's assign them to a science of supreme direction, or self-direction, and leave the others for someone else to name. We're looking for the ruler, not the messenger.

Young Socrates: Very good.

Stranger: So we've drawn a solid line between the person who gives his own commands and the person who passes along someone else's. Now let's see if supreme authority allows further division.

Young Socrates: By all means.

Stranger: I think it does — help me with this.

Young Socrates: Where should we cut?

Stranger: Can we say that all rulers give commands for the sake of producing something?

Young Socrates: Certainly.

Stranger: And it's not hard to divide the things produced into two classes.

Young Socrates: How would you divide them?

Stranger: Of all things produced, some are living and some are not.

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: And using this distinction, we can subdivide the directive branch of knowledge.

Young Socrates: At what point?

Stranger: One part directs the production of lifeless things, the other the care of living ones. That gives us our division.

Young Socrates: Certainly.

Stranger: Good. We can set one half aside and pick up the other — which can itself be divided into two.

Young Socrates: Which half do you mean?

Stranger: The one that exercises authority over animals, of course. The royal science isn't like being a master builder overseeing lifeless materials. The king has a nobler function — the management and care of living beings.

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: And the care of living creatures sometimes involves tending individuals, and sometimes managing creatures in groups — in herds?

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: But the statesman isn't a keeper of individual animals — not like a groom who tends a single horse. He's more like the manager of an entire herd of horses or cattle.

Young Socrates: Yes, I see what you mean.

Stranger: Should we call this art of tending many animals together "herd management" or "collective care"?

Young Socrates: Either one — whichever comes up naturally in conversation.

Stranger: Good instinct, Socrates. If you keep being relaxed about terminology, you'll be richer in wisdom when you're old. Now, leaving the name aside — can you see how we might divide herd management in two, so that what we're looking for in twice as large a field can be sought in half the space?

Young Socrates: I'll try. It seems to me there's one kind of management for humans and another for animals.

Stranger: You divided them boldly and directly, and I respect that. But you've fallen into an error we should avoid going forward.

Young Socrates: What error?

Stranger: You shouldn't slice off one small piece and set it against many larger ones. The division should be into genuine classes. It's always better to cut through the middle. You jumped to "humans" because you could see it would get us to our destination, and that made you rush. But you shouldn't chip off too small a piece, my friend. The safer way is to cut down the middle, and that's more likely to find real categories. This principle makes all the difference in any investigation.

Young Socrates: What do you mean, Stranger?

Stranger: I'll try to be clearer, out of appreciation for your sharp mind. I can't explain myself completely right now, but I'll try as we go along.

Young Socrates: What exactly was our mistake in the division?

Stranger: It was like this: imagine someone wanted to divide the human race and did it the way people do around here — splitting off "Greeks" as one category and lumping all the countless other peoples, who have nothing in common and don't even speak the same language, under the single label "barbarians." Because they share one name, they're supposed to be one species. Or imagine dividing numbers by cutting off "ten thousand" as one class and treating everything else as another — just because you've given it one name. You'd get a much better, more balanced division if you split numbers into odd and even, or the human race into male and female. You should only separate off specific groups like Lydians or Phrygians when you can't divide any further into parts that are also genuine classes.

Young Socrates: Very true. But I wish the distinction between a mere part and a true class could be made even clearer.

Stranger: Excellent Socrates, you're asking me something really difficult! We've already wandered further from our original topic than we should, and you want us to wander even further. Let's get back on track for now, and we can follow up on that another time. But I do want to make sure you heard me correctly —

Young Socrates: About what?

Stranger: That a class is always a part, but a part isn't necessarily a class. That's the view I'd want you to always attribute to me.

Young Socrates: Done.

Stranger: Now there's something else I'd like to clarify.

Young Socrates: What's that?

Stranger: Where exactly we went off track. If I'm not mistaken, it was when I asked how you'd divide herd management, and you answered a bit too quickly that there were two kinds of animals: human beings and everything else.

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: I noticed that you carved off one part and assumed the remainder was a class, just because you could call all non-human animals "brutes."

Young Socrates: That's right.

Stranger: Now imagine, most courageous of dialecticians, that some intelligent creature — say, a crane — made the same kind of division. Cranes would be one distinguished species, and all other animals, including humans, would be lumped together as "brutes." That's the kind of error we need to avoid.

Young Socrates: How do we stay safe?

Stranger: By not dividing the whole class of animals in one stroke.

Young Socrates: We shouldn't try to take the whole thing at once?

Stranger: That's where we went wrong before.

Young Socrates: How?

Stranger: Remember, the branch of directive knowledge that dealt with living creatures had to do with animals in herds?

Young Socrates: Yes.

Stranger: Well, that already implied a division of all animals into tame and wild. Animals whose nature allows them to be tamed we call tame; those that can't be tamed we call wild.

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: And the political science we're searching for deals — and has always dealt — exclusively with tame animals, and specifically with those that live in groups.

Young Socrates: Yes.

Stranger: So we shouldn't divide by grabbing the whole class at once. And let's not be in too big a hurry to reach political science. That kind of haste has already brought on us the misfortune the proverb warns about.

Young Socrates: What misfortune?

Stranger: Too much haste, too little speed.

Young Socrates: Fair enough, Stranger — we got what we deserved.

Stranger: All right, let's start fresh and try to divide the collective care of animals properly. Completing the argument carefully will probably show you what you're so eager to learn. Tell me —

Young Socrates: What?

Stranger: Have you ever heard of — or maybe you've actually seen — the fish preserves in the Nile and the ponds of the Great King of Persia? Or similar fish ponds closer to home, in wells?

Young Socrates: Yes, I've seen them myself, and I've heard plenty of descriptions of the others.

Stranger: And you've heard about the goose and crane nurseries on the plains of Thessaly, even if you haven't traveled there?

Young Socrates: Certainly.

Stranger: I bring this up because here's a new division of herd management: management of water herds and management of land herds.

Young Socrates: There is.

Stranger: And do you agree we should divide collective herd care into these two branches — water and land?

Young Socrates: Yes.

Stranger: And we surely don't need to ask which branch contains the royal art — that's obvious to everyone.

Young Socrates: Certainly.

Stranger: Anyone could further divide the herds that graze on dry land?

Young Socrates: How would you divide them?

Stranger: Into those that fly and those that walk.

Young Socrates: Exactly right.

Stranger: And where do we look for the political animal? Even a fool could tell he's a pedestrian, a walker.

Young Socrates: Certainly.

Stranger: Now the art of managing walking animals needs to be divided again, like halving an even number.

Young Socrates: Clearly.

Stranger: I can see two paths leading toward the class we're aiming at. One's a shortcut — it chops off a small piece and leaves a large one. The other follows our principle of cutting down the middle, but it's longer. We can take whichever we prefer.

Young Socrates: Can't we take both?

Stranger: Both at once? That's asking a lot! But one after the other — sure.

Young Socrates: Then let's take them in turn.

Stranger: Easy enough, since we're near the end. If we'd been at the beginning or the middle, I'd have pushed back. But since we're close to done, let's start with the longer path while we're fresh. Here's the division. Pay attention.

Young Socrates: Go ahead.

Stranger: Tame walking herd animals divide naturally into two classes.

Young Socrates: On what basis?

Stranger: Some grow horns, and some don't.

Young Socrates: Clearly.

Stranger: Now divide the science of managing walking animals into two corresponding parts and define them. If you try to invent specific names, you'll get tangled up in complexity.

Young Socrates: How should I describe them, then?

Stranger: Like this: the science of managing walking animals divides into one part for the horned herd, and another for the hornless herd.

Young Socrates: Consider it said — everything you've laid out has been well established.

Stranger: The king is clearly the shepherd of a hornless herd.

Young Socrates: That's evident.

Stranger: Shall we break this hornless herd into smaller sections and try to assign the king what's his?

Young Socrates: By all means.

Stranger: Should we distinguish them by split hooves versus solid hooves, or by whether the breed can interbreed with others? You know what I mean.

Young Socrates: What exactly?

Stranger: Horses and donkeys naturally breed with each other.

Young Socrates: Yes.

Stranger: But the rest of the tame hornless herd doesn't interbreed.

Young Socrates: Very true.

Stranger: And does the Statesman have charge of the mixed-breeding kind or the pure-breeding kind?

Young Socrates: The pure-breeding kind, clearly.

Stranger: I suppose we need to divide this again, as before.

Young Socrates: We do.

Stranger: Now every tame, gregarious animal has been split up, except for two species. I don't think we should count dogs among herd animals.

Young Socrates: Certainly not. But how do we divide the two remaining species?

Stranger: With a measurement that you and Theaetetus should appreciate, since you're students of geometry.

Young Socrates: What measurement?

Stranger: The diagonal — and then the diagonal of the diagonal.

Young Socrates: What do you mean?

Stranger: How does the human being walk? Isn't our stride like a diagonal whose square equals two?

Young Socrates: Just so.

Stranger: And the stride of the other kind — its square being the square of two, that is, four — could be called the diagonal of our diagonal.

Young Socrates: Yes! I think I almost understand you.

Stranger: And in this division, Socrates, I spot something that would make for another good joke.

Young Socrates: What's that?

Stranger: Human beings have ended up classified alongside the most free and easygoing creature around — and they've been running a race together!

Young Socrates: That is a very odd coincidence.

Stranger: And wouldn't you expect the slowest to finish last?

Young Socrates: Indeed.

Stranger: And here's an even more ridiculous result: the king turns out to be running alongside the herd, neck and neck with the bird-catcher — the man who, of all people, is most at home in the "airy life."

Young Socrates: Quite right.

Stranger: And this proves something we said during our investigation of the Sophist.

Young Socrates: What's that?

Stranger: That the method of logical division plays no favorites. It doesn't rank the great above the small. It always arrives at the truth in its own way.

Young Socrates: Clearly.

Stranger: Now, I won't wait for you to ask — I'll take you by the shorter road to the definition of a king, on my own initiative.

Young Socrates: By all means.

Stranger: Here's what I think we should have done from the start: divide land animals into bipeds and quadrupeds. Since the winged herd — and that alone — ended up in the same class as humans, we should divide bipeds into feathered and featherless. Once that's done and the art of managing humanity is brought to light, it's time to install our Statesman and ruler in his place like a charioteer, and hand him the reins of state — for that office truly belongs to him.

Young Socrates: Excellent. You've paid me the debt — that is, you've completed the argument. And the digression was the interest, I take it.

Stranger: Now then, let's go back to the beginning and link together the whole chain that makes up the definition of the Statesman's art.

Young Socrates: By all means.

Stranger: Here it is: the science of pure knowledge had a part that was the science of directing. From this we derived a further part — self-direction, as distinct from passing along others' commands. A major division of self-direction was the management of living creatures, and this was narrowed further to the management of herds. Within herds, we focused on walking animals. The chief division there was the art of managing hornless walking animals, and this could only be captured by combining three qualifiers — pure-bred, non-interbreeding herds. The only further subdivision is the art of managing human herds — bipeds — and that's what we were looking for. That is both the royal and the political art.

Young Socrates: Exactly.

Stranger: But have we really accomplished what we claim, Socrates?

Young Socrates: What do you mean?

Stranger: I mean — have we truly worked this out? There's been a discussion, sure, but it seems to me the investigation isn't perfectly complete. Something is still off.

Young Socrates: I don't follow.

Stranger: Let me try to make the thought clearer for both of us.

Young Socrates: Please do.

Stranger: There were many arts of shepherding, and one of them was the political art, which had charge of one particular herd?

Young Socrates: Yes.

Stranger: And our argument defined this as the art of rearing — not horses or other animals, but human beings collectively?

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: But notice a crucial difference that sets the king apart from all other shepherds.

Young Socrates: What are you referring to?

Stranger: Does any other herdsman have rivals who claim to share in the management of his herd?

Young Socrates: What do you mean?

Stranger: Think about it: merchants, farmers, food suppliers, athletic trainers, and doctors all compete with the so-called statesmen — the herdsmen of humanity. They all insist that they're the ones who truly rear and manage human beings, and not just ordinary people but the rulers themselves.

Young Socrates: Don't they have a point?

Stranger: They very well might, and we'll examine their claims. But here's what we can be sure of: no one challenges the ordinary herdsman as sole feeder and doctor for his flock. He's also their matchmaker and midwife — no one else knows that part of the job. And he's their entertainer and musician, as far as their natures allow; no one soothes his herd better than he does, whether with his natural voice or with instruments. The same goes for animal keepers in general.

Young Socrates: Very true.

Stranger: So given all that, can our definition of the king really be correct and complete? Were we right to single him out from ten thousand other claimants as the shepherd and rearer of the human flock?

Young Socrates: I suppose not.

Stranger: Weren't we right to suspect that although we may have sketched a rough outline of the royal form, we haven't yet produced a precise portrait of the Statesman? We can't reveal him as he truly is until we've separated him from all those who crowd around him and claim to share his authority.

Young Socrates: Very true.

Stranger: And that's exactly what we must do, Socrates, if we don't want to disgrace our argument at the finish line.

Young Socrates: We certainly can't let that happen.

Stranger: Then let's make a fresh start and travel by a different road.

Young Socrates: What road?

Stranger: Let's mix in a bit of entertainment. There's a famous tale, and a good portion of it will serve our purposes nicely. Then we can go back to our systematic divisions and follow the old path to our destination. Shall we?

Young Socrates: By all means.

Stranger: Then listen to a story that a child would love to hear. And you're not too old for a bit of childish amusement.

Young Socrates: Let's hear it.

Stranger: There really did happen — and will happen again — something like the many marvels preserved in ancient tradition. I'm thinking of the portent associated with the quarrel of Atreus and Thyestes. You've heard about it and remember what they say happened?

Young Socrates: I suppose you mean the golden lamb?

Stranger: No, not that — the other part of the story. The one about how the sun and stars once rose in the west and set in the east, and how a god reversed their course and gave them the motion they have now, as a sign confirming the rights of Atreus.

Young Socrates: Yes, there's that legend too.

Stranger: And we've also heard many times about the reign of Cronus.

Young Socrates: Yes, many times.

Stranger: And the tradition that people in former ages were born from the earth, rather than being born from each other?

Young Socrates: Yes, that's another old story.

Stranger: All these stories, and ten thousand others even more astonishing, spring from the same origin. Most of them have been lost over the ages or survive only in fragments. But the source of them all has never been properly explained — and it's worth explaining now, because the tale sheds light on the nature of the king.

Young Socrates: Wonderful — please tell the whole story and don't leave anything out.

Stranger: Listen, then. There is a time when God himself guides the universe and helps turn it on its course. And there is a time, at the completion of a certain cycle, when he lets go. The universe, being a living creature endowed with intelligence by its maker, then turns around by its own inherent nature and revolves in the opposite direction.

Young Socrates: Why does it do that?

Stranger: Because only the most divine things remain forever unchanged and constant, and the physical universe isn't in that category. The heavens and the cosmos, glorious as they are — having been richly gifted by the Creator — still partake of bodily nature, and so they can't be entirely free from change. But their motion is as uniform and steady as possible; it takes the form of a reversal, which is the smallest possible alteration. Only the lord of all moving things can truly move by himself. And to say that he sometimes pushes the universe one way and sometimes the other would be impious. So here's the picture: sometimes the universe is guided by a divine external power, and it receives fresh life and a kind of immortality from the Creator's renewing hand. Other times, when it's released, it moves on its own. It can do this for immense cycles of time because of its perfect balance, vast size, and the fact that it turns on the tiniest possible pivot — it reverses direction and runs the other way.

Young Socrates: That's a very reasonable account.

Stranger: Now let's think about what follows from this and grasp the phenomenon that explains all these wonders. It's this:

Young Socrates: What?

Stranger: The periodic reversal of the universe's motion.

Young Socrates: How does that explain everything?

Stranger: Of all possible changes in the heavenly motions, this is the greatest and most complete.

Young Socrates: I'd imagine so.

Stranger: And it would naturally produce the greatest changes for the beings living in the universe at the time.

Young Socrates: That makes sense.

Stranger: And we know that living creatures don't survive well when hit by many dramatic changes all at once.

Young Socrates: Very true.

Stranger: So a massive destruction necessarily follows — wiping out most of the human race as well. The few survivors are then subject to a series of remarkable experiences, the most notable of which occurs during the transition to the cycle opposite the one we're living in now.

Young Socrates: What experience is that?

Stranger: First, every living thing stopped aging. Mortal nature ceased to grow older — in fact, it reversed. Everything began growing younger and softer. The white hair of the elderly darkened again. The cheeks of bearded men grew smooth and regained their youthful bloom. The bodies of young men in their prime grew smaller and softer, returning day by day and night by night toward the condition of a newborn child — in mind as well as body. Then they continued to waste away until they vanished entirely. And those who had died by violence at the time of the reversal passed through these same changes even faster, disappearing within days.

Young Socrates: But then how were animals created in that era, Stranger? How did they reproduce?

Stranger: They didn't reproduce from each other — that's the point. There was no procreation as we know it. Instead, there was the earthborn race we hear about in legend — people who rose up out of the ground. Our earliest ancestors, who lived closest to the end of the previous cycle and the beginning of this one, are the ones who passed down these traditions to us. And notice how the rest of the story fits together: after age returns to youth, the dead who lie in the earth return to life. The wheel of generation turns backward along with the reversal of the cosmos, and the dead are reassembled and rise again, living in the opposite direction — unless a god has taken some of them away to a different fate. That's why they're called "earthborn," and that's where the legend comes from.

Young Socrates: Yes, that all fits perfectly. But tell me — the blessed, spontaneous life you described under the reign of Cronus — did that belong to the previous cycle or this one? Because the reversal of the stars and sun would have occurred in both.

Stranger: Good — you're following me closely. No, that blessed and effortless life doesn't belong to our current cycle. It belongs to the previous one, when God oversaw the entire revolution of the universe. The various regions of the world were each assigned to subordinate divine beings, the way some places still have local gods today. These demigods were the shepherds of each species and herd of animals, each one providing everything his flock needed. There was no violence, no creatures devouring one another, no war, no conflict of any kind. I could list ten thousand other blessings of that era. The reason human life was said to be "spontaneous" is this: God himself was their shepherd and ruled over them directly, just as humans — who are comparatively godlike — still rule over the lower animals. Under his care, there were no governments, no private ownership of wives and children. Everyone was born from the earth with no memory of the past. They didn't need any of that. The earth gave them fruit in abundance — growing on trees and bushes without being planted or cultivated. They lived naked, mostly outdoors, because the climate was always mild. They had no beds but lay on soft couches of grass that sprang up plentifully from the ground. That was human life in the age of Cronus, Socrates. Our current life, which is said to be under Zeus — well, you know that from your own experience. So which era would you say was the happier one?

Young Socrates: Impossible to say.

Stranger: Want me to decide for you, as best I can?

Young Socrates: Please do.

Stranger: Well, suppose the nurslings of Cronus, with all that boundless leisure and the ability to converse not just with each other but with animals too — suppose they used all those advantages for philosophy, talking with beasts and with one another, and learning from every creature that had some special ability or insight to contribute to the store of wisdom. In that case, it would be easy to see that they were a thousand times happier than people today. On the other hand, if they just ate and drank until they were stuffed, and told stories to each other and to the animals — the kind of stories still attributed to that age — well, that answer would be easy too. But until someone can tell us whether the people of that era loved knowledge and discussion, we'd better let the question drop and get back to the point of the story.

In the fullness of time, when the change was due, and the earthborn race had all passed away, and every soul had completed its appointed number of rebirths and been sown into the earth the required number of times — then the Pilot of the universe let go of the helm and withdrew to his place of observation. At that moment, Fate and the universe's own innate tendency reversed its motion. All the subordinate deities who shared in governing the world, understanding what was happening, also let go of the regions under their control.

And the universe, turning around with a sudden jolt — driven in the opposite direction from beginning to end — was shaken by a tremendous earthquake that caused a new wave of destruction among all living things. Afterward, when enough time had passed, the chaos and confusion and trembling subsided. The great living creature found its calm and settled back into its own orderly course, taking charge of itself and everything within it, carrying out the instructions of its Father and Creator as best it could remember them — more precisely at first, but with diminishing accuracy over time.

The reason for this decline was the element of matter in its nature — the legacy of its original primordial state, which had been full of chaos before achieving its present order. From God the Creator, the world received everything good in it. But from its former condition came seeds of evil and disorder, which the world first absorbed and then passed on to the animals within it.

As long as the divine Pilot was helping nurture the animals, evil was small and good was abundant. But after the separation, when the world was left on its own, at first things went well enough. But as time passed, the forgetting grew worse and worse. The old discord regained its hold and eventually burst forth in full force. Good became scarce and evil overwhelming, until there was a danger of the world and everything in it being destroyed in the storm and sinking into infinite chaos.

That's when God — the orderer of all things — in his tender care, seeing the world in dire straits and fearing that everything might dissolve into chaos, sat down once more at the helm. He gathered up the elements that had fallen into dissolution and disorder, restored the motion that had prevailed under his guidance, set everything back in order, and made the world deathless and immortal once more.

And that is the complete tale. But the first part is what we need for understanding the king.

When the world turned toward our current cycle, the aging process resumed. The tiny creatures that had nearly disappeared began growing again. The newly born children of the earth grew gray, died, and sank back into the ground. Everything changed to match the condition of the universe, necessarily following its pattern in conception, generation, and growth. No animal was any longer brought into being through divine agency — the world was now its own master, and all its parts were meant to grow, reproduce, and sustain themselves under the same self-governing principle.

And so we've arrived at the real purpose of this story. There would be much more to say about the lower animals and the conditions from which they changed, but about human beings, there's less to say — and it's more to the point. Deprived of God's care — the God who had possessed and tended them — humans were left helpless and defenseless. They were torn apart by wild beasts, which had become fierce now that they were no longer under divine control. In those early ages, humans had no skills and no resources. The food that once grew on its own had failed, and they didn't know how to produce their own, because they'd never had to. Pressed by every kind of necessity, the gifts that tradition tells us the gods gave to humanity were bestowed — along with whatever teaching and education was essential. Fire came from Prometheus. The crafts came from Hephaestus and his partner Athena. Seeds and plants came from other gods. From all of these, human civilization was built. For divine care had failed, as I was saying, and people had to manage their own affairs, to be their own masters — just like the universe they imitate, forever changing, living and growing now one way, now another.

Enough of the story. Now let's see how it helps us understand where we went wrong in our earlier portrait of the king and statesman.

Young Socrates: What was the great error you're talking about?

Stranger: There were two. The first was smaller, the second was much larger and grander.

Young Socrates: What do you mean?

Stranger: When we were asked about a king and statesman of our present age, we actually described the shepherd of the human flock from the other cycle — a being who was a god, when he should have been a man. That was the greater error. The lesser error was that we declared him ruler of the entire state without spelling out how he rules. That wasn't completely wrong, but it wasn't clear or complete either.

Young Socrates: Very good.

Stranger: So before we can have a perfect portrait of the statesman, we need to define the nature of his office.

Young Socrates: Certainly.

Stranger: And the myth was introduced for two reasons: not just to show that all others are rivals of the true shepherd — the one we're searching for — but also to give us a clearer picture of the one person who deserves the title. He alone among shepherds and herdsmen, in keeping with our analogy, has the care of human beings.

Young Socrates: Very true.

Stranger: And I can't help thinking, Socrates, that the divine shepherd from the age of Cronus is on a much higher level than any king. The statesmen of our own time are much more like their subjects — much closer to them in nature, upbringing, and education.

Young Socrates: Certainly.

Stranger: Still, we need to investigate them all the same — to see whether they stand above their subjects or on the same level.

Young Socrates: Of course.

Stranger: Let's pick up where we were. Remember, we spoke of self-directed authority exercised over animals — not individually but collectively — which we called the art of herd management?

Young Socrates: Yes, I remember.

Stranger: That's where we went wrong. We never actually included the Statesman — he had no place in our classification.

Young Socrates: How did that happen?

Stranger: All other herdsmen "rear" their herds. But "rearing" isn't quite the right term for what the Statesman does. We need a word that applies to all of them.

Young Socrates: True, if such a word exists.

Stranger: Well, isn't "care" applicable to all? "Caring for" herds implies no specific activity like feeding — it's broad enough. We could say "tending," "managing," or "having the care of" herds, and the same word would cover everyone, including the Statesman. That seems to be what the argument requires.

Young Socrates: Exactly right. But what's the next step in the division?

Stranger: The same as before. We divided the art of "rearing" herds by land versus water, winged versus walking, mixed-breeding versus pure-breeding, horned versus hornless. We can now divide the art of "caring for" herds along the same lines, covering both the kingship of today and the rule of Cronus.

Young Socrates: That's clear. But I'm still asking — what comes next?

Stranger: If we'd used the word "managing" instead of "feeding" or "rearing" from the start, no one could have argued that there's no care for humans in the case of the statesman. The objection was fair — plenty of people have a better claim to feeding humans than any king does. But no other art has a better claim to the overall care of human society and the right to rule people in general than the royal science.

Young Socrates: Quite true.

Stranger: Now, Socrates, we have to recognize another major error at the end of our analysis.

Young Socrates: What was it?

Stranger: Even if we were absolutely certain that an art of rearing bipeds existed, we had no right to immediately call it the royal or political art, as if the job were done.

Young Socrates: Certainly not.

Stranger: As we were saying, we first needed to rename it — to shift from "feeding" to "caring" — and then to divide further. There may be significant divisions still to make.

Young Socrates: What kinds of divisions?

Stranger: First, separating the divine shepherd from the human guardian.

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: And the art of human guardianship itself needs to be subdivided.

Young Socrates: On what principle?

Stranger: Voluntary versus compulsory.

Young Socrates: Why?

Stranger: Because we made a crucial mistake earlier — we were too naive. We lumped the king and the tyrant together, when they're completely different, just as their modes of government are completely different.

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: So now let's correct that and divide the care of human beings into two parts: voluntary and compulsory.

Young Socrates: Agreed.

Stranger: And if we call the compulsory management of people by violent rulers tyranny, and the voluntary management of willing herds of willing bipeds politics — then can we say that the person who possesses this art of voluntary management is the true king and statesman?

Young Socrates: I think so, Stranger. It seems like we've finally completed our account of the Statesman.

Stranger: That would be nice, Socrates. But I have to satisfy myself as well as you. And in my judgment, the figure of the king isn't finished yet. Like sculptors who get carried away and make parts too big in their rush, then have to waste time cutting them back down — we too, partly from haste, partly from a grand desire to expose our earlier mistake, and partly because we thought a king deserved grand illustrations — we've taken up a huge lump of myth and had to use more material than was necessary. The story never quite came to an end, and yet our discussion could be compared to a painting that's been outlined nicely but hasn't yet received the life and vividness that come from blending colors. Of course, for intelligent people, a living being is better portrayed in words and argument than in any painting or sculpture.

Young Socrates: Very true. But what imperfection still remains? Tell me.

Stranger: The highest ideas, my friend, can hardly be expressed without using examples. Every person seems to know everything in a dreamy, half-conscious way, and then wakes up and realizes they know nothing.

Young Socrates: What do you mean?

Stranger: I'm afraid I've awkwardly raised a question about our experience of knowledge.

Young Socrates: Why awkwardly?

Stranger: Because my "example" of examples itself needs an example.

Young Socrates: Go ahead — don't worry about tiring me out.

Stranger: Good — you're an eager listener. Think about when children are first learning their letters.

Young Socrates: What about it?

Stranger: They can recognize individual letters perfectly well in short, easy syllables, and identify them correctly.

Young Socrates: Certainly.

Stranger: But when those same letters show up in other, harder syllables, the children get confused. They misidentify them — they think and speak incorrectly about them.

Young Socrates: Very true.

Stranger: Now, isn't the best and easiest way to teach them the letters they don't yet know —

Young Socrates: To do what?

Stranger: To first take them back to cases where they correctly identified those same letters, and then set those cases side by side with the ones they got wrong — showing them that the letters are exactly the same in both combinations, and always have the same character and the same name. Once you've lined up all the cases they got right alongside all the cases they got wrong, you've given them examples. And through these examples, they learn that each letter is always itself, always the same, regardless of where it appears.

Young Socrates: Certainly.

Stranger: So this is how examples work: we take something, compare it with a distinct instance of the same thing that we already understand correctly, and out of the comparison, a single true concept emerges that covers both cases.

Young Socrates: Exactly.

Stranger: Is it any wonder, then, that the mind has the same kind of trouble with the alphabet of reality? Sometimes, in simple cases, it grasps the truth firmly. But then, when those same elements show up in the long and difficult syllables of actual experience, it gets confused all over again.

Young Socrates: Nothing surprising about that.

Stranger: And could anyone who starts from a false belief ever hope to arrive at even a small portion of truth and attain wisdom?

Young Socrates: Hardly.

Stranger: So you and I won't be far off if we try to understand the nature of "example" itself through a small, specific instance — and then move from lesser things to the grandest class, the royal class, and use systematic method to discover what the management of cities really is. That way our dream will become reality.

Young Socrates: Very true.

Stranger: So let's return to our earlier argument. Since there are countless rivals of the royal class who claim to have the care of states, we need to separate all of them from the true statesman. And as I was saying, we first need a model — an example of this process.

Young Socrates: Exactly.

Stranger: What model is small enough to work with, yet has a real analogy to the political art? How about this, Socrates: if we can't find anything better, let's choose weaving — specifically, the weaving of wool. That should be enough to illustrate our point without dragging in all of weaving.

Young Socrates: That works.

Stranger: Then let's apply to weaving the same process of division and subdivision we've been applying to everything else, moving as quickly as we can through the steps until we reach what we need.

Young Socrates: How do you mean?

Stranger: I'll show you by actually doing it.

Young Socrates: Very good.

Stranger: Everything we make or acquire is either creative or preventive. Preventive things include remedies — both divine and human — and also defenses. Defenses include military weapons and protective gear. Protective gear includes screens of various kinds, and shields against heat and cold. Shields against heat and cold include shelters and coverings. Coverings include blankets and garments. Garments are either single pieces or assembled from multiple parts. Among the assembled kind, some are stitched and some aren't. Among the unstitched, some are made from plant fibers and some from hair. Among the hair-based ones, some are cemented together with water and earth, and others hold together on their own. These last — defenses and coverings that are held together by themselves — we call clothes. And the art that produces them, taking its name from the nature of the work, we can call the art of clothing. Just as we derived "statesmanship" from the state, so the art of weaving — at least the largest part of it, which deals with making clothes — differs only in name from this art of clothing. Just as, in the previous case, the royal science differed only in name from the political science.

Young Socrates: Exactly right.

Stranger: Now let's notice something: the art of weaving clothes has been separated from several other arts in the same family, but not yet from the arts that cooperate with it.

Young Socrates: Which family arts do you mean?

Stranger: I see I've lost you. Let me back up and start from the end. Just now we separated the weaving of clothes from the making of blankets — the difference being that one is put around you and the other under you. Those are the "family arts" I meant.

Young Socrates: I understand.

Stranger: And we've also set aside all articles made from flax and cord, and everything I metaphorically called "plant sinews." We've also separated out the process of felting and the various arts of stitching and sewing, the most important of which is shoemaking.

Young Socrates: Precisely.

Stranger: Then we separated the currier's art, which makes coverings from whole pieces of leather, and the art of building shelters. We subtracted the various waterproofing arts used in construction and carpentry, and all the arts that provide barriers against theft and violence — making lids for containers and fixing doors, which are branches of the joiner's art. We also cut off the manufacture of weapons, which is a section of the vast art of making defenses. And at the very beginning, we separated off the entire art of making antidotes and magical remedies. What we're left with, apparently, is the very art we were looking for: the art of protection against cold weather, which fabricates woolen defenses, and which we call weaving.

Young Socrates: Very true.

Stranger: But that's not the whole story, my boy. Because the first step in working with the material is the opposite of weaving.

Young Socrates: How so?

Stranger: Weaving is a kind of joining together, right?

Young Socrates: Yes.

Stranger: But the first step is separating the tangled, matted fibers.

Young Socrates: What do you mean exactly?

Stranger: I mean carding. We can't say that carding is weaving, or that the carder is a weaver.

Young Socrates: Certainly not.

Stranger: And if someone called the art of making the warp and the woof "the art of weaving," they'd be saying something false and paradoxical.

Young Socrates: Of course.

Stranger: And what about fulling and mending? Do they have nothing to do with the care and treatment of clothes? Or should we call them weaving?

Young Socrates: Certainly not.

Stranger: And yet all these arts will insist that they're involved in the production and treatment of clothes. They'll contest weaving's claim to exclusive authority — conceding weaving the larger role, but reserving a substantial one for themselves.

Young Socrates: Very true.

Stranger: Besides all these, there are the arts that make the tools and instruments of weaving. They too will claim to be at least cooperative causes in every piece of weaving.

Young Socrates: Absolutely.

Stranger: So if we simply define weaving as the greatest and noblest of the arts concerned with woolen garments — is that definition complete? It's true, but isn't it unclear? Don't all those other arts need to be cleared away first?

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: Then our next step is to separate them out, so the argument can proceed in an orderly way.

Young Socrates: By all means.

Stranger: Let's start by noting that there are two kinds of arts involved in everything we do.

Young Socrates: What two kinds?

Stranger: One is cooperative — it provides the conditions. The other is the principal cause — it does the actual work.

Young Socrates: What do you mean?

Stranger: Arts that don't produce the thing itself but supply the tools necessary for production — without which the actual crafts couldn't do their work — those are cooperative. Arts that produce the thing itself are causal.

Young Socrates: A very reasonable distinction.

Stranger: So the arts that make spindles, combs, and other tools for producing clothes are cooperative, while those that treat and fabricate the clothes themselves are causal.

Young Socrates: Very true.

Stranger: Among the causal arts, the work of washing, mending, and all the other preparatory treatments can be grouped together under what we call the fuller's art — it's a division of the broader art of adornment.

Young Socrates: Very good.

Stranger: Carding, spinning, and all the processes involved in actually manufacturing a woolen garment make up a single art that everyone recognizes — the art of working in wool.

Young Socrates: Of course.

Stranger: And wool-working itself has two divisions, each of which belongs simultaneously to two different universal arts.

Young Socrates: How's that?

Stranger: Carding, half the work of the comb, and the other processes that separate fibers apart — all of these belong both to wool-working and to one of two universal arts: the art of combination and the art of division. Specifically, they belong to division.

Young Socrates: Yes.

Stranger: The art of dividing wool and yarn — done one way with the comb and another way by hand — goes by various names, but it all falls under this category.

Young Socrates: Very true.

Stranger: Now let's take a wool-working process that belongs to combination rather than division, and separate it into two halves — one for the combining aspect, one for the dividing aspect.

Young Socrates: Done.

Stranger: And now, Socrates, we need to divide the combining side of wool-working further, if we're ever going to satisfactorily pin down the art of weaving.

Young Socrates: We must.

Stranger: Very well. Let's call one part the art of twisting threads, and the other the art of interlacing them.

Young Socrates: By "twisting," do you mean making the warp?

Stranger: Yes — and the woof too. How else is the woof made, if not by twisting?

Young Socrates: There's no other way.

Stranger: Now, try defining the warp and the woof. I think the definitions will be useful.

Young Socrates: How should I define them?

Stranger: Like this: a piece of carded wool that's been drawn out in length and breadth is said to be "pulled out" or "drafted."

Young Socrates: Yes.

Stranger: When this drafted wool is twisted by the spindle into a firm thread, that's called the warp, and the art governing this process is warp-spinning.

Young Socrates: Right.

Stranger: And the threads that are spun more loosely — with a softness proportional to how tightly the warp is interlaced, and how thoroughly the finished cloth is dressed — those are called the woof. The art governing them is woof-spinning.

Young Socrates: Very true.

Stranger: And now the nature of weaving — the part we set out to define — should be perfectly clear. When the combining branch of wool-working creates a fabric by regularly interlacing warp and woof, the whole woven product is called a woolen garment, and the art that oversees this is the art of weaving.

Young Socrates: Perfectly put.

Stranger: But then why didn't we just say from the start that weaving is the art of interlacing warp and woof? Why all this long, winding journey?

Young Socrates: I thought there was nothing useless in what you said, Stranger.

Stranger: You might not always feel that way, my friend — and in case any dissatisfaction arises later, let me lay down a principle that applies to arguments in general.

Young Socrates: Go ahead.

Stranger: Let's start by thinking about the whole nature of excess and deficiency. That will give us a rational basis for judging whether a discussion has been too long or too short.

Young Socrates: Let's do that.

Stranger: Here are the key points to consider.

Young Socrates: What are they?

Stranger: Length and shortness, excess and deficiency — the art of measurement deals with all of these.

Young Socrates: Yes.

Stranger: And for our purposes, the art of measurement needs to be divided into two parts.

Young Socrates: Where do you draw the line?

Stranger: Like this: one part measures the relative greatness and smallness of things compared to each other. The other part measures something else — something without which production would be impossible.

Young Socrates: What do you mean?

Stranger: Don't you think it's natural to say that "greater" only means greater than the "lesser," and "lesser" only means lesser than the "greater"?

Young Socrates: Yes.

Stranger: But isn't there also something that exceeds or falls short of a standard of due measure — both in speech and in action? And isn't this the chief mark that distinguishes good people from bad?

Young Socrates: Clearly.

Stranger: Then we have to recognize that "great" and "small" exist and are measured in two ways: not only relative to each other, but also in comparison to a standard — the right measure, the due proportion.

Young Socrates: I'd like to hear why.

Stranger: If we say "greater" only exists relative to "lesser" and vice versa, there will never be any comparison with a standard of due measure.

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: And wouldn't that destroy all the arts and everything they produce? Wouldn't statesmanship and weaving alike disappear? Because all these arts are constantly on guard against excess and deficiency — not as mere abstractions, but as real threats to the quality of their work. The excellence of every product of art depends on hitting the right measure.

Young Socrates: Certainly.

Stranger: And if statesmanship disappears, the search for the royal science becomes impossible.

Young Socrates: Very true.

Stranger: So just as in our investigation of the Sophist we had to establish that not-being exists — because that's where the argument kept slipping away from us — so now we need to show that "greater" and "lesser" are measured not only against each other, but also against the standard of due proportion. Unless we establish this, we can't claim that anyone — statesman or otherwise — is a genuine master of their craft.

Young Socrates: Yes, we absolutely need to do that again.

Stranger: But Socrates, this is an even bigger project than the one about not-being — and remember how long that took! Still, I think we can fairly assume something like this:

Young Socrates: What?

Stranger: That someday we'll need this concept of a standard of measure when we try to demonstrate absolute truth. But for now, the argument that the very existence of the arts depends on the possibility of measuring things not only against each other but also against a standard of due measure — that argument provides strong and satisfying support for our position. After all, if there are arts, there must be a standard of measure. And if there's a standard of measure, there must be arts. Without one, you can't have the other.

Young Socrates: True. So what's next?

Stranger: The next step is clearly to divide the art of measurement into two parts, as we've been saying. In one part, place all the arts that measure number, length, depth, breadth, and speed against their opposites. In the other, place the arts that measure against the standard of due measure — the fitting, the opportune, the proper, and everything else that implies a mean between extremes.

Young Socrates: Those are two vast divisions, covering very different territory.

Stranger: Here's something that many clever people say, Socrates, thinking they're being wise: that measurement is a universal art that applies to everything. And in a sense they're right — everything that falls within the domain of art does involve measurement in some form. But these people, because they're not used to making distinctions based on real categories, jumble together two very different things — relative comparison and measurement against a standard — as if they were the same. They also make the opposite mistake: dividing things that should be grouped together. The right method is this: when you've first perceived the unity of things, keep investigating until you've found all the real differences within it that constitute distinct classes. And conversely, when you see a multitude of different things, don't rest until you've grasped everything they have in common and gathered them into a single real category. But we've said enough about this. Let's just remember that there are two divisions of measurement, and not forget what they are.

Young Socrates: We won't forget.

Stranger: Now that this discussion is behind us, let's consider a question that concerns not just this argument but the conduct of arguments in general.

Young Socrates: What question?

Stranger: Take the case of a child learning his letters. When he's asked what letters make up a particular word, is the exercise intended to improve his knowledge of that specific word? Or of all words?

Young Socrates: All words, clearly.

Stranger: And is our investigation of the Statesman intended only to improve our knowledge of politics? Or also our reasoning ability in general?

Young Socrates: Clearly the latter, just like the first example — the purpose is general.

Stranger: And nobody in their right mind would analyze the concept of weaving for its own sake. But people seem to forget something: some things have readily visible images that are easy to point out when someone asks about them. But the greatest and most important truths have no visible image at all. When you want to satisfy a questioner's soul about such things, you can't hold anything up for the eye to see — you can only present them through thought and reason. Everything we're saying now is for the sake of those higher truths. And it's always easier to practice the method on small things before tackling great ones.

Young Socrates: Very good.

Stranger: Now let's recall why we said all this.

Young Socrates: What was the point?

Stranger: I wanted to head off any impression of tediousness we might have created — in the discussion of weaving, the myth of the reversed universe, and the earlier discussion about the Sophist and not-being. I was worried they might seem not just long but irrelevant. Everything I've just said was meant to prevent that kind of dissatisfaction going forward.

Young Socrates: Good. Please continue.

Statesman (Part 2)

Stranger: So here's the principle I'd like both of us to remember: we should praise or blame the length or shortness of discussions not by comparing them with each other, but by measuring them against what's fitting — using that part of measurement we said we should keep in mind.

Young Socrates: Very true.

Stranger: But even fitness isn't the only standard. We shouldn't seek a length that pleases us — that's a secondary consideration at best. And reason tells us that ease and speed of inquiry should be our second priority, not our first. The highest priority of all is to uphold the great method of division according to real kinds — whether the discussion ends up longer or shorter. No one should be offended by length. Longer and shorter should be used freely, whichever is better for sharpening the minds of the participants. And if someone complains that a discussion is too long, they shouldn't just grumble about the length — they should prove that a shorter version would have made the participants better thinkers and more capable of finding the truth. Any other praise or blame isn't worth hearing.

But we've spent enough time on this, and you probably agree. Let's get back to our Statesman and apply the weaving example we've been developing.

Young Socrates: Good — let's do that.

Stranger: The king's art has been separated from the similar arts of shepherds, and indeed from all the arts that deal with herds. But there remain the causal and cooperative arts that are directly involved in running a state, and these need to be distinguished from one another.

Young Socrates: Very good.

Stranger: You should know that these won't divide neatly into two halves. The reason will become clear as we proceed.

Young Socrates: Then let's get on with it.

Stranger: We'll have to carve them up like butchering an animal at the joints, since we can't bisect them cleanly. We should still divide into as few parts as possible.

Young Socrates: What do we do in this case?

Stranger: The same thing we did with weaving: all the arts that make tools were classified as cooperative.

Young Socrates: Yes.

Stranger: Just so, all the arts that produce any kind of implement in a state — large or small — should be considered cooperative. Without them, there would be no state and no statesmanship. But we're not inclined to say that any of them is a product of the royal art itself.

Young Socrates: No, indeed.

Stranger: Separating this class from the rest is tricky, because there's always a plausible case that anything in the world is "a tool for doing something." But there's another class of possessions in a city that I want to mention.

Young Socrates: What class?

Stranger: A class that doesn't have this productive power. Unlike a tool, it's not designed for making things — it's designed for preserving what's already been made.

Young Socrates: What are you referring to?

Stranger: The broad class of containers — vessels of all kinds, built for preserving both liquids and solids, things prepared over fire and things prepared without it. It's a very large class, and if I'm not mistaken, it has absolutely nothing to do with the royal art we're investigating.

Young Socrates: Certainly not.

Stranger: There's also a third class of possessions to note — very different from these, and also very extensive. Things that move or rest, on land or water, honorable and dishonorable. This entire class has one name, because everything in it is designed to be sat upon — it's always a seat for something.

Young Socrates: What is it?

Stranger: A vehicle. And that's certainly not the work of the Statesman — it belongs to the carpenter, the potter, and the coppersmith.

Young Socrates: I see.

Stranger: And isn't there a fourth class, again distinct, that contains most of the things we've mentioned? Every kind of clothing, most types of weapons, walls and enclosures of earth and stone, and a thousand other things? All of these are made for defense, and should properly be considered the work of the builder or the weaver, not the Statesman.

Young Socrates: Certainly.

Stranger: Should we add a fifth class — ornamentation and drawing, and all the imitations produced by visual art and music, designed purely for amusement? They can all be covered by one name.

Young Socrates: What name?

Stranger: Plaything.

Young Socrates: Of course.

Stranger: That one word fits them all, because none of these things has a serious purpose. Entertainment is their only aim.

Young Socrates: That I understand.

Stranger: Then there's a class that provides raw materials for all the others — the stuff from which the arts I've mentioned fabricate their products. This varied class, the offspring of many different arts — can I count it as the sixth?

Young Socrates: What do you mean exactly?

Stranger: Gold, silver, and other metals; everything that timber-cutting and textile-shearing provide for carpentry and plaiting; the process of stripping bark and skin from plants and animals — the currier's art and similar crafts. These make cork, papyrus, cord, and enable the production of complex things from simple materials. The whole class can be called the primitive, unprocessed materials of human life — and the royal science has nothing whatsoever to do with it.

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: The provision of food and everything else that mingles with the particles of the human body to sustain it — this makes a seventh class, which we can call nourishment, unless you have a better term. This belongs to the farmer, the hunter, the athletic trainer, the doctor, and the cook — not to the Statesman's art.

Young Socrates: Certainly not.

Stranger: So these seven classes cover nearly every kind of property, except for tame animals. Let me review: first, raw materials — which should really have come first. Then tools, containers, vehicles, defenses, playthings, and nourishment. I'm leaving out small items like coins, seals, and stamps, which don't really form a major category of their own — some can be squeezed in with ornaments, others with tools. As for the management of tame animals — which we've already divided into parts — that covers all animal property except one kind: slaves.

Young Socrates: Very true.

Stranger: And it's in the class of slaves and attendants that I suspect we'll finally discover the real pretenders to the throne — the rivals of the king in weaving the political fabric. Just as spinners, carders, and the rest were the rivals of the weaver. All the others — the ones we called cooperators — have been cleared away among the occupations already mentioned, separated from the royal and political science.

Young Socrates: I agree.

Stranger: Let's move closer and examine these remaining figures more carefully.

Young Socrates: Let's.

Stranger: Looking from our current vantage point, the most obvious servants turn out to be in the opposite situation from what we might have expected.

Young Socrates: Who are they?

Stranger: People who have been purchased and thereby become property. These are unmistakably slaves, and they certainly don't claim to possess the royal science.

Young Socrates: Certainly not.

Stranger: What about free people who voluntarily serve the other classes in a state — who exchange and equalize the products of farming and the other arts? Some sit in the marketplace, others travel from city to city by land or sea, trading money for goods or goods for money — the money-changers, the merchants, the ship-owners, the retailers. Do any of them claim statesmanship or political science?

Young Socrates: No — unless you mean the politics of commerce.

Stranger: And surely the hired laborers and day workers, who are happy to turn their hand to anything for pay — they don't claim to share in the royal science?

Young Socrates: Certainly not.

Stranger: But what about some other class of public servants?

Young Socrates: Who are they? What services do they perform?

Stranger: Heralds, and scribes perfected through long practice, and various other highly skilled officials connected with the administration of government — what do we call them?

Young Socrates: They're officials and servants of the rulers, as you just said — not rulers themselves.

Stranger: There might seem to be something odd about a servant claiming to be a ruler. And yet I have a feeling that the principal claimants to political science are lurking somewhere in this neighborhood.

Young Socrates: Indeed.

Stranger: Well, let's move closer and test some claimants we haven't examined yet. First, there are the diviners — they have a share of ministerial knowledge and are considered interpreters of the gods to human beings.

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: There's also the priestly class. According to tradition, priests know how to give the gods gifts from us in the form of sacrifices the gods will accept, and how to ask for blessings in return. Both of these — divination and priesthood — are branches of ministerial art.

Young Socrates: Yes, clearly.

Stranger: And here I think we're getting warm. Priests and diviners are swollen with pride and prestige. The grandeur of their undertakings inspires genuine awe. In Egypt, the king himself isn't allowed to rule unless he has priestly authority, and if he comes from another class and seizes power, he has to be enrolled in the priesthood. Throughout Greece, the duty of performing the most solemn public sacrifices is assigned to the highest officials. And right here in Athens, the most ancient and sacred national sacrifices are supposed to be performed by the King Archon — the man chosen by lot.

Young Socrates: Precisely.

Stranger: But who are these other kings and priests, chosen by lot, who now come into view — followed by their retinues and a vast crowd — as the previous group exits and the scene changes?

Young Socrates: Who do you mean?

Stranger: A very strange crew.

Young Socrates: How strange?

Stranger: A moment ago, I thought they were animals of every kind. Many of them look like lions and centaurs; many more like satyrs and other weak, shape-shifting creatures — all rapidly changing forms and natures like Proteus. And now, Socrates, I think I finally see who they are.

Young Socrates: Who? You seem to be gazing at some strange vision.

Stranger: Yes — everyone looks strange when you don't know them. And that's exactly what just happened to me. At first sight, coming on them suddenly, I didn't recognize the politician and his troupe.

Young Socrates: Who are they?

Stranger: The chief of Sophists. The most accomplished wizard of them all. He must be separated from the true king and statesman at any cost, if we're ever going to see daylight in this investigation.

Young Socrates: That's not a hope we can afford to abandon.

Stranger: Never, if I can help it. But first, a question.

Young Socrates: What?

Stranger: Monarchy is a recognized form of government?

Young Socrates: Yes.

Stranger: And after monarchy, next comes the rule of the few?

Young Socrates: Of course.

Stranger: And the third form is the rule of the many, called democracy?

Young Socrates: Certainly.

Stranger: And don't these three expand in a sense into five, producing two additional names from within themselves?

Young Socrates: What are they?

Stranger: People today apply certain criteria — voluntary versus involuntary, wealth versus poverty, law versus lawlessness. Using these criteria, they split the first two forms: monarchy divides into royalty and tyranny.

Young Socrates: Very true.

Stranger: And the rule of the few divides into aristocracy and oligarchy.

Young Socrates: Certainly.

Stranger: Democracy, on the other hand — whether it strictly observes the laws or not, whether the majority rules over the wealthy with their consent or without it — always keeps the same name.

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: But do you think any form of government defined by these characteristics — one ruler, few rulers, many rulers; rich or poor; voluntary or forced; written law or no law — can be the right one?

Young Socrates: Why not?

Stranger: Think carefully. Follow me.

Young Socrates: Where?

Stranger: Are we going to stand by what we said at the start, or take it back?

Young Socrates: What did we say?

Stranger: We said that royal power is a form of knowledge — a science.

Young Socrates: Yes.

Stranger: And a distinctive kind of science at that — one we selected from all the rest as having both a judicial and a directive character.

Young Socrates: Yes.

Stranger: And within the directive branch, we distinguished authority over lifeless things from authority over living beings, and proceeded step by step to this point — never losing the idea of science, but unable to determine exactly what kind of science it is.

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: Then we're led to this conclusion: the distinguishing principle of the state can't be "the few or the many," or "willing or unwilling," or "rich or poor." Some concept of science has to be part of it, if we're going to be consistent with everything we've said.

Young Socrates: And we must be consistent.

Stranger: So the question is: in which of these various forms of government is the science of governing actually found — the science that's among the greatest and most difficult of all to acquire? We need to discover that, and then we'll be able to see who the false politicians are — the ones who claim to be statesmen but aren't, even though they've fooled a lot of people — and separate them from the truly wise ruler.

Young Socrates: Yes, as our argument has already indicated, that's exactly what we need to do.

Stranger: Do you think the general population of a state could attain this political science?

Young Socrates: Impossible.

Stranger: But in a city of a thousand people, maybe a hundred could? Or say fifty?

Young Socrates: If that were the case, political science would be the easiest of all sciences! You couldn't find that many top-ranked board-game players in a city that size, judged against the best in all of Greece. And you'd certainly find even fewer genuine kings. Remember: we can rightly call anyone who possesses the royal science a king, whether they actually hold power or not. That's what our earlier argument showed.

Stranger: Good reminder. The consequence is that any true form of government can only be the government of one, or two, or at most a few.

Young Socrates: Certainly.

Stranger: And these rulers — whether they govern with their subjects' consent or without it, with written laws or without them, whether they're rich or poor, whatever the outward form — must be understood to rule on the basis of a scientific principle. It's exactly like a doctor: whether he treats us with or against our will, whether he cuts or burns or inflicts some other painful treatment, whether he works from a textbook or improvises, whether he's rich or poor, whether he purges us or slims us down or even fattens us up — he's a doctor all the same, as long as he exercises authority through genuine medical knowledge, and as long as he actually does his patients good, healing and saving them. And this we lay down as the only proper test of any art of healing — or any art of command.

Young Socrates: Exactly right.

Stranger: Then the only true form of government is the one where the rulers genuinely possess this science and aren't mere pretenders — whether they rule with or without laws, over willing or unwilling subjects, and whether they're personally rich or poor. None of those factors can properly be included in the definition of a ruler.

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: And whether they serve the public good by purging the state — exiling some citizens, executing others — or whether they shrink the population by sending out colonies like bees swarming from a hive, or enlarge it by bringing in outsiders and granting them citizenship: as long as they act according to wisdom and justice, using their power for the general security and improvement of the state — a state with these characteristics deserves to be called the only true state. All other governments are imitations of this one, some better and some worse. The better imitations are said to be well governed, but they're still just imitations.

Young Socrates: Most of what you've said seems right, Stranger. But the part about ruling without laws — that's a hard thing to hear.

Stranger: You're a step ahead of me, Socrates! I was just about to ask whether you objected to anything. I see we'll need to take up this question of good government without laws.

Young Socrates: Indeed we must.

Stranger: There's no doubt that lawmaking is in some sense the business of a king. And yet the best thing of all is not for the law to rule, but for a wise person to rule — one who possesses wisdom and royal power. Do you see why?

Young Socrates: Why?

Stranger: Because law can't perfectly capture what's most noble and just for everyone, and therefore can't enforce what's truly best. People are different. Actions are different. And the endless, irregular movement of human affairs doesn't allow for any universal, simple rule. No art whatsoever can lay down a principle that will hold good for all time.

Young Socrates: Of course not.

Stranger: But that's exactly what the law is always trying to do — like a stubborn, ignorant tyrant who won't allow anything to be done contrary to his orders, or any questions to be asked. Even when circumstances suddenly change and something would clearly be better for someone than what the law commands — the law won't budge.

Young Socrates: That's exactly how the law treats us.

Stranger: A perfectly simple principle can never be properly applied to a state of affairs that's anything but simple.

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: Then if law isn't the perfection of justice, why do we make laws at all? That's the next question to investigate.

Young Socrates: Certainly.

Stranger: Tell me — don't you have athletic competitions in your city, like in other cities, where people compete in running, wrestling, and so on?

Young Socrates: Yes, they're very common here.

Stranger: And what kind of rules do the professional trainers impose on their athletes? Can you recall?

Young Socrates: What do you mean?

Stranger: The trainers don't create individualized programs for each person, tailored precisely to their constitution. They work more broadly, prescribing a general regimen that will benefit the majority.

Young Socrates: Very true.

Stranger: They assign the same amount of exercise to everyone. They send them out together, let them rest together — whether they're running, wrestling, or doing anything else.

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: Now notice: the legislator who has to preside over the whole community and enforce justice can't be expected to prescribe exactly what's right for every individual case, either.

Young Socrates: He certainly can't.

Stranger: He'll lay down laws in general terms for the majority — roughly covering individual cases. Some of these he'll put in writing; others will remain as unwritten traditional customs.

Young Socrates: That makes sense.

Stranger: Of course it does. Because how could anyone sit at every person's side throughout their entire life, prescribing exactly what they should do at each moment? Who could manage that? No one who truly possessed the royal science — if they could actually do this — would impose the constraint of a written law on themselves.

Young Socrates: That follows from what we've said.

Stranger: Or rather, my friend, from what's about to be said.

Young Socrates: And what's that?

Stranger: Picture a doctor or a trainer who's about to travel abroad and expects to be away for a long time. Worried that his patients or athletes won't remember his instructions, he writes them down as notes for them to follow.

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: But what if he came back sooner than expected? And what if, due to some unexpected change — unusual weather or some other unforeseen factor — a different treatment turned out to be better? Would he refuse to deviate from his original prescription? Would he stubbornly stick to the old rules, never issuing new instructions, while his patients dared not do anything other than what was originally written — on the grounds that only the prescribed course was healthy, and anything else was harmful and wrong? Viewed in the light of genuine science and real expertise, wouldn't all such rigidity be utterly absurd?

Young Socrates: Utterly.

Stranger: And what about the lawgiver — the one who established written or unwritten rules about what's good or bad, honorable or dishonorable, just or unjust, for the communities of people who live together in cities and are governed by these rules? If the wise lawgiver himself were to return — or someone like him — should he be prohibited from changing the laws? Wouldn't that prohibition be every bit as absurd as the medical case?

Young Socrates: Absolutely.

Stranger: Do you know a popular saying that's relevant here?

Young Socrates: I can't think which one you mean at the moment.

Stranger: People say that if someone knows how to improve the existing laws, he must first persuade his own state to accept the improvement — and only then may he change the laws.

Young Socrates: And aren't they right about that?

Stranger: Perhaps. But suppose a wise person uses a bit of gentle force for his people's own good — what do we call that? Actually, before you answer, let me frame the question using our earlier examples.

Young Socrates: Go ahead.

Stranger: Suppose a skilled doctor has a patient — of whatever age or sex — and compels that patient to do something for their own good that goes against the written rules. What do we call this compulsion? Would anyone dream of calling it a violation of the medical art, or a breach of the laws of health? Nothing could be more unjust than for the patient to accuse the doctor of malpractice or of making the disease worse.

Young Socrates: Absolutely true.

Stranger: In political life, the equivalent of "disease" isn't called disease — it's called evil, or disgrace, or injustice.

Young Socrates: Right.

Stranger: So when a citizen is compelled — against the written law and against custom — to do what's actually juster, better, and nobler than what they were doing before, the very last thing anyone should say about this use of force is that it's disgraceful, evil, or unjust.

Young Socrates: Very true.

Stranger: Then let me ask: does it matter whether the person exercising this force is rich or poor? With or without written laws? With or against the citizens' consent? The real question is this: isn't the true principle of government that the wise and good person will direct the affairs of the community in the way that's best for it? Just as a pilot — by continuously watching over the interests of the ship and crew, not by laying down rigid rules but by making his expertise the law — preserves the lives of his fellow sailors? In the same way, couldn't a true form of government be created by people who govern in this same spirit, making the strength of their art superior to the law? Wise rulers can't go wrong as long as they maintain this one great principle: distributing justice to the citizens with intelligence and skill, preserving them, and as far as possible making them better rather than worse.

Young Socrates: No one can argue with that.

Stranger: And no one can argue with the other statement either.

Young Socrates: Which one?

Stranger: That no large number of people, whoever they may be, can attain genuine political knowledge. True government must be found in a small group, or in an individual. All other states are merely imitations of this — some better, some worse.

Young Socrates: What do you mean? I'm not sure I followed your earlier remark about imitations.

Stranger: And yet the point is extremely important, even if we just raise it and move on without fully exploring it.

Young Socrates: What point?

Stranger: Here's the idea — it's not easy or familiar, but let me try to put it this way: suppose the government I've been describing is the only true model. Then all the other forms of government must rely on the written laws of this model if they want to survive. They'll have to follow the practice that most people now approve — even though it's not the best thing in the world.

Young Socrates: What practice?

Stranger: That no citizen should do anything contrary to the laws, and anyone who violates them should be punished with the most extreme penalties, including death. This is perfectly right and good — as a second-best option, once you set aside the first and best option I just described. Let me explain why I call this the second best.

Young Socrates: Please do.

Stranger: I need to go back to my favorite analogies. Only through them can I describe kings and rulers.

Young Socrates: What analogies?

Stranger: The noble pilot and the wise physician — "worth many another man," as the saying goes. Let's use them to discover an image of the king.

Young Socrates: What kind of image?

Stranger: Here's one: think about what we actually suffer at the hands of doctors and pilots. A doctor can save whoever he wants to save, but he can also mistreat whoever he wants — cutting them, burning them, causing pain, and on top of it all demanding payments that amount to a kind of tax on the sick, most of which goes to the doctor and his household rather than to the patient. In the end, he might even take money from the patient's relatives or enemies and finish the patient off. And pilots are just as bad — they intentionally leave you stranded on shore when the ship's about to sail, they cause disasters at sea, they dump the cargo overboard, and are guilty of all kinds of treachery.

Now suppose that, keeping all this in mind, we decided that neither of these arts should be allowed to exercise authority without oversight — over free people or over slaves. So we convene an assembly, either of all the citizens or only the wealthy, and anyone at all — whether they're in the profession or not — is allowed to offer opinions about how to navigate ships or treat diseases: what surgical instruments and medicines to use on patients, what nautical equipment to employ, how to handle dangers from wind and waves, what to do when encountering pirates, and how to fight naval battles with old-fashioned ships. And whatever the crowd decides, based on advice from both experts and non-experts alike — all of that gets inscribed on tablets and columns, or enacted as unwritten national customs. And from that point on, all navigation and all medical treatment must be conducted according to these regulations.

Young Socrates: What a bizarre idea!

Stranger: Now suppose further that the pilots and doctors are appointed annually — chosen either from the wealthy classes or from the whole population by lot. And once elected, they navigate ships and treat the sick strictly according to the written rules.

Young Socrates: That's even worse.

Stranger: But wait — there's more. When the year of office has expired, the pilot or doctor must appear before a review board. The judges are either drawn from the wealthy or chosen by lot from the entire population. And anyone who wants to can bring charges — claiming that during the past year, these officials didn't navigate their ships or heal their patients according to the letter of the law and the ancient customs of their ancestors. If convicted, the judges determine the punishment or the fine.

Young Socrates: Anyone who'd willingly hold office under those conditions deserves whatever they get.

Stranger: And there's one more law we'd need to pass. If anyone is caught investigating the true nature of piloting and navigation, or studying health and the genuine principles of medicine, or inquiring into the winds or atmospheric conditions — in ways that go beyond the written rules — if he has any original ideas about such matters, he's not to be called a pilot or a doctor, but a "stargazing windbag" — a Sophist. And on the grounds that he's corrupting the young by persuading them to practice medicine or piloting in unauthorized ways and exercise arbitrary authority over patients or ships, anyone who meets the legal requirements can file charges against him. If he's found guilty of persuading anyone — young or old — to act contrary to the written law, he's to be punished with the utmost severity. Because no one should presume to be wiser than the laws. After all, the principles of healing and navigation are available to everyone — anyone can learn the written laws and national customs.

Now, Socrates — if this is how we ran things in all the sciences — in generalship, in hunting, in painting, in every branch of craftsmanship, in farming, in horse-breeding, in herding, in divination, in any kind of service work, in board games, in every mathematical science, in every art involving motion — if everything were done according to written regulations instead of genuine expertise — what would happen?

Young Socrates: Every art would be utterly destroyed, with no hope of recovery — because inquiry itself would be illegal. And human life, which is already hard enough, would become completely unbearable.

Stranger: And what if, on top of forcing all these activities to follow written law, we appointed someone — elected by show of hands or by lot — to be the guardian of the laws, and this person ignored the laws and acted against them out of self-interest or favoritism, without any real knowledge? Wouldn't that be even worse than the previous scenario?

Young Socrates: Much worse.

Stranger: Because to go against laws that are based on long experience — laws that reflect the wisdom of advisors who carefully recommended them and persuaded the public to adopt them — that would be a far greater and more destructive error than mere rigid adherence to written law.

Young Socrates: Certainly.

Stranger: Therefore, since this danger exists, the next-best policy is this: don't allow either any individual or any group to violate the laws in any way whatsoever.

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: The laws are copies of the truth — written-down versions of the real principles of action, drafted by people who actually have knowledge. They're the best approximation that writing can achieve.

Young Socrates: They certainly are.

Stranger: And as we were saying, a person who genuinely possesses knowledge — a true Statesman — will do many things within his own sphere by the light of his art, without worrying about the laws, whenever he judges that something better has come up than what he originally wrote down and prescribed for the time when he'd be away.

Young Socrates: Yes, we said that.

Stranger: And any individual or group who has established laws, and then acts contrary to those laws in pursuit of something genuinely better — they'd be doing exactly what the true Statesman does, to the best of their ability.

Young Socrates: Certainly.

Stranger: Now, if they did this without knowledge, they'd be imitating the truth — and imitating it badly. But if they did it with knowledge, it wouldn't be imitation at all — it would be the genuine article.

Young Socrates: Exactly.

Stranger: And we've already established that no large number of people can acquire genuine knowledge of any art.

Young Socrates: Yes, we have.

Stranger: Then the royal or political art will never be attained by the wealthy class as a whole, or by the general population.

Young Socrates: Impossible.

Stranger: So the closest these lesser forms of government can ever come to the true government of the one scientific ruler is this: never do anything contrary to their own written laws and national customs.

Young Socrates: Very good.

Stranger: When the wealthy class imitates the true form by following the laws, that government is called aristocracy. When the wealthy disregard the laws, it's called oligarchy.

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: And when one individual rules according to law, in imitation of the one who truly knows — we call him a king. We give him the same name whether he rules by genuine knowledge or merely by correct opinion.

Young Socrates: That seems right.

Stranger: And when an individual truly possesses knowledge and rules — his title will certainly be the same: king. So the five common names for governments really collapse into one.

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: But when a single ruler governs without law and without custom, imitating the true statesman while actually being driven by appetite and ignorance — pretending that the only way to act is to override the laws, when in fact he's motivated by selfishness and stupidity — shouldn't he be called a tyrant?

Young Socrates: Absolutely.

Stranger: And this, we believe, is the origin of the tyrant and the king, of oligarchies and aristocracies and democracies. People are disgusted by the idea of one-person rule. They can never be made to believe that anyone could actually be worthy of such authority — someone who is willing and able to rule with virtue and knowledge, dispensing justice fairly to all. They imagine that such a person would be a despot who'd wrong and kill and harm whoever he pleased. But if such a ruler as we describe actually existed, people would have to acknowledge that they'd be lucky to have him. He alone would be the happy ruler of a truly perfect state.

Young Socrates: Of course.

Stranger: But as it stands, the state isn't like a beehive with a natural-born leader who's obviously superior in both body and mind. And so people are forced to gather together, write laws, and try to get as close as they can to the true form of government.

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: And when the foundation of politics rests on nothing but the letter of the law and custom, with knowledge divorced from action — can we really be surprised at the miseries that exist, and always will exist, in states? Any other art built on such a foundation would destroy everything it touched. What's really remarkable is the natural resilience of the political bond. States have endured this kind of thing forever, and yet some of them survive — even though many, like ships at sea, founder and sink through the incompetence of their pilots and crews, who are completely ignorant of the most important truths. I mean people who know nothing about genuine politics, yet believe they've mastered it more thoroughly than any other science.

Young Socrates: Very true.

Stranger: So the question arises: among these imperfect forms of government, which is the least oppressive — though they're all oppressive? And which is the worst? This is somewhat beside our main topic, but considering how it affects everything we do, we need to examine it.

Young Socrates: Yes, we must.

Stranger: Here's a striking fact: of the three forms, the same one is simultaneously the hardest to live under and the easiest.

Young Socrates: What do you mean?

Stranger: I'm talking about the three forms I mentioned at the start — monarchy, the rule of the few, and the rule of the many.

Young Socrates: Right.

Stranger: If we divide each of these, we get six, from which the true government can be distinguished as a seventh.

Young Socrates: How do you divide them?

Stranger: Monarchy splits into royalty and tyranny. The rule of the few splits into aristocracy — a name with an auspicious meaning — and oligarchy. And democracy, which was a single category before, must now be divided too.

Young Socrates: On what principle?

Stranger: The same one as before, even though the name stays the same in both cases. The distinction between ruling with law and ruling without law applies here too, just as it applies to the others.

Young Socrates: Yes.

Stranger: This distinction didn't matter when we were looking for the perfect state, as we showed earlier. But now that we've set the perfect state aside, and only the other forms remain — the principle of law versus lawlessness divides each of them in two.

Young Socrates: That seems to follow.

Stranger: Monarchy, when bound by good laws, is the best of all six. Lawless monarchy is the most bitter and oppressive.

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: The rule of the few, which sits between the one and the many, is also intermediate in quality — both its good and bad forms. But the rule of the many is weak in every respect — unable to accomplish either great good or great evil, compared with the others, because power is divided up too finely among too many people. This makes it the worst of all the lawful governments, and the best of all the lawless ones. If all governments are lawless, democracy is the most tolerable to live under. If all are well-ordered, democracy is the least desirable. Lawful monarchy — royalty — is the best of them all, with the exception of the seventh form: the rule of genuine knowledge. That stands above them all, the way God stands above human beings.

Young Socrates: You're absolutely right, and we should choose that above all.

Stranger: The members of all these states — except the one guided by genuine knowledge — should be viewed not as real statesmen but as partisans. They're defenders of the most monstrous illusions, and they're illusions themselves. Being the greatest imitators and magicians, they're also the greatest Sophists.

Young Socrates: It seems like the label "Sophist," after many twists and turns in the argument, has been very justly applied to politicians.

Stranger: And so our satirical drama has reached its finale. The troop of Centaurs and Satyrs — reluctant as they were to leave the stage — has at last been separated from political science.

Young Socrates: So it seems.

Stranger: But there remain characters who are even more troublesome, because they're more closely related to the king and harder to identify. Examining them is like refining gold.

Young Socrates: What do you mean?

Stranger: Goldsmiths start by sifting away the obvious impurities — earth and stones and the like. What remains is a confused mixture of valuable elements related to gold — copper, silver, and other precious metals. These are only separated through the fire of further testing, until the gold is left pure and unalloyed.

Young Socrates: Yes, that's how it's said to be done.

Stranger: In the same way, we've sifted away everything alien and uncongenial from political science. What remains is precious and closely related: the noble arts of the general, the judge, and the higher form of oratory that allies itself with the royal art, persuading people to do what's just and helping to guide the helm of state. How do we clear away these final contenders, leaving the one we seek alone and pure?

Young Socrates: That's obviously what we have to try to do.

Stranger: If trying is all that's needed, he'll certainly come to light. And I think the analogy of music can help us reveal him. Let me ask you a question.

Young Socrates: What question?

Stranger: There is such a thing as learning music — or any of the practical arts, for that matter?

Young Socrates: There is.

Stranger: And is there a higher art or science that has the power to decide which of these arts should and shouldn't be learned?

Young Socrates: I'd say there is.

Stranger: And we'd agree this higher science is distinct from the ones it oversees?

Young Socrates: Yes.

Stranger: And should the practical sciences be superior to this governing one? Or should no individual science outrank any other? Or should this governing science be the overseer and master of all the rest?

Young Socrates: The latter.

Stranger: You're saying that the science which decides whether we should learn something must be superior to the science that's being learned or taught?

Young Socrates: Far superior.

Stranger: And the science that determines whether we should use persuasion must be superior to the science that actually persuades?

Young Socrates: Of course.

Stranger: Good. Now, to which science do we assign the power of persuading a crowd through compelling stories rather than through teaching?

Young Socrates: That clearly belongs to rhetoric.

Stranger: And to which science do we assign the power of deciding whether we should use persuasion, or force, or neither — in dealing with any group of people?

Young Socrates: To the science that governs the arts of speech and persuasion.

Stranger: Which, if I'm not mistaken, would be politics.

Young Socrates: Exactly.

Stranger: So rhetoric is quickly distinguished from politics — it's a different species, but one that serves politics.

Young Socrates: Yes.

Stranger: Now, what about another kind of power?

Young Socrates: What kind?

Stranger: The science that deals with military operations against our enemies — is that a science or isn't it?

Young Socrates: How could anyone say that generalship and military tactics aren't a science?

Stranger: And is the art that decides when to go to war and when to make peace the same as generalship, or different?

Young Socrates: If we're being consistent with everything we've said, it must be different.

Stranger: And we must say this higher art rules the lower one, if we're not going to abandon our earlier principle.

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: And given how vast and formidable the entire art of war is — can we imagine any art superior to it except the truly royal art?

Young Socrates: No other.

Stranger: So the art of the general is merely ministerial — it serves but isn't itself political.

Young Socrates: Exactly.

Stranger: Now let's consider the righteous judge.

Young Socrates: Very good.

Stranger: Does the judge do anything beyond deciding whether the dealings between citizens are just or unjust — applying the standards he receives from the king and legislator? He shows his particular excellence only in this: that he's not corrupted by bribes, fear, pity, or any kind of favoritism or hostility into judging contrary to what the lawgiver has established.

Young Socrates: No, that's precisely what his office involves.

Stranger: Then the judge's power isn't royal. It's the power of a guardian of the law — a minister serving the royal power.

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: Looking at all these sciences together, the conclusion is clear: none of them is the political or royal science. The truly royal art should not act directly itself, but should rule over those who can act. The king should know what is and isn't the right moment to take the initiative on matters of the highest importance, while others carry out his decisions.

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: And therefore the arts we've been describing — each concerned with its own specific domain, and having no authority over one another — properly have their own special names corresponding to their particular activities.

Young Socrates: I agree.

Stranger: But the science that oversees them all, that takes responsibility for the laws and for every aspect of the state's affairs, and that truly weaves them all into a single fabric — if we want to capture its essential nature in a name, we'd most accurately call it politics.

Young Socrates: Exactly so.

Stranger: So now that we've identified the various classes in a state, shall I analyze politics using the model that weaving provided?

Young Socrates: I very much wish you would.

Stranger: Then I need to describe the nature of the royal web — how the various threads are woven into one fabric.

Young Socrates: Clearly.

Stranger: This is a difficult task, but it needs to be done.

Young Socrates: It certainly must be attempted.

Stranger: Here's the first challenge: claiming that one part of virtue is fundamentally different in kind from another is a position that's easily attacked by argumentative people who appeal to popular opinion.

Young Socrates: I don't follow.

Stranger: Let me put it differently. You'd consider courage to be a part of virtue?

Young Socrates: Certainly.

Stranger: And temperance — self-control — is different from courage, but also a part of virtue?

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: I'm going to make a bold claim about these two.

Young Socrates: What claim?

Stranger: That in many ways they're fundamentally opposed to each other — two principles that are hostile to one another across a great deal of nature.

Young Socrates: How strange!

Stranger: Very strange — because everyone usually says that all the parts of virtue are friendly to each other.

Young Socrates: Yes, they do.

Stranger: Then let's look carefully at whether this is universally true, or whether some parts of virtue are actually at war with their own kin.

Young Socrates: Tell me how to investigate this.

Stranger: We need to look at all the things we call beautiful but place into two opposite categories.

Young Socrates: Explain — which things?

Stranger: Sharpness and speed — whether in body, in mind, or in the movement of sound — and the artistic imitations of these qualities in painting and music. You've praised such things yourself, or heard others praise them.

Young Socrates: Certainly.

Stranger: And do you remember the terms in which they're praised?

Young Socrates: Not really.

Stranger: Let me see if I can capture the thought in words.

Young Socrates: Why not?

Stranger: You think it's easy? Well, consider these qualities in relation to the opposite kinds of action. When we praise speed, energy, and sharpness — whether of mind or body or sound — we express our admiration with a single word: we call them courageous, or manly.

Young Socrates: How so?

Stranger: We call an action energetic and brave, or quick and vigorous, or sharp and powerful. When we use this common term of praise — "courageous" — we're admiring all of them.

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: And don't we also praise the quiet mode of action?

Young Socrates: Of course.

Stranger: And don't we say the opposite of what we said about the other type?

Young Socrates: What do you mean?

Stranger: We exclaim "How calm! How measured!" — admiring the slow, deliberate working of the mind, steadiness and gentleness in action, smoothness and depth of voice, every rhythmical movement, and music that carries a proper gravity. We use a different term of praise for all of these — not "courageous," but something that conveys orderliness, or temperance.

Young Socrates: Very true.

Stranger: But when either quality is out of place, the names flip to terms of blame.

Young Socrates: How so?

Stranger: Too much sharpness or quickness or intensity gets called violent, or crazy. Too much slowness or gentleness gets called cowardly, or sluggish. And here's the crucial observation: for the most part, these qualities — courage and temperance — line up as enemies on opposite sides. They don't mix with each other in actual life. And if we follow this further, we'll find that people who embody these different qualities also differ from each other.

Young Socrates: In what way?

Stranger: In all the ways I just mentioned — and probably many more. People who have an affinity for one type of action distribute their praise and blame accordingly: they praise what resembles them and criticize what's different. And from this, many quarrels arise.

Young Socrates: True.

Stranger: Now, when this difference between types is about trivial matters, it's no big deal. But when it affects truly important matters in a state, it becomes the most dangerous of all civic diseases.

Young Socrates: What are you referring to?

Stranger: Nothing less than the entire direction of human life. The orderly, temperance-minded people are always ready to lead a peaceful life, quietly minding their own business. They behave this way at home and are just as eager to keep the peace with foreign states. Because of this excessive love of peace — often indulged at the wrong time — when their influence dominates, the whole population gradually becomes unwarlike. They raise their young people to be just like them. They're at the mercy of their enemies. And so within a few years, they and their children and the whole city often slide imperceptibly from freedom into slavery.

Young Socrates: What a terrible fate.

Stranger: And now think about the courageous types. Aren't they always inciting their country to go to war, because of their excessive love of military life? They raise up powerful enemies against themselves, and they either completely ruin their homeland or else reduce it to slavery under foreign rule.

Young Socrates: That's true too.

Stranger: Then we have to admit that where these two types exist, they always feel the most intense opposition and hostility toward each other.

Young Socrates: We can't deny it.

Stranger: And returning to our original question: haven't we found that significant parts of virtue are in fact at odds with each other — and that this opposition shows up in the characters of the people who embody them?

Young Socrates: Yes, it seems so.

Stranger: Let's take this further.

Young Socrates: Where?

Stranger: Does any constructive art — even in the most trivial project — deliberately mix bad materials with good, when it has a choice? Doesn't every art reject the bad as far as possible, keep what's good and suitable, and from these selected elements — whether alike or different — bring them all together to produce something with a unified nature and purpose?

Young Socrates: Of course.

Stranger: Then the true and natural art of statesmanship will never willingly form a state out of a combination of good and bad people — not if it can help it. It will first test human natures through play and education. After testing them, it will entrust them to the appropriate teachers — who serve as its agents — while the art itself retains command and oversight. Just as the art of weaving constantly directs and oversees the carders and everyone else who prepares the material, ordering the supporting crafts to do the work the master art deems necessary for making the fabric.

Young Socrates: Exactly.

Stranger: In the same way, the royal science — being the mistress of all lawful educators and instructors — won't allow them to train people in ways that produce characters unsuited to the political fabric it wants to create. It will only permit the cultivation of suitable characters. Those who have no share of courage or temperance or any other virtuous disposition — those who are driven by their evil nature into godlessness, arrogance, and injustice — these it removes by death, exile, or the most severe punishments.

Young Socrates: That's commonly said.

Stranger: And those who are wallowing in ignorance and degradation, it yokes into slavery.

Young Socrates: Quite right.

Stranger: As for the rest of the citizens — those from whom education can forge something noble, those who are capable of being blended by a master craftsman — the royal art weaves them together. It takes those whose natures tend toward courage — the stronger element, which serves as the warp — and those who incline toward orderliness and gentleness — the softer element, which serves as the woof. These two types are naturally opposed, and the art seeks to bind and weave them together in the following way:

Young Socrates: How?

Stranger: First, it takes the eternal part of the soul — the divine element — and binds it with a divine cord.

Young Socrates: What does that mean?

Stranger: I mean that true and reasoned conviction about what's honorable, just, and good — and their opposites — when it takes root in the soul, is a divine principle, implanted in a nature that's heaven-born.

Young Socrates: What else could it be?

Stranger: And only the Statesman and the good lawmaker — inspired by the royal muse — can implant this conviction. And they can only do it in people who have been properly educated, the ones we just described.

Young Socrates: That makes sense.

Stranger: As for anyone who can't receive this education — we won't dignify them with any of the titles we've been discussing.

Young Socrates: Right.

Stranger: Now, when the courageous soul takes hold of this truth, it becomes civilized — genuinely capable of participating in justice. Without this truth, it tends toward brutality. Isn't that so?

Young Socrates: Certainly.

Stranger: And conversely, the peaceful, orderly nature — when it shares in these true convictions — becomes genuinely wise and temperate, at least to the degree possible in public life. Without these convictions, it rightly earns the shameful name of foolishness.

Young Socrates: Exactly.

Stranger: Now, can we say that this kind of bond — between truth and the soul — will permanently unite the bad with one another, or the bad with the good? Would any genuine science even attempt to use such a bond on bad material?

Young Socrates: Impossible.

Stranger: But in those who were noble from the start, and who have been nurtured in noble ways — and in them alone — this bond is implanted through law. This is the medicine that art prescribes for them. And of all the bonds that unite the naturally opposed parts of virtue, isn't this the most divine?

Young Socrates: Very true.

Stranger: Once this divine bond is in place, the other bonds — the merely human ones — are easy to create.

Young Socrates: What bonds? What do you mean?

Stranger: The bonds of intermarriage — the ties formed when states or families give and receive children in marriage. Most people make marriage connections without thinking about what's actually best for producing good offspring.

Young Socrates: In what way?

Stranger: They chase after wealth and power in marriage — objectives that are hardly worth criticizing seriously, they're so obviously shallow.

Young Socrates: There's no need to even discuss them.

Stranger: But there's better reason to examine the practice of people who make family connections their chief aim — and to point out their error.

Young Socrates: What error?

Stranger: They act on no sound principle whatsoever. They take the easy path: welcoming people who are like themselves and avoiding those who are different, giving too much weight to what feels comfortable.

Young Socrates: How so?

Stranger: The quiet, orderly type seeks out natures like its own and marries within that class as far as possible. And the courageous type does the same — seeking its own kind. But both types should be doing exactly the opposite.

Young Socrates: Why?

Stranger: Because courage, when it goes untempered by a gentler nature for many generations, may start out blooming and strong — but eventually it explodes into outright madness.

Young Socrates: That makes sense.

Stranger: And the soul that's overly full of modesty, with no element of courage, after many successive generations grows too passive — and eventually becomes completely paralyzed and useless.

Young Socrites That's quite likely too.

Stranger: These are the bonds I said would be easy to create — once both types already share the same true convictions about what's honorable and good. In fact, this single task encompasses the entire work of royal weaving: never allow the temperate natures to be separated from the courageous ones. Weave them together like the warp and the woof — through shared convictions, shared honors, shared reputation, and mutual pledges. From them, form one smooth, even fabric — and to them, entrust the offices of the state.

Young Socrates: How exactly?

Stranger: Where only a single official is needed, choose a ruler who combines both qualities. Where many officials are needed, blend some of each type. Because the temperate ruler is careful, fair, and steady — but lacks drive and decisiveness.

Young Socrates: That certainly seems true.

Stranger: The courageous character, on the other hand, falls short in fairness and caution — but has a remarkable power of action. A city can't thrive in either its public or private life when either quality is missing.

Young Socrates: Certainly not.

Stranger: And this, we declare, is the completion of the political web. The royal science draws courageous and temperate natures together into a single community through shared understanding and friendship, creating the noblest and finest of all the fabrics that political life can produce. It enfolds within this fabric all the other inhabitants of the city — free and slave alike — binding them together under one woven whole. It governs and presides over them, and in every way that happiness is granted to a city, it never fails to secure it.

Young Socrates: Your portrait of the king and statesman, Stranger, is every bit as perfect as your portrait of the Sophist.

Philebus (Part 1)

Part 1

Persons of the dialogue:
  Socrates
  Protarchus
  Philebus

Socrates: All right, Protarchus, pay attention. You're about to take over the position that Philebus has been defending, and here's the position I'm arguing against it. If you don't like mine, you'll need to challenge it. Shall we lay out both sides?

Protarchus: By all means.

Socrates: Philebus has been saying that enjoyment, pleasure, delight, and everything in that family are what's good for every living being. I'm arguing the opposite — that it's not pleasure but wisdom, intelligence, memory, and their relatives — sound judgment and true reasoning — that are better and more worth having for anyone capable of them. For anyone who can share in these things, now or in the future, they're the most beneficial things in the world. Have I stated both positions fairly, Philebus?

Philebus: Perfectly fair, Socrates.

Socrates: And you, Protarchus — do you accept the position you've been handed?

Protarchus: I don't have much choice, since our excellent Philebus has bowed out.

Socrates: Well, we certainly need to get to the truth of this matter, one way or another.

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: Can we also agree on this —

Protarchus: On what?

Socrates: That you and I should try to identify some condition of the soul, some state of being, that has the power to make all people happy.

Protarchus: Yes, absolutely.

Socrates: And you're saying that pleasure is that state, while I'm saying it's wisdom?

Protarchus: That's right.

Socrates: But what if there's a third option that's better than either one? In that case, we'd both lose. But if this truly happy life turns out to be closer to pleasure than to wisdom, then the life of pleasure still beats the life of wisdom.

Protarchus: True.

Socrates: And if the better life turns out to be closer to wisdom, then wisdom wins and pleasure loses. Agreed?

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: What do you say, Philebus?

Philebus: I say, and I'll always say, that pleasure wins easily. But you'll have to make up your own mind, Protarchus.

Protarchus: You've handed the argument over to me, Philebus — you don't get a say anymore.

Philebus: Fair enough. I'm washing my hands of this. And I call the goddess herself as my witness that I'm doing so.

Protarchus: You can appeal to us too — we'll be witnesses to your words. Now, Socrates, whether Philebus likes it or not, let's get on with the argument.

Socrates: Then let's start with the goddess herself — Philebus says she's called Aphrodite, but her real name is Pleasure.

Protarchus: Very good.

Socrates: The reverence I feel about the names of the gods, Protarchus, goes beyond ordinary human fear — it surpasses every other worry I have. So I won't risk offending Aphrodite by naming her wrongly. Let her be called whatever she likes. But Pleasure — that's what I want to talk about, and as I was just saying, we need to begin by understanding her nature. She has one name, so you might think she's one simple thing. But she actually takes the most varied and even contradictory forms. Think about it: don't we say that a reckless person gets pleasure, and that a self-controlled person gets pleasure from his very self-control? Don't we say that a fool feels pleasure when he's full of foolish daydreams and hopes, and that a wise person feels pleasure in his wisdom? Wouldn't anyone who claimed all these opposite pleasures were the same be talking nonsense?

Protarchus: Well, Socrates, they come from opposite sources, sure, but they're not opposites in themselves. I mean, pleasure has to be the one thing most completely like pleasure — like itself, right?

Socrates: Sure, my friend — just like color is like color. As far as being colors goes, there's no difference between them. But we all know that black isn't just unlike white — it's the exact opposite. And shape is like shape — all shapes belong to one category — but particular shapes can be totally opposed to each other, and there's an infinite variety of them. We could find similar cases in lots of other things. So don't rely on this argument that would prove the most extreme opposites are really the same. I suspect we'll find the same kind of opposition among pleasures.

Protarchus: Very likely. But how does this undermine the argument?

Socrates: Because even though pleasures are different from each other, you're applying a single label to all of them: you're calling them all "good." Now, nobody can deny that pleasure is pleasure. But someone can argue — as we're doing — that pleasures are more often bad than good. Yet you call them all good, while being forced to admit, if pressed, that they're quite different from each other. So tell me: what identical quality exists in both good and bad pleasures that makes you call them all "good"?

Protarchus: What do you mean, Socrates? Do you think anyone who says pleasure is the good is going to accept that some pleasures are good and others bad?

Socrates: And yet you'll admit they're different from one another, and sometimes even opposed?

Protarchus: Not insofar as they're pleasures.

Socrates: That's just going in circles, Protarchus. So we're supposed to say there's no difference between pleasures — that they're all alike? And those examples I just gave don't penetrate our thick skulls, and we just keep arguing the same way, like the weakest, most inexperienced debaters?

Protarchus: What do you mean?

Socrates: I mean that in self-defense I could follow your example and boldly claim that two completely unlike things are absolutely identical. And the result would be that we'd both prove ourselves to be complete amateurs in reasoning, and the whole argument would be blown away. Let's back up and start fresh — maybe we can actually come to an understanding.

Protarchus: How?

Socrates: Protarchus, should I have you put my own question to me?

Protarchus: What question?

Socrates: Ask me whether wisdom, knowledge, and intelligence, and those other qualities that I said were good when you first asked me — aren't they in the same boat as your pleasures?

Protarchus: What do you mean?

Socrates: The kinds of knowledge are numerous and will turn out to have major differences between them. But even if some of them prove to be opposed to each other as well as different — just like pleasures — would I deserve to be called a philosopher if I tried to dodge this by saying there's no difference between one kind of knowledge and another? The argument would sink like a bad story, and we'd only survive by clinging to a fallacy.

Protarchus: Well, let's not let that happen to us — except the surviving part! But I do like the even-handed fairness being applied to both sides. So let's agree: there are many diverse pleasures, and many different kinds of knowledge.

Socrates: And let's not hide the differences between my candidate for the good and yours, Protarchus. Let's bring them into the light, because in the process of testing them, they may show us whether pleasure should be called the good, or wisdom, or some third thing. We're not just competing so that my view or yours wins — we should both be fighting for the truth.

Protarchus: We certainly should.

Socrates: Then let's nail down the principle this argument rests on, and make our understanding more precise.

Protarchus: What principle?

Socrates: A principle that everyone always has trouble with, and that sometimes catches people off guard.

Protarchus: Be more specific.

Socrates: The principle that just came up — it's a genuine marvel of nature. The idea that one thing should be many, or many things should be one — these are extraordinary claims, and anyone who asserts either one is wide open to attack.

Protarchus: Do you mean when someone says that I, Protarchus, am by nature one person but also many — splitting the single "me" into many versions of "me," even making them opposites of each other: big and small, light and heavy, and ten thousand other ways?

Socrates: Those are the common, well-known puzzles about the one and the many, Protarchus. Everyone has basically agreed by now to set those aside as childish and obvious and actually harmful to real thinking. And people aren't any more impressed by that other trick — where someone proves that the parts and members of something can be divided up, then admits they're all one thing, and says with a laugh, refuting his own words: "Look at this miracle! The one is many and infinite, and the many are only one!"

Protarchus: But Socrates, what are those other marvels connected with this subject that, as you're suggesting, haven't yet become common knowledge?

Socrates: When the "one," my boy, doesn't belong to the class of things that are born and perish — like in those everyday examples — because in those cases, where the unity is something concrete, there's universal agreement that no serious argument is needed. But when someone claims that "human being" is one, or "beauty" is one, or "the good" is one — that's when genuine interest and controversy arise from the attempt to divide these unities.

Protarchus: What kind of controversy?

Socrates: First: do these unities even really exist? Then: how can each one, being always the same and incapable of coming into being or being destroyed, maintaining its permanent identity — how can it be conceived as dispersed and multiplied across the infinite world of things that come and go? Or as being somehow whole and yet divided from itself — which seems like the greatest impossibility of all, since how can one and the same thing be in one place and in many at the same time? These, Protarchus, are the real difficulties about the one and many. If you resolve them badly, they're a source of endless confusion. But if you resolve them well, they're enormously helpful.

Protarchus: Then, Socrates, let's start by clearing up these questions.

Socrates: That's exactly what I'd like to do.

Protarchus: And I'm sure all our friends here will be glad to hear them discussed. Philebus, luckily for us, isn't inclined to stir — we'd better not provoke him with questions.

Socrates: Good. So where should we begin this great and many-sided battle, with so many issues at stake? How about this?

Protarchus: How?

Socrates: We say that the one and the many become identified through thought, and that now, as always, they run around together in and out of every word we speak. This union of them will never stop — it's not something that just started. It is, I believe, an eternal property of thought itself, which never grows old. Any young person who first encounters these puzzles is thrilled — he thinks he's discovered a treasure of wisdom. In the first flush of excitement, he turns over every stone — or rather, every idea. First he rolls the many into one, kneading them together; then he unfolds and divides them again. He confuses himself first and foremost, then goes on to confuse everyone around him — older, younger, his own age, makes no difference. He doesn't spare his father, his mother, anyone with ears to hear. He'd barely spare his dog, and a foreigner would have no chance of escaping him — if only an interpreter could be found.

Protarchus: Socrates, considering how many of us there are, and that we're all young men, aren't you worried that we and Philebus might gang up on you if you insult us like this? We get what you're saying, though. But isn't there some way to clear up all this confusion — some better method of getting at the truth? If there is, we hope you'll guide us to it, and we'll do our best to follow. This inquiry we're engaged in, Socrates, is not a trivial one.

Socrates: Far from trivial, my boys — as Philebus calls you. And there never was and never will be a better method than my own favorite, though it has often abandoned me and left me helpless in my hour of need.

Protarchus: Tell us what it is.

Socrates: A method that's easy to point out but very hard to apply. It's the parent of every discovery that any skill or art has ever produced.

Protarchus: Tell us!

Socrates: A gift from heaven, which I believe the gods tossed down to humans through some new Prometheus, along with a blaze of light. And the ancients — who were better than us and lived closer to the gods — passed down this tradition: whatever things are said to exist are composed of one and many, and have the finite and the infinite built into them. Since that's how the world is ordered, we should begin every inquiry by positing a single Form for whatever we're investigating. We'll find this unity in everything. Once we've found it, we look for two beneath it — if there are two — or if not, three, or some other number, subdividing each of those units in the same way, until we see that the original unity is not just one and also many and infinite, but a specific number of kinds. We must not let the infinite touch the many until we've discovered the entire number of species that fall between the one and the infinite. Only then, after that, may we stop dividing and let the endless individuals drop off into infinity. This is the way of investigating, learning, and teaching one another that the gods handed down to us. But the clever people of our day jump too fast or too slow between one and many. They have no method. They go from unity straight to infinity, and the intermediate steps never occur to them. And that's what separates mere argument from genuine dialectic.

Protarchus: I think I partly follow you, Socrates, but I'd like a clearer picture of what you're saying.

Socrates: I can illustrate with the letters of the alphabet, Protarchus — the ones you learned as a child.

Protarchus: How do they illustrate it?

Socrates: The sound that passes through our lips — whether from one person or everyone — is one, and yet infinite in variety.

Protarchus: Very true.

Socrates: But we don't become experts in language by knowing just that sound is one, or that sound is infinite. What makes someone a grammarian is knowing the number and nature of the different sounds.

Protarchus: Very true.

Socrates: And the same kind of knowledge makes someone a musician.

Protarchus: How so?

Socrates: Sound is one thing in music too, just as in grammar, right?

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: And there are higher notes and lower notes, and notes of equal pitch — we can agree on that much?

Protarchus: Yes.

Socrates: But you wouldn't be a real musician if that were all you knew. On the other hand, if you didn't even know that much, you'd know practically nothing about music.

Protarchus: Nothing at all.

Socrates: But when you've learned which sounds are high and which are low, and the number and nature of the intervals between them, and their limits and proportions, and the systems built from them — the ones our predecessors discovered and passed down to us under the name of "harmonies" — and the corresponding patterns in bodily movement, which when measured by numbers are called rhythms and meters, and that this same principle should be applied to every case of the one and the many — when you've learned all that, my dear friend, then you've truly mastered the subject. And you can be said to understand any other subject when you've grasped it the same way. But the infinity of types and the infinity of individuals within each type, when they haven't been classified, makes every one of us infinitely ignorant. And someone who never looks for number in anything will never be numbered among the wise.

Protarchus: I think what Socrates is saying is excellent, Philebus.

Philebus: I think so too, but how does this relate to us and our argument?

Socrates: Philebus is right to ask us that question, Protarchus.

Protarchus: He certainly is, and you need to answer him.

Socrates: I will. But first let me add one small point. I was saying that someone who starts with a single unity shouldn't jump to infinity, but should proceed to a definite number of kinds. Now I'll say the reverse: someone who has to start with infinity shouldn't leap straight to unity either. He should look for some definite number that represents the real variety, and only through those arrive at one. Let's go back to the alphabet for an illustration.

Protarchus: What do you mean?

Socrates: Some god — or divine man, who in the Egyptian legend is said to have been Theuth — noticed that the human voice was infinite in variety, and was the first to distinguish within that infinity a definite number of vowels. Then he identified other letters that have sound but aren't pure vowels — the semivowels — and these too exist in a definite number. Third, he identified a class of letters we now call mutes — without voice and without sound — and divided these, and the vowels and semivowels too, into their individual sounds, counting the number of each. Seeing that none of us could learn any one of them without learning all of them, and recognizing this common bond that united them, he assigned them all to a single art and called it grammar.

Philebus: The illustration, Protarchus, has helped me understand the original point better, but I still feel the same gap I just complained about.

Socrates: You're going to ask, Philebus, what this has to do with our argument?

Philebus: Yes — that's the question Protarchus and I have been asking for a while now.

Socrates: But you've actually already arrived at the answer, haven't you?

Philebus: How so?

Socrates: Didn't we start by asking which is the better choice — pleasure or wisdom?

Philebus: Certainly.

Socrates: And we're saying each of them is one thing?

Philebus: True.

Socrates: Well, the exact question that our whole discussion has been building toward is this: how are they each one and also many — how does each have one general kind but many specific types? And what definite number of types belongs to each of them before they dissolve into infinite individual instances?

Protarchus: That's a very serious question, Philebus, and Socrates has cleverly steered us right to it. Consider which of us should answer him. There's something a bit absurd in my not being able to answer when I've taken over the whole argument — but if neither of us can answer, that's even worse. Let's think about what to do. Socrates, if I understand you correctly, is asking whether there aren't different kinds of pleasure, and what their number and nature are — and the same for wisdom.

Socrates: Exactly right, son of Callias. And our earlier discussion showed that if we can't identify the kinds within anything that has unity, likeness, or sameness — or their opposites — none of us will be the slightest use in any inquiry.

Protarchus: That seems very close to the truth, Socrates. It would be wonderful if the wise person could know all things, and the next best thing is to know yourself. But why am I saying this right now? I'll tell you. You, Socrates, have given us this chance to talk with you and are ready to help us figure out what the greatest human good is. When Philebus said it was pleasure and delight and enjoyment and all that, you disagreed and offered a different class of goods. And we keep reminding ourselves of what you said — quite rightly — so we can examine and compare the two. These goods that you consider superior to pleasure, the real objects worth pursuing, are mind and knowledge and understanding and skill, and the like. There was a dispute about which were better, and we playfully warned you that we wouldn't let you go home until the question was settled. You agreed and put yourself at our disposal. And now, as children say, what's been fairly given can't be taken back. So stop fighting us like this.

Socrates: Fighting you how?

Philebus: Stop confusing us and keep asking questions we can't properly answer yet. Let's not imagine that the whole point of this discussion is just to baffle everyone. If we can't answer, you answer — you promised you would. So make up your mind: are you going to divide pleasure and knowledge into their different kinds, or would you rather drop it and find some other way to resolve our disagreement?

Socrates: Well, if you put it that way, I've got nothing to worry about, because the words "if you're willing" take away all my fear. And besides, a god seems to have reminded me of something.

Philebus: What's that?

Socrates: I remember hearing, a long time ago — whether I was awake or dreaming, I can't say — certain arguments about pleasure and wisdom. The conclusion was that neither one is the good, but rather some third thing, different from both and better than either. If that's clearly established, then pleasure loses the contest, because the good won't be identified with her anymore. Right?

Protarchus: Right.

Socrates: And there won't be any need to sort out the different kinds of pleasure — or at least, that's what I'm inclined to think. But this will become clearer as we go.

Protarchus: Excellent, Socrates. Please continue.

Socrates: But first, let's agree on a few small points.

Protarchus: What are they?

Socrates: Is the good perfect, or imperfect?

Protarchus: The most perfect of all things, Socrates.

Socrates: And is the good sufficient?

Protarchus: Yes, certainly — sufficient beyond everything else.

Socrates: And this much nobody can deny: every conscious being desires and pursues the good, is eager to get hold of it, and doesn't care about getting anything that isn't accompanied by good.

Protarchus: Undeniable.

Socrates: Now let's separate the life of pleasure from the life of wisdom and examine each one.

Protarchus: How do you mean?

Socrates: Let's imagine a life of pleasure with no wisdom in it, and a life of wisdom with no pleasure. Because if either of them really is the supreme good, it shouldn't need anything else. But if either one turns out to be lacking something, then it can't really be the supreme good.

Protarchus: That makes sense.

Socrates: Will you help me put both lives to the test?

Protarchus: Of course.

Socrates: Then answer me.

Protarchus: Ask.

Socrates: Would you choose, Protarchus, to live your entire life enjoying the greatest pleasures?

Protarchus: Absolutely.

Socrates: And if you had perfect pleasure, would you feel that anything was still missing?

Protarchus: Not at all.

Socrates: Think carefully. You wouldn't want wisdom, or intelligence, or the ability to plan ahead? You wouldn't even want eyesight?

Protarchus: Why would I? If I have pleasure, I have everything.

Socrates: And living like this, you'd enjoy the greatest pleasures throughout your whole life?

Protarchus: I would.

Socrates: But if you had no mind, no memory, no knowledge, no sound judgment — you wouldn't even know whether you were enjoying yourself or not, since you'd be completely devoid of intelligence.

Protarchus: Right, I suppose.

Socrates: And without memory, you wouldn't remember that you'd ever felt pleasure. Not the slightest trace of the pleasure you're feeling right now would stay with you from one moment to the next. Without sound judgment, you wouldn't even think you were feeling pleasure while you were feeling it. And without the ability to reason, you couldn't anticipate future pleasure. Your life wouldn't be a human life at all — it would be the life of an oyster, or a jellyfish. Could it be otherwise?

Protarchus: No.

Socrates: Is that a life anyone would choose?

Protarchus: I can't answer you, Socrates. The argument has struck me speechless.

Socrates: Don't lose heart. Let's turn now to the life of the mind and examine that.

Protarchus: What do you mean by the life of the mind?

Socrates: Would anyone choose to live with all the wisdom, intelligence, knowledge, and memory in the world, but with absolutely no sensation of pleasure or pain — completely unaffected by those feelings?

Protarchus: Neither life appeals to me, Socrates, and I can't imagine anyone else would choose either one.

Socrates: What about a combination of the two — a life made from joining both together?

Protarchus: You mean pleasure combined with mind and wisdom?

Socrates: Exactly.

Protarchus: Everyone — not just some people, but everyone — would choose this third life over either of the other two, hands down.

Socrates: But do you see what follows from that?

Protarchus: Of course. Two out of three proposed lives are neither sufficient nor desirable — not for humans, not for any living thing.

Socrates: So now it's clear that neither pleasure alone nor wisdom alone contains the good. Because whichever one contained it would be completely sufficient and perfect and desirable for every living creature capable of such a life. And anyone who chose differently would be choosing against the nature of what's truly desirable — not by free choice, but from ignorance or some unfortunate compulsion.

Protarchus: That certainly seems right.

Socrates: So I think I've shown well enough that Philebus' goddess can't be identified with the good.

Philebus: Your "mind" isn't the good either, Socrates — it's vulnerable to the same objections.

Socrates: Maybe my "mind" is, Philebus — but the true, divine mind? That's a different story. Still, I won't claim first place for mind over the mixed life just yet. What we need to figure out now is the second place. You might say pleasure is the cause of the mixed life's goodness. I might say mind is. And in that case, even though neither would be the good itself, one of them might be the cause of the good. And I could go further and argue against Philebus that the element making this mixed life desirable and good is more closely related to mind than to pleasure. If that's true, pleasure can't honestly claim even second place — let alone first. She doesn't even reach third.

Protarchus: Honestly, Socrates, it does look like pleasure has taken a fall. She stepped into the ring fighting for the championship, and the argument has knocked her flat. And I have to say, mind showed good judgment in not making the same claim to first place — she would have been knocked down too. But if pleasure loses not just first place but second as well, she'd be badly damaged in the eyes of her fans. Even they wouldn't find her as attractive as before.

Socrates: Well, shouldn't we just leave her alone then? Why subject her to the ultimate test and expose her further?

Protarchus: Don't be ridiculous, Socrates.

Socrates: What — because I said we shouldn't "pain" pleasure? That's impossible, isn't it?

Protarchus: That, and the fact that none of us is going to let you go home until you finish the argument.

Socrates: Good grief, Protarchus, that's going to take a while. And right now it's not going to be easy. Going to battle on behalf of mind, competing for second place — I'm going to need different weapons from the ones I used before. Though some of the old ones might still work. Do I really have to finish?

Protarchus: Of course you do.

Socrates: Then let's be very careful in laying the foundation.

Protarchus: What do you mean?

Socrates: Let's divide everything that exists into two classes — or rather, if you don't mind, three.

Protarchus: What principle of division?

Socrates: Let's use some of the ideas we just discovered.

Protarchus: Which ones?

Socrates: We were saying, weren't we, that god revealed a finite element in existence, and also an infinite one?

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: Let's take those as two of our principles, and add a third: what's produced by combining them. Though I'm afraid I'm rather clumsy at these processes of classification and counting.

Protarchus: What do you mean?

Socrates: I'm realizing we need a fourth class too.

Protarchus: What would that be?

Socrates: The cause of that combination — the thing that produces the third class by mixing the other two. Add that as a fourth.

Protarchus: And would you like a fifth as well — a cause of separation, to go with the cause of combination?

Socrates: I don't think so, not right now. But if I need a fifth later, you'll let me add one?

Protarchus: Of course.

Socrates: Let's start with the first three. Two of them are enormously spread out and scattered, so let's try to gather each of them back together and see how each is both one and many.

Protarchus: If you could explain a bit more, maybe I could follow.

Socrates: The two classes I mentioned are the same ones from before: the finite and the infinite. I'll show first that the infinite is in a certain sense many, and we can deal with the finite afterward.

Protarchus: All right.

Socrates: Now think carefully, because this is a tricky, contested question. When you talk about "hotter" and "colder," can you imagine any fixed limit in those qualities? Doesn't the "more" and "less" that lives in their very nature prevent them from having any endpoint? Because if they had an endpoint, the "more" and "less" would themselves have to end.

Protarchus: That's absolutely true.

Socrates: We're always saying that the hotter and the colder always have a "more" and a "less" in them.

Protarchus: Yes.

Socrates: So the argument shows that they never reach an end. And being endless, they must also be infinite.

Protarchus: Yes, Socrates, that's exactly right.

Socrates: Good catch, my dear Protarchus. And your answer reminds me that this word "exactly" that you just used, and words like "gently" or "extremely," have the same significance as "more" and "less." Wherever they show up, they don't allow for fixed quantity — they're always introducing degrees into things, setting up a comparison of more intense versus less intense, more gentle versus less gentle. At each step, definite quantity disappears. Because as I was saying, if quantity and measure were allowed into the realm of more-and-less and the other comparatives, those comparatives would be driven out of their own territory. Once you introduce a definite quantity, there can't be any "hotter" or "colder" anymore — because those are always progressing, never standing still. But definite quantity stands still and stops progressing. This proves that comparatives like "hotter" and "colder" belong in the class of the infinite.

Protarchus: What you're saying certainly looks true, Socrates, though as you mentioned, these subjects are hard to follow at first. I think if I could hear the argument one more time, we'd be in solid agreement.

Socrates: Fair enough, and I'll try to accommodate you. But to save time rather than going through endless examples, let me ask: can I use this as the hallmark of the infinite?

Protarchus: Use what?

Socrates: Whatever seems to admit of "more" and "less," or is described by words like "extremely," "gently," "intensely," and the like — can we assign all of that to the class of the infinite? That's its unifying principle. Remember our earlier point — that things which are scattered and divided should be brought together and stamped with the mark of a single nature, if possible?

Protarchus: I remember.

Socrates: And everything that doesn't admit of more and less, but instead admits precise opposites — equality, the equal, the double, any definite ratio of number and measure — all of that, I think, we can properly assign to the class of the finite. What do you say?

Protarchus: Excellent, Socrates.

Socrates: Now, what nature should we assign to the third class — the combined one?

Protarchus: I think you'll have to tell me that.

Socrates: No, god will tell you — if any god will listen to my prayers.

Protarchus: Then pray, and think!

Socrates: I am thinking, Protarchus, and I believe some god has come to our aid.

Protarchus: What do you mean? What's your evidence?

Socrates: I'll tell you — just listen.

Protarchus: Go on.

Socrates: Weren't we just talking about hotter and colder?

Protarchus: Yes.

Socrates: Add to them drier and wetter, more and less, faster and slower, greater and smaller — everything that we previously placed under the unity of "more and less."

Protarchus: In the class of the infinite, you mean?

Socrates: Yes. Now mix that with the other class.

Protarchus: Which other class?

Socrates: The class of the finite, which we should have gathered together just as we did the infinite. But we can do it now — the result will be the same. When the two are combined, a third thing will emerge.

Protarchus: What do you mean by the class of the finite?

Socrates: The class of the equal and the double — any class that puts an end to opposites being at war with each other, and by introducing number creates harmony and proportion among the different elements.

Protarchus: I see — you're saying that when you mix the infinite with the class of the finite, various definite forms emerge.

Socrates: Yes, that's exactly what I mean.

Protarchus: Go on.

Socrates: Doesn't the right participation of the finite bring about health? In cases of disease, for example?

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: And whereas high and low, fast and slow are infinite and unlimited, doesn't the introduction of those same principles of limit bring them under control and perfect the entire framework of music?

Protarchus: Yes, certainly.

Socrates: Or again, when cold and heat are running wild, doesn't the introduction of limit take away the excess and indefiniteness, and bring moderation and harmony?

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: And from a similar mixture of the finite and the infinite come the seasons, and all the good things of life?

Protarchus: Absolutely.

Socrates: I'm leaving out ten thousand other examples — beauty, health, strength, and the many excellences of body and soul. Philebus, my handsome friend, the goddess saw the universal excess and wickedness that comes when there's no limit to pleasures and self-indulgence, and she devised the limit of law and order. You say, Philebus, that she torments the soul by doing this. I say she saves it. What do you think, Protarchus?

Protarchus: Her methods suit me perfectly, Socrates.

Socrates: You'll notice I've described three classes?

Protarchus: Yes, I think I understand. You mean the infinite is one class, and the finite is a second class of things. But I'm not entirely sure about the third.

Socrates: That's because the amazing variety of the third class overwhelms you, my friend. But the infinite wasn't difficult — even though it also contained many varieties — because they were all unified by the mark of "more and less," and so they appeared as one.

Protarchus: True.

Socrates: And the finite didn't have many divisions either — we easily recognized it as naturally one.

Protarchus: Yes.

Socrates: Right. So when I speak of the third class, understand me to mean any offspring of these two — a birth into true existence, brought about by the measures that the limit introduces.

Protarchus: I understand.

Socrates: But we said there was a fourth class still to investigate, and you need to help. Doesn't everything that comes into existence necessarily come into existence through some cause?

Protarchus: Yes, of course — how could anything exist without a cause?

Socrates: And isn't the agent the same as the cause, differing only in name? The agent and the cause are really one and the same thing?

Protarchus: Exactly.

Socrates: And the same goes for the patient, or effect — they differ only in name too, don't they?

Protarchus: Yes.

Socrates: The cause always naturally leads, and the effect naturally follows?

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: So the cause and what is produced by it are not the same, but different?

Protarchus: True.

Socrates: And weren't the things that were produced, along with the materials from which they were produced, what filled our first three classes?

Protarchus: Yes.

Socrates: And the maker or cause of them has been satisfactorily shown to be distinct from all three — so it can be called a fourth principle?

Protarchus: Yes, let's call it that.

Socrates: Good. Now that we've distinguished all four, I think we should refresh our memories by reviewing each one in order.

Protarchus: By all means.

Socrates: The first I'll call the infinite, or unlimited. The second is the finite, or limited. Third comes the combination — a mixed reality that's both compound and generated. And I don't think I'll be far wrong in calling the fourth the cause of mixture and generation.

Protarchus: Not far wrong at all.

Socrates: Now, what's our next question? How did we get here? Weren't we asking whether second place belongs to pleasure or to wisdom?

Protarchus: We were.

Socrates: And now, having worked through these four classes, won't we be better equipped to settle the original dispute about first and second place?

Protarchus: I'd think so.

Socrates: We said, if you remember, that the mixed life — pleasure combined with wisdom — was the winner. Right?

Protarchus: Right.

Socrates: And we can see what this life is and which class it belongs to?

Protarchus: Without a doubt.

Socrates: It clearly falls in the third, the mixed class — which isn't a mixture of just two particular ingredients, but of all the elements of the infinite, bound together by the finite. So we can truly say that it includes the winning life.

Protarchus: Absolutely.

Socrates: And what about your life, Philebus — the life of pure sweetness? Which of these classes does that belong in? Let me ask you a question before you answer.

Philebus: Go ahead.

Socrates: Do pleasure and pain have a limit, or do they belong to the class that admits of more and less?

Philebus: They belong to the class that admits of more, Socrates. Pleasure wouldn't be perfectly good if she weren't infinite in quantity and degree.

Socrates: And pain wouldn't be perfectly evil either, Philebus. So it can't be the infinite that gives pleasure its degree of goodness. Let's set that aside. But let me ask this — and Protarchus and Philebus, please think carefully, because making a mistake here would be very serious: which class do wisdom, knowledge, and mind belong to?

Philebus: You're making too big a deal of your favorite god, Socrates.

Socrates: And you're making too big a deal of your favorite goddess. But still, please answer the question.

Protarchus: Socrates is right, Philebus — we have to answer.

Philebus: Didn't you volunteer to answer for me, Protarchus?

Protarchus: I did, but I'm stuck now. I have to ask you, Socrates, to be our spokesperson, so we don't say something wrong or disrespectful about your candidate.

Socrates: I'd better do as you say, Protarchus. It's not that hard, actually. But did I really throw you off with my playful seriousness when I asked what class mind and knowledge belong to, as Philebus is suggesting?

Protarchus: You certainly did, Socrates.

Socrates: And yet the answer is easy. All philosophers agree with one voice that mind is the king of heaven and earth — which is really just a fancy way of flattering themselves. And maybe they're right! But I'd like to examine this class of mind a bit more thoroughly, if you don't object.

Philebus: Take whatever approach you like, Socrates. We won't get tired of you — don't worry about going long.

Socrates: Thank you. Let's begin, then, Protarchus, with a question.

Protarchus: What question?

Socrates: Is this entire thing we call "the universe" ruled by unreason and blind chance? Or, as our predecessors declared, is it ordered and governed by a marvelous intelligence and wisdom?

Protarchus: Those two views couldn't be more different, my dear Socrates! What you just suggested first sounds almost like blasphemy. But the other view — that mind orders all things — is worthy of the beauty of the sun, the moon, the stars, and the entire sweep of the heavens. I'll never say or think otherwise.

Socrates: Then should we agree with our predecessors and maintain this doctrine? And not just lazily repeat other people's ideas at no risk to ourselves, but actually take our stand and share the criticism that comes when some clever person says everything is disorder?

Protarchus: That's certainly what I'd want.

Socrates: Then consider the next step of the argument.

Protarchus: Let me hear it.

Socrates: We can see that the elements making up the bodies of all animals — fire, water, air, and earth (as the storm-tossed sailor cries, "Land!") — also appear in the makeup of the universe.

Protarchus: That proverb fits us well — we're certainly storm-tossed in this argument, and at our wits' end!

Socrates: Now here's something to notice about each of these elements.

Protarchus: What?

Socrates: Only a tiny fraction of any one of them exists in us, and a weak, impure version at that — nothing worthy of its true nature. One example will prove the point for all of them. There's fire within us, and there's fire in the universe.

Protarchus: True.

Socrates: The fire in us is small, weak, and dim. But the fire in the universe is magnificent in quantity, beauty, and every power that fire possesses.

Protarchus: Very true.

Socrates: And is the fire in the universe fed, generated, and governed by the fire in us? Or is it the other way around — the fire in you and me and every other animal depends on the universal fire?

Protarchus: That question hardly deserves an answer.

Socrates: Right. And you'd say the same about the earth in animals versus the earth in the universe, and the same for all the other elements?

Protarchus: Anyone who answered differently would have to be out of his mind.

Socrates: Fair enough. Now, when we see all these elements gathered together in one place, we call them a body, don't we?

Protarchus: We do.

Socrates: And the same can be said of the cosmos — for the same reason it can be considered a body, since it's made up of the same elements.

Protarchus: Very true.

Socrates: And does our body get its nourishment entirely from this cosmic body, or does the cosmic body get its nourishment from ours?

Protarchus: That's another question that doesn't deserve to be asked.

Socrates: Well, how about this question — is this one worth asking?

Protarchus: What question?

Socrates: Can our body be said to have a soul?

Protarchus: Obviously.

Socrates: And where did that soul come from, my dear Protarchus — unless the body of the universe, which contains elements like those in our bodies but finer in every way, also has a soul? What other source could there be?

Protarchus: No other source, Socrates — that's clearly the only one.

Socrates: Because surely we can't imagine the following, Protarchus. We have these four classes — the finite, the infinite, their combination, and the cause — and this fourth one, the cause, enters into all things, giving our bodies souls, providing the art of self-care and medicine, operating in countless other ways to heal and organize, possessing all the attributes of wisdom. We can't seriously imagine that while these same elements exist in the entire heaven and throughout great regions of the universe — only finer and purer — this same cause somehow failed to create the noblest and finest things up there too.

Protarchus: That would be completely unreasonable.

Socrates: So if we reject that idea, shouldn't we adopt the other view and maintain that there is in the universe a mighty infinite and a sufficient limit — as we've often said — along with a presiding cause of real power that orders and arranges years, seasons, and months? This cause may justly be called wisdom and mind.

Protarchus: Most justly.

Socrates: And wisdom and mind can't exist without soul?

Protarchus: Certainly not.

Socrates: So you'd say that in the divine nature of Zeus, there is soul and mind belonging to a king, because in him there is the power of the cause? And other gods have other attributes that they like to be known by?

Protarchus: Exactly.

Socrates: Don't think these words are thrown around carelessly, Protarchus. They're in harmony with the ancient thinkers who said that mind rules the universe.

Protarchus: True.

Socrates: And they give us our answer. They imply that mind belongs to that class of the four which we called the cause of everything. Now you have my answer.

Protarchus: I do indeed — though I didn't quite notice when you gave it.

Socrates: A joke can be refreshing sometimes, Protarchus, when it breaks up a serious argument.

Protarchus: Very true.

Socrates: So, my friend, I think we've now established pretty clearly which class mind belongs to and what its power is.

Protarchus: True.

Socrates: And the class that pleasure belongs to was identified long ago?

Protarchus: Yes.

Socrates: Then let's remember both results. First, mind is related to the cause and essentially belongs to that family. Second, pleasure is infinite and belongs to the class that has no beginning, middle, or end of its own, and never will.

Protarchus: I'll be sure to remember.

Socrates: Our next task is to examine where pleasure and pain arise and under what conditions they're generated. And we'll start with pleasure, since we examined her class first. But pleasure can't be properly tested apart from pain.

Protarchus: If that's the road, let's take it.

Socrates: I wonder whether you'd agree with me about where pleasure and pain come from.

Protarchus: What do you mean?

Socrates: I'd say their natural home is in the mixed class.

Protarchus: Can you remind me again, dear Socrates, which one is the mixed class?

Socrates: I'll do my best, good sir.

Protarchus: Please do.

Socrates: The mixed class is the one we placed third in our list of four.

Protarchus: The one that followed the infinite and the finite — the one where you placed health and, if I'm not mistaken, harmony?

Socrates: Excellent. Now please give me your full attention.

Protarchus: Go ahead — I'm listening.

Socrates: I'm saying that when the harmony in living beings is disrupted, their natural state breaks down, and that's when pain occurs.

Protarchus: That sounds very plausible.

Socrates: And when harmony is restored and nature returns to its proper state, that's the source of pleasure — if I can put the biggest idea into the fewest words.

Protarchus: I think you're right, Socrates, but could you try to be a little clearer?

Socrates: Don't ordinary, everyday experiences provide the simplest illustrations?

Protarchus: Like what?

Socrates: Hunger, for example, is a disruption — and painful.

Protarchus: True.

Socrates: And eating is a restoration — and pleasurable?

Protarchus: Yes.

Socrates: Thirst is a destruction and a pain, but when moisture replenishes what's dried out, that's pleasure. And when unnatural heat causes separation and breakdown, that's painful, but when the body's natural coolness is restored, that's pleasant.

Protarchus: Very true.

Socrates: And when moisture in the body freezes unnaturally, that's pain, but the natural process of thawing and returning to the normal state is pleasure. In short, here's the general principle — tell me if it seems right: whenever the natural combination of finite and infinite that makes up living beings is destroyed, that's pain. And whenever everything returns to its proper nature, that's pleasure.

Protarchus: Granted — what you say has a general truth to it.

Socrates: So here we have one kind of pleasure and pain, each arising from the two processes we've described.

Protarchus: Good.

Socrates: Now let's add that in the soul itself, there's an anticipation of pleasure — sweet and refreshing hope — and an expectation of pain — anxious and fearful.

Protarchus: Yes — that's another kind of pleasure and pain, belonging to the soul alone, apart from the body, produced by expectation.

Socrates: Right. And in analyzing these pure cases — pleasure unmixed with pain, and pain unmixed with pleasure — I think we'll be able to see clearly whether the entire class of pleasure is something desirable, or whether that quality of being wholly desirable really belongs to one of the other classes we've mentioned. We might find that pleasure and pain are like heat and cold — sometimes desirable, sometimes not — because they're not good in themselves, but only sometimes participate in the nature of good.

Protarchus: You're absolutely right that this is the trail our investigation should follow.

Socrates: Well then: if we accept that pain arises from the disruption of harmony, and pleasure from its restoration, let's ask what happens when a living creature is experiencing neither disruption nor restoration. Think about this carefully: I'm asking whether any creature in that condition could possibly feel any pleasure or pain, great or small.

Protarchus: No, certainly not.

Socrates: So here we have a third state — beyond both pleasure and pain?

Protarchus: Very true.

Socrates: Keep this in mind — it'll make a big difference in how we judge pleasure. Let me say a few words about it.

Protarchus: Go ahead.

Socrates: There's no reason why a person who chooses the life of wisdom can't live in this neutral state.

Protarchus: You mean he could live without either rejoicing or suffering?

Socrates: Yes. And if I remember correctly, when we compared the different lives, we agreed that no degree of pleasure, great or small, was necessary for someone who chose the life of thought and wisdom.

Protarchus: Yes, we did say that.

Socrates: So such a person would live without pleasure. And who knows — maybe that's the most divine life of all.

Protarchus: If so, then the gods, at least, must experience neither joy nor sorrow.

Socrates: Certainly not — there would be something deeply inappropriate about attributing either to them. But whether the gods are indifferent to pleasure is a point we can take up later if it becomes relevant. Whatever we decide, we'll credit it to mind's account in her contest for second place — assuming she has to concede first.

Protarchus: Fair enough.

Socrates: Now, the other class of pleasures — the ones we said are purely mental — comes entirely from memory.

Protarchus: What do you mean?

Socrates: I need to analyze memory first — or really, perception, which comes before memory — if we're going to get clear on this.

Protarchus: How will you proceed?

Socrates: Let's imagine that some physical sensations die out before they reach the soul, leaving her unaffected. And other sensations vibrate through both body and soul, sending a shock through each of them.

Protarchus: Granted.

Socrates: And we'd be right in saying the soul is unaware of the first kind but not the second?

Protarchus: Quite right.

Socrates: Now, when I say "unaware," don't think I mean "forgetfulness" in the literal sense. Forgetfulness is losing a memory, but in this case no memory was ever formed. You can't lose something that never existed and never entered your mind. You see the point?

Protarchus: Yes.

Socrates: So just change the terminology for me.

Protarchus: How should I change it?

Socrates: Instead of saying the soul "forgets" when she's unaffected by bodily sensations, call it "unconsciousness."

Protarchus: I see.

Socrates: And the union or communion of soul and body in a single feeling and movement — we'd properly call that "consciousness"?

Protarchus: Exactly.

Socrates: So now we know what we mean by that term?

Protarchus: Yes.

Socrates: And memory, I think, can be rightly described as the preservation of consciousness?

Protarchus: Right.

Socrates: But don't we distinguish memory from recollection?

Protarchus: I think so.

Socrates: By recollection, don't we mean the soul's power to recover on her own some feeling she originally experienced in company with the body?

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: And when she recovers on her own a lost memory of some conscious experience or piece of knowledge, that recovery is what we call recollection and reminiscence?

Protarchus: Exactly.

Socrates: There's a reason I'm going through all this.

Protarchus: What is it?

Socrates: I want to get the clearest possible picture of pleasure and desire as they exist in the soul alone, apart from the body. And the analysis we've just done helps reveal the nature of both.

Protarchus: Good — let's move on to the next point, Socrates.

Socrates: There are certainly many things to consider about how pleasure works and what it really is. But first we need to figure out the nature and origin of desire.

Protarchus: Yes, let's look into that — we've got nothing to lose.

Socrates: Actually, Protarchus, we've got something to lose — the puzzle! Finding the answer means losing the problem.

Protarchus: Fair point! But let's keep going.

Socrates: We placed hunger, thirst, and similar feelings in the class of desires, didn't we?

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: But they're very different from each other. What common nature do we have in mind when we call them by a single name?

Protarchus: By heaven, Socrates, that's not an easy question to answer. But it has to be answered.

Socrates: Then let's go back to our examples.

Protarchus: Where shall we start?

Socrates: What do we mean when we say "a person is thirsty"?

Protarchus: What do we mean?

Socrates: We mean he's empty.

Protarchus: Of course.

Socrates: And isn't thirst a desire?

Protarchus: Yes — a desire for drink.

Socrates: For drink, or for being filled with drink?

Protarchus: For being filled with drink, I'd say.

Socrates: So a person who is empty desires the opposite of what he's experiencing — he's empty and desires to be full?

Protarchus: Clearly.

Socrates: But how can someone who's empty for the first time reach any idea of fullness, which he has no present experience of and no past memory of?

Protarchus: He can't.

Socrates: And yet the person who desires certainly desires something?

Protarchus: Of course.

Socrates: He doesn't desire what he's experiencing — he's experiencing thirst, which is emptiness. What he desires is fullness.

Protarchus: True.

Socrates: So there must be something in the thirsty person that somehow grasps the idea of fullness?

Protarchus: There must be.

Socrates: And it can't be the body — the body is the thing that's empty.

Protarchus: Right.

Socrates: The only remaining possibility is that the soul grasps fullness through memory. What else could it be?

Protarchus: I can't think of anything else.

Socrates: But do you see what follows?

Protarchus: What?

Socrates: There's no such thing as bodily desire.

Protarchus: Why not?

Socrates: Because the argument shows that every living creature's striving is directed toward the opposite of its bodily condition.

Protarchus: Yes.

Socrates: And the impulse driving it toward the opposite proves that it has a memory of that opposite state.

Protarchus: True.

Socrates: So by showing that memory draws us toward the objects of desire, the argument also proves that all impulses, desires, and the driving force in every living being originate in the soul.

Protarchus: That's absolutely right.

Socrates: The argument simply won't allow us to say that our bodies hunger or thirst or experience anything similar.

Protarchus: Exactly right.

Socrates: Let me make one more observation. The argument seems to point to a certain kind of life that consists in these experiences.

Protarchus: What experiences, and what kind of life?

Socrates: I'm talking about being emptied and filled, and everything related to the preservation and destruction of living beings — the pain felt in one state and the pleasure that follows in the other.

Protarchus: True.

Socrates: But what about the in-between state?

Protarchus: What do you mean by "in-between"?

Socrates: When someone is actually suffering but remembers past pleasures that would relieve him if they'd only come back — but he doesn't have them yet. Can't we say he's in an in-between state?

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: Would you say he's entirely in pain or entirely in pleasure?

Protarchus: Neither, I'd say. He has two pains: in his body there's the actual experience of pain, and in his soul there's the longing and the waiting.

Socrates: What do you mean by "two pains," Protarchus? Couldn't someone who's empty sometimes have a confident hope of being filled, and at other times be in complete despair?

Protarchus: Very true.

Socrates: And when he's hoping to be filled, isn't the memory giving him pleasure — even while his emptiness is causing him pain at the same time?

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: So humans and other animals can experience both pleasure and pain simultaneously?

Protarchus: I suppose so.

Socrates: But when someone is empty and has no hope of being filled, that's when the double experience of pain occurs. You noticed this and concluded it was the only possibility.

Protarchus: Exactly right, Socrates.

Socrates: Now, should this investigation of feelings give rise to another question?

Protarchus: What question?

Socrates: Whether we should say that the pleasures and pains we're discussing are true or false. Or are some true and some false?

Protarchus: But how, Socrates, can there be false pleasures and pains?

Socrates: And how, Protarchus, can there be true and false fears, or true and false expectations, or true and false opinions?

Protarchus: I'll grant that opinions can be true or false, but not pleasures.

Socrates: What's that? I'm afraid we're opening up a very serious inquiry here.

Protarchus: I agree with that much.

Socrates: But we should consider, my boy — and you are one of Philebus' boys — whether this inquiry is relevant to our argument.

Protarchus: Absolutely.

Socrates: We can't afford long, irrelevant digressions. What we say should be to the point.

Protarchus: Right.

Socrates: I've always been fascinated by the question that's just come up.

Protarchus: How so?

Socrates: You deny that some pleasures are false and others true?

Protarchus: I certainly do.

Socrates: Would you say that no one ever seems to be happy but isn't really, or seems to be in pain but isn't really — whether dreaming or waking, sane or insane?

Protarchus: That's always been our assumption, Socrates.

Socrates: But were you right? Should we look into whether that assumption holds up?

Protarchus: I think we should.

Socrates: Then let's put the question about pleasure and opinion into more precise terms. Is there such a thing as opinion?

Protarchus: Yes.

Socrates: And such a thing as pleasure?

Protarchus: Yes.

Socrates: And an opinion must be about something?

Protarchus: True.

Socrates: And a person must be pleased by something?

Protarchus: Correct.

Socrates: And whether the opinion is right or wrong, it's still an opinion?

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: And whether someone is rightly or wrongly pleased, won't they still genuinely feel pleasure?

Protarchus: Yes, that's true too.

Socrates: So how can opinion be both true and false, while pleasure is always true — when both are equally real?

Protarchus: Yes, that's the question.

Socrates: You're saying that opinion takes on the quality of truth or falsity, so it becomes not just opinion but opinion with a certain character. And that's what you think needs to be examined?

Protarchus: Yes.

Socrates: And further: even if we admit that other things have qualities, perhaps pleasure and pain are simple experiences without quality?

Protarchus: Right.

Socrates: But it's not hard to see that pleasure and pain do have qualities — they can be great or small, more intense or less intense. We said that long ago.

Protarchus: Quite true.

Socrates: And if badness attaches to any of them, Protarchus, we should speak of a bad opinion, or a bad pleasure?

Protarchus: Quite true, Socrates.

Socrates: And if rightness attaches to any of them, shouldn't we speak of a right opinion or a right pleasure? And likewise for their opposites?

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: And if an opinion is wrong about its object, can't we say the opinion is incorrect — that it's not judging rightly?

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: And if we see a pleasure or pain that's mistaken about its object, shall we call it right or good, or give it any honorable name?

Protarchus: Not if the pleasure is mistaken — how could we?

Socrates: And surely pleasure often accompanies an opinion that isn't true but false?

Protarchus: It certainly does. And in that case, Socrates, as we were saying, the opinion is false — but nobody would call the actual pleasure false.

Socrates: How eagerly you rush to defend pleasure, Protarchus!

Protarchus: No, Socrates — I'm just repeating what I've heard.

Socrates: But isn't there a difference, my friend, between a pleasure that's linked to right opinion and knowledge, and one that's linked to falsehood and ignorance?

Protarchus: There must be a very great difference.

Socrates: Then let's investigate that difference.

Protarchus: Lead the way — I'll follow.

Socrates: Here's my view.

Protarchus: What is it?

Socrates: We agree, don't we, that there's such a thing as false opinion and true opinion?

Protarchus: Yes.

Socrates: And pleasure and pain, as I just said, often follow from these — from true and false opinion.

Protarchus: Very true.

Socrates: And don't opinion and the attempt to form opinions always spring from memory and perception?

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: Could the process work something like this?

Protarchus: Like what?

Socrates: Someone often sees an object in the distance, not very clearly, and wants to figure out what it is.

Protarchus: That happens.

Socrates: Soon he starts asking himself questions.

Protarchus: In what way?

Socrates: He asks himself: "What's that standing by the rock under the tree?" That's the sort of question he'd put to himself when he sees something like that.

Protarchus: True.

Socrates: Then he might guess the right answer, whispering to himself: "It's a person."

Protarchus: Very good.

Socrates: Or he might get it wrong and say: "No, it's a statue set up by some shepherds."

Protarchus: Yes.

Socrates: And if someone's with him, he says his thought out loud, and what was just an opinion becomes a statement.

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: But if he's walking alone when these thoughts occur, he may keep them in his mind for quite a while.

Protarchus: Very true.

Socrates: Now, I wonder if you'd agree with my explanation of what's happening here.

Protarchus: What's your explanation?

Socrates: I think the soul at times like these is like a book.

Protarchus: How so?

Socrates: Memory and perception meet up, and together with their attendant feelings they seem to write words in the soul. When this internal scribe writes truly, true opinions and true statements result. But when the scribe within us writes falsely, the results are false.

Protarchus: I agree completely.

Socrates: Then let me introduce you to another artist working alongside the scribe in the chambers of the soul.

Protarchus: Who's that?

Socrates: A painter, who after the scribe has done his work, draws images in the soul of the things the scribe described.

Protarchus: But when and how does he do this?

Socrates: When a person takes opinions or statements — received through sight or some other sense — and then visualizes the subjects in his mind. Isn't that a very common mental experience?

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: And the images that match true opinions and statements are true, while those that match false ones are false?

Protarchus: They are.

Socrates: If we're right so far, another question arises.

Protarchus: What?

Socrates: Do we have this experience only in relation to the present and the past, or the future as well?

Protarchus: I'd say all three — all times equally.

Socrates: Didn't we say earlier that purely mental pleasures and pains can be anticipations of bodily ones? This means that anticipatory pleasures and pains are about the future.

Protarchus: Absolutely.

Socrates: And all those "writings" and "paintings" that we said are produced in us — do they relate only to past and present, or to the future too?

Protarchus: To the future, very much so.

Socrates: When you say "very much," you mean that all these mental images are essentially hopes about the future, and that human beings are filled with hopes throughout their entire lives?

Protarchus: Exactly.

Socrates: Now answer me another question.

Protarchus: What?

Socrates: A just, pious, and good person is a friend of the gods, isn't he?

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: And an unjust, thoroughly bad person is the opposite?

Protarchus: True.

Socrates: And as we were just saying, all people are always filled with hopes?

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: And these hopes are propositions — statements that exist in the minds of each of us?

Protarchus: Yes.

Socrates: And the images of hope are also painted in us. A person may often have a vision of a pile of gold, with pleasures piling up, and in the picture he sees himself rejoicing wildly at his good fortune.

Protarchus: True.

Socrates: And can't we say that good people, being friends of the gods, generally have true pictures presented to them, while bad people have false ones?

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: Bad people have pleasures painted in their imagination too, just like good people — but theirs are false pleasures.

Protarchus: They are.

Socrates: So bad people generally delight in false pleasures, and good people in true ones?

Protarchus: That follows.

Socrates: On this analysis, then, there are false pleasures in people's souls — ridiculous imitations of the true ones — and pains of a similar character?

Protarchus: There are.

Socrates: Didn't we agree that someone who holds an opinion has a real opinion, even if it's about things that have never existed, don't exist now, and never will?

Protarchus: Quite true.

Socrates: And that was the source of false opinion — opining about what doesn't exist. Right?

Protarchus: Yes.

Socrates: So shouldn't we attribute the same kind of character to pleasure and pain — real but illusory?

Protarchus: What do you mean?

Socrates: I mean this: a person must be admitted to have real pleasure if he's pleased about anything in any way. And he may be pleased about things that don't exist, never existed, and more often than not, never will exist.

Protarchus: Yes, Socrates, that's undeniable.

Socrates: And can't the same be said about fear, anger, and similar emotions — that they're often false?

Protarchus: Quite so.

Socrates: And can opinions be good or bad in any way other than being true or false?

Protarchus: No other way.

Socrates: And pleasures can't really be called bad except insofar as they're false.

Protarchus: No, Socrates, that's the exact opposite of the truth! Nobody would call pleasures and pains bad because they're false — they're bad because of some other deep corruption they're susceptible to.

Philebus (Part 2)

Socrates: Well, we'll talk about pleasures that are corrupt and caused by corruption later, if we want to continue the inquiry. For now, I'd rather use a different argument to show that many false pleasures exist — or come into existence — in us, because that might help us reach our final verdict.

Protarchus: Fair enough — assuming such pleasures exist.

Socrates: I think they do, Protarchus. But this shouldn't rest on a bare assertion — it needs to be backed up.

Protarchus: Very good.

Socrates: Then let's step into the ring with this new argument, like wrestlers squaring off.

Protarchus: Let's go.

Socrates: We were saying a little while ago that when desires exist in us, the body has its own feelings separate from the soul. Remember?

Protarchus: Yes, I remember you said that.

Socrates: And the soul was supposed to desire the opposite of what the body was experiencing, while the body was the source of whatever pleasure or pain was being felt.

Protarchus: True.

Socrates: So now you can figure out what happens in these cases.

Protarchus: What am I supposed to figure out?

Socrates: That in such cases, pleasures and pains come simultaneously — opposite sensations sitting right next to each other, as we've already shown.

Protarchus: Clearly.

Socrates: And there's another point we agreed on.

Protarchus: What?

Socrates: That pleasure and pain both admit of more and less — that they belong to the class of infinites.

Protarchus: We did say that.

Socrates: Then how can we judge them accurately?

Protarchus: How can we?

Socrates: Are we trying to judge their relative size and intensity, measuring pleasure against pain, pain against pain, pleasure against pleasure?

Protarchus: Yes, that's what we're doing, and that's how we'll judge.

Socrates: Well, think about sight. Doesn't the nearness or distance of objects distort their true size and make us form false impressions? Don't we find the same illusion happening with pleasures and pains?

Protarchus: Yes, Socrates, and to a far greater degree.

Socrates: So what we're saying now is actually the opposite of what we said before.

Protarchus: How so?

Socrates: Before, it was the opinions that were true or false, and they infected the pleasures and pains with their own truth or falsity.

Protarchus: Very true.

Socrates: But now the pleasures and pains themselves are said to be true or false because they're seen at various distances and compared with each other. When set alongside pains, pleasures appear greater and more intense than they really are, and pains appear worse when set alongside pleasures.

Protarchus: That's bound to happen, for exactly the reason you're giving.

Socrates: So if you strip away from pleasures and pains the element that makes them appear larger or smaller than they really are, you'll agree that this element is illusory. And you'd never call the resulting excess or shortfall of pleasure or pain real or true.

Protarchus: Certainly not.

Socrates: Next, let's see whether we can find pleasures and pains in living beings that are even more false than these, coming from a different direction.

Protarchus: What are they, and how do we find them?

Socrates: Haven't I said repeatedly that pains, aches, suffering, and discomfort of every kind arise from corruption of our natural state — from buildups and breakdowns, from excess and depletion, from growth and decay?

Protarchus: Yes, you've said that many times.

Socrates: And we've agreed that the restoration of the natural state is pleasure?

Protarchus: Right.

Socrates: But now let's suppose there's a stretch of time during which the body isn't going through any of these changes.

Protarchus: When could that happen, Socrates?

Socrates: Your question doesn't help the argument, Protarchus.

Protarchus: Why not?

Socrates: Because it doesn't stop me from asking mine.

Protarchus: And what was yours?

Socrates: Protarchus, even granting that no such interval actually occurs, I can still ask: what would happen if it did?

Protarchus: You mean what would happen if the body weren't being changed for either better or worse?

Socrates: Yes.

Protarchus: Well then, I'd suppose there would be neither pleasure nor pain.

Socrates: Very good. But unless I'm mistaken, you also believe that we must always be experiencing one or the other — that's what the wise men say. They claim everything is always in flux, constantly flowing up and down.

Protarchus: Yes, and they're not minor thinkers saying this.

Socrates: Of course not — they're major thinkers. But I'd like to dodge the force of their argument. Shall I tell you my escape plan? You can come along for the ride.

Protarchus: How?

Socrates: We'll say to them: "Fine. But are we, or living creatures in general, always conscious of what's happening to us? Take growth, for example — are we always aware of that? On the contrary, aren't we almost entirely unconscious of it and similar processes?" You answer for them.

Protarchus: The second option is clearly correct.

Socrates: Then we weren't right to say, just now, that constant changes always produce pleasures and pains.

Protarchus: True.

Socrates: A better and more defensible way to put it would be —

Protarchus: What?

Socrates: That large changes produce pleasures and pains, but moderate and small ones produce neither.

Protarchus: That's the more accurate way to say it, Socrates.

Socrates: But if that's true, then the life I mentioned earlier comes back into view.

Protarchus: Which life?

Socrates: The one we said was free of both pain and pleasure.

Protarchus: Very true.

Socrates: So we can assume there are three kinds of life: one pleasant, one painful, and a third that's neither. What do you say?

Protarchus: I'd say the same — there are three.

Socrates: If so, then the absence of pain is not the same thing as pleasure.

Protarchus: Certainly not.

Socrates: So when you hear someone saying that the most pleasant thing in the world is to live permanently without pain — what do you think they actually mean?

Protarchus: I think they're confusing the absence of pain with pleasure.

Socrates: Let's take any three things. Or to make it fancier, let's call the first gold, the second silver, and the third something that's neither gold nor silver.

Protarchus: Fine.

Socrates: Now, can the thing that's neither gold nor silver be gold or silver?

Protarchus: Impossible.

Socrates: And no more can that neutral middle life be rightly thought of or spoken of as pleasant or painful.

Protarchus: Certainly not.

Socrates: And yet, my friend, there are people who think and say exactly that.

Protarchus: There certainly are.

Socrates: And do they think they're experiencing pleasure when they're free from pain?

Protarchus: That's what they say.

Socrates: Then they must think they're experiencing pleasure, or they wouldn't say so.

Protarchus: I suppose not.

Socrates: But if pleasure and the absence of pain are genuinely different things, they're wrong.

Protarchus: And they are undoubtedly different.

Socrates: So shall we take the view that there are three states, as we just said? Or only two — pain being an evil, and freedom from pain being a good that's called "pleasant"?

Protarchus: But why are we even asking this, Socrates? I don't see the point.

Socrates: That's because you've never heard of certain enemies of our friend Philebus, Protarchus.

Protarchus: Who are they?

Socrates: Certain people who are reputed to be experts in natural philosophy. They deny that pleasure exists at all.

Protarchus: Really!

Socrates: They say that what Philebus' school calls "pleasures" are nothing but escape from pain.

Protarchus: And do you want us to agree with them, Socrates?

Socrates: No — but I'd like to use them the way you'd use fortune-tellers who get the truth not through any proper method, but through an instinctive revulsion. They have a noble nature's deep disgust for the power of pleasure, and they find nothing wholesome in it. They consider her seductive influence a kind of sorcery, not genuine goodness. That's how you should use their views. After you've considered the various grounds for their hostility, you'll hear from me what I think the true pleasures are. That way we'll examine pleasure's nature from both sides before we render our verdict.

Protarchus: Well said.

Socrates: Then let's form an alliance with these philosophers and follow the trail of their hostility. I imagine they'd argue something like this. They'd start at the beginning and ask: if we wanted to understand any quality — hardness, say — would we learn more by looking at the hardest things or the least hard? You answer these stern gentlemen the way you answer me, Protarchus.

Protarchus: By all means. And I'd tell them: look at the most extreme examples.

Socrates: So if we want to see the true nature of pleasure as a class, we shouldn't look at the mildest pleasures but at the most extreme and intense ones?

Protarchus: Everyone would agree with that.

Socrates: And the most obviously intense pleasures, as we've often said, are bodily pleasures?

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: And do we experience these more intensely when we're sick or when we're healthy? Now we need to be careful here — we don't want to trip up.

Protarchus: How would we trip up?

Socrates: Because we might be tempted to answer "when we're healthy."

Protarchus: Yes, that's the natural answer.

Socrates: True, but aren't the greatest pleasures the ones that satisfy the greatest desires?

Protarchus: True.

Socrates: And don't people with a fever or similar illness feel thirst, cold, and other bodily needs far more intensely? They have deeper wants and greater pleasure when those wants are satisfied?

Protarchus: That's obviously right, once you say it.

Socrates: Then aren't we right to say that if someone wants to see the greatest pleasures, they shouldn't look at health but at sickness? Now, be careful — don't think I'm asking whether very sick people have more pleasures than healthy people overall. I'm asking about the intensity of pleasure — where pleasure reaches its most extreme heights. Our task, remember, is to discover what pleasure really is, and what those people mean who say pleasure doesn't even exist.

Protarchus: I think I follow you.

Socrates: You'll have a chance to show me soon enough. Answer this: do you see more intense, more excessive pleasures in self-indulgence or in self-control? Think before you speak.

Protarchus: I see what you're getting at, and the difference is enormous. The self-controlled person is restrained by the old motto "nothing in excess" — that's their rule. But excessive pleasure, when it takes over the minds of fools and the undisciplined, drives them to madness and makes them shout out loud.

Socrates: Good. And if that's true, then the greatest pleasures and pains will obviously be found in some corrupt state of body and soul, not in a virtuous one.

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: So shouldn't we pick out some of these and see what makes them so great?

Protarchus: We should.

Socrates: Take the pleasures that arise from certain disorders.

Protarchus: What disorders?

Socrates: The pleasures of shameful conditions — the ones that our stern philosophical friends absolutely detest.

Protarchus: What pleasures specifically?

Socrates: The relief of itching by scratching, for instance, and other ailments where scratching is the only remedy needed. Because — by heaven — what are we supposed to call the feeling this produces? Pleasure or pain?

Protarchus: A nasty mixture of both, I'd say, Socrates.

Socrates: I didn't bring this up to embarrass Philebus personally. But without considering these kinds of pleasures and others like them, we can't settle the question before us.

Protarchus: Then we'd better analyze this family of pleasures.

Socrates: You mean the pleasures that are mixed with pain?

Protarchus: Exactly.

Socrates: Some of these mixtures are purely bodily — in the body alone. Others are purely in the soul — in the soul alone. And still others are mixtures of pleasure and pain shared by both body and soul, which in their combined state are sometimes called pleasures and sometimes pains.

Protarchus: How does that work?

Socrates: Whenever the body is going through restoration and breakdown at the same time, a person experiences two opposite feelings — say, being cold while warming up, or being hot while cooling down. He wants one feeling and wants to be rid of the other. The sweet is mixed with the bitter, as the saying goes, and both sensations cling to him, creating frustration that eventually drives him to distraction.

Protarchus: That's a very accurate description.

Socrates: And in these sorts of mixtures, the pleasures and pains are sometimes equal, and sometimes one or the other dominates?

Protarchus: True.

Socrates: For cases where pain exceeds pleasure, think of itching, which we were just discussing — the tingling you feel when there's a burning, inflamed condition inside, and rubbing and scratching only reaches the surface without touching the affected parts. If you go further and try fire, or as a last resort cold, you might produce the most intense pleasure or pain in the deeper parts, which contrasts and mingles with the pain or pleasure of the outer parts. This happens because what's naturally united gets forcibly separated, or what's separated gets pushed together, and pleasure and pain sit right next to each other.

Protarchus: Right.

Socrates: Other times the element of pleasure dominates, and the slight undercurrent of pain makes the person tingle and creates a gentle irritation. Or the excessive infusion of pleasure whips them into a frenzy — they leap for joy, strike all kinds of poses, change color, gasp for breath, and end up completely beside themselves, shouting the most irrational things.

Protarchus: Yes, indeed.

Socrates: They'll say, and others will say about them, that they're "dying" from these delights. And the more reckless and dissolute a person is, the more intensely he pursues them in every way. He declares them the greatest of all pleasures and considers whoever lives in the most constant enjoyment of them to be the happiest person in the world.

Protarchus: That's a very accurate portrait of what most people think about pleasure, Socrates.

Socrates: Quite right, Protarchus — at least about the mixed pleasures that arise from the combination of external and internal bodily sensations. But there are also cases where the mind contributes an opposing element to the body — whether pleasure or pain — and the two merge into a single mixture. We talked about this earlier: when a person is hungry, he hopes for food — pleasure from hope, pain from emptiness. But I need to add what I left out before: in all these cases, and countless others like them, where body and mind are at odds, pleasure and pain combine into one experience.

Protarchus: I believe that's entirely true.

Socrates: There's still one more type of pleasure-pain mixture left.

Protarchus: What is it?

Socrates: The combination that the mind experiences entirely on its own — purely mental feelings.

Protarchus: What do you mean?

Socrates: Don't we speak of anger, fear, desire, grief, love, jealousy, envy, and the like as pains belonging to the soul alone?

Protarchus: Yes.

Socrates: And won't we find them full of the most extraordinary pleasures too? Need I remind you of that anger

  "Which stirs even a wise man to violence,
  And is sweeter than honey and the honeycomb?"

And you remember how pleasures mingle with pains in grief and mourning?

Protarchus: Yes, there's a natural connection between them.

Socrates: And you remember how at tragedies the audience smiles through their tears?

Protarchus: I certainly do.

Socrates: And are you aware that even at a comedy, the soul experiences a mixture of pain and pleasure?

Protarchus: I don't quite follow.

Socrates: I'll admit, Protarchus, that it's not easy to recognize this mixture of feelings at a comedy.

Protarchus: Not easy at all.

Socrates: But the more obscure the case, the more worthwhile it is to examine it. If we can detect the mixture here, it'll be easier to spot in other cases.

Protarchus: Go on.

Socrates: I just mentioned envy. Would you call that a pain of the soul?

Protarchus: Yes.

Socrates: Yet the envious person finds something pleasing in his neighbor's misfortunes?

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: And ignorance — what people call cluelessness — is an evil, right?

Protarchus: Sure.

Socrates: From these observations, learn to understand the nature of the ridiculous.

Protarchus: Explain.

Socrates: The ridiculous is basically the specific name for a particular kind of vice. And among vices in general, it's the one that most directly violates the inscription at Delphi.

Protarchus: You mean "Know thyself."

Socrates: I do. And the opposite would be: "Don't know thyself."

Protarchus: Right.

Socrates: Now, Protarchus, try dividing this into three kinds.

Protarchus: I'm afraid I can't.

Socrates: So you want me to do the dividing?

Protarchus: Yes — and please do.

Socrates: Aren't there three ways a person can fail to know himself?

Protarchus: What are they?

Socrates: First, about money — the ignorant person may think he's richer than he actually is.

Protarchus: Yes, that's a very common delusion.

Socrates: Even more often, he'll think he's taller, better-looking, or more physically impressive than he really is.

Protarchus: Of course.

Socrates: But by far the most people deceive themselves about the qualities of the mind — they imagine they're much better, wiser, and more virtuous than they actually are.

Protarchus: Yes, that's the most common delusion of all.

Socrates: And of all the virtues, isn't wisdom the one that most people lay claim to — the one that most stirs up competitive posturing and false pretensions?

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: And we can call this entire condition an evil?

Protarchus: A very great evil.

Socrates: But we need to divide it one more step, Protarchus, if we want to see how this childish sort of envy involves a curious blend of pleasure and pain.

Protarchus: How do we make this further division?

Socrates: Everyone who's foolish enough to hold this inflated view of themselves can be divided — like the rest of humanity — into two groups: those with power and those without it.

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: There's your dividing line. Those who are weak and can't retaliate when they're laughed at may truly be called ridiculous. But those who can defend themselves are better described as strong and dangerous. Ignorance in the powerful is hateful and horrible, because it actually hurts people — in real life and in stories. But powerless ignorance can fairly be classified as ridiculous — and genuinely is.

Protarchus: That's very true, but I still don't see where the mixture of pleasure and pain comes in.

Socrates: Then let's examine the nature of envy.

Protarchus: Go ahead.

Socrates: Isn't envy an unjust pleasure and also an unjust pain?

Protarchus: It certainly is.

Socrates: There's nothing envious or wrong about feeling happy when your enemies suffer, is there?

Protarchus: No, nothing wrong with that.

Socrates: But feeling joy instead of sorrow at your friends' misfortunes — that's wrong?

Protarchus: Obviously.

Socrates: And we said that ignorance is always an evil?

Protarchus: True.

Socrates: Now, those three kinds of false self-image we listed — about beauty, wisdom, and wealth — are ridiculous when they belong to people who are weak, and hateful when they belong to the powerful. So can we say, as I was saying before, that when our friends are in this deluded state, and they're harmless, they're simply ridiculous?

Protarchus: They are ridiculous.

Socrates: And don't we acknowledge that their ignorance is a misfortune for them?

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: But do we feel pain or pleasure when we laugh at it?

Protarchus: Clearly we feel pleasure.

Socrates: And wasn't envy the source of this pleasure we feel at our friends' misfortunes?

Protarchus: It must be.

Socrates: Then the argument shows that when we laugh at the foolishness of our friends, we mix pleasure with envy — which means we're mixing pleasure with pain. Because we've already agreed that envy is a mental pain, and laughter is pleasant. So we envy and laugh at the same moment.

Protarchus: True.

Socrates: And the argument implies that mixtures of pleasure and pain occur in lamentation, in tragedy and comedy — not only on the stage but on the much larger stage of human life. And in countless other cases too.

Protarchus: I don't see how anyone could deny what you're saying, Socrates, no matter how badly they want to argue the other side.

Socrates: I mentioned anger, desire, grief, fear, love, jealousy, envy, and similar emotions as examples where we'd find a mixture of those two elements we keep naming. Didn't I?

Protarchus: Yes.

Socrates: And you realize that everything we've just concluded applies only to grief, envy, and anger?

Protarchus: I see that.

Socrates: Which means many other cases remain?

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: And why do you think I went into such detail about the mixture in comedy? To convince you that it's not hard to show the mixed nature of fear, love, and the rest. I figured once I'd given you that illustration, you'd let me off the hook and agree as a general principle that body without soul, soul without body, and the two together are all susceptible to every kind of pleasure-pain mixture — and further discussion would be unnecessary. So now, do I get to leave? Or will you keep me here until midnight? I think I can earn my release without many more words if I promise to give you an account of all these other cases tomorrow. But right now I'd rather sail in a different direction and move on to the issues that still need settling before we can reach the verdict Philebus is demanding.

Protarchus: Very good, Socrates. Handle what remains however you see fit.

Socrates: After the mixed pleasures, the unmixed ones should have their turn. That's the natural and necessary order.

Protarchus: Excellent.

Socrates: I'll try to describe them now. I don't agree with the people who say all pleasures are just cessation of pain. But as I said, I use them as witnesses that some pleasures only seem to be pleasures but aren't really, and that others, though they appear in many impressive forms, are actually tangled up with pain — partial relief from intense bodily and mental suffering.

Protarchus: Then which pleasures, Socrates, should we rightly consider true?

Socrates: True pleasures are the ones that come from beauty of color and form, most of those that come from scents, those from sounds, and in general any pleasures where the lack isn't painful or even noticed, and the fulfillment is perceptible, pleasant, and unmixed with pain.

Protarchus: I need you to explain that more clearly, Socrates.

Socrates: What I mean is certainly not obvious, so I'll try to be clearer. When I say "beauty of form," I don't mean the beauty of animals or paintings — which is probably what most people would assume. I mean straight lines and circles, and the flat and solid shapes made from them with lathes, rulers, and protractors. These, I'm saying, are not merely relatively beautiful, the way other things are. They are eternally and absolutely beautiful, and they have their own distinctive pleasures, completely different from the pleasure of scratching an itch. And there are colors with the same character and similar pleasures. Do you follow?

Protarchus: I'm trying, Socrates. Could you make it even clearer?

Socrates: When sounds are smooth and clear, producing a single pure tone, I'm saying they're not just relatively beautiful but absolutely beautiful, and they carry natural pleasures of their own.

Protarchus: Yes, there are such pleasures.

Socrates: The pleasures of smell are a somewhat less elevated type, but they involve no necessary mixture of pain. And any pleasures, however and wherever experienced, that come without any accompanying pain — I assign them all to a similar class. So there are two kinds of pure pleasures.

Protarchus: I understand.

Socrates: We can add to these the pleasures of learning — assuming no hunger for knowledge and no pain from that hunger come first.

Protarchus: That seems right.

Socrates: But what if someone who's full of knowledge later loses it — aren't there pains of forgetting?

Protarchus: Not necessarily. Though there might be times of reflection when a person feels grief over losing what he knew.

Socrates: True, my friend, but right now we're cataloguing only natural, immediate experiences — not reflective ones.

Protarchus: In that case you're right: the loss of knowledge isn't accompanied by pain.

Socrates: So the pleasures of learning are unmixed with pain. And they don't belong to the masses but to a very few.

Protarchus: Quite true.

Socrates: Now, having properly separated the pure pleasures from those that can rightly be called impure, let me add this to our description: the pleasures that go to excess have no measure, while those that don't are measured. The great, excessive pleasures — whether they come more or less often — belong in the class of the infinite, of the more and less, which flows through both body and soul. And the moderate ones belong to the class of measure.

Protarchus: Exactly right, Socrates.

Socrates: There's still more to consider about pleasures.

Protarchus: What?

Socrates: When we talk about purity and clarity, or about excess, abundance, greatness, and sufficiency — how do these terms relate to truth?

Protarchus: Why do you ask, Socrates?

Socrates: Because I want to test pleasure and knowledge in every way possible, Protarchus. If there's a pure and an impure element in either of them, I want to isolate the pure element for judgment. That'll make it easier for you, me, and everyone to evaluate them.

Protarchus: Absolutely.

Socrates: Let's examine all the pure types. We'll start by selecting a single example.

Protarchus: Which one?

Socrates: Let's start with whiteness.

Protarchus: Very good.

Socrates: What makes whiteness pure? Is it being the greatest in quantity, or the most unadulterated — the freest from any admixture of other colors?

Protarchus: Obviously the most unadulterated.

Socrates: Right, Protarchus. So the purest white, not the most abundant, is to be considered the truest and most beautiful?

Protarchus: Absolutely.

Socrates: And we'd be perfectly right to say that a small amount of pure white is whiter, more beautiful, and truer than a large amount of mixed white.

Protarchus: Perfectly right.

Socrates: Then we don't need a parade of examples to make this point about pleasure. A single case is enough to prove that a small, pure pleasure — unalloyed with pain — is always more pleasant, truer, and more beautiful than a large amount of impure pleasure.

Protarchus: Absolutely — and one example is plenty.

Socrates: But here's another question: haven't we heard that pleasure is always a process of becoming and never has true being? Certain ingenious thinkers teach this, and shouldn't we be grateful to them?

Protarchus: What do they mean?

Socrates: I'll explain by asking you a question, dear Protarchus.

Protarchus: Go ahead.

Socrates: Let's say there are two kinds of things in the world: one that exists for its own sake, and another that's always striving after something else.

Protarchus: What do you mean by these two kinds?

Socrates: One is noble and self-sufficient. The other is subordinate.

Protarchus: That's pretty cryptic.

Socrates: You've seen beautiful, worthy things, and you've seen devoted lovers pursuing them.

Protarchus: I suppose so.

Socrates: Now search the whole universe for two terms that match this pair and are found everywhere.

Protarchus: Please, Socrates — be a little clearer, for the third time!

Socrates: It's not complicated, Protarchus. The argument is just being playful. It's hinting that some things exist for the sake of something else — they're means to an end. And other things are the ends themselves — what the first group serves.

Protarchus: I think your many repetitions are slowing me down, not speeding me up.

Socrates: As the argument goes on, my boy, the meaning will probably get clearer.

Protarchus: I hope so.

Socrates: Here are two more principles.

Protarchus: What are they?

Socrates: One is becoming — the process of coming into existence. The other is being — actual existence.

Protarchus: I accept both — becoming and being.

Socrates: Good. Now would you say that becoming exists for the sake of being, or being for the sake of becoming?

Protarchus: You're asking whether what we call "being" actually exists for the sake of "becoming"?

Socrates: Yes.

Protarchus: By the gods, you'd better repeat that!

Socrates: Let me put it this way, Protarchus: would you say that shipbuilding exists for the sake of ships, or ships for the sake of shipbuilding? And the same question for every similar case.

Protarchus: Why don't you answer that yourself, Socrates?

Socrates: I'm happy to, but you have to participate.

Protarchus: Of course.

Socrates: Here's my answer: all instrumental, remedial, and material things are given to us for the sake of some process of becoming. And each becoming exists for the sake of some particular being or reality. And all becoming, taken as a whole, exists for the sake of all being, taken as a whole.

Protarchus: Absolutely.

Socrates: Then pleasure, being a process of becoming, must exist for the sake of some being?

Protarchus: True.

Socrates: And that which other things serve — the end they exist for — must be placed in the class of the good. While that which exists for the sake of something else belongs in a different class, my friend.

Protarchus: Most certainly.

Socrates: So pleasure, being a process of becoming, will rightly be placed in some class other than the good?

Protarchus: Quite right.

Socrates: Then, as I said at the start, we should be very grateful to the thinker who first showed that pleasure is only a process of becoming and has no true being at all. He's obviously laughing at the idea that pleasure could be the good.

Protarchus: Absolutely.

Socrates: And he'd surely laugh at people who make becoming their ultimate goal.

Protarchus: Who are you talking about? What do they mean?

Socrates: I'm talking about people who feel delight when they cure their hunger, thirst, or any other deficiency through some process of restoration, and who treat the process itself as though it were pleasure. They say they wouldn't want to live without these experiences, and others like them.

Protarchus: That does seem to be how they think.

Socrates: And everyone agrees that destruction is the opposite of coming-into-being?

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: So anyone who makes this choice would be choosing a life of constant becoming and perishing rather than that third kind of life we discussed — the one with neither pleasure nor pain, but only the purest possible thought.

Protarchus: It's deeply absurd, Socrates, to claim that pleasure is the good.

Socrates: Deeply. And there's yet another absurdity.

Protarchus: What?

Socrates: Isn't it absurd to say that there's nothing good or noble in the body or anywhere else — that good exists only in the soul, and that the only good of the soul is pleasure? And that courage, self-control, understanding, and every other virtue of the soul are not really good at all? And on top of that, to be forced to say that someone feeling pain and no pleasure is bad at the moment they're suffering — even if they're the best person alive? And conversely, that someone feeling pleasure is virtuous to the degree they're pleased, in the very act of being pleased?

Protarchus: Nothing could be more irrational than all of that, Socrates.

Socrates: Good. Now, having subjected pleasure to every kind of test, let's not seem too easy on mind and knowledge. Let's strike them hard and see if they ring true or if there's anything unsound. We need to find the purest elements in each, and then bring the truest forms of both pleasure and knowledge forward for judgment.

Protarchus: Right.

Socrates: Knowledge has two branches: one productive, and the other educational?

Protarchus: True.

Socrates: And in the productive arts and crafts, isn't one part more closely related to true knowledge, and the other less so? Can we treat one as the pure element and the other as the impure?

Protarchus: We can.

Socrates: Let's separate out the dominant, superior element in each.

Protarchus: What is it? How do you separate them?

Socrates: Here's how: if you take away arithmetic, measurement, and weighing from any craft, what's left isn't much.

Protarchus: Not much at all.

Socrates: What remains would be just guesswork — the trained use of the senses that comes from experience and practice, plus a knack for estimating that's commonly called "skill" and is developed through effort and repetition.

Protarchus: Nothing more than that.

Socrates: Music, for instance, is full of this guesswork. Its harmonies are tuned not by measurement but by practiced estimation — the flute player is always trying to guess the pitch of each vibrating note. So music is mixed up with a great deal of uncertainty and has little precision.

Protarchus: Very true.

Socrates: And you'll find the same holds for medicine, farming, navigation, and military strategy.

Protarchus: Very true.

Socrates: But construction, on the other hand, uses a whole array of measures and instruments, and achieves a much higher degree of precision than those other crafts.

Protarchus: How so?

Socrates: In shipbuilding, house-building, and other forms of carpentry, the builder has his ruler, lathe, compass, plumb line, and a very clever device for straightening wood.

Protarchus: Very true, Socrates.

Socrates: So let's divide the arts we've been discussing into two categories: those that, like music, are less exact in their results, and those that, like building, are more exact.

Protarchus: Let's make that division.

Socrates: And of the more exact category, the most exact of all are the ones we just called primary.

Protarchus: You mean arithmetic and the related arts of weighing and measuring.

Socrates: Exactly, Protarchus. But aren't even these divisible into two kinds?

Protarchus: Two kinds?

Socrates: Take arithmetic first. There are two kinds: one popular, one philosophical.

Protarchus: How would you distinguish them?

Socrates: There's a big difference, Protarchus. Some arithmeticians count unequal units — two armies, two oxen, two very large things or two very small things. The other school insists that every unit in ten thousand must be exactly the same as every other unit.

Protarchus: That is indeed a significant difference, and there's good reason to say there are two kinds of arithmetic.

Socrates: And when we compare the practical measurement used in building with philosophical geometry, or the arithmetic used in commerce with pure mathematical calculation — should we say each pair is one art or two?

Protarchus: Following the logic of what came before, I'd say each pair is two.

Socrates: Right. But do you see why I've brought all this up?

Protarchus: I think so, but I'd like to hear you say it.

Socrates: The argument has been looking for a parallel to our analysis of pleasure. It's been asking whether one kind of knowledge is purer than another, just as one pleasure is purer than another.

Protarchus: That was clearly the goal.

Socrates: And hasn't the argument already shown that different arts have different domains and vary in their degrees of certainty?

Protarchus: Very true.

Socrates: And just now, the argument first gave a particular art a single name — making us think it was one art — and then, as if talking about two different things, asked whether the philosophical version or the practical version has more certainty and purity?

Protarchus: That's exactly the question being raised.

Socrates: So how do we answer, Protarchus?

Protarchus: Socrates, we've reached a point where the difference in clarity between different kinds of knowledge is enormous.

Socrates: Then the answer should be easy.

Protarchus: Certainly. And let our answer be: the arts that involve arithmetic and measurement far surpass all others. And of those, the ones driven by genuine philosophical inquiry are infinitely superior in accuracy and truth.

Socrates: That's your judgment, then. And on your authority, we'll give this answer to anyone who tries to twist our words?

Protarchus: What answer?

Socrates: That there are two kinds of arithmetic, two of measurement, and many other arts that have the same double nature — yet only one name.

Protarchus: Let's boldly give that answer, Socrates, and hope for the best.

Socrates: So we've identified what we consider the most exact arts and sciences.

Protarchus: Very good.

Socrates: And yet, Protarchus, dialectic will refuse to acknowledge us if we don't give her first place.

Protarchus: And what exactly is dialectic?

Socrates: Obviously the discipline that deals with everything we've been talking about — all knowledge of being and reality, of sameness and unchangeability. I'm sure anyone with a shred of intelligence would agree that the knowledge dealing with true being and eternal reality is by far the truest knowledge of all. But how would you decide, Protarchus?

Protarchus: I've often heard Gorgias argue that the art of persuasion surpasses every other art by far. It's the best of them all, he says, because everything submits to it — not by force, but willingly. I wouldn't want to quarrel with either you or him.

Socrates: Sounds like you wanted to desert but were too embarrassed.

Protarchus: Take it however you like.

Socrates: Maybe I've led you into a misunderstanding?

Protarchus: How?

Socrates: My dear Protarchus, I wasn't asking which art is the greatest, the best, or the most useful. I was asking which one has the most clarity, accuracy, and truth — however humble and impractical it might be. As for Gorgias, he won't quarrel with you if you say his art has the edge in practical usefulness, while the discipline I'm describing is superior in the pursuit of essential truth. It's like our comparison of white colors: a small amount that's pure was said to be truer than a large amount that's mixed. So let's focus carefully. Let's not ask about the comparative usefulness or reputation of the various disciplines, but about the power or faculty — if there is one — that the soul has for loving truth and doing everything for its sake. Let's examine the pure element of mind and intelligence, and then we'll be able to say whether this discipline is most likely to possess that faculty, or whether some other has a stronger claim.

Protarchus: Well, I've been thinking about it, and I can hardly imagine any other science or art has a firmer grip on truth than this one.

Socrates: Are you saying that because you notice that the arts in general — and people engaged in them — work with opinion and are deeply absorbed in investigating matters of opinion? Even someone who thinks he's studying nature is really dealing with this world — how things are created, how they act and are acted upon. Isn't that the kind of inquiry that fills his life?

Protarchus: True.

Socrates: He's working not with eternal being, but with things that are becoming — things that will be, have been, or are coming to be.

Protarchus: Very true.

Socrates: And can we say that any of these things — which neither are, nor have been, nor will be unchanging — can ever become certain when judged by the strict standard of truth?

Protarchus: Impossible.

Socrates: How could anything stable be built on what has no stability?

Protarchus: How indeed?

Socrates: So mind and knowledge, when applied to things that are always changing, can't achieve the highest truth?

Protarchus: I'd think not.

Socrates: Then let's set aside you, me, Philebus, and Gorgias, and make one claim on behalf of the argument itself.

Protarchus: What claim?

Socrates: That what is stable, pure, true, and unmixed belongs to the things that are eternal, unchangeable, and unalloyed. Or if not to those exactly, then to whatever is most closely related to them. Everything else must be ranked in a second, inferior class.

Protarchus: Very true.

Socrates: And when it comes to the terms we use for knowing — shouldn't the finest terms be given to the finest objects?

Protarchus: That's natural.

Socrates: And aren't "mind" and "wisdom" the most honored terms?

Protarchus: Yes.

Socrates: And these terms apply most truly and precisely when the mind is engaged in contemplating true being?

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: And these were the very terms I put forward as the rivals of pleasure?

Protarchus: They were indeed, Socrates.

Socrates: Now then — as for the mixture. Here are our ingredients: pleasure and wisdom. We're like craftsmen with our materials laid out before us.

Protarchus: Yes.

Socrates: Time to start mixing?

Protarchus: By all means.

Socrates: But shouldn't we review the key points first, to refresh our memories?

Protarchus: About what?

Socrates: About what I've already said. As the proverb goes, good things are worth saying twice — even three times.

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: Well then, by Zeus, let's proceed. I'll try to give a fair summary of the argument.

Protarchus: Let's hear it.

Socrates: Philebus says that pleasure is the true goal of every living being — that everyone should aim at it, that it's the ultimate good, and that the words "good" and "pleasant" really just name one and the same thing. Socrates, on the other hand, starts by denying this. He goes further: in reality, as in name, they're two different things, and wisdom has a greater share in the good than pleasure does. Isn't that what we were saying, Protarchus?

Protarchus: It is.

Socrates: And wasn't there a further point we agreed on?

Protarchus: What was that?

Socrates: That the good differs from everything else.

Protarchus: How?

Socrates: Whatever possesses the good is always, everywhere, in every way perfectly sufficient — it never needs anything else.

Protarchus: Exactly.

Socrates: And didn't we try an imaginative separation — assigning wisdom and pleasure to separate lives, so that pleasure had no wisdom and wisdom had no pleasure?

Protarchus: We did.

Socrates: And did we think either one was sufficient on its own?

Protarchus: Absolutely not.

Socrates: And if we went wrong anywhere, let anyone take up the inquiry again. Assuming that memory, wisdom, knowledge, and sound judgment all belong to the same class, consider: would you want to have pleasure, no matter how abundant or intense, if you couldn't actually perceive that you were enjoying yourself — couldn't be aware of what you were feeling, couldn't hold even the briefest memory of it? And the same question about wisdom: would you choose all the wisdom in the world if it came with absolutely zero pleasure, rather than having at least some pleasure? Or all the pleasure in the world without a drop of wisdom, rather than having at least some wisdom?

Protarchus: Of course not, Socrates. Why keep repeating the same thing?

Socrates: So neither one, on its own, can possibly be the perfect, universally desirable, completely good life?

Protarchus: Impossible.

Socrates: Then we need to figure out the nature of the good more precisely, so we can properly assign second place.

Protarchus: Right.

Socrates: Haven't we already found a road that leads toward the good?

Protarchus: What road?

Socrates: If you needed to find a particular person and you could figure out which house he lived in, that would be a big step toward finding the person himself, wouldn't it?

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: Well, reason is now telling us — just as it did at the start — that we should seek the good not in the unmixed life but in the mixed one.

Protarchus: True.

Socrates: We have better hope of finding what we're looking for in a well-mixed life than in an unmixed one?

Protarchus: Far better.

Socrates: Then let's mix, Protarchus! And let's offer a prayer to Dionysus or Hephaestus — or whichever god oversees the art of mixing.

Protarchus: By all means.

Socrates: Think of us as cupbearers standing beside two fountains. One of them — pleasure — can be compared to a fountain of honey. The other — wisdom — is a sober, healthy stream with no wine in it, nothing sweet, just clear, wholesome water. From these we need to create the best possible blend.

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: Tell me first: would we be most likely to succeed if we just dumped in every kind of pleasure with every kind of wisdom?

Protarchus: Maybe.

Socrates: But I think that's risky. I think I can show a safer approach.

Protarchus: What is it?

Socrates: We agreed that one pleasure is truer than another, and one art more exact than another.

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: And we agreed that there are differences among the branches of knowledge: some deal with the transient and perishable, others with the permanent, eternal, and unchangeable. When judged by the standard of truth, the latter are truer than the former.

Protarchus: Good — that's right.

Socrates: So if we start by mixing the truest parts of each — the truest pleasures and the truest knowledge — would that combination be enough to give us the best possible life? Or would we still need other ingredients?

Protarchus: I think we should do what you're suggesting.

Socrates: Imagine a person who understands justice and has rational insight into its true nature — and the same for every other reality.

Protarchus: Let's imagine such a person.

Socrates: Would they have enough knowledge if they knew only the divine circle and sphere, but nothing about our human, practical circles and spheres? Could they even build a house using only divine measurements?

Protarchus: Knowledge that's only otherworldly, Socrates, is pretty useless for a human being.

Socrates: So you're saying I should throw the impure, imprecise art — the one that uses approximate measures and rough estimates — right into the mixing cup?

Protarchus: We have to, if any of us is ever going to find our way home.

Socrates: And should I include music, which I was just calling full of guesswork and imitation, and short on precision?

Protarchus: I think you have to, if human life is going to be a life at all.

Socrates: All right then — suppose I give in. Like a doorkeeper who gets pushed and overwhelmed by the crowd, I'll throw the doors wide open and let every kind of knowledge stream in, the pure mingling with the impure.

Protarchus: I don't see that much harm would come of it, Socrates — not as long as you have the pure kind first.

Socrates: Then shall I let them all flow together into what Homer poetically calls "a meeting of the waters"?

Protarchus: By all means.

Socrates: There — I've let them all in. Now I need to go back to the fountain of pleasure. We weren't allowed to start by mixing only the true portions of both, as we originally planned. Our love of all knowledge forced us to let every kind of knowledge flow in first, before the pleasures.

Protarchus: That's true.

Socrates: And now it's time to deal with the pleasures. Should we let them all in at once, or only the true ones first?

Protarchus: It's much safer to start with the true ones.

Socrates: Let them flow in, then. And now — if there are certain necessary pleasures, just as there were necessary arts and sciences, shouldn't we mix those in too?

Protarchus: Yes — the necessary pleasures certainly have to be included.

Socrates: And if it's harmless and useful to know all the arts throughout our lives, should we say the same about all pleasures — that every pleasure is good and harmless for everyone at all times? Should we just let them all in?

Protarchus: What should we say about them? What should we do?

Socrates: Don't ask me, Protarchus. Ask the daughters of pleasure and wisdom to speak for themselves.

Protarchus: How?

Socrates: "Tell us, beloved ones — whether we should call you 'pleasures' or something else — would you rather live with wisdom or without it?" I think they'd answer like this:

Protarchus: How?

Socrates: They'd say — as we said before — that for any single class to exist by itself, pure and isolated, is neither good nor entirely possible. If we must compare one class with another and choose companions, there's no better partner than knowledge of all things, and especially perfect self-knowledge.

Protarchus: And our response would be: "Well spoken!"

Socrates: Exactly. Now let's go back and interrogate wisdom and mind. "Would you like any pleasures in the mixture?" And they'll reply: "What pleasures do you mean?"

Protarchus: Probably so.

Socrates: And we'll follow up: "In addition to the true pleasures, do you want the greatest, most intense pleasures as companions too?" And they'll say: "How could we, Socrates? They're the source of ten thousand problems for us. They disturb the souls we inhabit with their madness, prevent us from being born in the first place, and are usually the ruin of whatever children we do produce — causing them to be forgotten and neglected through carelessness. But the true and pure pleasures you mentioned — recognize those as our family. And add the pleasures that go with health and moderation — the ones that follow every Virtue around like attendants in a goddess's procession, wherever she goes. Mix those in. But to mix in the pleasures that always tag along with foolishness and vice? That would be the height of stupidity for anyone who wants to see a beautiful, perfect mixture and discover from it the highest good in human life and in the universe. It would make no sense to contaminate mind with pleasures that are always accompanied by folly and depravity."

Protarchus: That's an entirely reasonable response, spoken on behalf of wisdom, memory, and sound judgment.

Socrates: But there's still one more essential ingredient for any mixture.

Protarchus: What is it?

Socrates: Unless truth is part of the composition, nothing can truly be created or endure.

Protarchus: Impossible.

Socrates: Quite impossible. And now, you and Philebus need to tell me: is anything still missing from the mixture? As I see it, the argument is now complete — it's like an immaterial law that will govern a living body with fairness.

Protarchus: I agree with you, Socrates.

Socrates: And can we say that we're now standing at the doorstep of the good?

Protarchus: I think we are.

Socrates: Then what element in the mixture is the most precious — the main reason why everyone finds this kind of life desirable? Once we discover that, we'll ask whether this quality is more closely related to pleasure or to mind.

Protarchus: Exactly right — that will help us make the final judgment.

Socrates: And it's not hard to see what makes any mixture either supremely valuable or worthless.

Protarchus: What do you mean?

Socrates: Everyone knows this.

Protarchus: Knows what?

Socrates: That any mixture lacking measure and proportion is inevitably fatal — both to the ingredients and to the mixture itself. It's not really a mixture at all, just a jumbled mess that brings ruin on whoever has it.

Protarchus: Absolutely true.

Socrates: And now the power of the good has taken refuge in the territory of the beautiful. Because measure and proportion are beauty and excellence — everywhere and always.

Protarchus: True.

Socrates: And we said that truth must be part of the mixture too.

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: So if we can't capture the good with a single idea, let's use three: Beauty, Proportion, and Truth. We can treat these three together as the single cause of the mixture's goodness — the reason the mixture is good is because these qualities have been infused into it.

Protarchus: Exactly right.

Socrates: And now, Protarchus, anyone could easily judge whether pleasure or wisdom is more closely related to the highest good and more honored among gods and humans.

Protarchus: That's clear enough, but let's finish the argument properly.

Socrates: Let's take each of the three — Beauty, Truth, Proportion — and examine them one at a time in relation to pleasure and mind. We need to see which of the two each one is more closely related to.

Protarchus: You mean beauty, truth, and measure?

Socrates: Yes, Protarchus. Take truth first. Review mind, truth, and pleasure in your mind, then pause and ask yourself: is pleasure or mind more closely related to truth?

Protarchus: No need to pause — the difference is obvious. Pleasure is the world's greatest impostor. As the saying goes, even the gods forgive perjury in matters of sexual pleasure — because pleasures, like children, don't have a particle of reason in them. Mind, on the other hand, is either the same thing as truth, or the closest thing to truth that exists.

Socrates: Next, let's look at measure the same way. Does pleasure have more measure than wisdom, or wisdom more than pleasure?

Protarchus: Another easy question. I can't imagine anything more excessive than the transports of pleasure, or anything more measured and proportionate than mind and knowledge.

Socrates: Very good. But there's still the third test. Does mind have a greater share of beauty than pleasure? Is mind or pleasure the more beautiful?

Protarchus: No one, Socrates — awake or dreaming — has ever seen or imagined wisdom or mind to be ugly or unseemly, at any time, in any way.

Socrates: Right.

Protarchus: But when we see someone indulging in pleasures — especially the most intense ones — the ridiculous or disgusting nature of what they're doing makes us ashamed. We hide them away and push them into darkness, feeling they shouldn't see the light of day.

Socrates: Then you'll proclaim it everywhere, Protarchus — to this company and to the world — that pleasure is not the first of possessions, nor even the second. The first prize goes to measure, the mean, the fitting, and all things of that kind — the eternal nature has been found there.

Protarchus: Yes, that seems to be where the argument has led us.

Socrates: In the second class belongs the symmetrical, the beautiful, the complete, the sufficient, and everything in that family.

Protarchus: True.

Socrates: And if you place mind and wisdom in the third class, I don't think you'll be far wrong.

Protarchus: I'd think not.

Socrates: And wouldn't you put in the fourth class the goods we said belong specifically to the soul — the sciences, arts, and true opinions, as we called them? They come after the third class and form the fourth, since they're certainly more closely related to the good than pleasure is.

Protarchus: Surely.

Socrates: The fifth class would be the pleasures we defined as painless — the pure pleasures of the soul itself, as we called them — the ones that accompany knowledge and sometimes sensation.

Protarchus: Perhaps.

Socrates: And now, as Orpheus says,

  "With the sixth generation, let the glory of my song come to an end."

Here, at the sixth place, let us finish. All that remains is to crown our discussion.

Protarchus: True.

Socrates: Then let's sum up and restate what we've said, offering the third libation to savior Zeus.

Protarchus: How so?

Socrates: Philebus claimed that pleasure was always and absolutely the good.

Protarchus: I see — this "third libation" you mentioned, Socrates, was meant as a final recapitulation.

Socrates: Yes. But listen to what comes next. Convinced of what I've been saying, and indignant at a doctrine maintained not just by Philebus but by thousands of others, I declared that mind is a far better, far more excellent element of human life than pleasure.

Protarchus: True.

Socrates: But suspecting there were other things better still, I went on to say that if something turned out to be better than both, I'd claim second place for mind over pleasure — and pleasure would lose second place as well as first.

Protarchus: You did say that.

Socrates: And nothing could be more thoroughly demonstrated than the inadequacy of both.

Protarchus: Very true.

Socrates: The claims of both pleasure and mind to be the absolute good have been completely disproven in this argument. Both of them lack self-sufficiency, both are inadequate, both are imperfect.

Protarchus: Absolutely right.

Socrates: But though both must step aside in favor of another, mind is ten thousand times closer and more akin to the nature of the winner than pleasure is.

Protarchus: Certainly.

Socrates: And according to the ranking we've just established, pleasure comes in fifth.

Protarchus: True.

Socrates: Not first — no, not even if all the cattle, horses, and animals in the world, in their pursuit of enjoyment, declare her to be so. The masses trust these animals the way fortune-tellers trust birds. They decide that animal appetites are better evidence than the insights of divine philosophy.

Protarchus: And now, Socrates, we all declare that what you've been saying is the truth.

Socrates: So will you let me go?

Protarchus: There's a little bit left, and I'll remind you of it — because I'm sure you won't be the first to walk away from an argument.

Timaeus (Part 1)

Persons of the dialogue:
  Socrates
  Critias
  Timaeus
  Hermocrates

Socrates: One, two, three — but where's the fourth, my dear Timaeus? Yesterday I was your guest; today you're supposed to be mine. There were four of you. Where's our missing man?

Timaeus: He's fallen ill, Socrates. He'd never have missed this willingly.

Socrates: Then it falls to you three to fill his place. Shall we get started?

Timaeus: Absolutely. You hosted us beautifully yesterday, and the rest of us are more than happy to return the favor.

Socrates: Do you remember the main points I asked you to address?

Timaeus: Most of them, yes. And you're here to remind us of anything we've forgotten. Actually — if it's not too much trouble, could you briefly recap the whole thing? It'll help fix the details in our minds.

Socrates: Happy to. The main topic of yesterday's discussion was the ideal state — what it would look like, and what kind of citizens would make it work best.

Timaeus: Yes, Socrates. And what you described was very much to our liking.

Socrates: Didn't we start by separating the farmers and craftsmen from the class responsible for defending the state?

Timaeus: Yes.

Socrates: And when we'd assigned each person a single role suited to their nature, we talked specifically about the warriors — the guardians. We said they should protect the city against threats both internal and external. They should have no other job. They should be merciful when judging their own people — who are, after all, their natural friends — but fierce against enemies in battle.

Timaeus: Exactly.

Socrates: We said the guardians should have a temperament that combines two qualities in high degree: passionate spirit and a love of wisdom. That way they'd be gentle with their friends and fierce with their enemies.

Timaeus: Right.

Socrates: And their education? They were to be trained in physical exercise, in music, and in all the other subjects appropriate for them?

Timaeus: Yes, that's right.

Socrates: And once trained this way, they weren't to consider gold or silver or anything else as their private property. They'd be like professional soldiers, receiving just enough pay from those they protected to support a simple life. They'd share expenses, live together, and devote themselves entirely to cultivating excellence.

Timaeus: That was also part of it.

Socrates: And we didn't forget the women. We said their natures should be developed in harmony with the men's, and that they should share the same pursuits — in wartime and in ordinary life alike.

Timaeus: That was as you say.

Socrates: And what about the arrangement for having children? That proposal was too unusual to forget: all wives and children were to be held in common. No one would know their own child. Instead, everyone would think of themselves as one great family — those close in age would be brothers and sisters, the older generation would be parents and grandparents, the younger would be children and grandchildren.

Timaeus: Yes, that's easy to remember, as you say.

Socrates: And do you also remember how, in order to produce the best possible offspring, we said the chief magistrates — both men and women — should secretly arrange marriages through a rigged lottery? The best would pair with the best and the worst with the worst, but no one would know the fix was in. They'd all think their pairings were just the luck of the draw.

Timaeus: I remember.

Socrates: And the children of the best parents would be educated, while the children of the worst would be quietly dispersed among the general population? And as they all grew up, the rulers would be on the lookout — promoting worthy citizens from below and demoting unworthy ones from above?

Timaeus: True.

Socrates: So have I covered all the main points of yesterday's discussion? Or have I left something out, my dear Timaeus?

Timaeus: Nothing, Socrates. That's exactly what you said.

Socrates: Good. Now let me tell you how I feel about the state we described. It's like seeing beautiful animals — either in a painting or, better still, alive but standing perfectly still — and being seized by a desire to see them in motion, to watch them in some struggle or contest worthy of their magnificent forms. That's exactly how I feel about our ideal city. I want to hear about it in action. I want someone to tell us how it went to war against its neighbors, how it entered battle in a manner befitting its training, and how its citizens showed — through their deeds on the battlefield and their diplomacy at the negotiating table — a greatness worthy of their education.

Now, I'll be honest: I know I'm not the man to tell that story properly. And I don't mean that as false modesty. The truth is, I think the poets — past and present — couldn't do it either. Not because I look down on poets, but everyone can see they're imitators. They copy best the life they've actually lived. Anything outside their experience is hard to capture, whether in action or in words. And the Sophists? They have plenty of clever words and beautiful theories, but they're wanderers — they drift from city to city, they've never had a real home. I worry they'd completely miss what philosophers and statesmen actually do and say in the heat of war, in the thick of battle or at the negotiating table.

That leaves people of your caliber — men who combine political experience with philosophical depth. Timaeus here comes from Locri in Italy, a city famous for its excellent laws. He's the equal of any citizen there in wealth and rank, he's held the most important offices in his state, and — I believe — he's reached the very heights of philosophy. Critias is someone every Athenian knows is no amateur in matters like these. And Hermocrates — many witnesses assure me his natural gifts and education qualify him perfectly for this kind of inquiry.

That's exactly why, when I saw yesterday that you wanted me to describe the ideal state, I agreed so willingly. I knew that if you were willing, no one alive was better qualified to take the discussion to its next stage — to put our city in a suitable war and show it fighting in a way worthy of its character. So after I completed my part, I gave you this task in return. You discussed it among yourselves and agreed to host me today with a feast of ideas, just as I hosted you. And here I am, dressed for the banquet, ready and eager.

Hermocrates And we won't disappoint you, Socrates, as Timaeus says. We have no excuse to refuse. In fact, yesterday, as soon as we arrived at the guest room where we're staying with Critias — actually, even on the way there — we were already talking it over. Critias told us about an ancient tradition. Critias, would you repeat it for Socrates? He can help us decide whether it fits what he's looking for.

Critias: I will, if Timaeus — our other partner here — approves.

Timaeus: Absolutely.

Critias: Then listen, Socrates. This is a story that's strange but absolutely true, vouched for by Solon himself — the wisest of the Seven Sages. He was a relative and close friend of my great-grandfather Dropides, as he himself says in several passages of his poetry. He told the story to my grandfather Critias, who remembered it and repeated it to us.

There were, Solon said, great and marvelous deeds performed by the ancient city of Athens — deeds that have been forgotten over the vast stretches of time and through the destruction of civilizations. One deed in particular surpassed all the rest. We'll tell that story now. It will serve as our tribute to you, Socrates, and as a true hymn of praise to the goddess Athena on this, her festival day.

Socrates: Excellent. And what is this famous ancient action of the Athenians, which Critias says — on the authority of Solon — is not mere legend but actual fact?

Critias: I'll tell you an old story that I heard from an old man. My grandfather Critias was nearly ninety when he told it, and I was about ten. It was the day of the Apaturia — the festival called the Registration of Youth, where our parents traditionally gave prizes for recitations. We boys recited poems by various poets, and many of us performed poems by Solon, which were still popular at that time.

One member of our tribe — either because he genuinely believed it or to flatter my grandfather — said that in his opinion, Solon wasn't just the wisest of men but also the noblest of poets. The old man — I remember this vividly — brightened up and said with a smile: "Yes, Amynander, if only Solon had made poetry the serious business of his life and finished the tale he brought back from Egypt! But he was forced to set it aside because of all the political upheaval he found when he returned home. In my opinion, if he'd completed it, he would have been as famous as Homer or Hesiod or any poet you could name."

"And what was the tale about, Critias?" asked Amynander.

"About the greatest action the Athenians ever performed — one that should have been the most famous of all, but through the passage of time and the destruction of those who did it, the story hasn't survived."

"Tell us the whole story," said the other. "How did Solon hear it? From whom?"

And my grandfather replied:

"In the Egyptian Delta, at the point where the Nile divides, there's a district called Sais, and the great city of that district is also called Sais — the city that King Amasis came from. The citizens worship a founding goddess whom they call Neith in the Egyptian language, and whom they claim is the same as the Greek Athena. They're great admirers of the Athenians and say they're related to them in some way.

"Solon traveled to this city and was received with great honor. He questioned the priests who were most knowledgeable about ancient history and made a discovery: neither he nor any other Greek knew anything worth mentioning about truly ancient times.

"On one occasion, wanting to draw the priests into discussing antiquity, Solon began telling them about the most ancient events in Greece — about Phoroneus, who is called 'the first man,' and about Niobe. He told the story of Deucalion and Pyrrha surviving the great flood, and he traced the genealogy of their descendants, trying to calculate how many years ago these events had taken place.

"At this point, one of the priests — a very old man — said: 'Oh Solon, Solon — you Greeks are always children. There isn't an old man among you.'

"Solon asked what he meant.

"'I mean,' the priest replied, 'that you're all young in your minds. You have no ancient tradition handed down through the ages, no knowledge hoary with time. And I'll tell you why. There have been, and will be again, many destructions of the human race, from many causes. The greatest come from fire and water, but lesser ones come from countless other causes.

"'Take your own story about Phaethon, the son of Helios, who yoked the horses of his father's chariot but couldn't control them, and burned up everything on earth before being destroyed by a thunderbolt. That sounds like a myth, but it actually points to a real phenomenon: a shift in the heavenly bodies that orbit the earth, causing a great conflagration on the surface at long intervals. When this happens, people living on mountains and in dry, elevated places suffer more than those near rivers or the sea. The Nile, our ever-faithful savior, protects us from this kind of disaster.

"'On the other hand, when the gods cleanse the earth with a flood of water, the survivors in your country are herdsmen and shepherds living in the mountains, while those in the cities are swept by the rivers into the sea. In our land, neither then nor at any other time does water come down from above onto the fields — it always tends to rise from below. That's why the traditions preserved here are the most ancient in the world.

"'The truth is, wherever extreme cold or heat doesn't prevent it, human beings exist — sometimes in greater numbers, sometimes fewer. And whatever remarkable deeds have been done, whether in your country or ours or any other place we know about, they've all been recorded by us long ago and preserved in our temples. But you Greeks — just when you and other nations are beginning to develop writing and the other tools of civilization, down comes the flood from heaven like a plague, leaving only the illiterate and uneducated survivors. And so you have to start all over again, like children, knowing nothing of what happened in ancient times, either among us or among yourselves.

"'Those genealogies you just recited to us, Solon? They're nothing but children's fairy tales. First of all, you remember only one flood, when there were many before it. Second, you don't know that the finest and noblest race of people who ever lived once dwelled in your land — and that you and your entire city are descended from a tiny surviving remnant of them. You don't know this because for many generations after the catastrophe, the survivors died without leaving any written record.

"'For there was a time, Solon, before the greatest of all floods, when the city that is now Athens was first in war and first in the excellence of its laws — the best governed city under heaven, performing the noblest deeds and possessing the finest constitution of any city that tradition has preserved.'

"Solon was astonished and earnestly begged the priests to tell him everything, in order, about these ancient citizens.

"'You're welcome to hear it, Solon,' said the priest. 'Both for your sake and for your city's sake, and above all for the sake of the goddess who is the common patron and parent and educator of both our cities. She founded your city a thousand years before ours, receiving from Earth and Hephaestus the seed of your race, and afterward she founded ours. The age of our civilization, as recorded in our sacred registers, is eight thousand years. As for your citizens of nine thousand years ago, I'll briefly describe their laws and their most famous deed. We can go through the full details later, at our leisure, in the sacred records themselves.

"'If you compare their laws with ours, you'll find many parallels. First, there's the priestly class, separate from all others. Then the artisans, each trade working independently and not intermixing. Then the classes of shepherds, hunters, and farmers. And you'll notice that the warriors are a class apart, commanded by law to devote themselves solely to military training. Their weapons are shields and spears — a style of equipment the goddess taught to us Asians first, and then to you Greeks.

"'As for learning, observe how our system from the very beginning encompassed the whole order of things, extending even to prophecy and medicine, and drawing from divine principles everything useful for human life, plus all related branches of knowledge.

"'All this order and arrangement the goddess first gave to you when she established your city. She chose the spot where you were born because she saw that its favorable climate would produce the wisest people. Being a lover of both war and wisdom, she settled the place most likely to produce people most like herself. And there you lived, with laws like these and even better ones, excelling all humanity in every form of excellence — as befitting the children and students of the gods.

"'Many great and marvelous deeds of your state are recorded in our histories. But one surpasses all the rest in greatness and valor. Our records tell of a mighty power that launched an unprovoked assault against all of Europe and Asia — and your city put an end to it.

"'This power came from the Atlantic Ocean. In those days, the Atlantic was navigable, and there was an island situated in front of the strait that you Greeks call the Pillars of Heracles. The island was larger than Libya and Asia combined. From it, travelers could reach other islands, and from those islands they could pass to the entire opposite continent, which surrounds the true ocean. You see, the sea within the Pillars of Heracles is really just a harbor with a narrow entrance. That outer sea is the real ocean, and the land that encircles it can truly be called a boundless continent.

"'On this island of Atlantis there existed a great and wonderful empire that ruled over the whole island and several others, and also over parts of the continent. What's more, the rulers of Atlantis had conquered the parts of Libya within the Pillars as far as Egypt, and parts of Europe as far as Tyrrhenia.

"'This vast power, gathered into one force, attempted in a single campaign to enslave your country and ours and every nation within the strait. And then, Solon, your city's excellence shone forth for all the world to see. Athens stood out among all nations for courage and military skill. At first she led the Greeks. Then, when the others fell away, she was forced to stand alone. She faced the most extreme danger, but she defeated and triumphed over the invaders. She preserved from slavery those peoples not yet conquered, and she generously liberated all the rest of us who live within the Pillars.

"'But afterward, there were violent earthquakes and floods. In a single terrible day and night, all your warriors were swallowed up by the earth, and the island of Atlantis likewise sank beneath the sea and disappeared. That's why the ocean in that region is still impassable and unnavigable — there's a barrier of shallow mud just below the surface, left behind when the island went down.'"

I've told you briefly, Socrates, what old Critias heard from Solon and passed along to us. And when you were describing your ideal city yesterday, this story came flooding back to me. I was astonished at how — by some mysterious coincidence — your vision matched Solon's account in almost every detail. But I didn't want to speak up at the time. It had been so long since I'd heard the story that I'd forgotten too much. I decided I needed to run through the whole narrative in my mind first, and then I'd be ready to share it.

That's why I agreed so readily to your request yesterday. I could see that in cases like this the hardest part is finding a suitable story — and we already had one.

So as Hermocrates told you, on the way home yesterday I immediately shared the tale with my companions, filling in what I remembered. Then last night, thinking it over, I recovered nearly the whole thing. It's really true what they say about childhood memories — they make an extraordinary impression. I'm not sure I could repeat everything we discussed yesterday, but I'd be amazed if I forgot any of this story, which I heard so long ago. I listened to it as a boy with total fascination. The old man was glad to teach me, and I made him repeat it again and again, until it was branded into my memory like a permanent picture.

First thing this morning, I rehearsed the whole story for my companions so they'd have it fresh too. And now, Socrates — to wrap up this introduction — I'm ready to tell you everything, not just the main points but the details, exactly as they were told to me.

The city and citizens you described yesterday as a thought experiment — we're going to bring them into the real world. We'll say that your ideal city is ancient Athens, and the imaginary citizens of your republic were our actual ancestors, the ones the Egyptian priest described. They'll match perfectly. There'll be no inconsistency in saying that the citizens of your ideal state are these ancient Athenians.

Let's divide the work among us, and we'll all do our best to carry out the assignment you've given us gracefully. So tell us, Socrates — does this narrative suit our purpose, or should we look for something else?

Socrates: And what could possibly be better than this, Critias? It's a natural fit for the goddess's festival, and it has the enormous advantage of being fact rather than fiction. Where else would we find anything like it? We can't, so you must tell the tale. Good luck to you — and in return for my lecture yesterday, I'll now sit back and listen.

Critias: Let me explain the order we've arranged for our program. Our plan is this: Timaeus, who is the most accomplished astronomer among us and who has made the study of nature his specialty, will speak first. He'll start with the origin of the universe and work his way down to the creation of human beings. Then I'll take the humans he's created — some of whom will have benefited from the excellent education you described — and, following Solon's account and his authority, I'll bring them before the court of public attention as Athenian citizens. They'll be the very Athenians whom the sacred Egyptian records have rescued from oblivion. From that point on, we'll speak of them as Athenians and fellow citizens.

Socrates: I can see I'm going to receive a magnificent feast of ideas in return for mine. Well then, Timaeus — it's your turn to speak next. But first, as is customary, call upon the gods.

Timaeus: Every person with any sense of reverence, Socrates, calls on God at the start of every undertaking, whether small or great. And we, who are about to discuss the nature of the universe — how it was created, or whether it has always existed — would be completely out of our minds not to invoke the gods and goddesses and pray that our words may be acceptable to them and consistent with each other. Let that be our prayer. But let me also urge myself to speak in whatever way will be clearest to you and most true to my own understanding.

First, then, we need to draw a fundamental distinction. Ask yourself: What is the thing that always exists and never changes? And what is the thing that is always changing and never truly exists?

The first — that which is grasped by intelligence and reason — is always the same. The second — that which is perceived by the senses, believed in on the basis of opinion, without reason — is always in a process of coming into being and passing away. It never fully is.

Now, everything that comes into being must have a cause. Nothing can be created without one. And whenever a craftsman looks to what is eternal and unchanging as his model, and shapes his work after that pattern, the result is necessarily beautiful and perfect. But when he uses something created as his model — something that is itself in flux — the result will not be beautiful or perfect.

So here's the question: Was the universe always in existence, without any beginning? Or was it created — did it have a starting point?

It was created. It's visible, tangible, and physical — and all things that can be perceived by the senses are in a process of becoming. They've come into being. And what comes into being must have been brought into being by some cause.

But the father and maker of this whole universe is hard to find. And even if we found him, it would be impossible to describe him to everyone. Still, there's another question we have to ask: which model did the craftsman use when he made the world? Did he look to the eternal and unchanging pattern? Or to something that is itself created?

If the world is truly beautiful and its maker truly good, then clearly he looked to the eternal. And the world is beautiful, and its maker is good. So he must have looked to the eternal pattern. This means the world is a copy — an image of something eternal and intelligible.

Now, here's an important principle about how we talk about all this. Words should be appropriate to their subject matter. When we speak about what is permanent and stable and grasped by the intellect, our words should be as permanent and unshakable as possible — irrefutable, as far as words can be. But when we speak about what is only a copy of that reality — something that merely resembles the original — our words need only be likely and proportionate. As being stands to becoming, so truth stands to belief.

So don't be surprised, Socrates, if in discussing the gods and the origin of the universe, we can't produce accounts that are perfectly exact and self-consistent at every point. Be satisfied if our explanations are as probable as anyone else's — and remember that I, the speaker, and you, the listeners, are only human. On a subject like this, the best we can do is a likely story. We shouldn't demand anything more.

Socrates: Beautifully said, Timaeus, and we accept that completely. The prelude is wonderful. Now please — give us the main performance.

Timaeus: Let me tell you, then, why the creator made this world of change and becoming.

He was good. And what is good can never feel jealousy toward anything. Being free of jealousy, he wanted everything to be as much like himself as possible. This is the deepest and truest reason for the creation of the world, and we'd be wise to accept it on the testimony of thoughtful people: God wanted everything to be good and nothing to be bad, as far as that was achievable.

So here's what he found: the whole visible realm, not at rest but moving in a chaotic, disorderly way. And he brought order out of that disorder, because he judged that order was in every way better than chaos.

Now, the work of the best maker could never be anything less than the most beautiful. And as the creator thought about it, he realized that among visible things, no unintelligent creature, taken as a whole, could ever be more beautiful than an intelligent one, taken as a whole. And intelligence can't exist in anything that doesn't have a soul.

So this is what he did: he put intelligence into soul, and soul into body. That way, his creation would be the most beautiful and excellent work possible. And so, speaking in terms of what's likely, we can say: the world is a living creature, truly endowed with soul and intelligence, brought into being by the providence of God.

Now, the next question: What kind of living creature did the creator model the world on?

It would be unworthy to compare it to any particular species — any creature that exists as merely a part of the whole. Nothing modeled on something incomplete could be truly beautiful. No — let's say the world is made in the image of that great Living Being of which all other living things, individually and in their species, are portions. The eternal model contains within itself all intelligible beings, just as this physical world contains us and every other visible creature.

God intended to make the world resemble the most beautiful and complete of all intelligible beings. So he created one visible living creature that contains within itself all living creatures of every kind.

But is there one world, or are there many — perhaps infinitely many? There can only be one. If the copy is to match its original, there must be just one. The original Living Being that contains all intelligible creatures can't have a companion or a double — because then you'd need yet another being that contained both, and the real model would be that larger one, not the two. So in order that the world might be unique, like the perfect Living Being it imitates, the creator made not two worlds or an infinite number, but one and only one. There is, and will forever be, one single created universe.

Now, what is created must necessarily be physical — both visible and touchable. Nothing is visible without fire, and nothing is solid or touchable without earth. So God, at the very beginning of creation, made the body of the universe out of fire and earth.

But two things can't be properly joined without a third to bind them — there needs to be some connecting bond. And the most beautiful bond is one that creates the most complete unity between itself and the things it connects. Proportion achieves this best.

Here's how proportion works: whenever you have three numbers in a series, and the middle term stands in the same ratio to the last as the first does to the middle, then — since the middle becomes both first and last, and the extremes both become middles — they all necessarily end up in agreement, becoming, in a sense, one and the same.

Now, if the universe's body were flat — a surface without depth — a single middle term would be enough to bind it to the extremes. But the world has to be solid, three-dimensional. And solid bodies are always connected not by one mean but by two.

So God placed water and air between fire and earth, and made them proportional to each other — as far as possible: as fire is to air, so air is to water; as air is to water, so water is to earth. In this way he bound together a visible, touchable universe. These four elements, joined in proportion, gave the world the spirit of friendship, a harmony so strong that nothing could break it apart except the very being who assembled it.

The creation used up the entirety of each of the four elements. The creator built the world out of all the fire, all the water, all the air, and all the earth there is — leaving nothing out. He had three reasons:

First, the cosmic animal should be as complete and perfect as possible, made of complete and perfect parts.

Second, it should be one of a kind, with no leftover material from which someone might build another world.

Third, it should be immune to aging and disease. He understood that when external forces — heat, cold, and other powerful agents — attack a body from the outside, they break it down, bring on disease and old age, and cause it to waste away. So by making the world a single whole, containing everything within itself, he made it immune to decay from outside forces.

And he gave the world the shape that suited it best. For the living creature that was to contain all other creatures, the right shape is the one that contains all other shapes. So he made it a sphere — perfectly round, with every point on its surface equidistant from the center. The sphere is the most perfect and the most self-similar of all shapes.

He made its surface completely smooth. Why? Because the world had no need for eyes — there was nothing outside it to see. No need for ears — nothing outside to hear. No atmosphere around it to breathe. No need for organs to take in food or expel waste, since there was nothing outside it. Nothing entered it and nothing left it. By design, it feeds on its own waste, and everything it does or experiences takes place within itself. The creator judged that a self-sufficient being would be far more excellent than one dependent on external things.

Since it had nothing to grab or defend against, he gave it no hands. Since it had no ground to walk on, he gave it no feet. Instead, he assigned it the motion best suited to its spherical form — the one most appropriate to intelligence and thought: rotation. He made it spin in place, turning in a circle within its own boundaries, and he took away all six of the other possible motions. Since circular motion requires no feet, the universe was made without legs.

Such was the grand plan of the eternal God for the god that was to be. He gave it a smooth, perfect body — a sphere with every surface point equidistant from the center, whole and flawless, made from flawless elements. He placed the soul at the center and spread it throughout the entire body, also wrapping it around the outside. He set the universe spinning in a circle — one and solitary, yet able to keep itself company through its own excellence, needing no friend or companion. With all these purposes in mind, he created the world as a blessed god.

Now, God didn't actually create the soul after the body, even though I'm describing them in that order. That's just a consequence of our somewhat haphazard way of telling a story — we humans are creatures of chance, after all. In reality, God made the soul first, prior to the body in both origin and rank, to be its ruler and mistress.

Here's how he made the soul. He took three ingredients:

The first was the nature of the Same — that which is indivisible and unchanging.

The second was the nature of the Other — that which is divisible and connected to physical bodies.

From these two he blended a third, intermediate kind of substance, partaking of the nature of both Same and Other. Then he took all three — Same, Other, and this blended Essence — and mixed them into a single compound. This took some force, because the nature of the Other resisted being combined with the Same. But he compressed them together into one unified mixture.

Then he began to divide this mixture into portions, according to a specific mathematical pattern.

First, he took away one portion (1). Then a second, double the first (2). Then a third, one and a half times the second and three times the first (3). Then a fourth, double the second (4). Then a fifth, three times the third (9). Then a sixth, eight times the first (8). Then a seventh, twenty-seven times the first (27).

So picture two series interlocking: 1, 2, 4, 8 (the doubles) and 1, 3, 9, 27 (the triples).

Next, he filled in the gaps. Between each pair in these series, he inserted two kinds of means:

The first kind — what mathematicians call the arithmetic mean — exceeds one extreme and falls short of the other by the same amount. For example, between 1 and 2, the arithmetic mean is 4/3: it's greater than 1 by one-third of 1, and less than 2 by one-third of 2.

The second kind — the harmonic mean — exceeds and is exceeded by the same fraction of the extremes themselves.

Where the intervals of 3/2 and 4/3 and 9/8 were created by these connecting terms, he filled up all the remaining gaps of 4/3 with intervals of 9/8, leaving in each case a small remainder. This leftover interval had the ratio of 256 to 243.

And so the entire original mixture was completely used up.

Then he split the whole compound lengthwise into two strips. He laid these two strips across each other in the shape of the letter X, then bent each one into a circle, joining the ends so they formed two rings — connected to each other at the point opposite where they originally crossed. He set both circles revolving uniformly on the same axis.

The outer circle he called the motion of the Same. The inner circle he called the motion of the Other — or the Different.

The motion of the Same he directed to the right, along the horizontal. The motion of the Different he directed diagonally, to the left. He gave supremacy to the motion of the Same, leaving it single and undivided. But the inner circle — the motion of the Different — he split into seven unequal circles, with their intervals in ratios of two and three (three of each kind). He set these orbits moving in opposite directions: three of them (the Sun, Mercury, and Venus) at equal speed, and the remaining four (the Moon, Saturn, Mars, and Jupiter) at speeds unequal to the first three and to each other, but all in due proportion.

When the creator had finished crafting the soul, he formed the physical universe within it and united the two, center to center. The soul, spread everywhere from the center to the outermost edge of the heavens — and wrapped around the outside too — began spinning within itself. And in that moment, she began her divine, unending, rational life, a life that endures for all of time.

The body of the heavens is visible. The soul is invisible. But the soul participates in reason and harmony, and being the finest creation of the finest and most eternal of makers, she is the best of all created things.

Because she's composed of three elements — Same, Other, and Essence — and because she's divided and reunited in exact proportion, the soul, whenever she makes contact with anything, is able to declare with precision: "This is the same as that," or "This is different from that." She can say what a thing is related to, what affects it, and in what way — whether in the world of constant change or in the world of unchanging Being.

When reason operates in the circle of the Different and that circle moves truly and communicates its perceptions to the whole soul, the result is reliable opinion and firm belief. But when reason is engaged with the intelligible world, and the circle of the Same spins smoothly and declares what it finds, the result is genuine intelligence and knowledge. And if anyone says that the thing in which both of these operate is something other than the soul, they're saying the exact opposite of the truth.

When the father and creator saw the creature he'd made — this living, moving image of the eternal gods — he was delighted. And in his delight, he wanted to make the copy even more like the original.

Now, the original is eternal. But to make a created thing fully eternal was impossible. So he came up with a solution: he would create a moving image of eternity. As he set the heavens in order, he made this image — eternal, but moving according to number, while eternity itself rests in perfect unity. This image is what we call time.

Days and nights, months and years — none of these existed before the heavens were created. He invented them when he built the universe. They're all portions of time. And when we say "was" and "will be," we're using forms of time that we carelessly apply to eternal being. But strictly speaking, only "is" properly applies to what is eternal. "Was" and "will be" should only be used for things that move through time, because they describe processes of change. What is eternally the same doesn't become older or younger. It never "was" or "has become" or "will be" in any future moment. It isn't subject to any of the conditions that affect moving, physical things — conditions that generation produces. These are all forms of time, which imitates eternity and moves according to the laws of number. But perhaps this whole topic deserves its own separate discussion.

In any case, time and the heavens came into being at the same instant — created together so that, if they should ever be dissolved, they would be dissolved together. The universe was made after the pattern of the eternal — to resemble it as closely as possible.

The sun, moon, and five other stars — the ones we call the planets — were created to mark and preserve the numbers of time. God made their bodies and placed them in the orbits where the circle of the Different was revolving — seven stars in seven orbits.

First, the moon in the orbit nearest to earth. Next, the sun in the second orbit above the earth. Then came the morning star (Venus) and the star sacred to Hermes (Mercury), moving in orbits that share the sun's speed but travel in the opposite direction. That's why the sun, Mercury, and Venus seem to overtake and be overtaken by each other in turn.

To describe where he placed all the other stars, and all the reasons why — that would be a longer digression than the main subject deserves. We can save that for another time, when we have more leisure.

When all the stars necessary for the creation of time had been set in their proper motions and had become living creatures — their bodies bound by vital chains, each one assigned its task — they began revolving. They moved in the path of the Different, which runs diagonally and passes through and is governed by the motion of the Same. Some had larger orbits, some smaller. The ones with smaller orbits moved faster; those with larger orbits, more slowly. But because of the motion of the Same, the fastest-moving ones appeared to be overtaken by the slower ones, even though in reality they were overtaking them. The motion of the Same made them all spiral, and because some moved in one direction and some in another, the one that moved most slowly relative to the Same — which was itself the fastest circle — appeared to follow it most closely.

So that there might be some clear way to measure the relative speeds of the heavenly bodies as they traveled their eight courses, God lit a fire in the second orbit from the earth — what we now call the sun — so that it might illuminate the whole sky. This allowed all living creatures meant to know number to learn arithmetic from the revolution of the Same.

And so night and day were created — the period of one complete revolution of the most intelligent circle. A month is completed when the moon finishes its orbit and catches up with the sun. A year is completed when the sun finishes its own orbit.

Most people haven't noticed the periods of the other planets. They have no names for them and don't measure them against each other using numbers. They barely realize that the wanderings of these stars, infinite in number and astonishing in their variety, constitute time itself. Yet it's not hard to see that the perfect number of time is fulfilled when all eight revolutions, each moving at its own proper speed, complete their cycles together and return to their starting point — measured by the revolution of the Same, that steadiest and most uniform of all motions.

This is how and why those stars that reverse their motion in the sky were created: so that the created universe might imitate the eternal as closely as possible, and be as perfect a likeness as it could be of the perfect, intelligible Living Being.

Up to this point — up to the birth of time — the created universe resembled its model. But it was still incomplete, because it didn't yet contain all the kinds of living creatures. What remained, the creator proceeded to fashion after the pattern of the original.

In the eternal Living Being, the mind perceives four kinds of creatures. The creator thought the physical world should contain the same four kinds:

First, the heavenly race of the gods. Second, winged creatures whose path is through the air. Third, creatures that live in water. Fourth, creatures that walk on land.

The heavenly race he made mostly out of fire, so they'd be the brightest and most beautiful of all things. He shaped them after the form of the universe — as circles — and set them to follow the intelligent motion of the outermost sphere, distributing them across the entire sky, which was to be a true cosmos — a glorious world spangled all over with stars.

He gave each star two kinds of motion. The first: rotation in place, always thinking the same consistent thoughts about the same things. The second: forward motion, governed by the revolution of the Same. The other five directions of motion he denied them, so that each might achieve the highest perfection.

This is the origin of the fixed stars — divine, eternal beings, forever revolving in the same way in the same spot. The other stars, the ones that reverse their motion and undergo deviations, were created in the way I've already described.

The earth — our nurse, clinging to the axis that runs through the center of the universe — he made to be the guardian and maker of night and day, the first and eldest of the gods within the heavens.

To describe all the figures of the stars circling like dancers, their alignments, their returns upon themselves as their orbits loop back, which ones meet in conjunction and which stand in opposition, which pass behind and which pass before one another, when they're eclipsed from our view and reappear again, sending signs and omens to those who can't calculate their motions — to attempt all this without a visible model of the heavens would be a waste of effort. So let that be enough on this topic. Our discussion of the created, visible gods is complete.

As for knowing the origin of the other divinities — the traditional gods — that's beyond us. We have to accept the accounts handed down by the ancients, who claimed to be descendants of the gods. They must have known their own ancestors, surely. Even though they offer no rigorous proof, we should believe them when they speak of their own family history. That's the custom.

So according to tradition, the genealogy of these gods goes like this: Oceanus and Tethys were children of Earth and Heaven. From them came Phorcys, Cronos, Rhea, and all that generation. From Cronos and Rhea came Zeus and Hera and all their siblings, and their children in turn.

Now, when all the gods had come into being — both those who revolve visibly in the sky and those of a more hidden nature — the creator of the universe addressed them with these words:

"Gods, children of gods — you are my works, and I am your maker and father. What I have made is indissoluble, because that is my will. Now, anything that has been bound together can be undone — but only a malicious being would want to destroy what is harmonious and good. So although you are created beings and therefore not inherently immortal or indestructible, you will never be dissolved, because my will is a stronger bond than the physical bonds that held you together at your birth.

"Now hear my instructions. Three kinds of mortal beings remain to be created. Without them, the universe will be incomplete — it won't contain every kind of living creature it needs to be perfect. But if I created them myself and gave them life directly from my hands, they'd be equal to gods.

"So here's what must happen: you create them, following my example. The part of them that deserves to be called immortal and divine — the guiding principle within those who choose to follow justice and follow you — that divine seed, I will sow myself. I'll plant the beginning. Then I'll hand the rest of the work over to you. Weave the mortal with the immortal. Make living creatures, give them food, let them grow — and receive them back when they die."

So he spoke. And then, once more, he poured the leftover ingredients into the same mixing bowl where he'd previously blended the soul of the universe. He mixed them in roughly the same proportions, though they weren't as pure as before — diluted to the second and third degree.

When the mixture was ready, he divided it into individual souls, one for each star. He placed each soul upon its star as if on a chariot, and showed them the nature of the universe. He declared to them the laws of destiny:

Their first birth would be the same for all — no one would be disadvantaged. They would be sown into the instruments of time — the planets — and emerge as the most reverent of living creatures. Since human nature comes in two forms, the superior form would be called "man."

When they were implanted in physical bodies (as necessity required), and were constantly gaining and losing parts of their bodily substance, the following would inevitably occur:

First, they would all possess a common faculty of sensation, arising from powerful impressions.

Second, they would experience love — a mixture of pleasure and pain. Also fear and anger, and all the emotions related to or opposed to these.

If they mastered these emotions, they'd live justly. If the emotions mastered them, they'd live unjustly.

Whoever lived well during their allotted time would return to dwell in their native star and enjoy a blessed existence there. But whoever failed — at the second birth, they would be reborn as a woman. And if they still didn't stop doing wrong, they'd continue to be transformed into whatever animal matched the kind of wickedness they'd developed. They wouldn't be free from these cycles of transformation until they followed the revolution of the Same within themselves, overcame by reason the turbulent, irrational mob of later additions — fire, air, water, and earth — and returned to the form of their first and best state.

Having laid down all these laws so that he wouldn't be responsible for any creature's future evil, the creator sowed some souls in the earth, some in the moon, and some in the other instruments of time. Then he handed over to the younger gods the job of fashioning mortal bodies, and told them to supply whatever the human soul still needed. They were to govern the mortal creature as wisely as they could, steering it away from all evils except those it brought upon itself.

After giving all these instructions, the creator returned to his own customary state of being. His children heard and obeyed their father's word. They received from him the immortal principle of a mortal creature, and in imitation of their own maker, they borrowed portions of fire, earth, water, and air from the world (to be returned later). They welded these elements together — not with the unbreakable bonds that held them together, but with tiny invisible rivets — making each individual body out of all four elements and fastening the circuits of the immortal soul inside a body that was in constant flux.

These circuits, trapped inside this ever-flowing river of the body, could neither fully control it nor be fully controlled by it. They were swept along, lurching forward and back, so that the whole creature moved chaotically — progressing, yes, but in a disorderly, irrational way, stumbling in all six directions: forward and backward, left and right, up and down.

The surging flood of nourishment flowing through the body was bad enough, but the disturbances caused by contact with the outside world were even worse. Whenever someone's body collided with external fire, or with solid earth, or with rushing water, or was caught in a blast of wind, the resulting motions were transmitted through the body all the way to the soul. (That's why we still call all such disturbances "sensations.")

These sensations created an enormous upheaval. They joined with the constantly flowing stream of bodily processes to shake and disturb the circuits of the soul. They completely blocked the revolution of the Same, preventing it from advancing and maintaining control. They threw the circuit of the Different into such disorder that the three double intervals (between 1, 2, 4, 8) and the three triple intervals (between 1, 3, 9, 27), along with all the connecting ratios of 3:2, 4:3, and 9:8 — though these couldn't be fully undone by anyone except the being who originally assembled them — were twisted and warped in every possible way. The circles were broken and thrown into chaos. Sometimes they moved backward, sometimes sideways, sometimes upside down.

Imagine someone standing on their head, feet in the air. To that person and to anyone looking at them, left and right are reversed. That's the kind of confusion the soul's circuits experienced — and worse. Whenever the distorted revolutions encountered something in the outside world that belonged to the class of the Same or the class of the Different, they called it the exact opposite of what it was. They became deluded and foolish. No circuit maintained the guiding, directing power it should have had. And if violent sensations invaded from outside and dragged the whole vessel of the soul along with them, the soul's circuits — though seeming to be in control — were actually being controlled.

Because of all this, the soul, when first encased in a mortal body, starts out without intelligence. But when the flood of growth and nourishment subsides, and the soul's circuits calm down and find their proper paths as time goes on, the circles gradually return to their natural form. Their revolutions correct themselves. They begin calling Same and Different by their right names, and the person who possesses them becomes rational.

If this natural development is supported by proper upbringing and education, a person achieves the fullness and health of a complete human being and escapes the worst disease of all — ignorance. But anyone who neglects education stumbles through life and returns to the underworld incomplete and useless.

But that's a later stage of the story. Right now we need to be more precise about what comes first: the creation of the body and its parts, and why the soul was made the way it was — by what design and for what purpose. So let's hold to that.

First, the gods, imitating the spherical shape of the universe, enclosed the two divine circuits of the soul in a spherical body — what we now call the head. This is the most divine part of us, the master of everything else. The gods gave the head a body to serve as its vehicle: the whole rest of us — the trunk and limbs — exists for the sake of the head.

So that the head wouldn't just roll around helplessly on the uneven ground, they gave it the body as a means of getting around. That's why the body has length, and four flexible limbs that can extend and grip, allowing it to travel through any terrain, carrying the dwelling place of our most sacred and divine part high above.

That's the origin of our legs and arms. And since the gods considered the front of the human body more honorable and better suited to lead than the back, they designed us to move mostly forward. That's why a person's front is distinct from their back.

On the front of the vessel of the head, they set a face and installed in it the organs that serve the soul's foresight. They decreed that this side — the one with natural authority — should face forward.

The first organs they created were the eyes, designed to carry light. Here's how they work:

The gods fashioned a special substance out of fire — not the kind that burns, but the kind that gives off a gentle, mild light, similar to daylight. They made the pure inner fire of the body flow out through the eyes in a smooth, dense stream, compressing the whole eye (especially the center) so that it blocked out everything coarse and let only this pure fire pass through.

When the stream of vision meets daylight, like falls upon like, and they merge into a single unified body along the line of sight — wherever the inner light meets an external object. This entire visual ray, being uniform throughout, transmits the motions of whatever it touches (or whatever touches it) through the whole body to the soul, producing the sensation we call sight.

But when night falls and the kindred external fire withdraws, the visual stream is cut off. Meeting an unlike medium, it changes and is extinguished — it's no longer the same as the surrounding atmosphere, which has lost its fire. The eye stops seeing, and we feel drowsy. The eyelids — which the gods invented to protect our sight — close up and contain the inner fire. That fire diffuses and equalizes the internal motions, producing rest. When this rest is deep, we fall into a sleep mostly free of dreams. But where stronger motions persist, they generate corresponding dream visions, depending on their nature and location. We remember these when we wake up.

As for how images form in mirrors and on shiny surfaces — there's no great mystery now. The inner fire and the outer fire combine and interact, and their reflections on the smooth surface produce various effects. Left appears as right and right as left, because the visual rays meet the reflected rays in the reverse of their usual direction. But if the mirror is curved so that it flips the rays — sending the right-side stream to the left, and vice versa — then right appears right and left appears left. And if the mirror is tilted vertically, the curved surface makes the face appear upside down, deflecting the lower rays upward and the upper rays down.

Now, all these visual phenomena are what we might call secondary causes — the supporting cast. They're the tools that God uses as assistants in carrying out his vision of the best. But most people mistake them for the primary causes of everything, because they see things being heated and cooled, expanded and contracted, and think those physical processes explain it all.

They don't. These processes have no reason or intelligence of their own. The only being that can truly possess mind is the invisible soul. Fire, water, earth, and air are visible bodies, nothing more.

Anyone who loves intelligence and knowledge should look first for causes that involve intelligent purpose, and only second for those mechanical processes where one thing is simply pushed around by another. We need to acknowledge both kinds of causes. But we should distinguish between those that work with mind and produce what is beautiful and good, and those that operate mindlessly, producing random, unplanned effects.

So much for the secondary, supporting causes of sight. Let me now speak about its higher purpose — the reason God gave us eyes.

In my view, sight is the source of the greatest benefit we possess. If we'd never seen the stars, the sun, and the heavens, not a single word of our present discussion about the universe would ever have been spoken. But the sight of day and night, of months and the turning of the years, has given us the concept of number, the notion of time, and the ability to investigate the nature of the universe. From this, we've derived philosophy — and no greater gift has ever been, or ever will be, given by the gods to mortal humanity.

This is the supreme blessing of sight. Why even mention the lesser ones? Even an ordinary person, if deprived of sight, would grieve — though the grief would be in vain.

Here's what I'll say: God invented sight and gave it to us so that we might observe the intelligent motions of the heavens and apply them to the motions of our own thought — which are akin to them, though ours are turbulent and theirs are serene. By learning the harmonies and revolutions of the universe and sharing in the natural truth of reason, we can imitate the unerring motions of the divine and bring order to our own wandering minds.

The same goes for speech and hearing: the gods gave us these for the same purpose and the same reason. Speech was designed primarily to serve this end, and it does so above all others.

And music — at least the part of it that involves the voice and the sense of hearing — was given to us for the sake of harmony. Harmony has motions that are akin to the revolutions of our soul. It wasn't given for mindless entertainment, which is what most people think it's for these days. It was given to help correct any discord that has crept into the soul's circuits, and to restore the soul to harmony and agreement with itself. Rhythm, too, was given for the same reason: to remedy the graceless, irregular tendencies that are so common among us.

Up to this point, with a few small exceptions, I've been describing the works of intelligence — the things produced by purposeful Mind. Now we need to set alongside them the things that come about through necessity. Because the creation of the world is a mixture of both: Mind and Necessity working together. Mind, the ruling power, persuaded Necessity to direct most created things toward what is best. That's how the universe was originally made — through the influence of reason getting the better of necessity.

But if someone wants to give a truthful account of how the work was actually accomplished, they need to include the contribution of the wandering cause — Necessity — as well. So we have to go back to the beginning and find a new starting point, just as we did before.

We need to consider what fire, water, air, and earth were like before the heavens were created — what was happening to them in that prior state. Because no one has yet explained how these elements first came into being. We talk about fire and the rest as if everyone knew what they were — treating them as the basic building blocks, the "alphabet" of reality. But really, a person with any sense shouldn't even compare them to syllables, let alone letters. They're not truly basic at all.

Let me say this much: I'm not going to try to identify the absolute first principles of everything — not in this discussion. That would be too difficult given the approach we're taking. Don't expect that I could do it. I certainly don't expect it of myself.

Instead, remembering what I said at the beginning about probability, I'll do my best to give an account as plausible as any other — and more plausible, I hope. I'll go back to the beginning and try to speak of each thing, and of the whole. And once more, let me call on God at the start of this new and unfamiliar inquiry, and ask for safe passage to the harbor of probability.

So let's begin again.

This new beginning requires a broader framework than before. Previously, we distinguished two kinds of reality. Now a third must be revealed.

The first two were enough for our earlier discussion: one, the eternal model — intelligible, always the same — and two, its imitation — generated and visible. At the time, we didn't bother to identify a third kind, thinking two would suffice. But now the argument demands it.

What is this third kind? It's hard to explain and hard even to see clearly. It is the receptacle — a kind of nurse of all becoming.

Let me try to be clearer, though this will be difficult for many reasons, starting with a puzzle about the elements themselves. Which of them should we call "water" rather than "fire"? Which deserves any particular name more than all the others combined? It's a hard question. Here's why:

We see that what we just called "water," when it condenses, becomes stone and earth. When it evaporates and disperses, it turns into vapor and air. Air, when it catches fire, becomes flame. And fire, when it's compressed and extinguished, turns back into air. Air, when collected and squeezed together, produces clouds and mist. From these, when further compressed, comes flowing water. From water comes earth and stones again.

So generation seems to move in a circle, each element transforming into the others.

Given that no element ever stays in the same form, how can anyone confidently claim that any particular substance IS one thing rather than another? No one can. The safest approach is this:

When we see something that's continually changing — fire, for example — we shouldn't call it "this" as though pointing to a stable thing. We should say it is "of such a nature" — it's fire-like. We shouldn't say of water "this is water" but always "such is water." We shouldn't apply the word "this" or "that" to any of them, as if they were permanent. They're too volatile for that. They slip through any expression that tries to pin them down as "this" or "that" or "relative to this."

We shouldn't call any of them "this." We should call them "such" — a word that captures the recurring quality circulating through each and all of them. What should be called "fire" is whatever consistently has the nature of fire, and likewise for everything else that comes into being and passes away.

But that in which the elements appear and grow and decay — only that should be called "this" or "that." Whatever merely has a quality — hot or cold, or any pair of opposites, or anything composed of them — should never be called "this."

Let me try another way to make this clearer. Imagine someone making shapes out of gold — continuously reshaping the same gold into triangles, then circles, then squares. If someone points to one of the shapes and asks "What is that?" the safest answer by far is: "That is gold." You shouldn't call the triangle or any other temporary shape "this," as though it had a permanent existence. The shapes are changing even as you speak. You should be satisfied with the answer "such" — the indefinite description.

The same principle applies to the universal nature that receives all bodies. It must always be called the same thing — the receptacle. It never departs from its own nature. It receives all things into itself but never takes on the form of anything that enters it. It's the natural recipient of all impressions — stirred and shaped by whatever enters it, appearing different at different times because of them. But the forms that enter and leave it are copies of the eternal realities, modeled after them in a wonderful and mysterious way that we'll explore later.

For now, we need to grasp three natures:

First: that which is coming into being (the generated thing). Second: that in which it comes into being (the receptacle). Third: the model that the generated thing resembles (the eternal Form).

We can compare the receptacle to a mother, the source to a father, and the nature between them to a child. And notice this: if the model is to be stamped into every possible variety of form, then the material receiving the stamp must itself be without any form. If it already had the shape of some particular thing, then whenever something different or opposite was impressed upon it, the impression would be distorted — the receptacle's own shape would interfere.

Think of it like making perfume: you start with an oil that's as odorless as possible, so it can take on any scent. Or like impressing a design into soft wax: you first make the surface as smooth and blank as you can, leaving no previous impression behind.

In the same way, the receptacle — the thing that will receive every possible form for all eternity — must itself be devoid of any particular form. This is why the mother and receptacle of all visible and sensible things is not to be called earth, air, fire, water, or any compound of them. It's an invisible, formless being that receives all things and somehow participates in the intelligible, and it is extremely difficult to comprehend.

As far as we can tell from what's been said: fire is what this receptacle looks like when it's inflamed, water is what it looks like when it's moistened, and it takes on the appearance of earth and air insofar as it receives their impressions.

But we need to ask this more precisely: Do self-existent realities actually exist? Is there a Form of fire that exists in and of itself? Or are the only real things the ones we see and perceive through our bodies? Is what we call "intelligible essence" nothing but a name?

This is a question we can't leave unexamined or just assert an answer to. But we also can't jam a long digression into our already lengthy discussion. If we can state a big principle briefly, that would be ideal.

Here's my view: If understanding and true opinion are genuinely different from each other, then these self-existent Forms definitely exist — imperceptible to the senses, grasped only by the mind. But if, as some people claim, true opinion is no different from understanding, then we should regard everything we perceive through the body as the most real thing there is.

But they are different. They have different origins and different natures. Understanding is produced by instruction; opinion is produced by persuasion. Understanding always comes with rational justification; opinion has none. Understanding can't be shaken by persuasion; opinion can. And while every human being shares in true opinion, genuine understanding is a gift of the gods and belongs to very few.

Given all this, we must recognize three distinct kinds of reality:

First: Being — that which is always the same, uncreated and indestructible, neither receiving anything from outside nor going out to anything else. Invisible, imperceptible to any sense, it can only be contemplated by the intellect.

Second: that which shares the same name and resembles the first, but is perceived by the senses — created, always in motion, appearing in a place and vanishing from it, grasped by opinion and sensation.

Third: Space — eternal, indestructible, providing a home for everything that comes into being. It's apprehended without the help of the senses, through a kind of indirect reasoning, and is barely real. When we contemplate it, it's as if we're dreaming. We insist that everything that exists must be somewhere, must occupy some space, and that what is neither on earth nor anywhere in the heavens doesn't exist at all. But these and similar beliefs about the true, waking nature of reality are just dreamlike impressions. We can't shake off the sleep and see clearly. An image, since it doesn't own the reality it copies, and exists as the fleeting shadow of something else, must exist in something else — in space — clinging to existence however it can, or it would be nothing at all.

So here is my summary verdict: Being, Space, and Becoming — these three existed in their own distinct ways before the heavens were created.

And the nurse of becoming — the receptacle — moistened by water and set ablaze by fire, taking on the forms of earth and air, and experiencing all the effects that go with these — presented a wild variety of appearances. She was filled with forces that were neither alike nor balanced, and she was never in equilibrium in any part. She swayed unevenly this way and that, shaken by these forces, and by her own motion she shook them in return.

As the elements moved, they separated out, drifting in different directions — just as grain is sorted when shaken and winnowed: the heavy, dense grains settle in one place, and the light, loose chaff goes to another. In this same way, the four kinds of elements were shaken by the receptacle, which acted like a winnowing machine. It scattered the most dissimilar elements far apart and pushed the most similar ones close together.

That's why the different elements settled into different regions even before they were arranged into an ordered universe. At first, they were completely without reason or measure. They had only faint traces of their true natures — they were in the condition you'd expect anything to be in when God is absent. That was their state at the time.

Then God stepped in and fashioned them by form and number. Let us hold firmly to this principle throughout: God made them as beautiful and excellent as possible, out of materials that were not beautiful or good.

And now I'll try to show you how the elements were constructed and generated — using an unusual argument, but one I think you'll be able to follow, since your education has made you familiar with scientific reasoning.

First, it's clear that fire, earth, water, and air are all bodies. And every kind of body has solidity, depth. And every solid body is necessarily bounded by flat surfaces. And every flat surface made of straight lines is composed of triangles. All triangles ultimately derive from two basic types: one with a right angle and two equal acute angles (the right isosceles triangle), and one with a right angle divided into unequal parts, with unequal sides (the right scalene triangle).

We'll assume — combining probability with demonstration — that these are the original elements from which fire and the other bodies are constructed. The principles that are more fundamental than these? Only God knows those, and perhaps those few mortals who are friends of God.

Our task is to determine which four solids are the most beautiful, the ones that are unlike each other, and of which some can transform into others. If we succeed, we'll know the true origin of earth, fire, and the elements in between.

We won't accept that there are any visible bodies more beautiful than these. So let's try to construct the four most beautiful solid forms, and then we can say we've adequately grasped their nature.

Now, of the two basic triangles: the isosceles right triangle has only one form. But the scalene right triangle comes in infinitely many varieties. From this infinity, we need to select the most beautiful — if we're going to proceed properly. And if anyone can point out a more beautiful triangle than the one I'm about to propose, they can claim a friendly victory.

The most beautiful scalene right triangle, I maintain, is this: the one where, if you put two of them together, they form a third triangle that is equilateral. The full proof would take too long, but anyone who can disprove this is welcome to try.

So let's select our two fundamental triangles: the isosceles right triangle, and the scalene right triangle whose longer side squared is three times the shorter side squared (the 30-60-90 triangle).

Now let me clarify something that was unclear before. I suggested earlier that all four elements could be generated from each other. That was wrong. In fact, three of the four elements are generated from the scalene triangle, and only the fourth — earth — is constructed from the isosceles triangle. This means they can't all transform into each other. Three of them can — since they all come from the same type of triangle. When the larger bodies break apart, many smaller bodies form from the pieces, taking their own proper shapes. And when many small bodies break down into their component triangles and come back together, they can form one large body of a different kind. That's how three of the elements pass into one another.

Now let me describe each one and show how it's built.

The first and simplest solid — the one with the fewest faces — is constructed from the scalene triangle (the 30-60-90 triangle, whose hypotenuse is twice its shortest side). When two of these triangles are joined along their longest sides, and this is done three times, with all the diagonals and short sides meeting at a single central point, you get one equilateral triangle made from six basic triangles.

Four of these equilateral triangles, joined together, create one solid angle from every three flat angles — and this solid angle is the one closest to the most obtuse of flat angles. Four such solid angles make the first solid shape, which divides the sphere it's inscribed in into equal, similar parts.

This is the tetrahedron — a pyramid with four equilateral triangular faces. And this is the element of fire.

The second solid is formed from the same basic triangles. Eight equilateral triangles combine so that four flat angles form each solid angle. Six such solid angles complete the figure.

This is the octahedron — eight equilateral triangular faces. And this is the element of air.

The third solid is built from one hundred and twenty basic triangles, forming twelve solid angles, each made of five equilateral triangles, for a total of twenty equilateral triangular faces.

This is the icosahedron. And this is the element of water.

The isosceles right triangle — our other fundamental building block — generated the fourth figure. Four isosceles right triangles, joined at their right angles, form one equilateral square. Six of these squares, fitted together, form eight solid angles, each made of three right angles.

This is the cube — six square faces. And this is the element of earth.

There was still a fifth combination, which God used for the design of the universe itself — the dodecahedron, the solid with twelve pentagonal faces.

Now, anyone who thinks carefully about all this and asks whether there are infinitely many worlds or a definite number — the idea of infinite worlds is the mark of a sadly vague and ignorant mind. The more reasonable question is whether there is truly one world or five. In my opinion, based on probability, there is one. But others, approaching the question differently, may think otherwise. Let's leave that debate and move on to distributing the elemental shapes — which we've now constructed in theory — among the four elements.

To earth we assign the cube, because earth is the most immovable of the four elements and the most resistant to deformation. What has the most stable base must have such a nature. Among our basic triangles, the isosceles is inherently more stable than the scalene. And among the figures built from them, the equilateral square is more firmly based than the equilateral triangle, both in its whole form and in its parts. So in assigning the cube to earth, we follow probability.

To water we assign the icosahedron — the least mobile of the remaining three shapes. To fire, the most mobile of all: the tetrahedron. To air, the intermediate: the octahedron.

We also assign the smallest body to fire, the largest to water, and the intermediate to air. And the sharpest body goes to fire, the next sharpest to air, and the third to water.

This all follows from one principle: the shape with the fewest faces is necessarily the most mobile (being the sharpest and most penetrating in every direction) and also the lightest (being made of the fewest identical parts). The second-fewest faces comes in second, and so on.

So let it be established, by both strict reason and probability, that the tetrahedron (pyramid) is the fundamental shape and seed of fire. The octahedron is the element of air. The icosahedron is the element of water. Each of these should be imagined as so small that no single particle of any of the four kinds is visible to us. Only when vast numbers of them collect together do we see their aggregates. And as for the ratios of their numbers, their motions, and their other properties — God, as far as necessity allowed, has everywhere perfected and harmonized them in due proportion.

From all we've said about the elements, the most likely conclusion is this:

When earth meets fire and is dissolved by fire's sharpness — whether the dissolution happens within fire itself or in a mass of air or water — the earth fragments drift here and there until they find other earth particles and reunite. They can never take any other form; they always become earth again.

But water, when divided by fire or air, can reform as one part fire and two parts air. And a single portion of air, when broken apart, becomes two portions of fire.

Conversely, when a small body of fire is enclosed within a larger body of air, water, or earth, and both are in motion, the fire loses the fight and breaks apart. Two volumes of fire then combine to form one volume of air. When air is overpowered and broken into small pieces, two and a half parts of air condense into one part of water.

Here's the general principle: no element can be changed by another element of the same kind in the same state. But as long as a weaker element is fighting against a stronger, it keeps being dissolved. And when a few small particles are surrounded by many larger ones and are breaking down, they only stop dissolving when they give in and join the conquering element — fire becomes air, air becomes water.

But if a large number of the surrounding element attacks a small amount of a different kind, the small particles continue to dissolve until they either escape entirely to rejoin their own kind, or are completely assimilated by the conquering power and remain where they are, transformed from many into one.

Because of all these transformations, everything is constantly shifting its position. The motion of the receptacle sorts each kind into its proper region. But elements that become unlike themselves and similar to something else are carried by the shaking into the region of whatever they've grown to resemble.

These are the causes that produce all unmixed, primary bodies. As for the many subordinate species within each major kind, they arise from variations in the size of the two basic triangles. Each triangle type was created not in a single size but in many — some larger, some smaller — producing as many varieties as there are species within the four elements. When these different-sized particles combine with each other, the result is an endless variety — a variety that anyone seeking the probable truth about nature should carefully consider.

Timaeus (Part 2)

Timaeus (continuing)

Before going further, we need to get clear about rest and motion, or the discussion ahead will run into all kinds of trouble. I've said something about this already, but one more point needs making: motion never exists where everything is uniform. Think about it. Nothing can move without a mover, and there can't be a mover unless there's something to be moved. Motion requires both — and where both exist, things can't be uniform. So let's assign rest to uniformity and motion to non-uniformity. And what causes non-uniformity? Inequality — whose origin we've already described.

But one puzzle remains: why don't the elements, once sorted into their separate kinds, simply stop moving through one another and changing places? Here's the explanation. The revolution of the universe embraces all four elements, and since that revolution is circular and tends to press everything together, it squeezes the whole and refuses to leave any space empty. That's why fire, above all, penetrates everywhere, with air second (being the second-finest element), and the other two following according to their own degrees of fineness. Bodies made of the largest particles have the largest gaps left in their structure; bodies made of the smallest particles have the least. The compression of the cosmic squeeze pushes the small particles into the gaps between the big ones. So small sits next to large, the smaller divides the greater, the greater compacts the lesser, and everything is carried up and down and back and forth toward its proper region — because as each thing changes size, it changes its place in space. In this way an inequality is generated that never goes away, and it keeps the elements in perpetual motion, now and always.

Next, notice that there are several kinds of fire. First, flame. Second, the emanations of flame that don't burn but only give light to the eyes. Third, the glow that remains in red-hot embers after the flame has gone out. The same goes for air: the brightest and clearest kind is called aether, the murkiest kind is mist and darkness, and there are other nameless varieties produced by the inequality of the triangles.

Water divides first into two kinds: the liquid and the fusible — that is, the meltable kind, like metal. The liquid kind is made of small, unequal particles of water; it moves on its own and is easily moved by other bodies, precisely because of its non-uniformity and the shape of its particles. The fusible kind, made of large, uniform particles, is more stable, heavy, and compact, thanks to that very uniformity. But when fire gets inside it and dissolves its particles, destroying the uniformity, it becomes more mobile; turning fluid, it's pushed along by the neighboring air and spreads out over the ground. The dissolving of the solid mass we call melting, and its spreading over the earth we call flowing. Then, when the fire leaves the molten substance, it doesn't exit into a vacuum — there's no such thing — but into the neighboring air. The displaced air presses the still-fluid mass back together into the spaces the fire vacated, and blends it into one. Compressed this way, the mass recovers its uniformity and becomes one with itself again, since the fire that caused the inequality has retreated. This departure of fire is called cooling, and the contraction that follows is called solidifying.

Of all the fusible kinds, the one that's densest, formed from the finest and most uniform parts, is that most precious of possessions: gold, which hardens as it filters through rock. It's unique in kind, with its glitter and its yellow color. An offshoot of gold so dense that it's extremely hard, and dark in color, is called adamant. There's another kind whose parts are nearly like gold's, with several varieties. It's denser than gold, and it contains a small, fine portion of earth, which makes it harder — and yet it's lighter, because of the large gaps inside it. This substance, one of the bright, dense kinds of water, is what we call copper when it solidifies. The earth alloyed into it, when the two age and separate, shows itself on the surface — and that's rust.

The remaining phenomena of this sort are easy enough to reason out by the method of probabilities. In fact, a person may sometimes set aside thinking about eternal things and, for refreshment, turn to these merely probable accounts of how things come to be. It's a pleasure he won't regret — a wise and moderate recreation for as long as he lives. So let's grant ourselves that indulgence and run through the probabilities on the subjects that come next.

Take water mixed with fire. The portion that is fine and liquid (called "liquid" because of its motion and the way it rolls along the ground) and soft (because its bases give way, being less stable than earth's) — when this is separated from fire and air and left alone, it becomes more uniform and is compressed into itself by the departure of those elements. If the condensation is very great, it becomes hail when it forms above the earth, and ice when it forms on the earth. If it congeals less completely — only half solid — it's snow when formed above the earth, and when formed on the earth, condensed from dew, it's frost.

Then there are the many kinds of water that have been mixed with one another and filtered through the plants that grow in the earth. As a whole class these are called juices or saps. Because the mixtures are all unequal, they produce many varieties, most of them nameless. But four, which are fiery in nature, stand out clearly and have names. First, wine, which warms the soul along with the body. Second, the oily kind, which is smooth and splits the visual ray, and is therefore bright, shiny, and glistening to look at — this includes pitch, castor oil, olive oil itself, and other things of that sort. Third, the kind that relaxes the contracted pores of the mouth back to their natural state, producing sweetness by that very action — these all go by the general name of honey. And last, a frothy kind, unlike all the other juices, with a burning quality that dissolves flesh; it's called opos, a vegetable acid.

As for the kinds of earth: earth that is filtered through water turns to stone in the following way. The water mixed in with the earth gets broken up in the process and changes into air, and in that form it rises toward its own region. But since there's no vacuum around it, it shoves the neighboring air aside; and that air, weighed down and displaced, pours itself around the mass of earth, squeezes it hard, and drives it into the spaces the new air just left. Earth compressed by air this way forms an unbreakable bond with water and becomes rock. The finer sort is the kind made of equal, similar parts, and it's transparent; the kind with the opposite qualities is inferior. But when fire suddenly draws out all the moisture, a more brittle substance forms — what we call pottery. Sometimes some moisture remains, and earth that has been fused by fire becomes, when it cools, a certain black-colored stone.

In the same way, two substances made of finer particles of earth, briny in nature, can have their abundant water drawn off, leaving a half-solid body that dissolves again in water. One is soda, used for scouring away oil and dirt. The other is salt, which blends so agreeably into combinations that please the palate, and which is — as custom and ritual testify — a substance dear to the gods.

Compounds of earth and water can't be dissolved by water, but only by fire. Here's why. Neither fire nor air can melt masses of earth, because their particles are smaller than the gaps in earth's structure: they have plenty of room to pass through without forcing anything, so they leave the earth intact and undissolved. But particles of water are larger; they have to force a passage, and in doing so they dissolve and melt the earth. So earth, when not packed tight by force, is dissolved only by water; when it is packed tight, only by fire — for fire alone can find a way in. The cohesion of water, in turn, when very strong, is broken only by fire; when weaker, either by air or fire — air entering the gaps, fire penetrating right down to the triangles themselves. Strongly condensed air can be dissolved by nothing that fails to reach its elemental triangles; loosely condensed air yields only to fire.

Now consider bodies compounded of earth and water. As long as the water occupies the gaps in the earth, packed in tight, water particles arriving from outside can find no entrance; they just flow around the whole mass and leave it undissolved. But fire particles can enter the gaps in the water, and then fire does to water what water does to earth and fire does to air — fire alone is the cause of such a compound body melting and turning fluid. These compounds come in two types: some, like glass and the meltable kinds of stone, contain less water than earth; others, like wax and incense, contain more water than earth.

I've now shown the various classes of bodies — their diverse forms, their combinations, and their transformations into one another. Next I must try to explain how they affect us, and why. First of all, the bodies I've been describing must be perceptible by the senses. But we haven't yet discussed the origin of flesh, or of what belongs to flesh, or of the mortal part of the soul. The trouble is, none of these can be properly explained without explaining sensation, and sensation can't be explained without them — and explaining both at once is hardly possible. So we must assume one side first and come back later to examine what we assumed. To let the sensations follow directly from our account of the elements, then, let's presuppose the existence of body and soul.

First question: what do we mean when we say fire is hot? We can work it out from the cutting and dividing action fire performs on our bodies. We all feel that the sensation is sharp. Now consider the fineness of fire's edges, the sharpness of its angles, the smallness of its particles, the swiftness of its motion — all of this makes fire violent and piercing, so that it cuts whatever it meets. And remember its original shape, the pyramid: more than any other form, it dices our bodies into tiny pieces. That's what naturally produces the sensation we call heat — and in Greek, the very name reflects it: thermos, "hot," echoes kerma, "something chopped fine." (The pun works in the Greek.)

The opposite sensation is obvious enough, but let's not leave it undescribed. When the larger particles of moisture surrounding the body enter it and push out the smaller ones, but can't fit into the places those occupied, they compress the moisture inside us. Once unequal and agitated, it's forced by the compression into stillness and uniformity. But things squeezed together against their nature fight back, by their nature, and push themselves apart. This battle, this shuddering, is what we call shivering and trembling — and the whole sensation, along with what causes it, is called cold.

Hard is what our flesh yields to; soft is what yields to our flesh — and things are also hard or soft relative to one another. What yields is whatever sits on a small base. The shape that rests on square bases stands firmest and resists the most; so does whatever is most densely compacted.

Heavy and light are best understood by examining our notions of "above" and "below" — and here we must clear up a real mistake. It's quite wrong to picture the universe as split into two opposite regions: a "lower" one toward which everything with any bulk sinks, and an "upper" one toward which things rise only against their will. The universe is a sphere. All its outermost points stand at equal distance from the center, and so all of them are equally "extremities"; and the center, equidistant from them all, is equally opposite to every one of them. Given a world like that, if someone calls one of these regions "above" and another "below," isn't he simply talking nonsense? The center of the world can't rightly be called either above or below — it's just the center. And the circumference isn't the center, and no part of it relates to the center any differently than any opposite part does. When something is the same in every direction, what sense does it make to slap on labels that imply opposites? If there were a solid body balanced at the very center of the universe, nothing would pull it toward one extremity rather than another, since all are perfectly alike. And if a person walked all the way around the world, he would repeatedly stand at the antipodes of his earlier position and call the very same point both "above" and "below." No — as I said, calling one part of a sphere "above" and another "below" is no way for a sensible person to talk.

So where do these names come from, and why do we ordinarily apply them to the divisions of the sky? Here's a thought experiment that explains it. Suppose a person stood in the region of the universe assigned to fire — the great mass of fire toward which fiery bodies gather. Suppose he could climb up there, scoop out portions of fire, put them in the pans of a scale, lift the balance, and drag the fire by force into the alien element of air. Clearly, the smaller portion would give in to his force more easily than the larger. When two things are raised at once by a single power, the smaller one resists the pull less, the larger one more — and so we call the larger one heavy and say it tends "downward," and the smaller one light, tending "upward." And we can catch ourselves doing exactly the same thing right here on earth. We often pry apart earthy substances — sometimes earth itself — and drag them by force, against their nature, into the alien element of air, while both cling to their kindred element. The smaller portion yields to our pull more easily than the larger; so we call it light, and the direction we force it we call "above," and the opposite condition and direction we call "heavy" and "below."

These relations necessarily vary from place to place, because the main masses of the elements occupy opposite regions. What's light, heavy, below, or above in one location turns out to be contrary, sideways, and altogether different from what's light, heavy, below, or above in the opposite location. The one rule covering all cases is this: each thing's journey toward its kindred mass is what makes the moving body "heavy," and the place it moves toward "below" — and we give the opposite names to the opposite tendencies. So much for the causes of these conditions.

As for smooth and rough, anyone who sees them can explain them to anyone else: roughness is hardness combined with irregularity; smoothness comes from uniformity combined with density.

The most important matter concerning the body as a whole still remains: the cause of pleasure and pain in the perceptions we've been discussing, and in everything else that's sensed through the body's parts and carries pain and pleasure along with it. Here's how to think about the cause of any sensation, perceived or not. Remember the distinction we drew earlier between what's easy to move and what's hard to move — that's the trail we need to follow to catch our quarry. When a body that's naturally easy to move receives even a slight impression, it spreads the motion outward in a circle, particle passing it to particle, until it reaches the seat of consciousness and reports the quality of whatever caused it. But a body of the opposite, immobile kind doesn't pass the motion along to its surroundings. It simply absorbs the impression without stirring its neighbors, and since the parts never relay the original impact to other parts, the motion never reaches the living creature as a whole, and the impression goes unfelt. This is the case with our bones and hair and the other mostly earthy parts of the body — while the first case applies above all to sight and hearing, because they contain the greatest share of fire and air.

Pleasure and pain, then, should be understood like this. A violent disturbance of our natural state, if it comes suddenly, is painful; the sudden return to the natural state is pleasant; a gentle, gradual change goes unnoticed either way. Meanwhile, impressions that occur most easily and readily are the most distinctly perceived, but involve neither pleasure nor pain — for example, the experiences of the visual ray itself which, as we said earlier, becomes a body united with ours in daylight. Cuttings and burnings and the like don't cause the visual ray pain, nor does its return to its normal state cause pleasure. Instead its perceptions are at their clearest and strongest in proportion to how it's affected and what it meets and touches — there's no violence at all in its contraction or dilation. But bodies made of larger particles surrender to what acts on them only after a struggle, and they pass the motion along to the whole — which is why they feel pleasure and pain: pain when they're pushed out of their natural condition, pleasure when they're restored to it. Things that undergo a slow, gradual draining of their substance but a large, sudden refilling don't notice the emptying but do notice the replenishment — so they bring no pain to the mortal part of the soul, but the greatest pleasure. Sweet scents are the obvious example. But things that are altered suddenly and restored to their nature only slowly and with difficulty produce exactly the opposite effects — as is plain when the body is burned or cut.

So much for the sensations common to the whole body, and the names of the things that produce them. Now I'll try, as best I can, to describe the sensations belonging to particular parts, along with their causes.

First, let me fill in what we left out earlier when discussing juices: the sensations peculiar to the tongue. Like most sensations, these seem to be produced by certain contractions and dilations, but they involve roughness and smoothness more than other sensations do. When earthy particles enter the small vessels of the tongue — its testing instruments, which run to the heart — and strike its moist, tender flesh, they dissolve, and as they dissolve they contract and dry up the little vessels. If they're rougher, the taste is astringent; if less rough, merely sharp. Particles with a scouring action, ones that scrub the whole surface of the tongue, are called bitter when they go too far — when they're corrosive enough to eat away some of the flesh itself, like potash and soda. Particles weaker than these alkalis, scouring only moderately, taste salty — and lacking any bitterness or harshness, they strike us as rather pleasant. Particles that absorb the mouth's warmth and are smoothed by it, that catch fire and in turn scorch what heated them, that are light enough to rise up toward the sensory channels of the head, cutting everything in their path — because of all these properties, they're called pungent.

But sometimes these same particles, already broken down by decomposition, slip into the narrow vessels of the tongue, where they're just the right size relative to the particles of earth and air present there. They set those particles whirling around one another, and as they whirl, they collide, penetrate each other, and form hollow shells around the entering particles — spheres of water wrapped around air (since a film of moisture, sometimes earthy, sometimes pure, spreads itself around the air). The pure, watery ones are transparent, and we call them bubbles; the ones formed of earthy liquid, churning and rising all over, we describe as boiling or fermenting. The cause of all these effects is what we call acid.

And the opposite sensation has an opposite cause: when the entering particles, swimming in the moisture of the mouth, are naturally congenial to the tongue — when they smooth and oil over whatever is rough, relax what is unnaturally contracted, tighten what is unnaturally slack, and settle everything comfortably into its natural state — then that gentle remedy for all the violent sensations is delightful to everyone, and its name is sweet. Enough about that.

The faculty of smell has no fixed varieties. All smells are half-formed things — no element happens to have the proportions required to produce an odor. The vessels of the nose are too narrow to admit earth and water, and too wide to detain fire and air, which is why nobody ever smells any element itself. Smells arise from substances that are dampening, decaying, liquefying, or evaporating — they exist only in that in-between state, as water changes into air or air into water. All smells are either vapor or mist: mist is what's passing from air into water, vapor what's passing from water into air. That's why all smells are thinner than water and thicker than air. The proof: when breathing is blocked and a person forcibly sucks in air, no smell filters through with it — only the air, stripped of odor, gets in. So the varieties of smell have no names; they don't come in many kinds, or in definite, simple ones. The only clear distinction is pleasant versus painful: the painful kind irritates and inflames the whole cavity between the head and the navel, while the pleasant kind soothes that same region and restores it to its agreeable natural state.

The third kind of sense to examine is hearing, and we must explain its causes. In general, let's define sound as a blow delivered by air, through the ears, to the brain and blood, and passed along to the soul; and hearing as the vibration of this blow, beginning in the head and ending in the region of the liver. A swift vibration makes a high sound; a slow one makes a low sound. A regular vibration is even and smooth; an irregular one is harsh. A big vibration is loud; a small one, soft. The harmonies of sounds we'll have to discuss later.

There remains a fourth class of perceptible things, full of intricate varieties, which we must now sort out. They go by the general name of colors: a flame streaming off every body, with particles sized to match the visual ray, so that sight can perceive them. We've already explained how sight arises; this is the natural place to give a reasonable theory of colors.

The particles streaming from other bodies into the visual ray are some smaller, some larger, and some exactly equal to the particles of the ray itself. The equal ones are imperceptible — we call them transparent. The larger ones contract the ray, the smaller ones dilate it, acting on sight much as hot and cold things act on the flesh, or astringent things on the tongue, or the heating things we called pungent. White and black are the same effects of dilation and contraction, just in a different medium, which is why they look so different. So our terms should be: white is what dilates the visual ray; black is the opposite, what contracts it.

Then there's a swifter motion — a different kind of fire that strikes the visual ray and dilates it all the way to the eyes, forcing through the eye's passages and melting them, squeezing out the mixture of fire and water that we call tears. This invading fire meets the inner fire rushing out from the opposite direction: the inner fire flashes out like lightning, while the entering fire is quenched in the moisture, and in that turmoil colors of every kind are produced. We call the experience dazzling, and the object that causes it bright and flashing. Then there's an intermediate kind of fire that reaches the moisture of the eye and mingles with it without flashing; the fire glowing through that moisture produces the color of blood, which we name red. Bright mixed with red and white gives the color auburn. But as for the exact proportions in which these colors are mixed — even if a person knew them, he'd be foolish to say, since he could give no necessary reason, nor even a passably probable account.

Red mixed with black and white makes purple; it becomes umber when the colors are burnt as well as blended and more black is worked in. Flame-color comes from mixing auburn and gray; gray from black and white; pale yellow from white and auburn. White combined with bright, landing on a saturated black, produces dark blue; dark blue mixed with white gives light blue; flame-color with black gives leek-green. From these, the remaining colors and their mixtures can be worked out easily enough by anyone reasoning from probability. But anyone who tried to verify all this by actual experiment would be forgetting the difference between human nature and divine. God has both the knowledge and the power to blend the many into one and dissolve the one back into many. No human being possesses either power — none does now, and none ever will.

These, then, are the elements as necessity shaped them — and these are what the creator of the fairest and best of all created things took up when he brought forth the self-sufficient, most perfect god that is our universe. He used the necessary causes as his servants in the work, but the good in everything he made, he crafted himself. So we should distinguish two kinds of causes: the divine and the necessary. The divine we should seek in all things, as far as our nature allows, for the sake of the blessed life. The necessary we should seek only for the sake of the divine — recognizing that without them, the higher things we're really after can't be grasped or understood or shared in by us in any way at all.

So now the different classes of causes lie ready at hand, like lumber stacked for a carpenter, and from them we must weave together the rest of our account. Let's go back briefly to where we began, and try to bring our story from its beginning to a fitting end.

As I said at the start, everything was originally in disorder, and God introduced into each thing — both within itself and in its relations to everything else — all the measure and harmony it was capable of receiving. Back then, nothing had any proportion except by accident. Nothing that we now have names for — fire, water, and the other elements — even deserved a name yet. The creator first set all of these in order, and out of them he built the universe: a single living creature containing within itself all other living creatures, mortal and immortal alike. The divine creatures he made himself. But the making of mortal beings he handed over to his own offspring, the younger gods. And they, imitating him, took from him the immortal principle of the soul, and around it they built a mortal body to be the soul's vehicle. Inside that body they constructed a second soul of a different kind — a mortal one, subject to terrible and overpowering disturbances. First pleasure, evil's most powerful bait. Then pain, which scares us away from good. Then recklessness and fear, a pair of foolish advisers; anger, which is hard to calm down; and hope, which is easily led astray. They blended all of these with raw, unreasoning sensation and with desire that will dare anything, and according to the laws of necessity, they assembled the human being.

Because of all this, the gods were afraid of contaminating the divine part any more than was absolutely unavoidable. So they gave the mortal soul a separate residence in another part of the body, and built the neck as an isthmus — a boundary between head and chest to keep the two apart. The mortal soul they housed in the chest, in what we call the thorax. And since one part of this mortal soul is nobler and the other baser, they divided the chest cavity into two compartments — the way houses are divided into separate quarters — and installed the midriff as a partition wall between them. The part of the lower soul that has courage and spirit and loves a fight, they settled closer to the head, between the midriff and the neck. That way it would be within earshot of reason, and could join forces with it to hold down the desires whenever they refused to obey the orders coming down from the citadel above.

The heart — the knot where the veins tie together, the fountain of the blood that races through every limb — they stationed in the guardhouse. The idea was this: whenever the spirited part boils over because reason has announced that some wrong is being done — an attack from outside, or treachery from the desires within — then every sensitive part of the body, through all its narrow streets and alleys, would instantly hear those commands and threats, fall in line, and let the best part stay in command of them all. But the gods knew in advance that the pounding of the heart when danger looms, and the hot surge of anger, are caused by fire. So as a support for the heart they devised and implanted the lung — soft, bloodless, and riddled with little hollows like a sponge — so that by taking in breath and drink it could cool the heart, giving it relief and comfort in the heat. That's why they cut the air channels leading to the lung, and set the lung around the heart like a soft cushion: when passion runs high, the heart can pound against something that yields, cool itself down, and suffer less — and so become better able to put its passion at the service of reason.

The part of the soul that craves food and drink and everything else the body needs, they placed between the midriff and the navel. Throughout this whole region they built a kind of feeding trough for the body — and there they chained this part down like a wild animal. Untamed as it is, it has to be kept and fed if the human race is going to exist at all. So they gave it its stall down there, as far as possible from the council chamber, where it could feed at its trough making the least possible noise and disturbance, and leave the best part free to deliberate in peace for the good of the whole.

The gods also knew that this lower principle would never understand reason — and that even if it picked up some dim awareness of rational ideas, it would never naturally care about them, but would be carried away by phantoms and visions, day and night. So God devised a remedy: he constructed the liver and placed it in the lower creature's dwelling. He made it dense, smooth, bright, and sweet, but with a bitter streak in it too — so that the power of thought, streaming down from the mind, could be reflected in it as in a mirror that receives images and gives them back to the eye. When thought wants to terrify the desires, it makes use of the liver's bitter element, which is akin to it. It comes down threatening and invading, spreads that bitterness rapidly through the whole organ, raises bile-like colors, contracts the liver until it's wrinkled and rough, bends the lobe out of its proper position, twists it, blocks and shuts the vessels and passageways — and produces pain and nausea. But the opposite also happens. When some gentle breath of understanding paints images of a kinder sort, it calms the bile and the bitterness — refusing to stir up or even touch the nature opposed to itself — and instead uses the liver's natural sweetness to set everything straight, smooth, and free. It makes the part of the soul that lives around the liver cheerful and content, able to pass the night in peace and to practice divination in sleep — since it has no share in reason or understanding.

For the gods who made us remembered their father's command to make the human race as good as possible, and so, to redeem even our inferior part and give it some contact with truth, they placed the seat of divination in the liver. And here is the proof that God gave the art of divination not to human wisdom but to human foolishness: no one in their right mind achieves genuine prophetic inspiration. The inspired word comes only when a person's intelligence is shackled by sleep, or deranged by illness or some kind of possession. It takes a sane person to understand what was said — in a dream or while awake — by the prophetic, inspired nature; to work out rationally what the visions mean, and what they indicate, for this person or that, about good and evil, past, present, or future. The one still in the grip of the frenzy cannot judge his own visions or his own words. The old saying gets it right: "only the sober-minded can act and judge for themselves about their own affairs." This is why it's customary to appoint interpreters to pass judgment on inspired prophecy. Some people call these interpreters "prophets," not realizing that they are merely expounders of riddling sayings and visions. They shouldn't be called prophets at all — only interpreters of prophecy.

Such, then, is the liver — placed where I've described so that it can give prophetic signals. While a person is alive, these signals are fairly clear; after death the liver goes blind, and its oracles become too obscure to mean anything. The neighboring organ, the spleen, sits on the left side, and its job is to keep the liver bright and clean — like a napkin kept folded and ready beside a mirror, always at hand to wipe it. When impurities build up around the liver because of some bodily disorder, the spleen's loose, porous texture — it's a hollow tissue with no blood of its own — absorbs them all and clears them away. Filled with this waste, it swells and festers; then, when the body is purged, it shrinks back down to its former place, humbled.

So much for the soul: which part of it is mortal and which divine, how and why the two are separated, and where each one lives. Whether we've told the truth here, only God's confirmation could make us certain. But we can say with some confidence that our account is at least probable — and will look more probable still on further investigation. So let that stand.

Next in order comes the creation of the rest of the body, which we can examine in the same spirit. It seems most fitting that the body was framed on the following principles.

The gods who made our race knew we would be undisciplined about food and drink — that out of sheer gluttony we'd take in far more than necessary or proper. To keep disease from destroying us quickly, and to keep our mortal race from dying out before fulfilling its purpose, they took precautions: they made what we call the lower belly as a holding tank for excess food and drink, and they coiled the bowels into their winding loops, so that food couldn't pass straight through and force the body to demand more right away. That would have produced insatiable gluttony, and made the whole human race an enemy of philosophy and culture — deaf and rebellious toward the most divine part within us.

The bones, the flesh, and the other parts like them were made as follows. The starting point for all of them was the formation of marrow. For the bonds of life that tie soul to body are anchored there: marrow is the root and foundation of the human race. The marrow itself was made from special materials. God took those primary triangles that were straightest and smoothest — the ones best suited, by their precision, to produce fire, water, air, and earth — and separated them out from their kinds. Mixing them with each other in due proportion, he made marrow out of them, as a universal seed-stuff for all mortal kind. Then he planted and fastened the souls into this seed, and in the original distribution he gave the marrow exactly as many shapes, and the same varieties, as the kinds of soul it was destined to hold. The portion that was to receive the divine seed, like a field, he made perfectly round, and named that part of the marrow the brain — intending that, once each animal was completed, the vessel holding it would be the head. The portion meant to hold the remaining, mortal part of the soul he divided into shapes both rounded and elongated, and he called all of these "marrow" as well. From these, as from anchors, he ran out the mooring lines of the entire soul, and around them he proceeded to construct our whole body — beginning by building the marrow a complete protective covering of bone.

Bone he composed like this. He sifted out earth that was pure and smooth, kneaded it, and moistened it with marrow. Then he put it into fire, then into water, then back into fire, and again into water — and by transferring it repeatedly from one to the other, he made it insoluble in both. Out of this material he turned, as if on a lathe, a sphere of bone, which he set around the brain, leaving one narrow opening in it. And around the marrow of the neck and the back he formed vertebrae, setting them one beneath another like pivots, running from the head down through the whole trunk. So, to protect the entire seed, he fenced it in a stony enclosure — but he put in joints, using the nature of the Different as an intermediary between the bones, so they would have movement and flexibility.

Then he considered further: bone on its own would be too brittle and stiff, and if it were repeatedly heated and cooled, it would decay and quickly destroy the seed inside it. So he devised sinews and flesh. The sinews would bind all the limbs together — stretching and relaxing around the vertebrae — and let the body bend and straighten. The flesh would be a shield against summer heat and winter cold, and against falls too, yielding to impact softly and gently, like things made of felt. It would hold a warm moisture within itself: in summer this moisture would sweat out, dampen the surface, and spread a natural coolness over the whole body; in winter, the same inner warmth would give decent protection against the frost gripping and attacking from outside. With all this in mind, our modeler mixed earth with fire and water, blended them, added a leavening ferment of acid and salt, and so formed flesh — soft and full of sap. The sinews he made from a mixture of bone and unfermented flesh, tempered into a single substance midway between the two, and he gave them a yellowish color. That's why sinews are firmer and more rubbery than flesh, but softer and moister than bone.

With these materials God wrapped the bones and the marrow — first binding the bones together with sinews, then shrouding the whole assembly in an outer covering of flesh. The bones with the most life and sensation in them he enclosed in the thinnest layers of flesh; the ones with the least life, in the thickest and densest. At the joints, where reason showed that no more was needed, he laid on only a thin coat of flesh, so it wouldn't get in the way of bending and make the body clumsy and hard to move — and also so that thick, packed, compacted flesh wouldn't deaden sensation with its density, impairing memory and dulling the edge of intelligence. That's why the thighs, the shins, the hips, the upper arms and forearms, and all our other jointless parts — and all the inner bones, which contain so little soul in their marrow that they're empty of intelligence — are generously padded with flesh, while the parts that house intelligence carry less. (The exception is where the creator made a part purely of flesh in order to give it sensation — the tongue, for example.) But generally the rule holds: the nature that necessity forces on us as we come into being and grow does not allow dense bone and thick flesh to coexist with keen perception.

If those things could have gone together, the head would have had them more than any other part — and the human race, crowned with a strong, fleshy, sinewy head, would have enjoyed a lifespan twice as long or more, healthier and freer of pain than the life we have now. But the gods who made us weighed the choice: a longer-lived race that was worse, or a shorter-lived race that was better? They concluded that everyone should prefer the shorter and better life to the longer and worse one. So they covered the head with thin bone, but not with flesh and sinews, since the head has no joints. For all these reasons, the head that was attached to the body of every man is more sensitive and intelligent than the rest of him — but far weaker too. On the same principles God set the sinews at the base of the head, in a circle around the neck, welded them there by the principle of likeness, and fastened the ends of the jawbones to them just below the face. The rest of the sinews he distributed throughout the body, binding limb to limb.

Our makers fitted out the mouth as we now have it — with teeth, tongue, and lips — for both the necessary and the best: the way in for what's necessary, the way out for what's best. Whatever enters and feeds the body is necessary. But the stream of speech that flows out of us in the service of intelligence is the fairest and finest of all streams. As for the head, it couldn't be left as bare bone, exposed to the extremes of heat and cold through the seasons; nor could it be muffled in flesh and so made dull and insensitive. So from the flesh, which wasn't entirely used up, a sort of larger rind was peeled away and left over — what we now call skin. Thanks to the moisture around the brain, this skin met and grew together, and wrapped itself around the head like an envelope. The moisture, rising up under the seams of the skull, watered the skin and closed it at the crown, drawing it together in a kind of knot. As for the seams themselves — the sutures — their varied patterns are caused by the action of the soul's revolutions and of nourishment: the more these two forces struggle against each other, the more numerous the sutures; the gentler the struggle, the fewer.

Now the divine power pricked this skin all around with fire, and through the punctures the moisture came welling out. The pure liquid and heat escaped entirely. But the mixed portion — made of the same stuff as the skin itself — was lifted by its own momentum and stretched far outside the head, drawn out as fine as the punctures it passed through. It was too slow to escape, though, so the surrounding air pushed it back; it curled under the skin and took root there. This is how hair sprang up in the skin. It's kindred to skin — a kind of leathery thread — but harder and denser, because as each hair separated from the skin it was compressed and cooled by the chill. This is how our maker gave us a hairy head, using the causes I've described, and reasoning besides that hair, not flesh, was the right covering to protect the brain: a light shield giving shade in summer and shelter in winter, without blocking quickness of perception.

Where sinew, skin, and bone all come together at the fingertips, the blend of the three, when dried, forms a single hard skin sharing the nature of all of them. These were the auxiliary causes that fabricated it — but the truest cause was mind, designing with an eye on the future. For our makers knew that one day women, and animals of every kind, would arise out of men; in particular, they knew that many of these creatures would need claws and nails for many purposes. That's why they sketched in the rudiments of nails in human beings at their very first creation. Such was the reasoning, and such the purposes, for which the gods made skin, hair, and nails grow at the ends of our limbs.

Now all the parts and limbs of the mortal creature had been joined into a whole. But since its life was necessarily spent among fire and air, which melted it down and drained it away, it kept wasting away — so the gods devised a remedy. They blended a nature akin to the human with other shapes and other senses, and so grew a different kind of living thing: the trees, plants, and seeds that cultivation has now tamed and domesticated for our use — though originally only the wild kinds existed, and the wild are older than the cultivated. Anything that has a share in life can rightly be called a living being, and the kind we're discussing here shares in the third type of soul — the one we located between the midriff and the navel — which has no part in opinion, reasoning, or mind, but only in sensations of pleasure and pain, and the appetites that come with them. A plant is entirely passive. Its existence turns inward, around and within itself, repelling motion from outside and using only its own; nature has given it no ability to observe or reflect on its own condition. So it is alive — it really is a living thing — but it stays fixed and rooted in one spot, because it has no power to move itself.

When the higher powers had created all these species to be food for us, the inferior creatures, they cut channels through our body, the way gardeners cut channels through a garden, so that it could be irrigated as if from a running stream. First, they cut two hidden channels — veins — down the back, where skin and flesh meet, one for the right side of the body and one for the left. They ran these down along the spine, with the generative marrow between them, both to keep that marrow thriving and so that the stream, flowing freely downhill from there to the lower parts, would water the body evenly. Next, they split the veins in the region of the head and wove them across each other in opposite directions: the ones from the right side they sent to the left of the body, and the ones from the left to the right. This served two purposes — together with the skin, the veins would form a bond tying the head to the body, since there are no sinews circling the crown; and sensations from each side would be relayed to the whole body.

Next they arranged the body's waterworks in a way I'll now describe — and it will be easier to follow if we first agree on this principle: whatever is made of smaller particles can hold in larger ones, but the larger cannot hold in the smaller. Now of all natures fire has the smallest particles, which is why it passes straight through earth, water, air, and everything compounded from them: nothing can contain it. The same principle applies to the human belly. The belly can hold in food and drink when they enter it, but it cannot hold air and fire, because their particles are smaller than the particles of its own structure.

So God put air and fire to work pumping moisture from the belly into the veins. He wove a kind of basketwork out of fire and air — like a fish-trap, a weel — with two smaller traps at its entrance, one of which was itself double, forking into two openings. From these smaller traps he stretched cords, like reeds, running all around the structure to its far ends. The whole interior of this net he made of fire; the smaller traps and their hollows he made of air. Then he took the net and fitted it over the newly formed creature, like this. The pair of smaller traps he let pass into the mouth. One of them he sent down through the windpipe into the lungs, the other alongside the windpipe into the belly. The first he split into two branches, both of which he brought up to meet at the channels of the nose — so that when the route through the mouth isn't working, all its streams can still be refilled through the nose. The large outer cavity of the trap he wrapped around the hollow parts of the body. And he made the whole system pulse: at one moment everything flows gently inward into the smaller traps — gently, because they are made of air — and at the next moment the smaller traps flow back outward; and the net sinks into the body and rises out again through the porous flesh, while the rays of fire bound up inside it follow the air in and out, never stopping as long as the mortal creature holds together. This process, we say, is what the giver of names called inhaling and exhaling. And the whole performance, active and passive alike, exists so that the body can be watered and cooled, and so be nourished and stay alive. For every time the breath goes in or out, the fire bound up inside follows it; and as it surges perpetually back and forth, it passes through the belly and gets hold of the food and drink there. It dissolves them, cuts them into tiny portions, and drives them along the passages where it travels — pumping them, as from a fountain, into the channels of the veins, and making the bloodstream flow through the body like water through an aqueduct.

But let's look once more at respiration and ask what causes have made it what it is. The explanation goes like this. There's no such thing as a vacuum that a moving body could enter. Our breath moves out of us into the external air. The next step is obvious to anyone: that breath doesn't move into empty space — it shoves the neighboring air out of its place; the displaced air drives out its neighbor in turn; and by this chain of necessity, all the air is driven round to the very place the breath came from, enters the body there, and refills it, following right behind the breath. The whole thing turns like a revolving wheel — because there is no vacuum. That's why the chest and lungs, just as they release breath outward, are refilled again by the air surrounding the body, which slips in through the porous flesh and is driven around the circuit; and then, when that air is sent back out again through the body, it forces breath back inward through the passages of the mouth and nostrils.

As for what starts this motion off, we can suppose the following. In every animal, the hottest region is the one around the blood and the veins — a kind of internal fountain of fire. It's exactly what we compared to the fish-trap's netting: stretched through the middle of the body and woven entirely of fire, while everything outside it is air. Now heat, we must agree, naturally moves outward, toward its own region and its kindred element. And since there are two exits — one out through the body's surface, the other through the mouth and nostrils — whenever the heat rushes toward one exit, it drives the air around at the other; the air driven around falls into the fire and is heated, while the air going out is cooled. Then, as the warmth shifts position and the particles at the other exit grow hotter, the hotter air there inclines that way in turn, streaming toward its kindred element, fire, and pushes the air around at the first exit. The air, undergoing the same thing each time and giving back the same push each time, sets up a continuous oscillation — a circulation swinging back and forth between the two — and this double process is what we call inhaling and exhaling.

The same principle explains a whole family of other phenomena: the medical cupping-glass, the act of swallowing, and the flight of projectiles, whether launched through the air or skimmed along the ground. It explains sounds, too — fast and slow, which strike us as high-pitched and low — sometimes jarring, because the motion they set up in us is irregular, and sometimes harmonious, because the motion is even. What happens with harmony is this: when the motions of the earlier, faster sounds are dying away and have slowed to a matching pace, the slower sounds catch up with them and take over the motion. In overtaking them, they don't jolt them with a new, clashing movement; instead they fit the start of a slower motion onto the fading end of the faster one, matching it as it dies — and so they blend high and low into a single experience. From this blend comes a pleasure even the unmusical can feel, and for the wise a deeper delight: an imitation of divine harmony played out in mortal motion. The same goes for the flow of water, the fall of the thunderbolt, and the supposed marvels of attraction in amber and in the Heraclean stone — the lodestone. There is no real attraction in any of these cases. Investigate properly and you'll find that these "wonders" come down to a combination of ordinary conditions: there is no vacuum; things push each other around in a circle; and as they combine and separate, they all change places, each moving into its proper position. What looks like magic is the interweaving of these effects.

And that, as we've seen, is the nature and the cause of respiration — the topic where this whole discussion began. The fire cuts up the food, and as it follows the breath it surges up inside us; rising together, fire and breath fill the veins, drawing the chopped portions of food up out of the belly and pouring them in. This is how the streams of nourishment are kept flowing through the entire body, in all animals. The fresh-cut particles, coming from substances akin to us — fruits of the earth and plants of the field, which God planted to be our daily food — take on all sorts of colors as they mix together, but red runs through them most of all, a color produced by the cutting action of fire and the imprint it leaves on a moist medium. That's why the liquid circulating through the body has the color we see: we call it blood. It feeds the flesh and the whole body — from it every part is watered, and every emptied place refilled.

Now this refilling and draining works exactly like the universal motion that draws all kindred things toward each other. The elements surrounding us on the outside are constantly dissolving us and dispatching what they take, sending each kind off to join its own kind. Meanwhile the components of the blood, chopped fine inside us and enclosed within the frame of each living creature as if under a private sky, are compelled to copy the motion of the universe: each divided particle within us is carried toward whatever it is akin to, and so refills whatever has been emptied. When more is drained out than flows in, we waste away; when more flows in than is lost, we grow.

When a creature is young, the triangles throughout its frame are brand new — think of it as fresh from the shipyard, like the keel of a vessel just off the blocks. They lock together firmly, and yet the whole structure is soft and tender, because it was only recently formed from marrow and has been raised on milk. Now, when the triangles that make up food and drink enter the body from outside, they are older and weaker than the triangles already in place. So the young body wins the contest: its newer triangles slice up the incoming ones, and the creature grows large, nourished by a steady supply of similar particles.

But over time, after the body's triangles have fought countless battles against countless things, their roots work loose. They can no longer cut up and absorb the food that comes in — instead, they themselves are easily broken apart by the invaders. That's how every creature is overcome and declines, and we call this condition old age. And at last, when the bonds holding the triangles of the marrow together can no longer take the strain of existence and come apart, they release the bonds of the soul in turn. And the soul, set free in the natural way, flies off with joy. For whatever happens according to nature is pleasant, while whatever goes against nature is painful. So a death from disease or wounds is painful and violent, but the death that comes with old age, paying off nature's debt on schedule, is the easiest of all deaths — accompanied more by pleasure than by pain.

Where diseases come from should be obvious to anyone. The body is built out of four substances — earth, fire, water, and air — and disorders and diseases arise when there is an unnatural excess or shortage of any of them, or when one of them migrates from its own proper place to another, or when one of them takes on the wrong variety (since fire and the other elements each come in more than one kind), or anything else of that sort goes wrong. When any element is produced or changed in a way contrary to nature, the parts that were cool grow warm, the dry become moist, the light become heavy, the heavy light — every kind of change occurs. As we keep insisting, a thing can only stay itself, whole and sound, when what is added to it or taken from it is the same kind of thing, applied in the same way and in the right proportion. Whatever comes or goes in violation of these rules produces all manner of changes, and endless diseases and decay.

There is also a second class of natural structures, and these give a second window onto disease for anyone who wants to understand it. Marrow, bone, flesh, and sinew are all composed of the four elements, and so is blood, though it's formed differently. Most diseases arise in the way I just described, but the most serious ones owe their severity to something else: these substances getting generated in the wrong order. When that happens, they are destroyed. The natural order is this: flesh and sinew are made from blood — sinew from the blood's fibers, to which it is related, and flesh from the clots that form when the fibers are separated out. And the sticky, rich substance that comes off the sinews and the flesh not only glues the flesh to the bones, but feeds the bone surrounding the marrow and makes it grow. Meanwhile, because bone is so dense, only the purest, smoothest, oiliest triangles filter through it, dripping like dew from the bones to water the marrow. When each process happens in this order, the usual result is health. When it runs in the opposite order, disease.

For when flesh decomposes and dumps its waste back into the veins, the veins fill with an oversupply of blood of every variety, mixed with air — blood of strange colors and bitter properties, with acid and salty qualities too, containing every sort of bile and serum and phlegm. Everything runs backward. Once corrupted, these substances first ruin the blood itself; then, no longer providing the body any nourishment, they rush through the veins in all directions, abandoning their natural circuits. They are at war with themselves, since they get no good from one another, and they are enemies of the body's settled constitution, which they corrupt and dissolve.

The oldest portion of decomposed flesh is hard to break down. Long exposure to internal burning turns it black; being thoroughly corroded makes it bitter, and it becomes dangerous to every part of the body not yet corrupted. Sometimes, when the bitterness is refined away, the black matter turns acidic instead. Other times, the bitter stuff gets tinged with blood and takes on a redder color — and mixed with black, this turns greenish. And when fresh flesh is decomposed by the fire of the internal flame, a yellowish color blends with the bitter matter. To all of these symptoms, some physician — or more likely some philosopher, someone with the gift of seeing the single common nature in many dissimilar things — gave one shared name: bile. Its various kinds are distinguished by their colors. As for serum: the kind that is just the watery part of blood is harmless, but the kind that is a secretion of black, acid bile turns malignant when heat mixes it with anything salty — that's what we call acid phlegm. Then there's the substance formed when new, tender flesh liquefies in the presence of air. If it gets inflated and enclosed in liquid so that bubbles form — each one invisible because it's so small, but visible in the aggregate — the foam gives it a white color. All this decomposition of tender flesh mixed with air is what we call white phlegm. And the whey or watery residue of freshly formed phlegm is sweat and tears, along with the various daily discharges that cleanse the body. All of these things become causes of disease when the blood is not replenished naturally, from food and drink, but bulks up from the wrong sources, in violation of nature's laws.

When disease breaks down the various parts of the flesh but the foundation underneath holds, the disorder has only half its force, and there's still a good chance of an easy recovery. But consider what binds flesh to bone. When that becomes diseased — when, through bad living, it stops separating cleanly from muscle and sinew, stops nourishing the bone and binding flesh to it, and turns from oily, smooth, and gluey into rough, salty, and dry — then all this corrupted material crumbles away beneath the flesh and sinews and pulls free of the bone. The flesh falls away from its foundation, leaving the sinews bare and soaked in brine, and the flesh itself slides back into the bloodstream, making all the disorders I described before even worse. And severe as these bodily afflictions are, the deeper ones are worse still — as when the bone itself, smothered by flesh too dense to let air through, grows moldy and hot and gangrenes. Receiving no nourishment, it reverses the natural process: the crumbling bone dissolves into the food, the food into the flesh, the flesh falls back into the blood, and every malady becomes more virulent than the ones before. But the worst case of all is when the marrow itself becomes diseased, by excess or by deficiency. This produces the gravest and most deadly disorders of all, since the entire current of the body is thrown into reverse.

A third class of diseases arises in three different ways: from air, from phlegm, and from bile. When the lung, the body's dispenser of air, is blocked by discharges so that its passages aren't clear, air fails to reach some places while too much forces its way into others. The parts left unrefreshed by air rot, while elsewhere the excess air bullies its way through the veins, twisting them, dissolving the body as it goes, and gets trapped in the middle of the body, occupying the midriff. Countless painful diseases result from this, often with heavy sweating. And often, when flesh breaks down inside the body, wind is generated within that cannot escape — and it causes just as much agony as the air that comes in from outside. The worst pain comes when the wind collects around the sinews and the veins of the shoulders and swells them, bending the great tendons and their attached sinews backward. From the intense tension involved, these disorders are named tetanus and opisthotonus. The cure is difficult; in fact, what usually brings relief is the onset of fever.

White phlegm, dangerous when trapped inside because of its air bubbles, is milder if it can vent to the outside of the body — though it then mottles the skin, breeding white leprous eruptions and similar complaints. But when it mixes with black bile and floods the circuits of the head — the most divine part of us — the result is shattering. If the attack comes during sleep, it's less severe; but when it strikes the waking, it is very hard to shake off. And since it is an affliction of our sacred part, it is rightly called the sacred disease. Acid and salty phlegm, in turn, is the source of all the diseases we call catarrhs — though they go by many names, because the places they flow into are many.

All the inflammations of the body — so called from the burning and "flaming" involved — are caused by bile. When bile finds an outlet, it boils up and erupts in all sorts of tumors; when it's locked inside, it generates many inflammatory diseases. The worst case is when it mixes with pure blood and disrupts the fibers there. These fibers are distributed through the blood to keep it balanced between thin and thick — so that it neither gets so liquefied by heat that it leaks out through the body's pores, nor becomes so dense that it can barely creep through the veins. The fibers are made to maintain exactly this balance. Even after death, when the blood is cooling, if you gather the fibers out of it, the remaining blood stays fluid; left alone, the fibers soon make it congeal in the surrounding cold. Since the fibers have this power over blood, consider bile — which is really just stale blood, flesh dissolved back into blood again. When it first seeps in, a little at a time, hot and liquid, the fibers' power congeals it; and as it congeals and is forcibly cooled, it produces inner chill and shivering. But when bile floods in with greater force and overwhelms the fibers with its heat, boiling them into disorder — then, if it's strong enough to hold its supremacy, it penetrates straight to the marrow and burns through what we might call the soul's mooring cables, setting the soul loose. When there's less of it, though, and the body, however wasted, holds out, then the bile itself is defeated. Either it's expelled from the whole body, or it's forced through the veins into the lower or upper belly and driven out of the body like an exile fleeing a city after civil war — producing diarrheas, dysenteries, and every disorder of that kind.

A body sickened mainly by an excess of fire develops continuous heat and fevers. When excess air is the cause, the fever recurs daily. With water — a more sluggish element than fire or air — the fever returns every third day. And with earth, the most sluggish of the four, which is purged on a fourfold cycle, the result is a fever returning every fourth day — the quartan — which is very hard to shake.

So much for how diseases of the body arise. The disorders of the soul that depend on the body come about like this. We have to agree that disease of the mind is a deficiency of intelligence, and that it comes in two kinds: madness and ignorance. Whatever condition brings on either one deserves to be called disease — and excessive pleasures and pains should be ranked among the greatest diseases the soul can suffer. A person in the grip of overwhelming joy or overwhelming pain, frantically rushing to seize the one or escape the other, can't see or hear anything correctly. He is, at that moment, raving — utterly incapable of using reason at all.

Take a man whose seed runs too plentiful and overflowing around the spinal marrow, like a tree weighed down with too much fruit. He suffers many torments and grabs at many pleasures, in his desires and in what comes of them, and spends most of his life deranged, because his pleasures and pains are so extreme. His soul is made foolish and disordered by his body — and yet people treat him not as sick but as willfully bad. That is a mistake. The truth is that sexual excess is a disease of the soul, caused mostly by the moisture and fluidity that one element produces in us when the bones are loosely knit. And in general, nearly everything labeled "lack of self-control over pleasure," and treated as a disgrace — as though the wicked do wrong on purpose — is not really fair grounds for reproach. No one is willingly bad. The bad become bad through some defective condition of the body and a bad upbringing — things every man hates, and which happen to him against his will.

The same goes for pain: there too, the soul takes great damage from the body. When acid and salty phlegms, or bitter, bilious humors, roam through the body and find no exit, no escape, they get pent up inside, blending their own vapors with the motions of the soul. Mixed in this way, they produce diseases of the soul in every variety and intensity. Carried to the three seats of the soul, they create — depending on which region they attack — endless varieties of bad temper and gloom, of recklessness and cowardice, of forgetfulness and dullness.

And on top of this: when people with constitutions this bad live under bad forms of government, where the talk in public and private is equally bad, and when nothing is done in their youth, through education, to cure these evils — that is how all of us who are bad become bad, through two causes entirely beyond our control. The blame belongs to the planters rather than the plants, to the educators rather than the educated. Still, we should make every effort — through upbringing, through pursuits, through study — to flee vice and seize its opposite. But that belongs to another discussion.

It's now fitting and proper to turn the subject around and ask about the corresponding treatments — what keeps the body and mind sound. After all, it's more right to talk about the good than the bad. Everything good is beautiful, and the beautiful is never out of proportion. So a living creature that is going to be beautiful must have proportion. Now, we notice the minor proportions and reason about them, but we completely overlook the greatest and most important ones. For health and disease, virtue and vice, no proportion or disproportion matters more than the one between soul and body. Yet we never look at this. We never reflect that when a mighty soul rides in a frame too weak and small for it — or the reverse, when a little soul is housed in a big body — the creature as a whole is not beautiful, because it lacks the most important proportion of all. The right balance of mind and body, to anyone with eyes to see it, is the most beautiful and lovely of all sights.

Think of a body with one leg too long, or lopsided in some other way. It's unpleasant to look at; and when it's put to work, it strains and lurches, stumbles through its own awkwardness, and brings endless trouble on itself. We should picture the two-natured compound we call a living being the same way. When the soul in this partnership is more powerful than the body and burns hot, it shakes the whole inner man and fills him with disorders. When it throws itself into intense study and research, it wastes the body away. When it teaches or argues, in public or in private, through rivalries and disputes, it inflames the body's frame, shakes it loose, and brings on discharges — which fools most so-called doctors into blaming the very opposite of the true cause. And the reverse happens too: when a large body, too strong for the soul, is yoked to a small, feeble mind. Human beings have two natural appetites — the body's appetite for food, and the appetite of the divinest part of us for wisdom. The motions of the stronger part prevail and promote their own interest, but they render the soul dull, slow, and forgetful, producing ignorance, the greatest disease of all.

There is one protection against both kinds of imbalance: don't exercise the body without the soul, or the soul without the body. That way each keeps the other in check, and both stay balanced and healthy. So the mathematician, or anyone deeply absorbed in some intellectual pursuit, must give his body its workout too, and take up physical training; and the person devoted to sculpting his body must give the soul its own exercise in return, taking up music and philosophy in all its forms — if he wants to deserve, with any justice, the names beautiful and good.

The parts of the body deserve the same kind of care, on the model of the universe itself. The body is heated and cooled from within by what enters it, dried and moistened by what surrounds it, and suffers all the disturbances both kinds of motion bring. If a person surrenders his body, motionless, to these forces, it is overpowered and destroyed. But suppose instead he imitates what we earlier called the foster-mother and nurse of the universe: he never lets the body rest idle, but keeps it in motion, giving it regular shakings throughout, which form its natural defense against disturbances inner and outer. By moderate exercise he sorts the particles and disturbances wandering through the body, settling them into order with their natural kin — just as we described when speaking of the universe. Then he won't leave enemy stationed beside enemy, breeding wars and disease in the body; he'll settle friend beside friend, and the result is health.

Among motions, the best is the motion a thing produces in itself — for it is most akin to the motion of thought and the motion of the universe. Motion produced by something else is inferior. Worst of all is motion that, while the body lies inert, moves only its parts, and only by outside agency. So of all the ways of cleansing and toning the body, the best is gymnastic exercise. Second best is the swaying motion of a boat, or any form of transportation that doesn't tire you. The third kind may be useful when you're absolutely desperate, but no sensible person would accept it otherwise: I mean the doctor's purgative drugs. Diseases, unless they're truly dangerous, should not be provoked with medicines. Every disease has a structure that resembles, in a way, the nature of a living creature — and the living creature is put together with a fixed term of life. Not just for the species as a whole, but for each individual: every one of us is born with his lifespan set by fate, accidents aside, because our triangles are framed from the start with the power to hold together for just so long, and no man can ever prolong his life beyond it. The structure of diseases works the same way. If you fight one with drugs before its destined time has run, you tend to turn mild diseases severe, and a few into many. So you should manage all of them, as far as your free time allows, by diet and regimen, rather than provoking a stubborn enemy with drugs.

Let that be enough about the composite creature, and about its bodily part, and how a man may train himself and be trained to live the most rational life. But first and above all, we must prepare the part that's going to do the training, making it as fine and as fit for the job as possible. To work through this in detail would be a serious task in itself; but treated in passing, as before, the matter can fairly be summed up like this.

I have said more than once that three kinds of soul are housed within us, each with its own motions. So now let me say, as briefly as I can: whichever of them sits idle, with its motions stilled, inevitably becomes weakest, while the one that's exercised becomes strongest. So we must take care that their motions stay in proportion to one another.

As for the most sovereign kind of soul in us, think of it this way: God gave it to each of us as a guiding spirit — the part that we say lives at the top of the body and lifts us up from earth toward our kindred in heaven. For we are a plant rooted not in earth but in heaven, and that is no mere figure of speech. From the place where the soul first came to be, the divine power keeps our head — our root — suspended, and so holds the whole body upright.

Now, if a man devotes himself to appetite and ambition and labors endlessly to feed them, all his thoughts must become mortal; he ends up mortal through and through, as far as that's possible, because that's the part of himself he has nourished. But the man who has devoted himself to the love of learning and to true wisdom, and has exercised that part of himself above all, must — if he touches truth — think thoughts immortal and divine. So far as human nature can partake of immortality, he will not fall short of it in any way; and because he constantly tends the divine element, keeping the guardian spirit that lives within him in good order, he must be happy above all men.

Now, there is only one way to care for anything: give it the nourishment and the motions that are proper to it. And the motions akin to the divine part within us are the thoughts and revolutions of the universe. These every man should follow. By learning the harmonies and revolutions of the universe, he should correct the circuits in his own head, which were knocked off course at birth — bringing the thinking part into likeness with what it thinks about, restoring its original nature. And having achieved that likeness, he attains the goal of the best life the gods have set before mankind, both for now and for all time to come.

And with that, the task we took on at the start — to tell the story of the universe down to the creation of man — is just about complete. The origin of the other animals can be covered briefly; there's no need to go on at length, and brevity here will keep our whole account in better proportion. So let it be told as follows.

Of the men who came into the world, those who were cowards, or who lived unjust lives, were — on the most plausible account — reborn as women in the second generation. And this is when the gods devised the desire for sexual union, constructing one living thing in us men and another in women. They made each as follows. There is a channel for drink, where liquid passes through the lungs, under the kidneys, and into the bladder, which collects it and expels it under air pressure. The gods bored a connection from this channel into the column of marrow that runs from the head down through the neck and along the spine — the marrow which, earlier in our account, we called "seed." This seed, being alive and now given an outlet to breathe through, planted in that very outlet a living thirst for emission, and so produced our desire to procreate. That is why a man's generative organs are unruly and self-willed, like an animal deaf to reason, and try, in their stinging frenzy of lust, to carry all before them. In women, for the same reasons, what is called the womb or matrix is a living creature inside them with a desire for childbearing. When it stays barren long past its proper season, it grows resentful and angry, and wandering all through the body, it blocks the channels of breath and prevents respiration, driving the woman to extremes of distress and causing all kinds of disease — until at last the desire of the man and the longing of the woman bring the two together. And then, as if plucking fruit from a tree, they sow into the womb, as into plowed soil, living things too small to see and still unformed; these take shape inside, are nourished until they're matured, and are finally brought out into the light of day. So the generation of living creatures is accomplished.

That is how women, and the female sex in general, came to be. As for birds: they were remade — sprouting feathers instead of hair — from harmless but light-headed men, men interested in the heavens but simple-minded enough to think that sight provides the surest proof of things above. Wild land animals came from men who never used philosophy at all and never once wondered about the nature of the heavens, because they had stopped using the circuits in the head and followed instead the parts of the soul that live in the chest. Thanks to these habits, their forelimbs and heads were dragged down to the earth by natural kinship and came to rest there, and their skulls were stretched into all sorts of elongated shapes, wherever each man's circuits of soul had been crushed out of shape by idleness. This is why their kind was created four-footed and many-footed: God gave the more mindless ones more points of support, to bind them that much closer to the ground. And the most mindless of all, whose entire bodies trail along the earth, no longer had any need of feet, so the gods made them footless, to crawl on the ground. The fourth kind, the water animals, came from the stupidest and most ignorant men of all. The gods who were reshaping them judged these souls no longer even worthy of breathing pure air, because all their transgressions had fouled the soul within them. Instead of breathing the fine, clean air, they were pushed down to inhale the deep and murky water. From them came the tribe of fish and shellfish and every creature of the water, which have been assigned the most remote dwellings of all as punishment for the most extreme ignorance. These, then, are the laws by which all animals, then and now, pass into one another — transformed as they lose or gain intelligence and folly.

And now we may say that our account of the universe has reached its end. For this world has received mortal and immortal living creatures and been filled full of them, and has itself become a visible living creature embracing all things visible — an image of the intelligible, a perceptible god, greatest and best, most beautiful and most perfect: this one heaven, the only one of its kind that is, or ever will be.

Critias

Persons of the dialogue:
  Critias
  Hermocrates
  Timaeus
  Socrates

Timaeus I'm so grateful, Socrates, that I've finally reached the end — like a weary traveler arriving after a long journey, ready to rest at last! And I pray to the being who has always existed, and whom I've just now described, that my words may endure insofar as they've been spoken truly and in a way that pleases him. But if I've unintentionally said anything wrong, I pray he'll impose on me a just punishment — and the just punishment for someone who's gone astray is to be set right. So, wishing to speak truly in the future about the origin of the gods, I pray he'll give me knowledge, which is the most perfect and powerful of all remedies. And now, having offered my prayer, I hand the discussion over to Critias, who's supposed to speak next, according to our agreement.

Critias And I accept the task, Timaeus. Just as you began by asking for some patience, since you were going to speak about lofty matters, I'm asking for the same — or even more patience — for what I'm about to say. And although I know perfectly well that my request might seem a bit presumptuous and rude, I have to make it anyway. Now, would any sensible person deny that you've spoken well? The only thing I can try to show is that I deserve even more indulgence than you, because my subject is harder. And here's my argument: speaking well about the gods to a human audience is far easier than speaking well about humans to humans. When listeners have no experience and are completely ignorant about a subject, that ignorance is actually a huge advantage for the speaker — and we all know how ignorant we are about the gods. But let me make my point clearer, if you'll follow me.

Everything any of us says is really just imitation and representation. Think about it this way: when painters create images of divine and heavenly bodies, notice the different degrees of satisfaction we feel looking at their work. We're perfectly happy with an artist who can even roughly imitate the earth, its mountains, rivers, woods, the whole universe, and everything moving within it. Since we don't know anything precise about these things, we don't scrutinize or analyze the painting — all that's needed is some vague, impressionistic rendering and we're satisfied. But when someone tries to paint a human body? We're instantly sharp-eyed about every flaw, and our everyday familiarity makes us harsh judges of anyone who doesn't capture every detail.

The same thing happens with words. We're easily satisfied with a picture of divine and heavenly things that barely resembles them, but we're far more demanding when it comes to mortal, human subjects. So if I can't quite express my meaning perfectly when the moment comes, you'll have to forgive me — creating convincing portraits of human things is the opposite of easy. That's what I wanted to suggest to you, and at the same time to ask, Socrates, that I be granted not less but more indulgence for what I'm about to say. If this is a fair request, I hope you'll be willing to grant it.

Socrates Of course, Critias — we'll absolutely grant your request. And we'll extend the same courtesy in advance to Hermocrates as well, along with you and Timaeus. I have no doubt that when his turn comes a little later, he'll make the same request you just did. So, to give him a fresh starting point and spare him from repeating what's already been said, let him understand that the indulgence is already granted in advance. But now, my friend Critias, let me announce the judgment of the audience: they think the last performer was a stunning success, and you're going to need a great deal of indulgence to measure up to him.

Hermocrates That warning you're giving him, Socrates, applies to me too. But remember, Critias — faint heart never raised a trophy. So you need to charge into this argument like a man. Call on Apollo and the Muses first, and then let's hear you celebrate and display the virtues of your ancient citizens.

Critias Easy for you to say, Hermocrates — you're stationed last, with someone else going before you. You haven't lost heart yet. The gravity of the situation will reveal itself to you soon enough. Meanwhile, I'll take your encouragement to heart. But besides the gods and goddesses you've mentioned, I'd especially like to invoke Mnemosyne, the goddess of Memory. The entire crucial part of my story depends on her favor. If I can remember and retell enough of what the priests said and Solon brought back, I'm confident I'll satisfy this audience. And now, with no more excuses, I'll begin.

First, let me start by noting that nine thousand years had passed since the war that was said to have taken place between those who lived beyond the Pillars of Heracles and all who lived within them. This is the war I'm going to describe. On one side, the city of Athens was reported to have been the leader and to have fought the war through to the end. On the other side, the commanders were the kings of Atlantis — which, as I mentioned before, was an island larger than Libya and Asia combined. It was later swallowed by earthquakes and became an impassable barrier of mud, blocking sailors from crossing the ocean beyond.

As the story unfolds, it will reveal the various barbarian nations and Greek families that existed at that time, as they appear one by one. But first I need to describe the Athenians of that era and the enemies they fought, along with the powers and governments of both sides. Let's start with Athens.

In the ancient days, the gods divided the whole earth among themselves by allotment. There was no quarreling — because you can't reasonably suppose that the gods didn't know what was right for each of them, or that, knowing this, they'd try to grab through conflict what rightfully belonged to someone else. They all received their fair share and were satisfied, and they settled their territories. Once they'd populated them, they looked after us — their children, their possessions — the way shepherds tend their flocks. Except they didn't use force or physical violence the way shepherds do. Instead, they governed us like pilots steering from the stern of a ship, which is a gentle way of guiding living creatures. They held our souls by the rudder of persuasion, steering us as they saw fit. That's how they guided all mortal beings.

Now, different gods received different regions and set them in order. Hephaestus and Athena, who were brother and sister — born from the same father, sharing a common nature, and united in their love of both philosophy and craft — these two received as their joint portion this land of ours. It was naturally suited for wisdom and excellence. They planted here a race of brave, native-born people and instilled in their minds the principles of government. Their names have been preserved, but their deeds have been lost, because the people who passed down the traditions were destroyed, and ages upon ages went by. Whenever there were survivors, as I've already mentioned, they were mountain dwellers who were illiterate. They'd heard the names of the old leaders but knew almost nothing about what they'd actually done. They were happy enough to give these names to their children, but as for the virtues and laws of their ancestors, they knew only vague traditions. For many generations, they and their children struggled just to stay alive, so they focused on meeting their basic needs and talked about that — not about events from the distant past. After all, mythology and the study of history don't appear in cities until people have leisure, until the necessities of life have been secured. Not before.

That's why the names of the ancients have come down to us but not their deeds. I draw this conclusion because Solon said that the priests, in their account of that war, mentioned most of the names recorded from before the time of Theseus — names like Cecrops, Erechtheus, Erichthonius, and Erysichthon, and the names of the women as well. Furthermore, since military service was common to both men and women in those days, the people of that era, following their custom, set up a statue of the goddess in full armor — a testament to the fact that among all creatures who live together, male and female alike, both sexes can, if they choose, practice the same virtues without distinction.

Now, in those days the country was inhabited by various classes of citizens. There were craftsmen, and there were farmers, and there was also a warrior class, originally set apart by divine founders. The warriors lived by themselves and had everything they needed for their upbringing and education. None of them owned anything privately — they considered all their possessions common property. They didn't expect to receive from the other citizens anything beyond their necessary food. In fact, they practiced all the pursuits we described yesterday as belonging to our imaginary guardians.

About the land itself, the Egyptian priests said something that's not only plausible but clearly true: the borders in those days were marked by the Isthmus, and toward the mainland they extended as far as the heights of Cithaeron and Parnes. The boundary line came down toward the sea with the district of Oropus on the right, and the river Asopus as the border on the left. The soil was the finest in the world, and in those days it could support an enormous army drawn from the surrounding population. Even the remnant of Attica that exists today can rival any region on earth for the variety and quality of its fruits and the suitability of its pastures for every kind of animal — which proves my point. But back then, the land was as beautiful as it is now, and far more productive.

How can I back this up? What part of today's land can truly be called a remnant of what it once was? The whole country is just a long promontory jutting far out into the sea from the rest of the mainland, and the surrounding ocean is deep right up to the shore. Many catastrophic floods occurred during those nine thousand years — that's how much time has passed since the period I'm describing — and through all these upheavals, there was never any significant buildup of soil washing down from the mountains, as happens in other places. Instead, the earth kept sliding away on all sides and disappearing. The result is that compared to what it once was, all that's left are the bones of a wasted body, so to speak — like a small island stripped bare. All the rich, soft topsoil has washed away, leaving nothing but the skeleton of the land.

But in its original state, the mountains were tall hills covered with deep soil. The plains we now call Phelleus were full of rich earth, and there was thick forest covering the mountains. You can still see traces of this — some mountains that now produce nothing but food for bees once had trees large enough to roof the biggest buildings. There were also many other tall trees, cultivated by people, that produced abundant food for livestock. And the land captured the annual rainfall instead of losing it as water runs off bare earth into the sea today. Back then, it had a generous supply of water everywhere, absorbing it into thick clay soil, then releasing it from the high ground into the hollows, creating abundant springs and rivers in every direction. You can still see sacred shrines at the sites where springs once flowed — which proves that what I'm saying is true.

That was the natural state of the country, and it was cultivated, as you'd expect, by true farmers — people who made agriculture their calling, who loved excellence, who were noble by nature, and who had the best soil in the world, abundant water, and a beautifully temperate climate overhead.

Now, here's how the city was laid out in those days. First: the Acropolis wasn't the way it is now. A single night of extreme rainfall washed away the earth and exposed bare rock; at the same time there were earthquakes, and then came the extraordinary flood — the third before the great catastrophe of Deucalion. But in the original era, the Acropolis hill extended all the way to the Eridanus and Ilissus rivers, taking in the Pnyx on one side and bounded by Lycabettus on the other. The whole thing was covered in deep soil and level on top, except for a spot or two.

On the outer slopes and lower reaches of the hill lived the craftsmen and those farmers who worked the nearby land. The warrior class lived by themselves around the temples of Athena and Hephaestus at the summit, and they'd enclosed the whole area with a single fence — like the wall around one household's garden. On the north side they had shared dwellings and communal dining halls for winter, along with all the buildings they needed for their common life, plus temples. But there was no gold or silver decorating any of it — they had no use for such things. They took a middle path between poverty and showiness, building modest homes where they and their children and grandchildren grew old, passing them on to the next generation, who were always the same kind of people. In summer, they used the southern side of the hill for their gardens, exercise grounds, and dining halls.

Where the Acropolis stands now, there was a spring that was later choked off by the earthquake, leaving only the small trickles that still exist nearby. But in those days, the spring provided abundant water for everyone — pleasantly cool in summer and warm in winter.

That's how they lived, serving as guardians of their own citizens and as leaders of the Greeks, who followed them willingly. And they took care to maintain the same number of men and women throughout the ages — about twenty thousand, the number needed for military purposes, the same as today.

Such were the ancient Athenians. This is how they justly governed their own land and the rest of Greece. They were famous throughout Europe and Asia for the beauty of their bodies and the many virtues of their souls. Of all the people alive in those days, they were the most admired.

And now, if I haven't forgotten what I heard as a child, I'll tell you about the character and origins of their adversaries. After all, friends shouldn't keep their stories to themselves — they should share them.

But before I go any further, I should warn you: don't be surprised if you hear Greek names given to foreigners. Here's why. Solon, who intended to use this story for a poem, looked into the meaning of the names and discovered that the early Egyptians had translated them into their own language when they first wrote them down. Solon recovered the meaning of each name and translated them back into Greek. My great-grandfather Dropides had Solon's original manuscript, which is still in my possession, and I studied it carefully as a child. So if you hear names that sound Greek, that's the reason. Now, here's how the long story began:

I mentioned earlier, when talking about the gods' allotments, that they divided the whole earth into portions of varying size and established temples and sacrifices in their territories. Poseidon received the island of Atlantis as his lot. He fathered children with a mortal woman and settled them on a part of the island that I'll now describe.

Looking toward the sea, but in the center of the whole island, there was a plain — said to be the most beautiful and fertile of all plains. Near this plain, also in the center of the island, about fifty stadia inland, there was a mountain, not very high on any side. On this mountain lived one of the original earthborn men of that country. His name was Evenor, and he had a wife named Leucippe. They had a single daughter called Cleito.

Cleito had just reached womanhood when her father and mother died. Poseidon fell in love with her and slept with her. And then he reshaped the very earth around her: he broke the ground and enclosed the hill where she lived on every side, carving out alternating rings of sea and land, one inside the other — two rings of land and three of water. He turned them as if on a lathe, each ring perfectly equidistant from the center in every direction, so that no one could reach the island at the center. Ships and sailing hadn't been invented yet, so the place was completely inaccessible. But Poseidon, being a god, had no trouble arranging the central island to his liking. He brought up two springs from beneath the earth — one warm, one cold — and made every kind of food grow abundantly from the soil.

He also fathered and raised five pairs of twin sons. He divided the island of Atlantis into ten portions and gave to the firstborn of the eldest pair his mother's home and the surrounding territory — the largest and best portion — making him king over all the rest. The others he made princes, giving each of them rule over many people and a vast territory.

He named them all. The eldest, the first king, he called Atlas — and after him the whole island and the ocean were called Atlantic. His twin brother, born after him, received the far end of the island facing the Pillars of Heracles, toward the region now called Cadiz. His name in Greek was Eumelus, but in the local language he was called Gadeirus. Of the second pair of twins, one was called Ampheres and the other Evaemon. The elder of the third pair was named Mneseus, and the younger Autochthon. Of the fourth pair, the elder was Elasippus and the younger Mestor. And of the fifth pair, the elder was Azaes and the younger Diaprepes.

All of these, and their descendants for many generations, were the inhabitants and rulers of numerous islands throughout the open sea. And, as I mentioned before, they also held dominion in our direction — over the lands within the Pillars — as far as Egypt and Tyrrhenia.

Now, Atlas had a large and distinguished family, and they kept the kingdom in the family, the eldest son always passing it to his eldest, for many generations. They accumulated a quantity of wealth that no kings or rulers had ever possessed before — and probably never will again. They had everything they could possibly need, both in the city and in the countryside. Because of the vastness of their empire, many goods were imported from foreign lands, but the island itself supplied most of what they required for daily life.

First of all, they mined from the earth whatever could be found there — both solid metals and those that could be smelted. And there was one metal that's now just a name but was then something real: orichalcum. They dug it up all over the island, and in those days it was more precious than anything except gold.

There was an abundance of timber for every kind of construction, and plenty of grazing for both domestic and wild animals. In fact, there were even elephants on the island — large numbers of them. Because just as the land provided for every other sort of creature, whether it lived in lakes, marshes, rivers, mountains, or plains, it also provided for the largest and most voracious animal of all.

And whatever fragrant things the earth produces today — roots, herbs, woods, the essences that drip from fruits and flowers — all of these grew and thrived on that island. Cultivated fruits too: the dry, nourishing kind and everything else we use for food — what we generally call grain and pulse. And the hard-shelled fruits that give us drinks, oils, and ointments. Chestnuts and similar treats that we eat for pleasure and amusement. The delightful dessert fruits we bring out after dinner when we're tired of eating, to console ourselves. All of these, that sacred island, bathed in sunlight, produced in beautiful, wonderful, and limitless abundance.

Blessed with all these riches from the earth, the people set about building their temples, palaces, harbors, and docks. And they organized the entire country in the following way:

First, they built bridges across the rings of water surrounding the ancient capital, creating a road to and from the royal palace. They'd built the palace right at the beginning, on the spot where Poseidon and their ancestors had lived, and each generation of kings kept adding to its splendor, every king outdoing the one before him to the best of his ability, until they'd made the building a marvel of size and beauty.

Starting from the sea, they cut a canal three hundred feet wide, a hundred feet deep, and fifty stadia long, driving it straight through to the outermost ring of water. This created a harbor with an entrance wide enough for the largest ships to sail through. They also cut openings through the rings of land at the bridges — just wide enough for a single trireme to pass from one ring of water to the next — and they roofed over these channels to create covered waterways underneath for the ships, since the banks of the land rings rose well above the water.

Now, the largest ring of water — the one they'd cut the channel to from the sea — was three stadia wide, and the ring of land next to it was equally wide. The next two rings — one water, one land — were each two stadia wide. And the ring of water immediately surrounding the central island was just one stadium wide. The central island itself, where the palace stood, was five stadia in diameter.

They enclosed all of this — the island, the rings, and the bridges (which were a sixth of a stadium wide) — with stone walls on every side, placing towers and gates on the bridges where the sea channels passed through. The stone they quarried from beneath the central island and from under the rings, on both the inner and outer sides. It came in three colors: white, black, and red. And as they quarried, they simultaneously hollowed out double docks with roofs carved from the native rock. Some of their buildings were simple — all one color. But in others, they mixed the different stones together, varying the colors to delight the eye, creating a natural and effortless beauty.

The outer wall, which ran around the outermost ring, they covered entirely with a coating of bronze. The next wall they coated with tin. And the third wall, the one enclosing the citadel itself, blazed with the red light of orichalcum.

Inside the citadel, the palaces were built like this: At the very center stood a sacred temple dedicated to Cleito and Poseidon, surrounded by a golden enclosure. No one was allowed to enter — it was the spot where the family of the ten princes had first come into the world. Each year, the people brought seasonal offerings of first fruits from all ten districts to this shrine.

Here too was Poseidon's own temple — a stadium long, half a stadium wide, and proportionately tall, with a strange, exotic appearance. They covered the entire exterior with silver, except for the pinnacles, which were gold. Inside, the ceiling was ivory, elaborately inlaid everywhere with gold, silver, and orichalcum. The walls, columns, and floor were all sheathed in orichalcum.

Inside the temple they placed golden statues. There was the god himself, standing in a chariot drawn by six winged horses, so enormous that his head touched the ceiling. Around him were a hundred Nereids riding on dolphins — that being the number people believed existed in those days. There were also many other statues inside, dedicated by private citizens. And around the temple on the outside stood golden statues of all the descendants of the ten kings and their wives, plus many other magnificent offerings from the kings and from private citizens, both from the city itself and from the foreign cities under their rule. There was an altar, too, that matched this magnificence in size and workmanship. And the palaces were equally worthy of the greatness of the kingdom and the glory of the temple.

They also had fountains — one of cold water and another of hot — flowing generously, and the water was remarkably pleasant and pure. They built structures around these springs and planted appropriate trees. They constructed pools — some open to the sky, others covered over for use as warm baths in winter. There were separate baths for the kings, separate ones for private citizens, separate ones for women, and separate ones for horses and cattle, each decorated as befitted its purpose. The overflow water they channeled to the sacred grove of Poseidon, where trees of astonishing height and beauty grew thanks to the extraordinary soil. The rest they directed through aqueducts along the bridges to the outer rings. There they'd built numerous temples dedicated to various gods, along with gardens and exercise grounds — some for men, others for horses — on both of the two islands formed by the land rings. In the center of the larger island, they'd set aside a racecourse a stadium wide, which ran the entire length of the island for horse racing. There were also guardhouses stationed at intervals. The most trusted guards were assigned to the smaller ring, closer to the Acropolis. The most trusted of all were given houses inside the citadel itself, near the kings.

The docks were packed with triremes and naval supplies, everything ready for use.

So much for the layout of the royal palace.

Leaving the palace and crossing out through the three harbors, you came to a wall that started at the sea and ran all the way around, everywhere fifty stadia from the largest harbor, completely enclosing the whole area, with its two ends meeting at the mouth of the canal leading to the sea. The entire space was densely packed with houses. The canal and the largest harbor were crammed with ships and merchants arriving from every direction, and the sheer number of people created a constant roar of voices and clamor of every kind, day and night.

I've described the city and the area around the ancient palace more or less in Solon's own words. Now I need to try to convey the nature and layout of the rest of the country.

The whole land was said to be very high and sheer on the side facing the sea, but the area immediately around the city was a level plain, surrounded by mountains that descended toward the coast. It was smooth and even, oblong in shape — stretching three thousand stadia in one direction and two thousand stadia across the center from the coast inland. This part of the island faced south and was sheltered from the north. The surrounding mountains were legendary for their number, size, and beauty — far surpassing any that exist today. They contained many prosperous villages, as well as rivers, lakes, and meadows with enough food for every animal, wild or tame, and forests of every kind of wood, abundant enough for every purpose.

Now let me describe the plain, shaped as it was by nature and by the labor of many generations of kings over long ages. It was mostly rectangular and oblong, and where it deviated from a straight line, it followed a circular ditch. The depth, width, and length of this ditch were staggering — almost unbelievable for a manmade work, especially on top of everything else they'd built. But I have to report what I was told. It was dug to a depth of a hundred feet, a stadium wide all the way around, and ten thousand stadia in total length, encircling the entire plain. It collected the streams that flowed down from the mountains, wound around the plain, converged at the city, and drained from there into the sea. From the inland side, straight canals a hundred feet wide were cut through the plain to the ditch, spaced a hundred stadia apart. Through these canals they floated timber down from the mountains to the city and shipped agricultural produce, cutting cross-channels between the canals for transportation to the city. They harvested crops twice a year — relying on rainfall in winter and irrigation from the canals in summer.

As for the population: each plot on the plain was responsible for providing a military commander over its able-bodied men. Each plot was a square of ten stadia on a side, and there were sixty thousand plots in total. The mountain regions and the rest of the countryside also had a vast population, distributed among the plots and assigned leaders according to their districts and villages. Each leader was required to supply, for war: one-sixth of a war chariot (making ten thousand chariots total), two horses with riders, a pair of chariot horses without a seat plus a mounted warrior who could fight on foot with a small shield and a charioteer to stand behind the fighter and drive the horses. Also: two heavy-armed soldiers, two archers, two slingers, three stone-throwers, three javelin men (all light-armed), and four sailors — to crew a total fleet of twelve hundred ships.

That was the military organization of the royal city. The other nine kingdoms had their own arrangements, but it would be tedious to go through all the differences.

As for offices and honors, here's how things were set up from the beginning. Each of the ten kings had absolute authority over the citizens in his own territory and in his own city, and in most cases over the laws as well, with the power to punish and execute as he saw fit. But the hierarchy among the kings and their relations with each other were governed by the commands of Poseidon, handed down by law. These were inscribed on a pillar of orichalcum, which stood in the center of the island at the temple of Poseidon. The kings gathered there every fifth year, and then every sixth year, alternating to give equal honor to both odd and even numbers. When assembled, they discussed their common interests, investigated whether any of them had broken the law, and passed judgment.

But before passing judgment, they'd pledge themselves to each other in this way: there were bulls that roamed freely in the temple of Poseidon. The ten kings, left alone in the temple, would pray to the god to let them capture a victim acceptable to him. Then they hunted the bulls — with no weapons, only wooden staves and nooses. The bull they caught, they led to the pillar and cut its throat so the blood spattered over the sacred inscription.

Now, inscribed on the pillar, alongside the laws, was an oath calling down terrible curses on anyone who disobeyed. So after they'd slaughtered the bull in the traditional manner and burned its limbs, they'd fill a mixing bowl with wine and drop in a clot of blood for each of them. The rest of the bull they burned on the fire, after purifying the column all around. Then each king drew from the bowl with a golden cup, poured a libation onto the fire, and swore that he would judge according to the laws on the pillar, that he would punish anyone who'd already broken them, that in the future he would not willingly violate what was written there, and that he would neither give orders nor obey any ruler who commanded him to act contrary to the laws of their father Poseidon. Each king made this prayer for himself and his descendants, then drank from the cup and dedicated it in the temple of the god.

After they'd eaten dinner and taken care of their needs, when night fell and the sacrificial fire had died down to embers, they all put on magnificent dark blue robes. Then, sitting on the ground in the darkness, by the glow of the embers over which they'd sworn, with every other fire in the temple extinguished, they received and delivered judgment, in case anyone had charges to bring against another. At dawn, they wrote their verdicts on a golden tablet and dedicated it, along with their robes, as a memorial.

There were many specific laws governing the individual kings, inscribed around the temples, but the most important were these: they must never take up arms against one another, and they must all come to the defense of any city where someone tried to overthrow the royal house. Following their ancestors' example, they were to deliberate together about war and other matters, with supreme authority given to the descendants of Atlas. And the king could not impose the death penalty on any of his kinsmen without the consent of a majority of the ten.

Such was the vast power that the god established on the lost island of Atlantis. And eventually he turned this power against our land. Here's why, as tradition tells it:

For many generations, as long as the divine nature within them remained strong, they obeyed the laws and were loyal to the god whose blood they carried. They possessed spirits that were truly great in every way — combining gentleness with wisdom through whatever life threw at them, and in their dealings with each other. They looked down on everything except virtue. They thought little of their wealth, regarding their mountains of gold and other possessions as a burden rather than a blessing. They weren't intoxicated by luxury, and wealth never robbed them of their self-control. They were clear-headed. They understood that all these material goods are increased by virtue and mutual friendship, but that obsessing over wealth and chasing it destroys both the wealth itself and virtue along with it.

Thanks to this kind of thinking, and because the divine element in their nature endured, all the qualities I've described kept growing and flourishing in them.

But when the divine portion began to fade — diluted again and again by the mortal element, as it was mixed in too heavily — and when human nature gained the upper hand, then they could no longer handle their good fortune. They behaved disgracefully. To anyone with eyes to see, they were visibly degraded, because they were losing the most precious of their gifts. But to those who couldn't see what true happiness was, they appeared more glorious and blessed than ever, right at the moment when they were most consumed by greed and unjust power.

Zeus, the god of gods, who rules according to law and has the ability to perceive such things, saw that this honorable race had fallen into a wretched state. Wanting to punish them so they might learn and improve, he gathered all the gods into their most sacred dwelling place — the one at the center of the universe, which looks out over all of creation. And when he had assembled them, he spoke as follows —

The Laws

Laws — Book I

Persons of the dialogue:
  An Athenian stranger
  Cleinias, a Cretan
  Megillus, a Spartan

Scene: The road from Knossos to the cave and temple of Zeus, on a hot summer day in Crete.

Athenian: Tell me, friends — is it a god or a man who's credited with creating your laws?

Cleinias: A god, stranger. Absolutely a god. Here in Crete, we say it was Zeus himself. But in Sparta, where our friend Megillus comes from, I believe they'd say Apollo is their lawgiver. Isn't that right, Megillus?

Megillus: That's right.

Athenian: And do you believe the story Homer tells, Cleinias — that every nine years, Minos traveled to meet with his father Zeus on Olympus, and that Zeus inspired him to write the laws for your cities?

Cleinias: Yes, that's our tradition. And there was his brother Rhadamanthus too — you've probably heard of him. He's said to have been the most just man who ever lived, and we Cretans believe he earned that reputation through his righteous handling of justice during his lifetime.

Athenian: A noble reputation, and worthy of a son of Zeus. Now, since you and Megillus were both raised under these institutions, I'd imagine you won't mind giving an account of your government and laws. We can pass the time talking about them as we walk. I'm told it's a considerable distance from Knossos to the cave and temple of Zeus, and there must be shady spots along the way under the tall trees — places to escape this scorching sun. We're not young men anymore. We can stop and rest beneath them whenever we need to, and make it through the whole journey without too much trouble, letting conversation carry us along.

Cleinias: Yes, and as we go further we'll come to groves of cypresses — remarkably tall and beautiful ones — and green meadows where we can sit and talk.

Athenian: Excellent.

Cleinias: Indeed — and even better once we actually see them. Let's get moving.

Athenian: I'm happy to. And first, I want to know: why has the law required you to have communal meals and gymnastic training, and to carry weapons?

Cleinias: I think that's fairly easy to explain, stranger. Just look at our landscape. Crete isn't like Thessaly — it's not a big flat plain. That's why Thessaly has horsemen and we have foot-soldiers. Our rugged, uneven terrain is better suited to getting around on foot. And if you're fighting on foot, you need light equipment — no one can run carrying a heavy load — so bows and arrows make sense because they're light. All these arrangements were designed with war in mind, and I think the lawgiver had military readiness at the heart of everything he did. The communal meals, if I'm not mistaken, were set up for the same reason. He noticed that when men are in the field on campaign, the nature of the situation forces them to eat together for mutual protection. It seems to me he thought the world was foolish for not understanding that all people are always at war with one another. And if during wartime there ought to be communal meals and organized chains of command for an army's protection, those same arrangements should continue during peacetime too. Because what most people call "peace" is really just a name — in reality, every city is in a permanent natural state of war with every other city, even if no herald has proclaimed it. If you look closely, you'll see that this was exactly what our Cretan lawgiver intended. Every institution, public and private, was arranged with war in mind. He was working on the assumption that no possessions or institutions have any value for someone who's been defeated in battle — because all the good things of the conquered pass into the hands of the conquerors.

Athenian: You seem to have been thoroughly trained in the Cretan way of thinking, and very well informed about it. But could you spell out for me a bit more precisely the principle behind it? You seem to be saying that a well-governed state should be organized so as to conquer all other states in war. Am I reading you correctly?

Cleinias: Absolutely. And our Spartan friend here will agree with me, I'm sure.

Megillus: How could any Spartan say otherwise?

Athenian: And does this principle apply only to states, or to villages as well?

Cleinias: Both.

Athenian: The same idea?

Cleinias: Yes.

Athenian: And within the village — the same kind of war between family and family, and individual against individual?

Cleinias: The same.

Athenian: And should each person think of himself as his own enemy too? What do we say about that?

Cleinias: Now there, Athenian stranger — I won't just call you a man of Attica, because you seem to deserve being named after the goddess Athena herself — you've gone right back to first principles. You've thrown real light on the argument, and you'll be in an even better position now to understand what I was getting at: that all people are publicly each other's enemies, and privately, each person is his own enemy.

Athenian: What do you mean by that, exactly?

Cleinias: There's a kind of victory and defeat — the very first and best of victories, the very lowest and worst of defeats — that each person wins or suffers not at the hands of another, but at his own hands. This shows that there's a war going on inside every one of us.

Athenian: Let's turn the argument around. If every individual is either his own master or his own slave, can we say the same principle operates in the household, the village, and the state?

Cleinias: You mean that in each of them there's a principle of being superior or inferior to oneself?

Athenian: Yes.

Cleinias: You're absolutely right to ask that. There certainly is such a principle, and it applies above all to states. A state where the better citizens win out over the mob and the inferior classes can truly be called "better than itself" and deserves praise. When the opposite happens, it deserves blame.

Athenian: Whether the better element is ever really conquered by the worse is a question that needs more discussion, so let's set it aside for now. But I do understand your point. You're saying that citizens of the same blood who live in the same city can form an unjust conspiracy, and if they have superior numbers, they can overpower and enslave the just minority. When that happens, the state is truly "inferior to itself" — and therefore bad. When they're defeated, the state is "superior to itself" — and therefore good.

Cleinias: That's a strange-sounding claim, stranger. But we can't possibly deny it.

Athenian: Here's another case to think about. In a family, there might be several brothers born to the same parents. It's perfectly possible that the majority of them are unjust, with the just ones in the minority.

Cleinias: Perfectly possible.

Athenian: And you and I shouldn't get sidetracked arguing about whether it's technically proper to call this family "superior" when the just prevail and "inferior" when they don't. We're not quibbling over conventional language right now. We're investigating the natural principles of right and wrong as they apply to law.

Cleinias: What you say is absolutely true, stranger.

Megillus: Excellent — I agree entirely, as far as we've gone.

Athenian: Now then. Suppose there were a judge presiding over these brothers we've been discussing.

Cleinias: All right.

Athenian: Which would be the better judge — one who destroyed the bad brothers and set the good ones up to govern themselves? Or one who let the good govern but allowed the bad to live, and made them voluntarily submit? Or perhaps third in the ranking of excellence would be a judge who, finding the family in conflict, didn't destroy anyone at all but instead reconciled them with each other permanently, gave them laws they all agreed to follow, and managed to keep them friends.

Cleinias: That last judge would be far and away the best — the best sort of legislator too.

Athenian: And yet the aim of all the laws this judge would give would be the opposite of war.

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: Now consider: would the person who organizes a state and arranges the lives of its people have his eye on foreign war, or on that internal kind of war we call civil strife — the kind that no one would want to see in their own state, and that everyone, once it breaks out, wants to end as quickly as possible?

Cleinias: He'd be focused mainly on preventing civil strife.

Athenian: And would he prefer that civil conflict be ended by the destruction of one side and the victory of the other, or that peace and friendship be restored — so that, once reconciled, the citizens could turn their attention to foreign enemies?

Cleinias: Everyone would prefer the latter, at least in their own state.

Athenian: And wouldn't the lawgiver want the same thing?

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: And wouldn't every lawgiver always make laws with an eye to the best outcome?

Cleinias: Of course.

Athenian: But war — whether foreign or civil — isn't the best outcome. The need for either kind is something to be regretted. Peace and mutual goodwill, those are what's best. And even a state's "victory over itself" shouldn't really be considered a good thing — it's a necessity. It's like saying the body is in its best condition when it's sick and being purged by medicine, while forgetting that there's also a condition of the body that doesn't need any purging at all. In the same way, no one can be a true statesman — whether they're looking after the happiness of an individual or a state — if they focus only, or even primarily, on foreign warfare. No one can be a sound lawgiver who organizes peace for the sake of war, rather than war for the sake of peace.

Cleinias: There seems to be truth in what you're saying, stranger. And yet I'd be very much mistaken if the entire aim and purpose of our Cretan institutions — and the Spartan ones too — isn't war.

Athenian: Probably so. But there's no reason we should rudely quarrel with each other about your lawgivers. Let's question them gently instead, since we're all equally serious about getting to the truth. Follow me closely here. First, let me call up Tyrtaeus as a witness — he was Athenian by birth but also a Spartan citizen, and no man was ever more passionate about war. He writes:

"I sing not, I care not, about any man,"

even if he were the richest man alive and possessed every good thing — and then Tyrtaeus gives a whole list of them — unless he's a brave warrior at all times. I imagine you've heard his poems too. Our Spartan friend here has probably heard more than enough of them.

Megillus: Very true.

Cleinias: And they've made their way from Sparta to Crete as well.

Athenian: All right, let's all put a question to Tyrtaeus together. We'd say to him: "Most inspired poet, the magnificent praise you've given to those who excel in war is proof enough that you're wise and good, and I believe Megillus, Cleinias of Knossos, and I all agree with you completely. But we want to make sure we're talking about the same kind of men. Tell us — do you agree that there are two kinds of war?" Now, even a man far less gifted than Tyrtaeus could answer without any difficulty that yes, there are two kinds. One is what everyone calls civil war — and as we were just saying, it's the worst of all wars. The other, war against foreign nations of different peoples, is a far milder form of conflict.

Cleinias: Much milder, certainly.

Athenian: Well then — when you sing your high praise of war and blame those who fall short, Tyrtaeus, which kind of war are you talking about? Which warriors are you praising? Foreign war, I'd assume, judging from lines like these:

"Who refuse to look upon fields of blood, and will not draw near and strike at their enemies."

So we'd naturally conclude: "You, Tyrtaeus, seem to be praising those who distinguish themselves in foreign and external war." And he'd have to agree.

Cleinias: Obviously.

Athenian: They are good men, those warriors. But we say there are even better men — men whose excellence shows itself in the greatest of all battles. And we have a poet of our own to call as witness: Theognis, a citizen of Megara in Sicily. He says:

"Cyrnus, he who is faithful in a civil conflict is worth his weight in gold and silver."

And we claim that such a man is far better than the other in a much more difficult kind of war — better in roughly the same way that justice, temperance, and wisdom, when combined with courage, are better than courage alone. Because a man can't be faithful and good during civil strife unless he possesses all the virtues working together. But in the external wars Tyrtaeus writes about, plenty of mercenary soldiers will plant themselves on the battlefield ready to die — and yet they're generally insolent, unjust, violent, and among the most senseless people alive.

So where does this lead? What am I trying to show? I'm saying this: the divine lawgiver of Crete — or any lawgiver worth the name — will always and above all else, when making laws, keep his eye on the greatest virtue. And according to Theognis, that's loyalty in the hour of danger, which we might call complete justice. The virtue Tyrtaeus celebrates is good enough, and the poet praised it at the right time. But in rank and importance, it's only fourth-rate.

Cleinias: Stranger, you're demoting our inspired lawgiver to a rank far beneath him!

Athenian: No — I think we'd be demoting ourselves if we imagined that Lycurgus and Minos designed the laws of Sparta and Crete primarily with war in mind.

Cleinias: Then what should we say?

Athenian: What truth and justice demand, I think, when we're speaking on behalf of truly divine excellence: that the lawgiver, when making his laws, had in view not just one part of virtue — and the lowest part at that — but all of virtue. He devised categories of law corresponding to the different kinds of virtue, and not in the way modern lawmakers do. Today's legislators investigate one narrow problem at a time and draft laws as the need arises — one set of laws about property distribution, another about inheritance, another about assault, and on and on for ten thousand other matters. But we maintain that the right way to examine laws is the way we've been doing it just now.

And I admired your approach, actually. You were absolutely right to begin with virtue and say that virtue was the aim of the lawgiver. Where I thought you went wrong was in claiming that all his legislation aimed at only a part of virtue — the least important part — and that's what prompted my subsequent remarks. So will you let me explain how I wish you'd presented the case?

Cleinias: By all means.

Athenian: You should have said something like this: "Stranger, the Cretan laws are rightly famous throughout Greece, because they accomplish what laws are supposed to accomplish — they make the people who live under them happy. They provide every kind of good thing. Now, goods come in two categories: human goods and divine goods. The human goods depend on the divine ones. A state that achieves the greater goods automatically gets the lesser ones too. A state that lacks the greater goods gets neither.

"Among the lesser, human goods, the first is health. The second is beauty. The third is physical strength — including speed and overall fitness. The fourth is wealth — but not the blind kind. Wealth that can see, wealth paired with wisdom.

"Among the divine goods, the first and foremost is wisdom. That's the leader. The second is temperance — self-control. And from the union of these two with courage springs justice. Courage itself comes fourth.

"All these divine goods naturally take precedence over the human goods, and this is the order the lawgiver must follow. After establishing these priorities, he'll design the rest of his laws for the citizens with an eye toward them — the human goods looking up to the divine ones, and the divine goods looking up to their leader, which is mind and wisdom.

"Some of his laws will deal with marriage contracts. Then with the bearing and raising of children, both boys and girls. The lawgiver's job is to take charge of his citizens through every stage of life — youth, maturity, old age — handing out punishments and rewards as needed. In all their dealings with one another, he should study their pains and pleasures and desires, and the intensity of all their passions. He should watch over them and use the voice of the law itself to praise and blame them rightly. He should address anger, fear, and the other disturbances of the soul that come with misfortune, as well as the recoveries that come with prosperity, and the experiences people go through in sickness, war, poverty, and their opposites. For every one of these situations, he should define and teach what's good and what's harmful.

"Next, the lawgiver must pay attention to how citizens make and spend their money, and oversee their contracts and dissolutions of contracts, whether voluntary or involuntary. He should examine how justice and injustice operate in all their various dealings with one another. He should honor those who obey the law and impose fixed penalties on those who don't — right up until the cycle of civic life is complete and it's time to consider proper funeral rites and honors for the dead.

"Finally, the lawgiver should review his entire body of work and appoint guardians to oversee all these matters — some guided by real understanding, others by sound judgment. Then wisdom will bind all his laws together and show them to be in harmony with temperance and justice, rather than with wealth or ambition."

That's the spirit in which I wanted you to explain your laws, Cleinias. And what I want to know is: how is all of this arranged in the laws they attribute to Zeus and to Pythian Apollo — the laws that Minos and Lycurgus handed down? How does the underlying order become visible to someone who has experience with legal systems, whether through study or long practice? Because to the rest of us, this order is far from obvious.

Cleinias: How should we proceed, stranger?

Athenian: I think we need to start over, the way we did before, and first examine the practice of courage. Then we'll move on to discuss another form of virtue, and then another, if you're willing. By taking courage as our model, we'll work through the whole set. And using discussions like these, we'll make the journey pass pleasantly. Once we've covered all the virtues, we'll show — God willing — that the institutions I've been describing are all aimed at virtue.

Megillus: Good plan. And why don't you start by critiquing this admirer of Zeus and Cretan law right here?

Athenian: I'll try to critique both of you and myself too, since the argument belongs to all of us. Tell me — weren't the communal meals first, and the gymnastic training second, both established by your lawgiver with an eye toward war?

Megillus: Yes.

Athenian: And what comes third, and what fourth? I think that's the right way to enumerate the remaining aspects of virtue — never mind exactly what we call them, as long as the meaning is clear.

Megillus: Well, any Spartan would say that hunting comes third.

Athenian: Let's see if we can figure out what comes fourth and fifth.

Megillus: I think I can get to fourth. It would be the routine endurance of pain — something we Spartans display in our hand-to-hand combat exercises, and also in our practice of stealing food while facing the prospect of a thorough beating if caught. Then there's the Crypteia — the secret service — which requires extraordinary endurance. Our young men roam the entire countryside day and night, even in winter, without shoes on their feet or beds to sleep in, serving as their own attendants with no help at all. And then there's the incredible endurance shown in our naked exercises, pushing through the brutal summer heat. There are many more examples like these — so many it would take forever to list them all.

Athenian: That's all well and good, my Spartan friend. But how should we define courage? Is it only about fighting against fears and pain? Or does it also involve fighting against desires and pleasures — and against those seductive flatteries that have the power to make even respectable people melt like wax?

Megillus: I'd say it includes all of those.

Athenian: Now, earlier in our conversation — you'll remember — our friend Cleinias from Knossos was talking about a person or a city being "inferior to themselves." Were you not, Cleinias?

Cleinias: I was.

Athenian: So which person is more truly "inferior" — the one who's overcome by pleasure, or the one who's overcome by pain?

Cleinias: I'd say the one overcome by pleasure. Everyone considers him inferior in a more shameful way than the person overcome by pain.

Athenian: But surely the lawgivers of Crete and Sparta didn't design courage to limp along on one leg — strong enough to fight attacks from one direction but helpless against the seductive assaults from the other?

Cleinias: Strong enough for both, I'd say.

Athenian: Then tell me: what institutions do either of your states have that give people a taste of pleasures — that don't avoid them, the way you avoid pain — but instead put a person right in the middle of them, and use incentives to compel or encourage him to master them? Where is the law dealing with pleasure that matches your laws dealing with pain? Tell me: what do you have that makes your citizens equally tough against both pleasure and pain, conquering what they should conquer, unbeaten by the enemies that are most dangerous and closest to home?

Megillus: I was able to point to many laws directed against pain, stranger. But when it comes to similar institutions dealing with pleasure, I can't think of any great or obvious examples. There might be some minor provisions I could mention.

Cleinias: And I can't point to anything like that in Cretan law either — nothing comparably prominent.

Athenian: That's not surprising, my dear friends. And if, in our search for what's truly good, one of us has to criticize the laws of the others — well, let's not take offense. Let's take it kindly.

Cleinias: You're quite right, Athenian stranger. We'll do as you say.

Athenian: At our age, Cleinias, there should be no room for hurt feelings.

Cleinias: Certainly not.

Athenian: I won't say right now whether criticisms of the Cretan or Spartan systems are justified or not. But I think I can describe what most people say about them better than either of you can. Assuming your laws are reasonably good, one of the best among them is the rule forbidding any young person from questioning whether the laws are right or wrong. Young people must speak with one voice and agree that all the laws are good, since they came from a god. Anyone who says otherwise shouldn't be listened to. But an old man who notices a flaw in the laws is free to share his observation with a ruler or with someone his own age, as long as no young people are around to hear it.

Cleinias: That's exactly right, stranger. Like a prophet who wasn't there at the time, you seem to have understood the lawgiver's intention perfectly. What you say is absolutely true.

Athenian: Well, since no young people are present, and since the lawgiver has given old men free license to speak, there's nothing improper about us discussing these matters now, just among ourselves.

Cleinias: True. So feel as free as you like in criticizing our laws. There's no shame in recognizing what's wrong. Anyone who receives criticism in a generous and friendly spirit will only be better for it.

Athenian: Good. However, I'm not going to attack your laws — not until I've examined them as carefully as I can. I'm just going to raise some questions. Because here's what's striking: you are the only people we know of, Greek or foreign, whose lawgiver commanded citizens to avoid all intense pleasures and amusements — to never touch them. Yet when it comes to pain and fear, as we've been discussing, your lawgiver understood perfectly well that people who've spent their entire lives from childhood avoiding pain, fear, and hardship will run away when they're eventually forced to face those things, and will become the slaves of those who are hardened to them.

Now, it seems to me the lawgiver should have applied the same reasoning to pleasure. He should have said to himself: "If my citizens grow up from youth entirely unfamiliar with the most intense pleasures, and never learn to endure temptation, and aren't trained to resist everything that's base, then the sweet pull of pleasure will overcome them just as surely as fear would overcome the first group. In a different way — actually, an even worse way — they'll become the slaves of people who can handle pleasure, people who've had plenty of experience enjoying it, even when those people are the worst sort of men. Half their soul will be enslaved, the other half free. And they won't deserve to be called truly free men in the fullest sense."

Tell me — do you agree with what I'm saying?

Cleinias: At first hearing, it does seem to ring true. But to rush to a conclusion about such important matters would be pretty childish and naive.

Athenian: Fair enough. Let's move on to the next virtue we planned to discuss. After courage comes temperance — self-control. What institutions will we find in Crete or Sparta that promote temperance, the way your military institutions differ from those of other states?

Megillus: That's not an easy question to answer. But I'd say the communal meals and gymnastic exercises have been admirably designed to promote both temperance and courage.

Athenian: Here's the difficulty with state institutions, though: it's hard to make theory and practice line up perfectly with no room for debate. It's like the human body — a treatment that does good in one way can do harm in another, and you can hardly say that any single regimen suits every constitution. Take the gymnasia and communal meals: they do a great deal of good, but they've also been a source of trouble during civil unrest. We can see this from what happened among the youth in Miletus, Boeotia, and Thurii, where these institutions seem to have had a tendency to corrupt the ancient and natural customs of love — degrading them below the level not only of human beings but even of animals.

This charge can fairly be leveled at your cities above all others, and it's true of most states that place heavy emphasis on athletic training. Whether we should treat these matters lightly or seriously, I think we should recognize that the pleasure arising from the natural union of men and women is natural, while the union of men with men, or women with women, is contrary to nature — a product of unbridled desire. The Cretans are often accused of having invented the story of Ganymede and Zeus specifically to justify their own practices, claiming divine precedent from the very god they believe gave them their laws.

Setting that story aside, we can observe that any serious thinking about legislation comes down almost entirely to pleasure and pain — both in states and in individuals. These are two springs that nature lets flow, and the person who draws from them at the right time, in the right place, and in the right amount is happy. This applies to humans and animals alike, to individuals and states. But whoever indulges ignorantly or at the wrong time will be the opposite of happy.

Megillus: I admit, stranger, that your words are well spoken, and I hardly know how to answer you. But still, I think the Spartan lawgiver was absolutely right to forbid excessive pleasure. As for the Cretan laws, I'll leave their defense to my friend from Knossos. But the Spartan laws regarding pleasure seem to me the best in the world. Our system has completely driven out the thing that leads most of humanity into wild pleasure, bad behavior, and every kind of foolishness. Neither in the countryside nor in the towns under Spartan control will you find revelries and all the provocations to pleasure that come with them. Anyone who encounters a drunken, disorderly person will have him punished severely on the spot — no excuses accepted, not even during a festival of Dionysus. Although I've noticed this kind of thing does happen at your performances "on the cart," as you call them. And among our Tarentine colonists, I've seen an entire city drunk at a Dionysian festival. But nothing like that happens in Sparta.

Athenian: My Spartan friend, these festivals are praiseworthy when there's a spirit of discipline behind them, but they're completely foolish when they're unregulated. An Athenian could easily fire back by pointing out the license that exists among your women. But for all accusations like these — whether they're aimed at the Tarentines, at us Athenians, or at you Spartans — there's one standard reply that settles the question of propriety. When a stranger expresses shock at some local practice, any citizen will naturally say: "Don't be surprised, stranger. This is our custom. You probably do things differently where you're from."

But that's not what we're discussing, friends. We're not talking about people in general — we're examining the merits and defects of the lawgivers themselves. So let's talk at more length about intoxication. It's actually a very important subject, and it takes real discrimination from a legislator to handle it well. I'm not talking about whether people should drink wine at all or not drink wine at all. I'm talking about intoxication itself.

Should we follow the custom of the Scythians and Persians and Carthaginians and Celts and Iberians and Thracians — all warlike peoples — or that of your countrymen, who, as you say, abstain entirely? The Scythians and Thracians, both men and women, drink their wine unmixed and pour it on their clothes, and they consider this a fine and glorious tradition. The Persians are also very fond of various luxuries that you reject, though they indulge with somewhat more restraint than the Thracians and Scythians.

Megillus: My good man, all we have to do is pick up our weapons and we send every one of those nations running.

Athenian: Don't say that, my friend. There have been — and always will be — victories and retreats that can't be explained by such simple logic. We can't use military victory or defeat as reliable proof that a society's institutions are good or bad. Larger states conquer smaller ones all the time — Syracuse has conquered Locri, which appears to have the best government in that part of the world; Athens conquered the Ceans — and there are ten thousand other examples of the same thing. None of that proves anything.

Let's try instead to evaluate each institution on its own merits and say nothing for now about victories and defeats. Let's just say: this custom is good, and that one is not. But first, let me explain how we should judge what's good and bad in these matters.

Megillus: How do you mean?

Athenian: Here's the problem. People who are ready to praise or condemn some practice the instant it's mentioned are going about it the wrong way. Let me give you an example. Suppose someone praises wheat as excellent food, and someone else immediately attacks wheat — without ever asking about its effects, how it should be used, who should eat it, with what, in what condition, or how it should be prepared. That's exactly what we're doing in this discussion. The moment the word "intoxication" comes up, one side praises it and the other condemns it. That's absurd. Each side produces their witnesses and endorsements. Some of us think we've made our case because we have many supporters. Others think they've won because they can point to nations that abstain and conquer in battle — and then we dispute that too.

If we keep discussing each law this way, we'll get nowhere. And on this particular point of intoxication, I'd like to approach it differently — the right way, I believe. Because if sheer numbers are the criterion, there are millions of people from countless nations ready to dispute the matter with just two cities.

Megillus: I'd gladly welcome any method of inquiry that's genuinely right.

Athenian: Let me put it this way. Suppose someone praises goat-keeping and says goats are wonderful animals to own. Then someone else, who's only ever seen goats wandering without a goatherd into cultivated fields and causing damage, attacks goats — or any other animal, for that matter — with no keeper or a bad keeper. Would there be any sense or justice in that kind of criticism?

Megillus: Certainly not.

Athenian: Is a captain a good captain just because he has sailing knowledge — whether or not he gets seasick? What would you say?

Megillus: I'd say he's not a good captain if he's competent in navigation but prone to seasickness.

Athenian: And what about a military commander? Can he command effectively just because he has military expertise, if he's also a coward — the kind of man who gets "sick and drunk with fear" when danger approaches?

Megillus: Impossible.

Athenian: And what if he's both a coward and incompetent?

Megillus: Then he's a wretched excuse for a commander — fit to lead old women, not soldiers.

Athenian: Now, what about someone who criticizes or praises any kind of social gathering — one that by its nature requires a leader and works perfectly well under good leadership — but the critic has never actually seen such a gathering properly run? He's only ever seen it with no leader or a bad one. When that kind of observer praises or blames such gatherings, can we trust anything he says?

Megillus: Certainly not, if he's never seen or attended one that was properly organized.

Athenian: Now think about it: wouldn't we say that banquets and drinking parties constitute a kind of social gathering?

Megillus: Of course.

Athenian: And has anyone ever seen this kind of gathering properly run? The two of you will answer easily enough: you've never seen such a thing at all, because drinking parties aren't customary or legal in your countries. But I've encountered many of them, in many different places, and I've asked questions about them wherever I went. And I can tell you: I've never seen or heard of one that was conducted entirely the right way. A few details might be handled correctly, but on the whole, they were complete disasters.

Cleinias: What do you mean by that, stranger? Explain. Given our inexperience with such things, as you say, we probably wouldn't recognize what's right or wrong about them even if we stumbled into one.

Athenian: That's likely enough. So let me try to teach you. You'd agree, wouldn't you, that in any gathering of people, whatever the purpose, there ought to be a leader?

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: And we were just saying that in wartime, the leader needs to be a brave man?

Cleinias: We were.

Athenian: A brave man is less likely to be rattled by fear than a coward?

Cleinias: That's true too.

Athenian: And if it were possible to have an army general who was absolutely fearless and unshakable, we'd want to appoint him above anyone else, wouldn't we?

Cleinias: Absolutely.

Athenian: But right now we're not talking about a general commanding an army when enemies meet in wartime. We're talking about someone who manages a different kind of gathering — where friends meet friends in peacetime.

Cleinias: True.

Athenian: And that kind of gathering, when drinking is involved, tends to get rather rowdy.

Cleinias: The opposite of calm, yes.

Athenian: So first of all, drinkers need a leader just as much as soldiers do?

Cleinias: Definitely. Maybe even more so.

Athenian: And we should give them a calm, steady leader, if at all possible?

Cleinias: Of course.

Athenian: And this leader should be someone who understands how social gatherings work. His job is to preserve the friendliness that already exists among the group and to increase it for the future by how he handles the occasion.

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: So we need to appoint a sober and wise person to preside over the drinking. Because if the person in charge of drinkers is young and drunk himself, and not particularly wise — well, only by some miraculous stroke of luck will he avoid doing something seriously harmful.

Cleinias: It would take a miracle indeed.

Athenian: Now suppose these drinking gatherings were organized in the best possible way within a state, and someone comes along and criticizes the very existence of such events. He might have a point. But if he's only criticizing a practice that he's seen badly managed, then he's missing two things: first, that the practice was being mismanaged; and second, that anything run without a sober leader at the helm will go wrong. Don't you see? A drunken pilot, a drunken commander — a drunken leader of any kind — will wreck whatever he's in charge of: ship, chariot, army, anything.

Cleinias: That last point is very true, stranger. And I can clearly see the advantage of having a good leader for an army — he brings victory in war, and that's an enormous benefit. The same applies to other things. But I don't see what comparable advantage individuals or states gain from well-run drinking parties. Tell me: what great good comes from getting this right?

Athenian: Let me put it this way. If you asked "What great benefit does the state get from properly training one single youth, or one single choir?" — stated that way, we'd have to admit the benefit in any particular case isn't enormous. But if you ask "What is the benefit of education in general?" — the answer is easy. Education makes people good. And good people act nobly and conquer their enemies in battle precisely because they are good.

Now, education certainly helps produce victory. But victory sometimes leads to forgetting one's education. Many people have become arrogant from winning wars, and that arrogance has bred countless evils in them. Many a victory has been — and will continue to be — suicidal for the victors. But education is never suicidal.

Cleinias: You seem to be suggesting, my friend, that well-managed drinking parties are an important part of education.

Athenian: That's exactly what I'm suggesting.

Cleinias: And can you prove it?

Athenian: To be absolutely sure about the truth of matters where many opinions exist — that's a gift of the gods, not given to mortals. But I'll be very happy to tell you what I think, especially since we're now embarking on a discussion about laws and constitutions.

Cleinias: Your opinion about the questions we're raising is exactly what we want to hear.

Athenian: Very well. I'll try to explain my thinking, and you'll try to follow me. But first let me offer a small apology. The Athenian citizen has a reputation among all Greeks for being a great talker, while Sparta is famous for brevity, and the Cretans for having more wit than words. I'm afraid I might draw out a very long speech from what seems like very small material. Because drinking may appear to be a trivial subject, but it can't be properly understood without also understanding the principles of music — and music leads into education in general — and there's a great deal to say about all of that. So what would you say to setting these matters aside for now and moving on to some other legal question?

Megillus: Athenian stranger, let me tell you something you may not know. Our family has been the official host-friend — the proxenus — of your state. I think that all boys, from their earliest years, when they learn they're the host-friend of a particular state, feel a special warmth toward that second country. That's certainly been my experience. I can remember from my boyhood, whenever Spartans praised or criticized the Athenians, they'd say to me: "See, Megillus, how badly — or how well — your city has treated us." Having always had to fight your battles against critics, I became deeply fond of you. And I've always loved the sound of the Athenian tongue. The common saying is absolutely true: a good Athenian is exceptionally good, because he's the only kind of person who is freely and genuinely good by his own nature and divine inspiration, not manufactured. So rest assured — I'm happy to hear whatever you have to say, however long it takes.

Cleinias: Yes, stranger, and once you've heard what I have to say, speak your mind freely. Let me remind you of a bond that connects you to Crete. You must have heard the story of the prophet Epimenides, who was a member of my family. He came to Athens ten years before the Persian Wars, in response to an oracle, and performed certain sacrifices that the god had commanded. The Athenians were terrified of the coming Persian invasion at the time, and Epimenides told them the Persians wouldn't come for ten years, and that when they did come, they'd retreat without achieving their goals and suffer more harm than they caused. That's when my ancestors formed ties of friendship with your city. So this friendship between my family and Athens goes back a long way.

Athenian: Well, it sounds like you're both quite ready to listen. And I'm ready to do my best with what's nearly an impossible task — but I'll try. To begin, let me define what education is and what it can do. That's the road our argument must travel on its way to the god Dionysus.

Cleinias: Let's go, then.

Athenian: All right. If I tell you my views on education, will you consider whether they make sense?

Cleinias: Let's hear them.

Athenian: Here's what I think. Anyone who wants to be good at something needs to practice it from childhood — both in play and in earnest, in all its various aspects. For example, a boy who's going to be a good builder should play at building little houses. A future farmer should play at tilling the soil. The people in charge of their education should give them toy versions of real tools. They should learn in advance the basic skills they'll need later for their craft. A future carpenter should learn to use a measuring line through play. A future soldier should learn riding or some other physical skill as a game. The teacher's job is to steer children's natural interests and pleasures — through play — toward the things they'll eventually need to master as adults.

The most important part of education is getting the early training right. The child's soul, during play, should be guided toward a love of the very kind of excellence they'll need to achieve as a grown person.

Do you agree so far?

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: Then let's not leave "education" vague or poorly defined. Right now, when we praise or criticize someone's upbringing, we call one person "educated" and another "uneducated," even though the so-called uneducated person might be extremely well trained for a career as a shopkeeper, or a ship's captain, or something like that. We're not talking about that narrow kind of training. We're talking about the education that develops virtue from youth onward — the kind that makes a person eagerly pursue the ideal of good citizenship, and teaches them both how to rule justly and how to obey. That's the only training that deserves to be called "education," in our view. The other kind — training aimed at making money, or building physical strength, or developing cleverness without wisdom and justice — is crude and unworthy of the name.

But let's not quarrel over words, as long as we agree on the point that was just established: that those who are properly educated generally become good people. And we shouldn't look down on education. It's the finest and most important gift that the best people can ever receive. It can go wrong, certainly — but it can also be corrected. And that work of correction is everyone's most important business for as long as they live.

Cleinias: Very true. We agree with you completely.

Athenian: And we agreed earlier that people who can rule themselves are good, while those who can't are bad.

Cleinias: Exactly right.

Athenian: Let me try to clarify this a bit further with an illustration.

Cleinias: Go ahead.

Athenian: Don't we each think of ourselves as a single person?

Cleinias: We do.

Athenian: And yet each of us carries inside himself two advisors — both foolish and opposed to each other. One we call pleasure. The other, pain.

Cleinias: Exactly.

Athenian: And then there are our expectations about the future, which have the general name of "anticipation." The specific kind of anticipation involving pain is called fear. The kind involving pleasure is called hope. And on top of all that, there's our rational judgment about whether these feelings are good or bad — and when that judgment is established as public policy by a state, it's called law.

Cleinias: I'm barely keeping up. But go on.

Megillus: Same here.

Athenian: Let's think about it this way. Imagine that each of us is a puppet made by the gods — whether as their plaything or for some serious purpose, we can't be sure. What we do know is that these feelings inside us — pleasure, pain, fear, hope — are like cords or strings pulling us in different directions, toward opposite actions. And this is exactly where virtue and vice part ways.

The argument says that there's one cord among all these that every person should hold onto and never let go — pulling with it against all the rest. That cord is the sacred, golden cord of reason, which we call the common law of the state. The other cords are hard and made of iron. But this one is soft, because it's golden. And there are various other kinds too.

We should always cooperate with the pull of the best cord, which is law. Because reason is beautiful and gentle, not forceful, its rule needs helpers to assist the golden principle in overcoming the others.

And so the moral of this puppet story won't be lost, and the meaning of "superior to oneself" and "inferior to oneself" will become clearer. When an individual grasps the right use of reason in this tug-of-war among the puppet's strings, he should live according to its guidance. When a state receives the same understanding — whether from some god or from someone who knows these things — it should embody that understanding in law, to guide its dealings both internal and external.

In this way, the distinction between virtue and vice will become clearer to us. And once that distinction is clear, education and other institutions will become clearer too — including this question about drinking parties, which might seem like a trivial topic that's taken far more words than it deserved.

Cleinias: But perhaps the subject will turn out to be worthy of the discussion after all.

Athenian: Very possibly. Let's continue with whatever truly bears on our purpose.

Cleinias: Go on.

Athenian: Now suppose we give our puppet some wine to drink. What happens?

Cleinias: What are you getting at with that question?

Athenian: Nothing specific yet. I'm just asking in general: when the puppet encounters the drink, what kind of result can we expect? Let me put it more clearly. Here's what I'm really asking: does drinking wine intensify and increase pleasures and pains, passions and desires?

Cleinias: Very much so.

Athenian: And what about perception, memory, judgment, and practical wisdom? Are those also heightened and intensified? Or do they completely abandon a person once he's soaked in drink?

Cleinias: They completely abandon him.

Athenian: Doesn't he revert to the mental state he was in as a small child?

Cleinias: He does.

Athenian: So at that point, he has the least self-control he's ever had?

Cleinias: The least.

Athenian: And wouldn't you say he's in a pretty wretched state?

Cleinias: Completely wretched.

Athenian: So it's not just old men who become children again — drunkards do too?

Cleinias: Well said, stranger.

Athenian: Now, is there any argument that could convince us we should actually encourage drinking rather than doing everything we can to avoid it?

Cleinias: Apparently there is. You were just now saying you were ready to defend exactly that.

Athenian: True, and I'm still ready — since you've both said you're eager to hear me out.

Cleinias: We certainly are, if only for the sheer strangeness of the idea — that a person should deliberately plunge himself into utter degradation.

Athenian: Are you talking about degradation of the soul?

Cleinias: Yes.

Athenian: And what about the body, my friend? Are you surprised when someone voluntarily brings on deformity, weakness, ugliness, and frailty?

Cleinias: Of course.

Athenian: Yet when a person goes to the doctor of his own free will and takes medicine, doesn't he know that soon — and for many days afterward — he'll be in a physical state he'd rather die than accept permanently? And people who train at the gymnasium — don't they start out by being reduced to a state of weakness?

Cleinias: Yes, everyone knows that.

Athenian: And they go through it voluntarily, for the sake of the benefit that follows?

Cleinias: Exactly.

Athenian: And can't the same logic apply to other practices too?

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: Then the same view should apply to spending time over wine, if we're right in thinking the same kind of benefit results.

Cleinias: I suppose so.

Athenian: And if it turns out that well-managed drinking has benefits comparable in importance to gymnastic training, then it would actually be preferable to mere physical exercise — since it doesn't involve pain.

Cleinias: True. But I doubt we'll be able to show that drinking parties offer benefits like that.

Athenian: That's exactly what we need to try to demonstrate. So let me ask you a question: don't we distinguish between two kinds of fear, which are very different from each other?

Cleinias: What kinds?

Athenian: There's the fear of bad things we expect to happen.

Cleinias: Yes.

Athenian: And there's the fear of getting a bad reputation. We're afraid of being thought badly of when we do or say something dishonorable. That fear is what everyone calls shame.

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: Those are the two fears I had in mind. The second one — shame — is the opposite of pain and other fears, and it's also the opposite of the most powerful and common pleasures.

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: And doesn't every lawgiver — indeed, everyone worth anything — hold this kind of fear in the highest honor? It's what we call reverence. And the confidence that's the opposite of reverence is what we call insolence — which everyone regards as one of the worst evils, both for individuals and for states.

Cleinias: True.

Athenian: This kind of fear — this reverence — protects us in many important ways, doesn't it? What gives victory and safety in war more reliably than anything else? Two things: confidence when facing enemies, and fear of disgrace in the eyes of friends.

Cleinias: Those are the two.

Athenian: So each of us should be both fearless and fearful. And we've now explained why each quality is needed.

Cleinias: Clearly.

Athenian: Now, when we want to make someone fearless, we and the law bring him face to face with many frightening things.

Cleinias: Right.

Athenian: And when we want to instill the right kind of fear — reverence — we need to introduce him to shameless pleasures and train him to resist them. Or does this principle apply only to courage? Must a person who wants to perfect his valor fight against his own natural weaknesses — because without practice and experience in such struggles, he won't be half the person he could be — while with temperance, it somehow works differently? Can someone who's never battled the shameless, unrighteous temptations of pleasure and desire — and conquered them, in earnest and in play, in word and deed and action — still be perfectly self-controlled?

Cleinias: That seems extremely unlikely.

Athenian: Now imagine that some god had given humanity a "fear potion" — a drug that made the drinker feel increasingly terrorized with every sip. He'd see himself as the unluckiest person alive. He'd fear everything that was happening or about to happen. Even the bravest man in the world would completely lose his nerve for a while, and only come back to himself after sleeping off the effects.

Cleinias: But has any such potion ever actually existed, stranger?

Athenian: No. But if it had, wouldn't it have been useful to a lawgiver as a test of courage? We'd go to the lawgiver and say: "Whether you're legislating for Crete or any other state, wouldn't you love to have a touchstone for testing the courage and cowardice of your citizens?"

Cleinias: "I certainly would" — that's what anyone would say.

Athenian: "And you'd prefer a test that involves no real risk or serious danger over one that does?"

Cleinias: Everyone would agree to that.

Athenian: "And you'd use the potion by leading people into these imaginary terrors, and testing them while the feeling of fear was at work? You'd compel and encourage them to become fearless, using praise and honor for those who succeeded, and dishonor for those who refused to become the kind of people you wanted them to be? If someone went through the trial well and bravely, you'd release him with no penalty. If he failed, you'd impose one. Would you use the potion, or would you pass it up for no good reason?"

Cleinias: He'd certainly use it, stranger.

Athenian: This kind of testing and training would be wonderfully easy compared to current methods, and it could be applied to one person, or a few, or any number at all. A lawgiver who provided himself with just this potion, and nothing else, would be doing well — whether a man preferred to train alone in private, ashamed to be seen until he was ready, or whether, trusting in his nature and his training, he chose to test himself openly alongside others, demonstrating his ability to overcome the potion's irresistible effects. His virtue would be such that he never once fell into any serious disgrace, and he always stopped before the last cup — fearing that, like all men, he might be overcome.

Cleinias: Yes, stranger — in that case too, he'd be showing self-control.

Athenian: Let's go back to the lawgiver and say: "Well, lawgiver, there's certainly no such fear potion. No god gave us one, and no one has invented one — there's no place for magic at our table. But is there a potion that tests the opposite quality — reckless overconfidence and indiscreet boasting?"

Cleinias: I suppose the answer would be: yes, wine is that potion.

Athenian: Doesn't wine have exactly the opposite effect of the fear potion? When a person drinks, he starts feeling more and more pleased with himself. The more he drinks, the more he fills up with bold hopes and inflated ideas about his own abilities. Eventually his tongue is completely loosened, and he fancies himself a genius, overflowing with recklessness, with no fear or respect for anything. He's ready to say or do whatever comes into his head.

Cleinias: I think everyone would agree that's an accurate description.

Megillus: Definitely.

Athenian: Now, let's remember what we were saying: there are two qualities that should be cultivated in the soul. First, the greatest possible courage. Second, the greatest possible fear —

Cleinias: Which you said is characteristic of reverence, if I'm not mistaken.

Athenian: Good memory. Now, since the habit of courage and fearlessness should be trained by facing fears, let's consider whether the opposite quality shouldn't also be trained among its opposites.

Cleinias: That seems likely.

Athenian: There are moments when we're naturally more bold and daring than usual. Those are precisely the moments when we should train ourselves to be as free from shamelessness and recklessness as possible — to be afraid of saying, suffering, or doing anything that's base.

Cleinias: True.

Athenian: And what are the moments when we tend to be bold and shameless? When we're under the influence of anger, love, pride, ignorance, greed, or cowardice. When wealth, beauty, strength, and all the intoxicating effects of pleasure drive us mad. What's better suited than the regulated use of wine — first to test, and second to train a person's character — if proper care is taken in its use? What's cheaper? What's more harmless?

Think about the alternative. Would you rather test a morose, savage person — the kind whose nature is the source of ten thousand injustices — by entering into business deals with him and putting yourself at risk? Or by having him as a companion at a festival of Dionysus? Would you, if you wanted to test a man prone to sexual desire, entrust your wife, sons, or daughters to him — risking everything you hold dearest — just to get a look at the state of his soul?

I could name countless cases where the advantage is obvious: getting to know someone's character through the harmless setting of a party, without paying dearly for the experience. And I don't believe any Cretan, or anyone else, would deny that this is a fair, safe, inexpensive, and quick method of testing character.

Cleinias: That's certainly true.

Athenian: And this knowledge of people's natures and temperaments will be enormously useful in the art that manages human souls. And that art, if I'm not mistaken, is politics.

Cleinias: Exactly so.

Laws — Book II

Athenian: Now we need to consider whether understanding human nature is the only benefit we get from properly run drinking parties, or whether there are other advantages worth pursuing. The argument seems to suggest there are. But we'll need to think carefully about how exactly we get these benefits, or we'll end up confused.

Cleinias: Go on.

Athenian: Let me come back to our theory of good education. If I'm not mistaken, it depends on properly managing communal social gatherings.

Cleinias: That's a pretty grand claim.

Athenian: Here's what I mean. Pleasure and pain are the first things children experience. They're the channels through which virtue and vice first enter a child's soul. As for wisdom and firmly held true beliefs — well, a person's lucky if they acquire those even in old age. Anyone who has them, along with everything they bring, is a truly complete human being. What I mean by "education" is the training that shapes a child's earliest instincts toward virtue through the right habits. When pleasure and friendship, pain and hatred are planted correctly in souls that can't yet understand why — and then later, when reason develops, those feelings turn out to be in harmony with reason — that harmony of the whole soul is what we call virtue. But the specific training in pleasure and pain — the part that teaches you to hate what you should hate and love what you should love, from the beginning of life to the end — that, in my view, is what properly deserves the name "education."

Cleinias: I think you're absolutely right in everything you've said about education, Stranger.

Athenian: I'm glad you agree. Because here's the thing: this training in pleasure and pain, which is the foundation of education when it's properly managed, has a tendency to break down and get corrupted over the course of human life. And so the gods, taking pity on the hardships that our species is born to endure, established sacred festivals as periods of rest from labor. They gave us the Muses, and Apollo as leader of the Muses, and Dionysus as companions in our celebrations — so that through these divine festivals, people could restore and improve their education.

Now, I'd like to know whether a common observation rings true to you. People say that all young creatures — all of them — can't keep still, either in their bodies or their voices. They're always wanting to move and make noise: leaping, skipping, bursting with playful energy, crying out in every possible way. But here's the key difference: while other animals have no sense of order or disorder in their movements — no sense of what we call rhythm or harmony — the gods who were appointed as our companions in the dance have given us humans the pleasurable sense of harmony and rhythm. Through these gifts they stir us to life, and we follow their lead, joining hands in dances and songs. These they called "choruses" — a word that naturally suggests joy and cheerfulness.

So shall we start from this point: that education begins with Apollo and the Muses? What do you say?

Cleinias: I agree.

Athenian: And the uneducated person is one who hasn't been trained in the chorus, while the educated person is one who's been well trained in it?

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: And the chorus combines two elements — dance and song?

Cleinias: True.

Athenian: So a well-educated person will be able to sing and dance well?

Cleinias: I suppose so.

Athenian: But wait — let's look at what we're actually saying.

Cleinias: What do you mean?

Athenian: He sings well and dances well. But do we need to add that he sings what is good and dances what is good?

Cleinias: Yes, let's add that.

Athenian: All right. Now suppose someone knows that what's good is good and what's bad is bad, and acts accordingly. Which person is better trained in dance and music: the one who can move his body and use his voice in technically correct ways but takes no delight in what's good and feels no hatred of what's evil? Or the one whose technique might be imperfect but whose sense of pleasure and pain is right — who welcomes what's good and is repelled by what's evil?

Cleinias: There's a huge difference between those two kinds of education, Stranger.

Athenian: So if the three of us can figure out what's genuinely good in song and dance, then we'll also know who's truly educated and who isn't. But if we can't figure that out, we certainly won't be able to tell whether education has any real safeguard — or if it even has one.

Cleinias: True.

Athenian: Then let's follow the scent like hounds and track down beauty in physical movement, melody, song, and dance. If these things escape us, there's no point talking about true education — whether Greek or foreign.

Cleinias: Yes.

Athenian: So what is beauty of movement, or a beautiful melody? When a courageous soul is in trouble and when a cowardly soul faces the same situation, are they likely to adopt the same postures and gestures, or produce the same sounds?

Cleinias: How could they? Even the color of their faces would be different.

Athenian: Good point, my friend. Though I should note, in passing, that in music there are indeed patterns of movement and there are melodies, and music deals with harmony and rhythm. So you can correctly say a melody or pattern has good rhythm or good harmony. But you can't properly say — the way chorus directors sometimes do — that a melody or pattern has a "good color." That's just a metaphor. What you can say is that the patterns and melodies of the brave and the cowardly are different, praising one and criticizing the other. And to keep things simple, let's just establish this: patterns and melodies that express virtue of soul or body, or images of virtue, are all good without exception. Those that express vice are the opposite.

Cleinias: That's an excellent principle. Let's agree on it.

Athenian: One more thing: are all of us equally delighted by every kind of dance?

Cleinias: Not at all.

Athenian: Then what leads us astray? Are beautiful things not the same for everyone? Or are they the same in themselves, but we just don't agree about them? Because no one's going to admit that dance forms expressing vice are more beautiful than those expressing virtue, or that they personally enjoy watching depictions of vice while other people prefer a different kind of art. And yet most people say that the standard of excellence in music is the amount of pleasure it gives to the soul. But that's intolerable — it's practically blasphemous. There is, however, a much more plausible explanation for why people get confused.

Cleinias: What is it?

Athenian: It's the way art adapts to different characters. The performances of a chorus are imitations of people's behavior in various situations, circumstances, and temperaments — each detail is imitated. And people whose own nature, habits, or both are in tune with the performance can't help but enjoy it, applaud it, and call it beautiful. But people whose natures or habits don't match find no pleasure in it and call it worthless. Then there are people whose natures are right but whose habits are wrong, or whose habits are right but whose natures are wrong. These people praise one thing but take pleasure in another. They'll say that all these performances are enjoyable but "not good." And in the presence of people they consider wise, they're ashamed to dance and sing in the baser style, or to openly endorse such performances. But secretly, they enjoy them.

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: Now, does it actually harm anyone to take pleasure in worthless dances and songs? And does it actually help anyone to enjoy the opposite kind?

Cleinias: I think so.

Athenian: "I think so" isn't strong enough. I'd say "I'm certain." Because the effect must be the same as when someone spends time with bad characters — people he likes and approves of rather than criticizing, only offering playful complaints because he half-suspects his own weakness. If someone takes pleasure in such company, they'll inevitably become like the people they enjoy spending time with, even if they're ashamed to praise them openly. And what greater good or evil could any fate inflict on us?

Cleinias: I can't think of any.

Athenian: Then in a city that has good laws — or that will have them in the future — can we allow poets to teach whatever they want in dance, using whatever rhythms, melodies, or words they choose for the young children of respectable parents? Should the poet be free to train his choruses however he pleases, with no regard for virtue or vice?

Cleinias: That's completely unreasonable and shouldn't even be considered.

Athenian: And yet that's exactly what poets are allowed to do in almost every state — except Egypt.

Cleinias: Egypt? What are the laws about music and dance in Egypt?

Athenian: You'll be amazed when I tell you. Long ago, the Egyptians seem to have recognized the very principle we're discussing now — that young citizens must be immersed in patterns and forms of virtue. They established these patterns and displayed them in their temples, and no painter or artist was allowed to innovate or depart from the traditional forms to invent new ones. To this day, no changes are permitted in these arts or in any aspect of music. And if you look at their works, you'll find that paintings and sculptures made ten thousand years ago — I mean this literally, not as an exaggeration — are neither better nor worse than the work produced today. They're made with exactly the same skill.

Cleinias: That's extraordinary!

Athenian: I'd say it's more like extraordinarily wise governance — worthy of a true legislator. There are other things in Egypt that aren't so impressive. But what I'm telling you about their music is true and worth serious consideration, because it shows that a lawgiver can confidently establish melodies that are naturally correct and true. Doing this, however, would have to be the work of a god, or at least a godlike person. In fact, the Egyptians have a tradition that the ancient chants preserved for all those ages were composed by the goddess Isis. So, as I was saying, if someone can discover the naturally correct melodies, they can confidently enshrine them in a fixed legal form. The love of novelty that comes from craving the new and getting bored with the old isn't strong enough to corrupt consecrated song and dance by claiming they've become outdated. In Egypt, at any rate, such corruption is far from happening.

Cleinias: Your arguments seem to prove your point.

Athenian: Then can we confidently say this about the true purpose of music and choral festivals? We rejoice when we think we're doing well, and we think we're doing well when we rejoice.

Cleinias: Exactly.

Athenian: And when we're rejoicing in our good fortune, we can't keep still?

Cleinias: True.

Athenian: Our young people burst into dancing and singing, and we older folks think we're doing our part in life by watching them. Having lost our own agility, we delight in their energy and playfulness because it reminds us of our younger selves. So we gladly set up contests for those who can reawaken the memory of our youth.

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: Now, is it entirely wrong to say, as ordinary people do about festivals, that the wisest person and rightful winner of the prize is whoever gives us the greatest amount of pleasure and enjoyment? After all, when the occasion calls for celebration, shouldn't the person who brings the most joy to the most people be honored above all? Is this the right way to think and act?

Cleinias: Possibly.

Athenian: But hold on, my dear friend — let's not rush to judgment. Let's think about this more carefully by imagining a scenario. Picture a festival with all kinds of entertainment — athletic, musical, and equestrian competitions. The citizens are assembled, prizes are offered, and it's announced that anyone who wants may enter. The winner will be whoever gives the most pleasure to the audience — no rules about how. Whoever succeeds in giving the most pleasure gets crowned as the most delightful performer. What do you think would happen?

Cleinias: In what way do you mean?

Athenian: Well, there'd be all sorts of acts. One person would perform epic poetry, like Homer. Another would play the lyre. Someone would present a tragedy, someone else a comedy. And it wouldn't be at all surprising if someone thought they could win with a puppet show. With these competitors and countless others all in the mix — can you tell me who should win?

Cleinias: I don't see how anyone could answer that question, or claim to know, without actually hearing the competitors. The question is absurd.

Athenian: Well, if neither of you can answer, shall I answer this "absurd" question for you?

Cleinias: By all means.

Athenian: If very small children get to decide, they'll pick the puppet show.

Cleinias: Of course.

Athenian: Older children will be fans of comedy. Educated women, young men, and the general public will probably prefer tragedy.

Cleinias: Very likely.

Athenian: And I suspect that we old men would take the greatest pleasure in hearing a skilled performer recite the Iliad and Odyssey, or one of Hesiod's poems — we'd give the prize to him. But who would really be the rightful winner? That's the question.

Cleinias: Yes.

Athenian: Clearly, you and I would have to say that whoever we old men judge to be the winner should win — because our standards are far superior to any that currently exist anywhere in the world.

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: So here's where I'd agree with popular opinion, up to a point: the excellence of music should be measured by the pleasure it gives. But not the pleasure of just anyone. The finest music is that which delights the best and best-educated people — and above all, the single person who is preeminent in virtue and education. That's why judges must be people of character. They'll need both wisdom and courage. A true judge shouldn't take his cues from the crowd in the theater, and he shouldn't be rattled by the noise of the masses or by his own self-doubt. Nor should he, knowing what's right, deliver a false verdict out of cowardice and spinelessness — using the very same lips that just appealed to the gods before he gave his judgment. He's sitting there not as a student of the theater audience but as their teacher, and he should be the enemy of anyone who panders to the spectators' pleasure.

The ancient Greek custom, which still survives in Italy and Sicily, was to let the audience decide the winner by show of hands. But this practice has been the ruin of the poets. They've gotten into the habit of composing to please the bad taste of their judges, with the result that the audience ends up educating itself. And it's ruined the theaters too. The audience ought to be watching characters better than themselves, receiving a higher kind of pleasure. Instead, by their own doing, the opposite has happened.

So what's the lesson from all this? Shall I tell you?

Cleinias: What?

Athenian: Here's the conclusion we've reached for the third or fourth time: education is the process of directing and guiding young people toward that right principle which the law affirms and which the experience of the best and wisest elders has confirmed to be truly right.

The goal is this: the child's soul shouldn't become accustomed to feeling joy and sorrow in ways that conflict with the law and with those who follow it. Instead, the child should follow the law, rejoicing and grieving at the same things the wisest elders do. And this is exactly why songs were invented — songs that truly "enchant," designed to plant in souls that harmony we've been talking about. Because the young mind can't endure serious training, these are called "play" and "songs" and are performed as entertainment — just as when people are sick, their caregivers serve wholesome food in pleasant flavors and unhealthy food in unpleasant ones, so patients learn to like the one and dislike the other.

In the same way, the true legislator will persuade — and if persuasion fails, compel — the poet to express what he ought: the movements and melodies of temperate, courageous, and thoroughly good people, using beautiful and noble words, proper rhythms, and fitting harmonies.

Cleinias: But do you really think, Stranger, that this is how poets actually compose in most states today? As far as I can tell, except among us Cretans and the Spartans, there are no regulations like the ones you're describing. In other places, novelties are constantly being introduced in dance and music — not under the authority of any law, but driven by lawless pleasures. And those pleasures are so far from being constant and principled, like the Egyptian ones you mentioned, that they're never the same from one day to the next.

Athenian: Absolutely right, Cleinias. And I'm afraid I may have been unclear, which led you to think I was describing how things actually are, when I was really talking about how I'd like things to be regarding music. Criticizing evils that are deeply entrenched and past the point of easy remedy is never pleasant, though sometimes it's necessary. But since we don't really disagree, let me ask you this: do you think regulations like these are more common among the Cretans and Spartans than among the other Greeks?

Cleinias: They certainly are.

Athenian: And if these regulations were extended to the rest of the Greek world, would that be an improvement over the current state of affairs?

Cleinias: A tremendous improvement — as long as the customs were like what we have in Crete and Sparta, and like what you were just saying they ought to be.

Athenian: Let's make sure we're on the same page. Aren't the principles of education and music that prevail among you something like this: you require your poets to teach that the good person, if they're self-controlled and just, is fortunate and happy — whether they're big and strong or small and weak, rich or poor? And on the other hand, if someone has wealth surpassing that of Cinyras or Midas but is unjust, they're wretched and live in misery? As the poet says — and truly: "I don't sing about, I don't care about the person who accomplishes all great deeds but lacks justice. Let the one who 'draws near and stretches out his hand against enemies' be a just person." But if he's unjust, I wouldn't want him to "look calmly upon bloody death" or "outrun the North Wind." And let none of the other so-called goods ever be his.

Because the things most people call "good" aren't really good in the truest sense. The popular list goes: health first, beauty second, wealth third — and then countless others, like sharp eyesight, keen hearing, and all the senses working perfectly. Or being a tyrant and doing whatever you want. And the ultimate happiness, supposedly, is to have all of these things and then become immortal on top of it.

But you and I say something different. We say that for just and virtuous people, all these things are the greatest blessings. But for unjust people, they're all — including even health — the greatest curses. Because truly, to have sight and hearing and the use of all your senses, or even to be alive at all, without justice and virtue, even if you're loaded with every so-called blessing of fortune — that is the worst evil imaginable, especially if such a life went on forever. It's not quite as bad if the wicked person only lives a short time.

These are the truths that, if I'm not mistaken, you would persuade or compel your poets to express with fitting harmonies and rhythms, and to use in training your young people. Am I right?

Because let me be plain about this: evils, as people call them, are actually goods for the unjust — they're only evils for the just. And so-called goods are truly good for good people, but harmful to the wicked.

So let me ask again: are we agreed on this?

Cleinias: I think we partly agree and partly don't.

Athenian: Here's where you're getting stuck, I suspect. When a person has health, wealth, and absolute political power that lasts; when they're preeminent in strength and courage and blessed with immortality; and when they have none of the so-called counterbalancing evils but only the injustice and arrogance of their own nature — you're reluctant to believe that such a person is miserable rather than happy.

Cleinias: That's exactly right.

Athenian: Let me try once more. Suppose a person is brave, strong, handsome, and rich, and gets to do whatever they please their entire life — but they're unjust and arrogant. Wouldn't you both agree that such a person would necessarily live shamefully?

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: And live badly too?

Cleinias: I'm not so ready to grant that.

Athenian: Live painfully, then? And against their own real interests?

Cleinias: How can I possibly agree to that?

Athenian: How? Well, may heaven bring us to one mind, because right now we're of two. To me, dear Cleinias, the truth of what I'm saying is as plain as the fact that Crete is an island. And if I were a lawgiver, I'd try to make the poets and all the citizens speak this way, and I'd impose the heaviest penalties on anyone in the entire land who dared to say that wicked people lead pleasant lives, or that what's profitable and gainful is one thing while what's just is another. There are many other points on which I'd make my citizens speak differently from what Cretans and Spartans say today — and indeed differently from most of the world.

For think about this, my good friends. By Zeus and Apollo, tell me: if I asked these same gods — the ones who gave you your laws — "Is the most just life also the most pleasant? Or are there two kinds of life, one the most just and the other the most pleasant?" And suppose they answered, "There are two." And then I followed up — which would be the right way to pursue the inquiry — "Which people are happier, those who lead the most just life or those who lead the most pleasant?" And they said, "Those who lead the most pleasant" — well, that would be a very strange answer, and I wouldn't want to put it in the mouths of gods.

The question comes more naturally from the lips of fathers and legislators, so let me replay the conversation with one of them, and suppose he gives the same answer — that the person who leads the most pleasant life is the happiest.

Then I'd reply: "Father, didn't you want me to live as happily as possible? Yet you never stopped telling me I should live as justly as possible. Well, now the person giving this advice — whether legislator or father — would be in a bind, unable to stay consistent with himself."

But if instead he declared that the most just life is also the happiest, then anyone hearing him would want to know: "What is this good and noble quality in life that the law endorses, something higher than pleasure? What good does the just person have that's separate from pleasure?"

Think about it. Shall we say that glory and fame from gods and mortals, though good and noble, are nevertheless unpleasant — and that disgrace is pleasant? Certainly not, dear legislator. Or shall we say that refraining from wrongdoing is good and honorable but brings no pleasure, while doing wrong is pleasant but shameful and evil?

Cleinias: Impossible.

Athenian: So the view that identifies the pleasant with the just, the good, and the noble has an excellent moral and religious tendency. And the opposite view — the one that separates them — is the most destructive view a legislator can face. Because no one, if they can help it, will be persuaded to do something that brings them more pain than pleasure.

But since seeing things at a distance tends to make us dizzy — especially in childhood — the legislator will try to clear away the confusion and reveal the truth. Through customs, praise, and persuasive arguments, he'll convince the citizens that justice and injustice are like shadow paintings: injustice, which seems opposed to justice, appears pleasant when viewed by the unjust and wicked person, while justice seems deeply unpleasant to them. But from the just person's perspective, the exact opposite is true of both.

Cleinias: True.

Athenian: And which judgment should we trust more — that of the worse soul, or the better one?

Cleinias: Surely the better soul's.

Athenian: Then the unjust life must be not only more shameful and degraded, but also more unpleasant than the just and holy life?

Cleinias: That does seem to follow from our argument.

Athenian: And even if this weren't the case — even if the argument hadn't proven it — any lawgiver worth the name, if he ever dared to tell a lie for the good of the young, couldn't possibly invent a more useful lie than this one, or one more likely to make people do what's right not by force but by choice.

Cleinias: Truth, Stranger, is a noble and enduring thing — but it's remarkably hard to convince people of.

Athenian: And yet the story of Cadmus the Phoenician, which is wildly improbable, has been readily believed — along with countless other tales.

Cleinias: Which story do you mean?

Athenian: The story that armed warriors sprang from the earth after dragon's teeth were sown. This should serve as proof to any legislator that you can persuade young minds of just about anything. So all the legislator needs to do is figure out which beliefs will be of the greatest public benefit, and then devote all his efforts to making the entire community speak with one voice in their songs, stories, and conversations throughout their lives. But if you disagree with me, by all means argue the other side.

Cleinias: I don't see how either of us could fairly argue against what you're saying.

Athenian: Then here's my next proposal. All three of our choruses should sing to the young and impressionable souls of children, and the central message woven through all their songs should be this: the life that the gods deem happiest is also the best. We'll declare this to be the most certain truth, and the minds of our young students will be more likely to accept this message from us than any other we could give them.

Cleinias: I agree with what you're saying.

Athenian: First will come the sacred chorus of children, in their natural order, singing enthusiastically to the whole city with their heaven-taught hymn. Next will come the chorus of young men under thirty, who'll call upon Apollo the Healer to witness the truth of their words and pray for his grace upon the youth and his guidance for their hearts. Third will come the chorus of older men, aged thirty to sixty. And those who are past the age for singing will tell stories illustrating the same virtues, like voices of an oracle.

Cleinias: Who are these people in the third chorus, Stranger? I don't quite understand what you mean about them.

Athenian: And yet nearly everything I've been saying has been leading up to them.

Cleinias: Could you try to be a little clearer?

Athenian: You'll remember that at the beginning of our discussion I talked about the fiery nature of young creatures — how they can't keep still in either body or voice, and how they cry out and jump around in a chaotic way. I said that while no other animal develops a sense of order in movement, humans alone do. The order of physical movement is called rhythm, and the order of the voice, where high and low notes are properly blended, is called harmony — and the two together are what we call choral performance.

I also said that the gods took pity on us and gave us Apollo and the Muses as our companions and leaders in the dance — and Dionysus as well, as I'm sure you'll recall.

Cleinias: I remember perfectly.

Athenian: So far I've talked about the chorus of Apollo and the Muses. I still need to talk about the remaining chorus — the chorus of Dionysus.

Cleinias: How does that work? I have to say, it sounds rather strange at first to hear about a Dionysiac chorus of old men — you really mean that people over thirty, maybe fifty or even sixty, are supposed to dance in his honor?

Athenian: It does sound strange, and that's exactly why I need to show that there's good reason for the proposal.

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: Are we agreed on what we've established so far?

Cleinias: About what exactly?

Athenian: That every person — man and boy, slave and free, both sexes, the entire city — should never stop immersing themselves in the kinds of songs we've been describing? And that there should be all kinds of variety and variation to prevent the effect of monotony, so that the singers always take pleasure in their hymns and never grow tired of them?

Cleinias: Everyone would agree with that.

Athenian: Then where should the best part of our city — those who, by reason of age and intelligence, carry the greatest influence — sing these most beautiful of songs, the ones that are going to do so much good? Would we be so foolish as to let off the hook the very people who could give us the most beautiful and useful performances?

Cleinias: The argument does say we can't let them off.

Athenian: Then how do we carry this out with proper decorum? Here's the problem.

Cleinias: What?

Athenian: As a person gets older, they become reluctant and self-conscious about singing. They take no pleasure in performing. The older and more sensible they become, the more embarrassed they feel if forced to sing. Isn't that true?

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: And they'd be even more embarrassed standing up to sing in a theater before a mixed audience. And if on top of that they're forced to perform like the other competition choruses, training under a singing master while feeling stiff and out of practice — they'd be thoroughly uncomfortable and deeply unwilling.

Cleinias: No doubt about it.

Athenian: So how do we encourage them and get them to sing? Here's what I propose. First, we enact a law that boys shouldn't taste wine at all until they're eighteen. We'll tell them that you shouldn't pour fire on fire, whether in the body or the soul, until they're old enough to begin serious work — this is a precaution against the excitability of youth. After that, they may drink wine in moderation up to the age of thirty, but while young they should completely avoid drunkenness and excess.

Then, when a person finally reaches forty, after dinner at a public feast, he may invite not just the other gods but especially Dionysus to join the celebration of the elder men. He may make use of the wine that Dionysus gave to humanity to ease the harshness of old age — so that in our later years we might renew our youth and forget our sorrows, and so that the soul's nature, like iron softened in the fire, might become more pliable and receptive.

Now — in the first place, won't anyone who's been mellowed this way be more willing and less self-conscious about singing? Not before a huge crowd, necessarily, but before a moderate company — not among strangers, but among friends and familiar faces. They'll be ready, as we've said many times, to chant and to enchant.

Cleinias: Far more ready.

Athenian: Then there's nothing improper about using this method to persuade them to join us in song.

Cleinias: Nothing at all.

Athenian: And what kind of song will they sing? What music will they perform? Obviously, something fitting for them.

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: And what's fitting for heroic spirits? Shall they sing a choral piece?

Cleinias: Well, Stranger, we Cretans and Spartans don't really know any kind of song other than what we've learned and been accustomed to sing in our choruses.

Athenian: Of course you don't. Because your military way of life is modeled on an army camp, not on city life. You keep your young men herding and feeding together like young colts in a field. No one pulls an individual colt away from the herd, raging and foaming, to give him a personal groom who trains and grooms him privately and gives him the kind of education that would make him not just a good soldier, but also someone capable of governing a state and managing cities. That kind of person, as we said at the beginning, would be a greater warrior than the one Tyrtaeus celebrates in his poems. Such a person would honor courage in every context, but always as the fourth part of virtue, not the first — whether in individuals or in states.

Cleinias: Once again, Stranger, you're putting down our lawmakers.

Athenian: Not intentionally, my good friend — not at all. But wherever the argument leads, let's follow. If there really is some kind of song more beautiful than the standard chorus or public theater fare, I'd like to share it with the people who, as we've said, are embarrassed by those ordinary performances and want something better.

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: Now, here's a general principle. Whenever something has an accompanying charm, either the best thing about it is that charm itself, or there's some rightness or usefulness the thing possesses separately. Take eating and drinking, for example. The accompanying charm is the pleasure — what we call enjoyment. But the real rightness and value is the healthfulness of what's served. That's where the true quality lies.

Cleinias: Exactly.

Athenian: Similarly, learning has an accompanying charm, which is the pleasure of it. But the real rightness, the real profit — what's genuinely good and noble about it — comes from truth.

Cleinias: Precisely.

Athenian: And the same goes for the imitative arts. When they succeed in creating good likenesses and are accompanied by pleasure, we can say their works have charm.

Cleinias: Yes.

Athenian: But what gives these works truthfulness or rightness is accuracy of proportion — in quality and quantity — not the pleasure they happen to produce.

Cleinias: Yes.

Athenian: Then the only thing that can properly be judged by the standard of pleasure alone is something that produces no real usefulness, no truth, no faithful likeness — and on the other hand does no harm either. It exists solely for the sake of the accompanying charm. The word "pleasure" applies most precisely when those other qualities — utility, truth, likeness — are absent.

Cleinias: You're talking about harmless pleasure, right?

Athenian: Yes. And this is what I call "amusement" — when it does neither significant harm nor significant good.

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: So if these are our principles, we have to insist that works of imitation should not be judged by pleasure or by popular opinion. This applies to every kind of proportionality and correctness. Things aren't equal because someone thinks they are, or symmetrical because someone likes them. They must be judged by the standard of truth — and by no other standard whatsoever.

Cleinias: Absolutely.

Athenian: And don't we regard all music as representational and imitative?

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: Then when someone says music should be judged by the pleasure it gives, we can't accept that. If there's any music whose standard is pleasure, that music shouldn't be considered especially valuable. The music we should seek out is the kind that imitates what's good.

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: So those who seek the finest music shouldn't look for what's most pleasant, but for what's most true. And the truth of an imitation consists, as we were saying, in reproducing the thing imitated accurately — in its right proportions and qualities.

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: And everyone will admit that all musical compositions are imitative and representational — poets, audiences, and performers would all agree on this point, wouldn't they?

Cleinias: They would.

Athenian: So the person who wants to judge correctly must know what each composition is. If they don't know the character and meaning of a piece — what it's supposed to represent — they'll never be able to tell whether its aim has been achieved or missed.

Cleinias: Certainly not.

Athenian: And can someone who doesn't know what's true be able to judge what's good or bad? Maybe I'm not being clear enough. Let me put it another way.

Cleinias: Go ahead.

Athenian: There are countless visual representations of things, aren't there?

Cleinias: Yes.

Athenian: Now, can someone who doesn't know what the original object is ever judge whether a copy of it has been faithfully made? I mean, for example, whether a statue has the right proportions of a human body, with each part in its correct position — their proper sizes, how the parts fit together in the right arrangement — and whether the colors and shapes are all correct, or whether it's all a confused mess. Do you think someone who doesn't even know what the animal being imitated looks like could judge any of this?

Cleinias: Impossible.

Athenian: But suppose we do know that the thing painted or sculpted is meant to be a human being, and that the artist has given it all the right parts, colors, and shapes. Even then, don't we also need to know whether the work is truly beautiful, or whether it falls short in any respect?

Cleinias: If that weren't also required, Stranger, we'd all be judges of beauty.

Athenian: Exactly right. So can we say that for everything imitative — whether in drawing, music, or any other art — a competent judge must possess three things? First, they must know what the imitation is meant to represent. Second, they must know whether the representation is accurate. And third, they must know whether it's been well executed — in its words, melodies, and rhythms.

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: Then let's not back away from discussing the particular challenges of music. Music is more celebrated than any other kind of imitation and therefore requires the greatest care of all. If someone makes a mistake here, they can do themselves serious harm by welcoming corrupt influences into their soul — and the mistake can be very hard to detect.

The reason is that poets are artists far inferior in character to the Muses themselves. The Muses would never make the kind of gross errors poets commit — like assigning women's words to men's music and movements, or combining the melodies and gestures of free citizens with the rhythms of slaves and vulgar people. They'd never start with the rhythms and gestures of free people and then pair them with melodies or words of the opposite character. And they'd never mash together the voices and sounds of animals and humans and instruments and every other kind of noise as if it were all one thing.

But human poets love doing exactly this kind of incoherent mixing, and they make themselves ridiculous to anyone who, as Orpheus says, is "ready for true pleasure." People with experience see through all this confusion, and yet the poets keep making things worse by separating rhythm and dance from melody — setting bare words to meter — and by separating melody and rhythm from words, using the lyre or flute alone. When instruments play without words, it becomes extremely difficult to tell what the harmony and rhythm are supposed to mean, or to see that anything worthwhile is being imitated. We have to acknowledge that this kind of thing, aimed only at speed and technical flash and brute noise, using flute and lyre as something other than accompaniments for dance and song, is terribly crude and tasteless. Using either instrument without accompaniment leads to every kind of gimmickry and disorder.

So much for that point. But we're not considering how our senior choristers — men from thirty to fifty or beyond — should avoid the Muses. We're considering how they should properly engage with them. And everything we've discussed suggests how these older choristers can be expected to be better trained than others. They need a quick perception and deep knowledge of harmonies and rhythms. Otherwise, how could they ever know whether a melody should properly be sung in the Dorian mode, or whether the rhythm the poet assigned to it is the right one?

Cleinias: Clearly they can't.

Athenian: Most people are ridiculous in their belief that they know what's in proper harmony and rhythm and what isn't, when the only reason they can sing and keep time at all is that they've been drilled into it by force. It never occurs to them that they're ignorant of what they're actually doing. Every melody is correct when it has the right harmony and rhythm, and wrong when it doesn't.

Cleinias: That's absolutely certain.

Athenian: But can someone who doesn't actually understand a thing — as we've been saying — know whether that thing is done correctly?

Cleinias: Impossible.

Athenian: Then it seems we're arriving at this conclusion: our newly appointed senior choristers, whom we're hereby inviting — and though they're their own masters, effectively requiring — to sing, must be educated well enough to follow the steps of the rhythm and the notes of the song. They need to know the harmonies and rhythms so they can select what's fitting for men of their age and character to sing. They must sing these songs and take genuine, wholesome pleasure in their own performance, while also leading younger people to welcome good moral qualities with proper delight.

With this kind of training, they'll achieve a more precise understanding than ordinary people have, or even the poets themselves. Because the poet doesn't need to know the third criterion — whether the imitation is truly good or not — though he can hardly avoid knowing the principles of melody and rhythm. But the elder chorus must know all three, so they can choose the best or what comes closest to the best. Otherwise, they'll never be able to charm the souls of young people in the direction of virtue.

And now we've accomplished what we originally set out to do — to make a proper case for the Chorus of Dionysus. Let's see if we were right. I'd expect that a drinking gathering is likely to become more and more rowdy as the drinking goes on. That was our starting point, wasn't it?

Cleinias: It certainly was.

Athenian: Every person feels a heightened sense of himself. His heart is glad, and he'll say anything. At such times, nobody can hold him back. He imagines he's capable of ruling both himself and everyone else.

Cleinias: Absolutely true.

Athenian: Now, weren't we saying that on such occasions the souls of drinkers become like iron heated in a fire — softer, more youthful, more easily shaped by anyone who knows how to educate and mold them, just as when they were young? And that this shaper should be the same person who guided them in their youth — namely, the good legislator?

The legislator should enact laws for the banquet that work like this: when a person becomes overconfident, bold, and shameless, unwilling to take turns in silence and speech, in drinking and music — these laws should transform his character into the opposite. They should instill a just and noble fear to counter the approach of arrogance — that divine fear we've been calling reverence and sense of honor.

Cleinias: True.

Athenian: And the guardians of these laws, the ones who work alongside them, are the calm, sober commanders of the drinkers. Without their help, fighting the effects of drink is even harder than fighting enemies in battle when the general himself isn't sober. Anyone who refuses to obey them and the directors of Dionysiac feasts — who should be men over sixty — should face a disgrace as great as or greater than that of someone who disobeys military leaders.

Cleinias: Right.

Athenian: So if drinking and entertainment were regulated this way, wouldn't the participants actually benefit? They'd part as better friends than when they arrived, not as enemies, the way things usually go now. Their entire interaction would be governed by law and guided by it, with the sober leading the drunk.

Cleinias: I think so too, if drinking were regulated as you propose.

Athenian: Then let's not simply condemn the gift of Dionysus as something bad and unfit for a well-run state. Wine has many fine qualities, and one especially outstanding one — though there's a difficulty in explaining it to the general public, because people are so likely to misunderstand.

Cleinias: What are you referring to?

Athenian: There's a story that's been floating around the world: that Dionysus was driven mad by his stepmother Hera, and that in revenge he inflicts Bacchic frenzies and dancing madness on others — which is why he gave people wine.

Stories like this about the gods I'll leave to those who think they can tell them safely. All I know is this: no animal is born with its full intelligence. During that in-between period, before a creature has developed its proper faculties, it rages and flails without rhyme or reason. And once it gets on its feet, it jumps around without rhyme or reason. This, you'll remember, is what we said was the origin of both music and physical training.

Cleinias: Yes, I remember.

Athenian: And didn't we say that the sense of harmony and rhythm arose from this — that the gods we have to thank for these gifts are Apollo, the Muses, and Dionysus?

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: So the other story — the popular one — implies that wine was given to humanity out of spite, to make us crazy. But our account says the opposite: wine was given as a healing remedy, to plant modesty in the soul and health and strength in the body.

Cleinias: That, Stranger, is precisely what we said.

Athenian: Then half our subject has now been discussed. Shall we move on to the other half?

Cleinias: What's the other half, and how are you dividing the subject?

Athenian: The entire choral art, in our view, is the whole of education. And of this art, the part that deals with the voice is made up of rhythms and harmonies.

Cleinias: Yes.

Athenian: The movement of the body shares rhythm with the movement of the voice, but gesture is unique to the body, while song is purely the movement of the voice.

Cleinias: Exactly right.

Athenian: And the sound of the voice that reaches and educates the soul — that's what we've been calling music.

Cleinias: We were right to call it that.

Athenian: And the movement of the body, when pursued for enjoyment, we called dancing. But when that movement is extended and developed with a view to physical excellence, that structured training is what we call gymnastics.

Cleinias: Exactly.

Athenian: So music, which was one half of the choral art, can now be considered fully discussed. Shall we move on to the other half, or not? What would you prefer?

Cleinias: My dear friend, you're talking with a Cretan and a Spartan, and we've discussed music but not gymnastics — what answer do you think either of us is going to give to a question like that?

Athenian: Your question is its own answer, and I take it not just as an answer but as a command to proceed with gymnastics.

Cleinias: You understand me perfectly. Go ahead.

Athenian: I will. And there shouldn't be any difficulty explaining this to you, since you're both far more familiar with this subject than with music.

Cleinias: There shouldn't be.

Athenian: Doesn't gymnastics, too, trace its origin to the natural tendency toward rapid motion that exists in all animals? As we were saying, humans developed a sense of rhythm and from that created and invented dancing. And when melody awakened and joined with rhythm, the two together formed the choral art.

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: And one part of this subject we've already discussed, while another remains?

Cleinias: Exactly.

Athenian: But first, let me add one final word about drinking, if you'll allow me.

Cleinias: What more do you have to say?

Athenian: Here's my position. If a city seriously adopts the practice of regulated drinking as a means of cultivating self-discipline — and applies the same principle to other pleasures, with the aim of mastering them — then all these pleasures can be put to good use.

But if the city treats drinking as mere amusement, where anyone can drink whenever they want, with whoever they want, and throw in any other indulgence on top of it — I'll never agree that such a city, or such a person, should practice drinking at all.

In fact, I'd go further than the Cretans and Spartans. I'm inclined toward the Carthaginian law: that no one on military campaign should be allowed to taste wine at all — they should drink only water the entire time. In the city, no slave, male or female, should ever drink wine. No magistrate should drink during their year of office. No ship's pilot or judge should taste wine while on duty. No one going into an important consultation should drink. No one should drink during the daytime at all, unless it's for exercise or medical reasons. And no one should drink at night when they intend to conceive children.

There are countless other situations where people with good sense and good laws ought not to drink. If what I'm saying is right, no city would need very many vineyards. Their agriculture and way of life would follow an orderly plan, and grape cultivation would be the most limited and least common of their activities.

And that, my friends, shall be the crowning statement of my discussion of wine — if you agree.

Cleinias: Excellent. We agree.

Laws — Book III

Athenian: Enough of all that. So what should we consider the origin of government? Isn't the best way to approach this question to look at it from the perspective of how states progress and change — for better or worse — over time?

Cleinias: What do you mean?

Athenian: I mean we could trace the changes that happen to states over vast stretches of time and observe how they transform.

Cleinias: How would we do that?

Athenian: Well, do you think you could calculate how much time has passed since cities first came into existence and people began living as citizens?

Cleinias: Hardly. That would be impossible.

Athenian: But you'd agree it must be an incomprehensibly long time?

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: And over that span, thousands upon thousands of cities have come into being and just as many have been destroyed, haven't they? Each one cycling through every form of government over and over — sometimes growing larger, sometimes shrinking, sometimes improving, sometimes falling apart?

Cleinias: Of course.

Athenian: Let's try to figure out the cause of these changes. That'll probably help us explain the very first origin and development of government.

Cleinias: Good idea. You share your thoughts with us, and we'll do our best to follow.

Athenian: Do you believe there's any truth in the ancient traditions?

Cleinias: Which traditions?

Athenian: The stories about how humanity has been destroyed many times over — by great floods, plagues, and all sorts of catastrophes — with only a tiny remnant surviving each time.

Cleinias: Everyone's inclined to believe those stories.

Athenian: Let's focus on one of them — the destruction caused by the great flood.

Cleinias: What should we notice about it?

Athenian: That the people who survived would have been hill shepherds — small sparks of the human race preserved on the tops of mountains.

Cleinias: Clearly.

Athenian: And these survivors would've known nothing about the arts, the clever inventions, or all the scheming and manipulation that city life breeds. They'd have been completely cut off from all that.

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: So let's assume that all the cities in the plains and along the coasts were completely wiped out.

Cleinias: All right.

Athenian: Wouldn't every tool and every brilliant invention — political systems, technologies, all forms of expertise — have been utterly lost?

Cleinias: Absolutely. And you know, my friend, if things had always remained as they are now, how would anything ever have been discovered in the first place? The truth is, the arts were unknown for periods of time so vast they're beyond counting. It's only been a thousand or two thousand years since the discoveries of Daedalus, Orpheus, and Palamedes, or since Marsyas and Olympus invented their musical forms, or since Amphion created the lyre — not to mention countless other inventions that are practically from yesterday.

Athenian: Cleinias, have you forgotten the name of a friend who is quite literally from yesterday?

Cleinias: I suppose you mean Epimenides.

Athenian: That's the one. He really does leap ahead of everyone else with his inventions. What Hesiod merely talked about in theory, Epimenides actually put into practice — or so your tradition says.

Cleinias: Yes, that's what we're told.

Athenian: So after the great destruction, let's imagine what the state of humanity would have been. Picture it: a vast, empty wilderness stretching in every direction. Maybe a herd or two of cattle survived somewhere, and a few goats — barely enough to keep the shepherds who tended them alive.

Cleinias: True.

Athenian: And as for cities, governments, and legislation — the things we're discussing right now — do you think anyone could have had any memory of them at all?

Cleinias: None whatsoever.

Athenian: And yet from that state of affairs, everything we now have has developed: cities and governments, arts and laws, and a great deal of both vice and virtue?

Cleinias: What do you mean?

Athenian: Well, my friend, how could we possibly expect that people who knew nothing about the good and evil of city life could have reached the heights of virtue or the depths of vice?

Cleinias: I see your point. You're quite right.

Athenian: But as time went on and the population grew, the world gradually became what we see today.

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: And the change didn't happen overnight. It took place little by little, over an enormously long period.

Cleinias: That's very likely.

Athenian: At first, the terror of the flood would still be ringing in their ears, and they'd have been too afraid to come down from the highlands into the plains.

Cleinias: Of course.

Athenian: And the tiny number of survivors would've been desperate to see one another. But the means of traveling — by land or sea — had been almost entirely lost along with all the other arts. Getting from one place to another would have been incredibly difficult. Iron and bronze and all the metals had been jumbled together and buried in the destruction. There was no way to extract ore. And they had almost no way to fell timber either. Even if some tools had survived up in the mountains, they would've quickly worn out and disappeared, and there'd have been no way to replace them until the art of metalworking was rediscovered.

Cleinias: No, there couldn't have been.

Athenian: And how many generations would that have taken?

Cleinias: Clearly a great many.

Athenian: During that whole period, and for some time after, every craft that depends on iron and bronze and similar metals would have vanished.

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: And war and internal conflict would have died out too, for several reasons.

Cleinias: How so?

Athenian: First, the isolation and desolation these early people experienced would have created strong bonds of affection and goodwill among them. Second, they wouldn't have had any reason to quarrel over food. Pastureland would have been abundant — with so few people left, there'd have been plenty for everyone — except perhaps right at the beginning, in some isolated cases. From their pastures they'd have gotten most of their food: plenty of milk and meat. They'd also have supplemented this with hunting, and there'd have been no shortage of game. They'd have had plenty of clothing, bedding, shelters, and household goods too — both fireproof and regular — because the arts of pottery and weaving don't require iron. God gave humans those two crafts specifically so that even when reduced to the direst circumstances, the human race could still survive and grow.

So people in those days weren't desperately poor. And poverty didn't cause divisions among them. But they couldn't have been rich either, since they had neither gold nor silver. That was just their situation. And a community that has neither poverty nor wealth will always produce the noblest character. Where there's no great wealth, there's no arrogance or injustice. And where there's no poverty, there's no resentment or envy. So they were good people. They were also what you'd call simple-minded — and I mean that as a compliment. When they were told something was good or bad, they believed it in their simplicity and lived accordingly. Nobody was clever enough to suspect anyone else of lying, the way people do now. What they heard about gods and men, they took to be the truth and shaped their lives around it. In every way, they were exactly as we've described.

Cleinias: That fits perfectly with my own views, and Megillus' too.

Athenian: Now, wouldn't these people — living simply for generation after generation, rougher perhaps, more ignorant of the arts generally, and certainly of land and naval warfare, and all those clever tricks that cities breed: legal maneuvering, political factions, every imaginable way of hurting each other in word and deed — wouldn't they, despite being less sophisticated than the people who lived before the flood or than people of our own day, have been simpler, braver, more self-disciplined, and on the whole more just? We've already explained why.

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: I want you to understand that everything I've been saying, and everything that follows, is meant to explain one thing: what did the people of that era need in the way of laws, and who were their lawmakers?

Cleinias: And so far, you've been making your case very well.

Athenian: They wouldn't have needed formal lawmakers yet. Nothing of the sort was likely to exist in their time, since they didn't even have writing. They lived by habit and by what are called ancestral customs.

Cleinias: Probably so.

Athenian: But there was already a form of government in existence — one that, if I'm not mistaken, is generally called patriarchy. It still survives in many places, among both Greeks and non-Greeks. Homer tells us the Cyclopes lived this way:

"They have no councils and no formal laws, but they live in hollow caves on the tops of high mountains, and each one lays down the law for his own wife and children, and they don't concern themselves with one another."

Cleinias: That seems like a charming poet of yours. I've read some other verses of his that are quite clever, though I don't know him well. Foreign poets aren't widely read in Crete.

Megillus: But they certainly are in Sparta! Homer seems to be the prince of all poets. Although the way of life he describes isn't Spartan — it's more Ionian, I'd say. But he does seem to confirm exactly what you're arguing, tracing the ancient condition of humanity back to a kind of primitive life through traditional stories.

Athenian: Yes, he does confirm it. And we can accept his testimony that these kinds of governments do arise.

Cleinias: Agreed.

Athenian: And weren't these communities made up of people who had been scattered into isolated families by the devastation? In these groups, the eldest would naturally have ruled — since government originated in the authority of a father and mother. Like a flock of birds, the rest would have followed, forming a single group under patriarchal rule and the sovereignty of their parents — which is, of all forms of authority, the most natural and just.

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: After this, they started coming together in larger numbers, expanding the size of their communities. They turned to farming, first at the foot of the mountains. They built rough stone walls and other defenses to keep out wild animals, creating a single larger shared settlement.

Cleinias: Yes, that's how it would likely have happened.

Athenian: And here's something else that probably occurred.

Cleinias: What?

Athenian: When these larger settlements grew out of the smaller original family groups, each family would have survived within the larger community. Every family would still be governed by its eldest member. And because of their long separation from one another, each family would have developed its own customs — its own ways of doing things, both religious and secular — inherited from the parents who'd raised them. Orderly parents would have passed along orderliness; courageous parents, courage. They would naturally have stamped their own values on their children, and their children's children. So by the time these families came together into the larger society, each one already had its own distinct customs and traditions.

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: And naturally, every group prefers its own customs and isn't as fond of other people's.

Cleinias: True.

Athenian: So it seems we've stumbled onto the beginnings of legislation.

Cleinias: Exactly.

Athenian: The next step would be that the people who'd come together would choose some arbiters — people who'd review the laws and customs of all the different families and present the ones they approved to the tribal leaders, who were essentially their kings. These arbiters would let the leaders choose whichever laws they thought best. The arbiters themselves would end up being called "legislators," and they'd appoint magistrates. Out of the old patriarchies, they'd construct some sort of aristocracy — or perhaps a monarchy. And in this transformed system of government, they'd carry on living.

Cleinias: Yes, that would be the natural progression.

Athenian: Now let's talk about a third form of government — one in which all sorts of political arrangements and constitutional forms come together.

Cleinias: What form is that?

Athenian: The one Homer describes as following the second stage. This third form emerged when, as he tells it, Dardanus founded Dardania:

"For holy Ilium had not yet been built on the plain to be a city of speaking men; they were still dwelling at the foot of many-fountained Ida."

In these verses, and in what he said about the Cyclopes, Homer speaks with the voice of divine truth. Poets are a divinely inspired race, and often — with the help of the Muses and the Graces — they hit on the truth.

Cleinias: Yes.

Athenian: Let's continue with our story, then. It'll probably help illustrate the point we're working toward. Shall we?

Cleinias: By all means.

Athenian: Ilium was built after people descended from the mountains. They settled on a broad, beautiful plain, on a low hill, watered by many rivers flowing down from Mount Ida.

Cleinias: That's how the story goes.

Athenian: And we'd have to assume this happened a very long time after the flood?

Cleinias: Yes, there must have been a very long interval.

Athenian: It's remarkable how completely they'd forgotten the earlier destruction. They placed their city right beneath numerous streams flowing from the heights, trusting for protection to hills that weren't even very high. That takes an extraordinary loss of collective memory.

Cleinias: Clearly a very long time had passed.

Athenian: And as the population grew, many other cities would have been founded.

Cleinias: No doubt.

Athenian: These cities eventually made war against Troy — by sea as well as land, because by that time people were losing their fear of the ocean.

Cleinias: Clearly.

Athenian: The Greeks — the Achaeans — besieged Troy for ten years and finally destroyed it.

Cleinias: True.

Athenian: But during those ten years while the Achaeans were camped outside Troy, things back home were falling apart. The young people left behind revolted. And when the soldiers finally came home to their own cities and families, they weren't received properly or fairly. The result was widespread death, murder, and exile. The exiles eventually regrouped under a new name — no longer Achaeans, but Dorians, named after Dorieus, who gathered them together. The rest of the story is told by you Spartans as part of your own history.

Megillus: That's right.

Athenian: So after our long digression from the subject of laws into music and drinking parties, the argument has — almost providentially — circled back to where we started. We've now reached the founding of Sparta, which you rightly say is a sister state to Crete in its laws and institutions. And we're better off for the digression, because we've traced the development of government from a first state through a second and third, each succeeding the other over vast stretches of time. And now a fourth state appears on the horizon — one that was once in the process of being founded and has continued to this day. If we can learn from all this what makes a state well or badly governed, which laws save cities and which destroy them, and what changes produce happiness — then, Megillus and Cleinias, we can start fresh. Unless you have some objection to what we've said so far?

Megillus: If some god promised us that our next investigation into legislation would be as rich and full as this one, I'd walk a very long way to hear it. I'd say a day as long as this one — and we're approaching the longest day of the year — is too short for the discussion.

Athenian: Then I suppose we'd better keep going?

Megillus: Definitely.

Athenian: Let's put ourselves mentally at the moment when Sparta, Argos, and Messene — and the rest of the Peloponnese — were all completely under the control of your ancestors, Megillus. According to the legend, they then divided their army into three parts and settled three cities: Argos, Messene, and Sparta.

Megillus: True.

Athenian: Temenus became king of Argos, Cresphontes of Messene, and Procles and Eurysthenes of Sparta.

Megillus: Yes.

Athenian: And all the people of that time swore oaths that they would help defend these kings if anyone tried to overthrow their rule.

Megillus: True.

Athenian: But can a kingdom really be destroyed by anyone other than its own rulers? By Zeus — have we already forgotten what we said just a short while ago?

Megillus: No.

Athenian: Good. And now we can confirm that earlier point even more strongly, because we've come across historical facts that lead us right back to the same principle. We're not theorizing in the abstract anymore — we're talking about things that actually happened. Here's how it went: three royal families swore oaths with three cities, and the cities swore oaths with the kings, that both rulers and subjects would govern and be governed according to their shared laws. The rulers promised that as time went on, they wouldn't make their power more tyrannical. The subjects promised that as long as the rulers kept their word, they would never overthrow or allow others to overthrow those kingdoms. The kings were to help defend each other's kings and peoples, and the peoples were to help defend each other's peoples and kings. Isn't that right?

Megillus: Yes.

Athenian: And these three states — regardless of whether it was the kings or someone else who wrote their laws — had the strongest possible safeguard for maintaining their constitutions.

Megillus: What safeguard?

Athenian: That if any one of the three cities rebelled, the other two would always come to the rescue.

Megillus: True.

Athenian: Now, many people say that legislators should only impose laws that the general public will readily accept. But that's like telling athletic trainers or doctors to treat their pupils and patients only in ways that feel pleasant.

Megillus: Exactly.

Athenian: Whereas a doctor is often doing well enough if he can restore health and make the body whole without causing too much pain.

Megillus: Certainly.

Athenian: The lawmakers of that era also had another advantage that made their job much easier.

Megillus: What advantage?

Athenian: When they distributed property equally, they avoided the biggest political firestorm there is — the one that erupts whenever someone tries to redistribute land or cancel debts because they can see that without reform, there can never be real equality. Normally, when a lawmaker attempts anything like that, everyone screams, "Don't disturb vested interests!" People curse him for proposing land reform and debt cancellation until the poor man doesn't know which way to turn. But nobody could object to the Dorians distributing land — there was nothing to redistribute. And they had no significant debts, certainly no long-standing ones.

Megillus: Very true.

Athenian: Then why, my friends, did the settlement and legislation of their country turn out so badly?

Megillus: What do you mean? Why are you criticizing them?

Athenian: Three kingdoms were established. Two of them quickly corrupted their original constitution and laws. Only Sparta survived intact.

Megillus: That's not an easy question to answer.

Athenian: But we have to answer it if we're seriously investigating laws. This is our old men's sober game, remember — the one we use to pass the time on our journey, as I said when we first set out.

Megillus: True. We have to figure out why this happened.

Athenian: What laws are more worthy of study than those that governed these cities? What state settlements were ever more significant or more famous?

Megillus: I can't think of any.

Athenian: Can there be any doubt that your ancestors intended these institutions not just for the protection of the Peloponnese, but for all of Greece — in case of an attack by non-Greek powers? Remember, the people around Troy, when they provoked the Trojan War through their arrogance, were relying on the power of the Assyrian Empire under Ninus, which still existed and inspired great fear — just as we now fear the Great King of Persia. The second destruction of Troy was a serious offense against the Assyrians, since Troy was part of their empire. To meet this threat, the army was divided among three cities by the royal brothers, the sons of Heracles. A clever arrangement, it seemed — far better than the original expedition against Troy. For one thing, the people of that day believed they had better leaders in the Heraclidae than in the Pelopidae. And they considered their army superior in courage to the one that went against Troy — after all, the Trojans had been conquered by the Achaeans, but the Achaeans themselves had been conquered by the Heraclidae, Dorians overcoming Achaeans. Isn't it reasonable to think that this is what the men of that era had in mind when they set up their constitutions?

Megillus: Quite reasonable.

Athenian: And wouldn't people who had shared many dangers together, who were governed by a single royal family of brothers, and who had the blessing of oracles — especially the oracle at Delphi — naturally assume that their states would stand firm and last forever?

Megillus: Of course they would.

Athenian: And yet these institutions, which everyone had such high hopes for, all fell apart almost immediately — with the single exception, as I said, of the Spartan portion. And that one surviving third has never stopped fighting against the other two. Whereas if the original plan had held together and they'd stayed united, their military power would have been absolutely unstoppable.

Megillus: No doubt about it.

Athenian: So what destroyed this magnificent alliance? Here's a question truly worth investigating.

Megillus: Absolutely. You won't find more dramatic examples anywhere of how laws and governments can either save or ruin great and noble enterprises.

Athenian: Well, it seems we've arrived at a genuinely important question.

Megillus: Indeed we have.

Athenian: Have you ever noticed, my wise friend, how people — ourselves included, right at this very moment — often look at something and think, "What a magnificent thing! If only someone had known how to use it properly, it could have achieved wonders!" And yet this way of thinking might turn out to be completely mistaken — not just in our case, but in general?

Megillus: What are you getting at? What do you mean?

Athenian: I was just catching myself doing exactly that — admiring the Heraclid expedition, which was so noble and could have produced such wonderful results for Greece, if only it had been managed properly. And I was laughing at myself for it.

Megillus: But weren't you right to say what you said? And weren't we right to agree with you?

Athenian: Perhaps. But I can't help noticing that whenever anyone sees something great and powerful, the immediate reaction is: "If only the owner knew how to use this magnificent possession, imagine how happy they'd be and what great things they'd accomplish!"

Megillus: And isn't that a fair reaction?

Athenian: Think about it. In what sense is this kind of praise actually justified? Let's apply it to our case. If the commanders back then had known how to organize their forces properly, how would they have succeeded? Wouldn't it have been something like this: they would have bound the three states firmly together, preserved the alliance forever, and given themselves freedom and dominion as they pleased — the power to do whatever they wanted, anywhere in the world, Greek or non-Greek. What else could they have been after?

Megillus: Very good.

Athenian: And suppose someone were to express the same kind of admiration at the sight of great wealth, or distinguished ancestry, or anything like that. They'd be praising these things on the assumption that through them, they'd get everything — or at least most of what — they desire.

Megillus: They would.

Athenian: Well now, doesn't our argument show that there's one universal desire shared by all human beings?

Megillus: What is it?

Athenian: The desire that everything — or at the very least, everything within human reach — should turn out in accordance with one's own wishes.

Megillus: Certainly.

Athenian: And since we have this desire at every stage of life — in youth, in adulthood, in old age — we can't help praying for its fulfillment constantly.

Megillus: No doubt.

Athenian: And we join in our friends' prayers too, wishing for them what they wish for themselves.

Megillus: We do.

Athenian: A father loves his son — the elder loves the younger.

Megillus: Of course.

Athenian: And yet the son often prays to get things that the father prays he won't get.

Megillus: You mean when the son is young and foolish?

Athenian: Yes. Or consider this: when the father himself, whether from the foolishness of age or the recklessness of youth, has lost his sense of right and wrong and prays passionately — like Theseus when he cursed his innocent son Hippolytus — do you think a son who does have a sense of right and wrong would join in that prayer?

Megillus: I see what you're saying. A person shouldn't rush to have everything go according to their wishes, because their wishes might conflict with their reason. What every state and every individual really ought to pray and strive for is wisdom.

Athenian: Yes! And if you remember, I said at the very beginning that a statesman and lawmaker should design laws with wisdom as their goal. But you were arguing that a good lawmaker should organize everything with a view to war. And I replied that war involves only one of the four virtues, whereas the lawmaker should keep all of them in view — and especially the one that leads all the rest: wisdom, which has practical judgment and true understanding as its companions, with passion and desire following in their train.

So the argument has come back to the same point. And I'll say it again — call it a joke if you like, or take it seriously: the prayer of a fool is a dangerous thing, because it's likely to produce the exact opposite of what he wants. If you'd rather take that seriously, go ahead. And I suspect you'll find, as I've already argued, that what ruined the Dorian kings and their whole grand plan wasn't cowardice. It wasn't military ignorance, either on the part of the rulers or their subjects. Their downfall was caused by their general moral deterioration — and above all, by their ignorance of what matters most in human life. That was true then, it's true now, and it always will be. And I'll try to demonstrate this as clearly as I can throughout our discussion, if you'll allow me.

Cleinias: Please go on, friend. Compliments are tedious. We'll show how much we value your words not by flattering you, but by giving you our full attention — which is the best way a free man can show his approval.

Megillus: Well said, Cleinias. Let's do exactly that.

Cleinias: Absolutely — God willing. Continue.

Athenian: All right then. Picking up where we left off: the greatest ignorance was the ruin of the Dorian power. And the same is true now as then — ignorance is what destroys. So if that's the case, the lawmaker must do everything possible to cultivate wisdom in states and drive out ignorance.

Cleinias: That's obvious.

Athenian: Now think about this: what really is the greatest ignorance? I'd like to know whether you and Megillus agree with what I'm about to say.

Cleinias: Go on.

Athenian: The greatest ignorance is this: when a person hates what they actually believe, deep down, to be good and noble — and loves and embraces what they know to be wrong and evil. This conflict between pleasure and rational judgment in the soul is, in my view, the worst kind of ignorance. It's also the most widespread, because it affects the largest part of the soul. The part of the soul that feels pleasure and pain is like the common people in a state. And when the soul rebels against knowledge and reason and good judgment — which are its natural rulers — that's what I call folly. Just as in a state, when the masses refuse to obey their rulers and laws. Or in an individual, when sound reasoning is present in the soul but accomplishes nothing — or worse, the opposite of what it should. All of these I call the worst kind of ignorance, whether in individuals or in states. You understand, friend, that I'm talking about something very different from the ignorance of tradespeople who lack technical knowledge.

Cleinias: Yes, my friend. We understand, and we agree.

Athenian: Then let's establish this principle: a citizen who suffers from this kind of ignorance should never be entrusted with any position of authority. He must be labeled ignorant — even if he's a mathematical genius, skilled in every kind of clever intellectual feat. And the opposite kind of person should be called wise — even if, as the proverb says, they can't read or swim. These are the people to whom authority should be given, because they have good sense.

After all, my friends, how can there be even a shadow of wisdom where there's no inner harmony? There can't. The noblest and greatest of all harmonies is rightly called the greatest wisdom. And anyone who lives according to reason shares in it. But someone who lacks reason isn't just failing to save his household — he's actively destroying it. And he's the exact opposite of a savior of the state. He's utterly ignorant of political wisdom. Let that be our established principle.

Cleinias: So established.

Athenian: I take it there must be rulers and subjects in any state?

Cleinias: Of course.

Athenian: So what are the principles by which people rule and obey — in large states and small ones, and in families too? How many such principles are there? First, isn't there one claim to authority that's always legitimate — the right of parents, and ancestors generally, to rule over their children?

Cleinias: There is.

Athenian: Second, the principle that those of noble birth should rule over the less noble. And third, that older people should rule and younger people should obey?

Cleinias: Naturally.

Athenian: Fourth, that slaves should be ruled and masters should rule?

Cleinias: Obviously.

Athenian: Fifth, if I'm not mistaken, comes the principle that the stronger should rule and the weaker submit?

Cleinias: There's a rule that's hard to disobey!

Athenian: Yes — and a rule that prevails throughout the entire natural world. As the Theban poet Pindar once pointed out. But the sixth principle — and the greatest of all — is that the wise should lead and the ignorant should follow. And this, my dear Pindar — I'd tell him if I could — is not contrary to nature at all. It is the rule of law over willing subjects, not the rule of brute force.

Cleinias: Absolutely right.

Athenian: There's a seventh kind of authority, too — one assigned by lot, which is dear to the gods and a sign of good fortune. Whoever wins the lot rules; whoever doesn't, steps aside and submits. And we'd call this perfectly just.

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: "So you see, legislator" — as we might playfully say to anyone who takes up lawmaking too lightly — "the principles of government: how many there are, and how naturally they conflict with one another. Here we've uncovered a fountainhead of political upheaval, and you'd better pay attention to it."

First, let's consider what happened with the kings of Argos and Messene. How did they violate these principles and bring ruin on themselves and the once-great power of Greece? Wasn't it because they failed to understand what Hesiod meant when he said that the half is often more than the whole? His point was this: when taking the whole is dangerous, and taking the half is the safe and moderate course, then the moderate path is actually better than the immoderate one.

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: And which is more dangerous — this immoderate spirit appearing in kings, or in ordinary people?

Cleinias: It's probably more common and more destructive in kings, because they lead proud, luxurious lives.

Athenian: Isn't it obvious that the main goal of those kings was to override the established laws — to break the very agreements they'd sworn to uphold by word and oath? This lack of inner harmony may have looked like cleverness, but it was actually the greatest ignorance, and it completely destroyed the whole enterprise through discord and clashing.

Cleinias: Very likely.

Athenian: Good. So what precautions should the original lawmaker have taken to prevent this disaster? Here's the thing: it doesn't take much wisdom to diagnose a problem after the fact. Hindsight is easy. But to have foreseen the solution at the time — that would have taken a much wiser mind than ours.

Megillus: What do you mean?

Athenian: Looking at what happened with you Spartans, Megillus, anyone can see in retrospect what should have been done.

Megillus: Could you be a bit more specific?

Athenian: Nothing could be clearer than what I'm about to say.

Megillus: Which is?

Athenian: This: if you give too much of anything — too large a sail to a ship, too much food to the body, too much power to the mind — everything is thrown off balance. Too much food leads to sickness. Too much power leads to injustice, which is the child of excess. Here's what I mean, my friends: no human soul — especially a young, irresponsible one — can withstand the temptation of unchecked power. Nobody who gets it is immune. They inevitably become infected with the worst of all diseases: folly. And their closest friends end up hating them. When that happens, their kingdom is undermined from within, and all their power slips away. Great lawmakers who understand the principle of moderation should watch out for this danger.

As best we can tell from this distance in time, here's what happened with Sparta:

Megillus: What?

Athenian: A god watching over Sparta, seeing into the future, gave you two royal families instead of one — pulling you closer to the right balance. Then, some human wisdom blended with this divine arrangement. Noticing that Sparta's constitution was still running hot, someone tempered your inborn pride and strength with the moderating influence of age by creating the Council of Twenty-Eight Elders, whose power equaled the kings' on the most important matters. But your third savior saw that the government was still churning and swelling. So he established the Ephors, whose authority resembled that of officials chosen by lot. And with this arrangement, the royal office was blended from the right ingredients and properly balanced — which preserved it and, through it, preserved everything else.

Because if the original lawmakers — Temenus, Cresphontes, and their generation — had been left to their own devices, even the portion of Aristodemus wouldn't have survived. They simply didn't have the experience in lawmaking. Otherwise, they'd never have imagined that oaths alone could keep young men in check once they'd been handed power that could easily become tyranny.

Now that the gods have shown us what kind of government lasts, there's no great wisdom in seeing it after the fact — as I've already said, that's easy. But if anyone could have foreseen all this at the time and found a way to moderate the three kingdoms and unite them into one, they could have saved all those excellent institutions. And if they had? No Persian army — no foreign power at all — would have dared attack us, or would have dared to treat Greece as a pushover.

Cleinias: True.

Athenian: Our defeat of the Persians was hardly something to brag about, Cleinias. The disgrace wasn't that the victors failed to win glorious victories on land and sea — they certainly did. No, what brought disgrace was this: of the three allied cities, only one actually fought for Greece. The other two were completely useless. One was so busy waging war against Sparta that it prevented Sparta from helping. And Argos — which had held pride of place when the territories were originally divided — refused to answer the call or send help when asked to resist the barbarian invasion.

There's a lot more that could be said about Greece's conduct in that war, and much of it isn't flattering. You can't really say that "Greece" repelled the invader. The truth is, if Athens and Sparta hadn't fought together, all the Greek peoples would have been thrown into chaos — Greeks mixed with Greeks, Greeks mixed with non-Greeks, non-Greeks mixed with Greeks. It would have been like what we see now in the nations under Persian rule, torn apart by unnatural separations and forced combinations, living in misery.

These, Cleinias and Megillus, are the charges we have to bring against so-called statesmen and legislators, past and present, if we want to analyze why they failed and what could have been done differently. For instance, we said just now that there should be no great, unmixed concentrations of power. The idea was that a state should be free, wise, and internally harmonious, and that a lawmaker should legislate with these goals in mind. And we shouldn't be surprised if we keep proposing different goals for the lawmaker that seem to keep changing. When we say the aim should be self-discipline, or wisdom, or friendship — these all amount to the same thing. If we use a variety of expressions, that shouldn't confuse us.

Cleinias: Let's continue in that spirit. Now, when it comes to friendship, wisdom, and freedom — what exactly should the legislator be aiming for, in your opinion?

Athenian: Listen, then. There are two mother-forms of government from which all others are truly derived. One you can call monarchy, and the other democracy. Persia has the most extreme version of the first, and we Athenians of the second. Almost all other governments, as I was saying, are variations of these two. Now, if you want to have liberty combined with friendship and wisdom, you absolutely must incorporate elements of both forms. That's the emphatic point of our argument: no city can be well governed if it doesn't draw from both.

Cleinias: Impossible to disagree.

Athenian: If a state commits itself exclusively and excessively to monarchy, or exclusively and excessively to democracy, neither one will maintain any balance. Your states — Sparta and Crete — have more balance than most. The same used to be true of Athens and Persia in their early days. But now they've lost it. Want me to explain why?

Cleinias: Absolutely — if it helps clarify our subject.

Athenian: All right, listen. There was a time when the Persians hit a better balance between slavery and freedom. Under Cyrus, the Persians were free men who also ruled over many others. Because the rulers gave their subjects a share of freedom and treated them as equals, the soldiers felt closer to their generals and fought more bravely in times of danger. And if there was a wise man among them who could offer good counsel, he was free to share it publicly. The king wasn't jealous — he allowed full freedom of speech and honored anyone who could give useful advice. The result was that the nation flourished in every way, because there was freedom, friendship, and a genuine sharing of ideas.

Cleinias: That does seem to have been the case.

Athenian: So how was this advantage lost under Cambyses, and then recovered under Darius? Let me take a guess.

Cleinias: This certainly has a bearing on our subject.

Athenian: I'd say that Cyrus, though a great and patriotic general, never gave any attention to education, and never bothered to put his own household in order.

Cleinias: What makes you say that?

Athenian: I think that from his youth onward he was a soldier, constantly at war, and he left the education of his children entirely to the women. And the women raised those boys as pampered darlings of fortune — blessed already, needing nothing more. No one was allowed to cross them in any way. Everyone was forced to praise everything they said and did. That's how they were raised.

Cleinias: A splendid education, that!

Athenian: The kind of education you'd expect from royal women who'd recently become wealthy — and with the men away, occupied with wars and dangers, and no time to supervise.

Cleinias: Fair enough.

Athenian: Meanwhile, their father had vast herds of cattle, sheep, and men. But he didn't realize that the boys he was going to hand everything over to weren't being trained in his own tradition — the Persian way. The Persians are a people of shepherds, sons of a harsh land, a stern mother that produces a tough breed capable of living in the open, going without sleep, and fighting when necessary. But Cyrus didn't notice that his sons were being raised differently. They were educated in the Median style — by women and eunuchs — in what people called the "blessings" of royalty. The result was exactly what you'd expect when children grow up without anyone ever telling them "no."

So after Cyrus died, his sons — stuffed with luxury and self-indulgence — took the throne. First one killed the other because he couldn't stand having a rival. Then the killer himself, driven mad by wine and brutality, lost the kingdom to the Medes and the man they called "the Eunuch," who despised the stupidity of Cambyses.

Cleinias: So the story goes, and it probably happened more or less like that.

Athenian: And tradition tells us that the empire was restored to the Persians through Darius and the seven conspirators.

Cleinias: True.

Athenian: Now let's follow the rest of the story. Notice this: Darius was not the son of a king, and he hadn't been raised in luxury. When he came to the throne as one of the seven, he divided the country into seven provinces — and some faint traces of this arrangement still survive. He made laws based on the principle of universal equality within the state. And he enshrined in law the system of tribute that Cyrus had promised, creating a sense of friendship and shared purpose among all Persians. He used money and gifts to win people's loyalty. The result was that his armies enthusiastically conquered territories as vast as those Cyrus had left behind.

Then Darius was succeeded by his son Xerxes. And Xerxes was raised in that same royal, pampered style. "Oh Darius" — we might fairly say — "how could you raise Xerxes the same way Cyrus raised Cambyses? How could you not see the fatal mistake?" Because Xerxes, the product of the same kind of upbringing, met pretty much the same fate. And from that time until now, there has never been a truly great Persian king — though they're all called "Great."

And their decline isn't a matter of bad luck. It's the result of the terrible life that's typically led by the sons of extremely rich and royal families. No boy, no man — young or old — will ever become excellent in character if he's been raised that way. This is exactly the kind of thing the lawmaker needs to think about, and it's what we need to think about right now.

And it's only fair to give you Spartans credit, Megillus: you don't give special honors or a special education based on wealth rather than poverty, or on royal birth rather than common origin, unless your inspired lawmaker has specifically ordered it. Because no one should receive the highest honors in a state simply because they surpass others in wealth — any more than because they're a fast runner or good-looking or physically strong, unless they also have real virtue. And not just any virtue, either — they'd better have self-discipline.

Megillus: What do you mean, friend?

Athenian: Courage is a part of virtue, right?

Megillus: Of course.

Athenian: So think about this: would you want a housemate or neighbor who was extremely brave but had no self-control?

Megillus: God, no!

Athenian: Or how about a craftsman who was brilliant at his trade but a complete scoundrel?

Megillus: Absolutely not.

Athenian: And justice doesn't exist apart from self-discipline, does it?

Megillus: It can't.

Athenian: And our model of a wise person — someone whose pleasures and pains are in harmony with reason — such a person can't lack self-discipline, can they?

Megillus: No.

Athenian: There's another important question about how states should distribute honors.

Megillus: What's that?

Athenian: I want to know this: should self-discipline by itself, existing alone in a person's soul without the other virtues, be praised or criticized?

Megillus: I really can't say.

Athenian: And that's the perfect answer. Because whichever way you'd gone, I think you'd have been wrong.

Megillus: Then I'm glad I held back.

Athenian: Exactly. A quality that's merely an accessory — something that attaches to things that might be praiseworthy or blameworthy — doesn't really call for a verdict on its own. It's better left without comment.

Megillus: You're talking about self-discipline?

Athenian: Yes. But among the other virtues, the one that's most beneficial while also possessing this quality of self-discipline deserves the highest honor. The next most beneficial deserves the next highest honor. And so on — each virtue honored in its proper order.

Megillus: True.

Athenian: And shouldn't it be the lawmaker's job to establish these rankings?

Megillus: It certainly should.

Athenian: How about we leave the detailed rankings to the lawmaker? But the broad classification of laws into first, second, and third priority — that's something we lovers of law can work out ourselves.

Megillus: Sounds good.

Athenian: Here's what we maintain, then: a state that wants to be as safe and happy as human nature allows must distribute honor and dishonor in the right way. And the right way is this: put the goods of the soul first and highest — always assuming self-discipline as the foundation. Put the goods of the body second. And put wealth and property third.

If any lawmaker or state departs from this order by putting money in the place of honor, or by elevating what truly belongs last — can't we say they're committing an unholy and unpatriotic act?

Megillus: Yes. Let's declare that plainly.

Athenian: It was our examination of Persian government that led us into this longer discussion. What we found is that the Persians kept getting worse. And the reason, we argue, is that they stripped their people of too much freedom and imposed too much despotism, destroying friendship and the sense of common purpose. And once those are gone, the rulers stop governing for the benefit of their subjects and the people, and start governing for themselves. If they think they can gain even the smallest advantage, they'll devastate cities and burn friendly nations to the ground. They hate ruthlessly and horribly — and are hated in return. When they need their people to fight for them, they find no shared loyalty, no willingness to risk life on their behalf. Their armies may number in the millions, but those millions are useless on the battlefield. So they end up thinking their salvation depends on hiring mercenaries and foreigners, as if they didn't have enough men of their own. And they can't help being foolish, since their actions broadcast that the ordinary distinctions between right and wrong in a society are trivial compared to gold and silver.

Megillus: Exactly right.

Athenian: So we're done with the Persians, and our conclusion is that their current misgovernment is the result of too much slavery and too much despotism.

Megillus: Good.

Athenian: Next, we need to examine the government of Athens in the same way. We need to show that total freedom and the complete absence of any higher authority isn't nearly as good as moderate government under properly limited authority. That's what Athens had in our ancient constitution, back when the Persians launched their attack on Greece — or rather, on all of Europe.

There were four classes of citizens, arranged by a property assessment, and respect for law was our queen and mistress. It made us willing to live in obedience to the laws of that time. On top of that, the sheer scale of the Persian threat — by land and sea — created such overwhelming fear that we became even more obedient to our rulers and our laws. All these factors combined to produce an extraordinary sense of harmony among us.

About ten years before the naval battle at Salamis, a Persian general named Datis arrived, leading an army sent by King Darius with explicit orders to capture the Athenians and the Eretrians and carry them off. He was told to accomplish this on pain of death. Datis and his enormous force quickly conquered Eretria completely. Then he sent a terrifying report back to Athens: not a single Eretrian had escaped. His soldiers had literally linked hands and swept through all of Eretria like a net.

Whether that report was entirely accurate or not, it struck terror into every Greek heart — and the Athenians most of all. They sent ambassadors in every direction begging for help, but nobody was willing to come — except the Spartans. And they were either delayed by the Messenian war that was going on at the time, or by some other reason we're not told about, and arrived one day too late for the Battle of Marathon.

Then, after a while, reports started coming of even more massive preparations and endless threats from the Persian king. Time passed, and word arrived that Darius was dead and his young, hot-headed son had taken the throne and was pressing ahead with the invasion plan. The Athenians felt sure the whole expedition was aimed at them because of Marathon.

Then they heard about the bridge over the Hellespont, the canal cut through Mount Athos, and the vast fleet of ships. They could see no path to safety — not by land, not by sea. No one was going to help them. They remembered that in the first Persian invasion, when Eretria was destroyed, nobody had come to their rescue or risked an alliance with them. They assumed the same thing would happen again on land. And when they looked to the sea, they couldn't see any hope of survival there either — not against more than a thousand warships.

One slender, desperate chance remained. Their only chance. They looked at Marathon, at that seemingly impossible victory, and drew strength from it. They realized that their only refuge was in themselves and in the gods.

All of this created a powerful spirit of solidarity among them. There was the immediate fear of the moment. But there was also that deeper kind of fear — the reverence they'd developed through obedience to their ancient laws, which I've called "reverence" several times in our discussion. It's the fear that a good person willingly serves, while a coward knows nothing of it. If this reverence hadn't possessed them, they would never have stood together to defend their temples, their burial grounds, their country, and everything they held dear. Little by little, they would have scattered and been picked off one by one.

Megillus: Your words are true, Athenian, and worthy of both you and your country.

Athenian: They are true, Megillus. And it's fitting to share these things with you, since you've inherited your ancestors' virtues. But I'd like both you and Cleinias to consider whether my words don't also bear on our subject — legislation. I'm not just talking for the pleasure of it; I'm making an argument. Notice that the experience of both Athens and Persia was, in a certain sense, the same: just as the Persians led their people into utter slavery, so we Athenians led ours into utter freedom. The question now is: where does this take us? Our earlier arguments have a great deal to say here.

Megillus: True. But I'd like a fuller explanation.

Athenian: I'll give you one. Under the ancient laws, my friends, the people of Athens weren't the masters — they were the willing servants of the laws.

Megillus: Which laws do you mean?

Athenian: Let's start with the laws governing music — that is, the music of that era — so we can trace the growth of excessive freedom from its roots. In those days, music was divided into clearly defined categories. One kind consisted of hymns — prayers to the gods. Another, opposite kind was called lamentations. Then there were paeans, and also dithyrambs — songs celebrating the birth of Dionysus. There was yet another kind they actually called nomoi — "laws" — adding the term "citharoedic" to distinguish them. All of these, and others too, were precisely classified. Performers were not allowed to mix one style with another.

And the authority that maintained these standards and judged the performances and punished those who broke the rules wasn't expressed through hissing, or the crude shouting of the crowd, or through applause and clapping — the way it is today. No: the directors of public education insisted that the audience listen in silence all the way through. Boys, their teachers, and the general public were kept in line with a stick if necessary. The public was willing to maintain this good order. No one would have dreamed of making noise to express their judgment.

Then, over time, the poets themselves ushered in a reign of vulgar, lawless innovation. They were talented people, but they had no understanding of what was right and proper in music. They went wild — like Bacchants possessed with uncontrollable passion — mixing lamentations with hymns, paeans with dithyrambs, imitating flute music on the lyre, jumbling everything together. In their ignorance, they declared that music has no real truth, and that the only way to judge it — good or bad — is by how much pleasure it gives the listener.

By composing these reckless works, and setting equally reckless words to them, they infected the public with lawlessness and boldness. They made ordinary people think they were qualified to judge music and poetry for themselves. And that's how the theaters — which used to be silent — became vocal, as if the audience actually understood what was good and bad in art. Instead of a wise aristocracy of taste, what grew up was a wretched "theatrocracy."

Now, if this democratic judging had been limited to educated people, the damage would have been minor. But once the principle took root in music — this universal delusion of expertise, this general lawlessness — freedom followed. People thought they knew things they didn't know. They lost all sense of fear. And the absence of fear breeds shamelessness. What is shamelessness, after all, but the arrogant refusal to respect the judgment of one's betters — born from an excessive, reckless kind of liberty?

Megillus: Very true.

Athenian: After this kind of freedom comes another: disobedience to rulers. Then the attempt to escape the guidance of parents, mothers, fathers, and elders. As they near the end of this path, they try to escape the control of the laws too. And at the very end comes contempt for oaths and promises and total disregard for the gods. At that point they're acting out the old story of the Titans, who rebelled against the gods — returning to that same ancient pattern and living a life of endless misery.

But why have I said all this? I need to rein the argument in now and then, hold it with bit and bridle, so that — as the proverb says — we don't fall off the donkey. So let's ask again: what was the point of all this?

Megillus: Good idea.

Athenian: The point was this —

Megillus: Which was?

Athenian: We were saying that the lawmaker should keep three goals in mind: that the city he's legislating for should be free, internally unified, and wise. Those were our principles, weren't they?

Megillus: Yes.

Athenian: With those goals in mind, we picked two forms of government — the most despotic and the most free — and we've been asking which one gets it right. What we saw was that each one achieves its best form at a moderate level. When either is pushed to the extreme — extreme slavery or extreme liberty — neither produces good results.

Megillus: Very true.

Athenian: And that was our reason for tracing the settlement of the Dorian army, and the city Dardanus built at the foot of the mountains, and the migration of cities to the seashore, and the earliest humans who survived the flood. Everything we said earlier about music and drinking parties — all of it — served the same purpose: figuring out how a state can best be governed and how an individual can best order their own life.

Now, Megillus and Cleinias: how do we test whether all this has been worth saying?

Cleinias: Friend, I think I see exactly how we can put it to the test. This whole discussion seems to have come at the perfect time — it's exactly what I need right now. Your arrival here with Megillus feels like a kind of omen, and I'll tell you why.

Most of Crete is about to send out a colony. They've put the Knossians in charge of the project, and the Knossian government has appointed me and nine others to manage it. Our instructions are to give the colony whatever laws we think best — whether borrowed from the Cretan model or from anywhere else. They don't care if the laws are foreign, as long as they're good.

So do me this favor — and it'll benefit you as well: let's select from everything we've discussed, and let's imagine we're the original founders of a state. That way, we can continue our inquiry while also building a practical framework that I can actually use for the city we're about to establish.

Athenian: That's wonderful news, Cleinias! If Megillus has no objection, you can count on me to do everything I can.

Cleinias: Thank you.

Megillus: And you can count on me too.

Cleinias: Excellent. Now let's begin building our state.

Laws — Book IV

Athenian: So now, what will this city actually look like? I'm not asking about its name — that'll probably be determined by geography or the original settlement. Some river or spring, or maybe a local deity, will lend its name to the new colony. What I really want to know is: what's the location? Is it on the coast, or inland?

Cleinias: I'd say, Stranger, that the city we're talking about is roughly eighty stadia from the sea.

Athenian: And are there harbors along the coast?

Cleinias: Excellent harbors, Stranger — you couldn't ask for better.

Athenian: Oh no. That's not great news. And is the surrounding countryside productive, or does it need a lot of imports?

Cleinias: It hardly needs anything from outside.

Athenian: Is there a neighboring state nearby?

Cleinias: None at all — and that's actually why the site was chosen. Long ago, the inhabitants migrated away, and the region has been empty for as long as anyone can remember.

Athenian: And does the land have a good mix of hills, plains, and forests?

Cleinias: It's like the rest of Crete in that regard.

Athenian: You mean more rocky than flat?

Cleinias: Exactly.

Athenian: Well, that gives us some hope that your citizens might actually turn out virtuous. If the city were right on the sea, with fine harbors and importing instead of producing its own goods, you'd need some kind of superhuman savior — a more-than-mortal lawgiver — to have any chance of keeping the state from moral decay. But the eighty stadia of distance gives us some breathing room, even though the sea is still closer than I'd like, especially with those excellent harbors.

Here's the thing: the sea is a perfectly pleasant daily companion, but it also has a bitter, corrosive quality. It fills the streets with merchants and shopkeepers, and it breeds unreliable, untrustworthy habits in people's souls — making the state faithless both toward its own citizens and toward other nations.

But there's a silver lining: the country produces what it needs on its own. And because the soil is rugged, it doesn't produce huge surpluses. If it did, there'd be a massive export trade, and gold and silver would come flooding in — and as we can safely say, nothing is more destructive to a state that aims at justice and noble character. We made this point in our earlier discussion, if you recall.

Cleinias: I remember, and I think we were right then and we're right now.

Athenian: Good. But let me ask — how's the country supplied with timber for shipbuilding?

Cleinias: There's no fir worth mentioning, no pine, and very little cypress. You won't find much stone-pine or plane-wood either — the kinds of timber shipwrights always need for the interior of vessels.

Athenian: That's actually another advantage.

Cleinias: How so?

Athenian: Because no city should be able to easily copy its enemies in doing harmful things.

Cleinias: What does that have to do with anything we've been discussing?

Athenian: Remember, my good friend, what I said at the very beginning about Cretan laws — that they were aimed at one thing only, which was war. You both agreed with that. And I replied that such laws were fine insofar as they promoted virtue, but I criticized them for focusing on only one part of virtue instead of the whole. So now I hope you'll both watch me carefully as I legislate, and hold me accountable if I aim at anything other than virtue — or at only a piece of it.

Because I believe a true lawgiver is like an archer: he aims only at what's eternally and genuinely good, and he dismisses everything else — wealth, or any other supposed benefit — when it's separated from virtue.

Now, when I said that imitating enemies was a bad thing, here's what I was thinking of: consider a situation where a coastal people are harassed by enemies — the way the Athenians were by Minos. I'm not bringing up old grievances here, but Minos was a great sea power who forced the people of Attica to pay him a terrible tribute. Back then, they had no warships — not like they do now — and the country didn't have much shipbuilding timber, so they couldn't easily build a fleet. That meant they couldn't learn to copy their enemy's naval tactics and fight back at sea by becoming sailors themselves.

And honestly? It would've been better for them to have lost those seven youths many times over than to have their heavy-armed infantry — soldiers who fight on solid ground — transformed into sailors. Sailors get used to constantly jumping ashore and then sprinting back to their ships. They think there's nothing disgraceful about throwing down their weapons and running away — and they always have "good reasons" for it. That's the language of naval warfare, and it's anything but worthy of praise. We shouldn't be teaching bad habits — least of all to the best citizens.

You can see the problem even in Homer. Odysseus rebukes Agamemnon for wanting to drag the ships down to the sea while the Greeks are locked in battle with the Trojans. Odysseus gets angry and says:

"You'd have us haul the ships to sea while the battle rages? That would only fulfill the Trojans' prayers and bring ruin crashing down on us. The Greeks won't keep fighting once the ships are being dragged to the water — they'll look back over their shoulders and lose heart. Your plan would destroy us."

You see? Homer understood perfectly well that having warships at sea, right next to soldiers on the battlefield, is dangerous. With habits like those, you could train lions to run from deer.

And there's more: naval powers that depend on their fleet for survival can't properly honor the kind of military excellence that actually deserves it. When your safety depends on the pilot, the captain, the oarsman — all sorts of rather ordinary people — how can you give honor where it's truly due? A state like that can't get its values straight.

Cleinias: That may be so. But still, Stranger, we Cretans like to say that the battle of Salamis saved all of Greece.

Athenian: Yes, and that's a widely held opinion among both Greeks and non-Greeks. But Megillus and I would say something different: that the battle of Marathon was the beginning of the great deliverance, and the battle of Plataea was its completion — and that these land battles actually made the Greeks better people. The sea battles at Salamis and Artemisium — and I'll lump them together, if you don't mind — well, they helped save Greece, I won't deny that. But they didn't make anyone better.

When we're evaluating what makes a state truly good, we have to look at both its geographical situation and the quality of its laws. Because mere survival — just staying alive — isn't the most honorable thing for human beings, no matter what most people think. What matters is living the best possible life while we're alive. I believe we've made this point before.

Cleinias: Yes, we have.

Athenian: Then we only need to ask: are we taking the approach that we've already agreed is best for founding and governing a state?

Cleinias: The best by far.

Athenian: Good. Now let me move to the next question: who will the colonists be? Can anyone come from anywhere in Crete? Is the idea that the population in various cities has grown too large for the available resources? Because I don't think you're planning to send out an open invitation to any Greek who feels like showing up. And yet I notice that settlers have come to Crete from Argos, Aegina, and other parts of Greece. So tell me — where are you recruiting from for this venture?

Cleinias: They'll come from all over Crete. And among other Greeks, Peloponnesians will be the most welcome. As you rightly noted, there are Cretans of Argive descent. The Cretan people with the finest reputation today are the Gortynians, and they originally came from Gortys in the Peloponnese.

Athenian: Colonization is easier in some ways when the settlers come from a single people — like a swarm of bees sent out from one hive. This happens when friends leave friends because of population pressure or some similar necessity, or when a faction within a state is forced to emigrate. Sometimes whole cities flee after being completely conquered in war.

Now, this uniformity is an advantage in one respect, but it also creates a problem. There's natural friendship among people who share the same race, language, laws, temples, and religious practices. But colonies made up of such a homogeneous group tend to resist any laws or constitution that differ from what they had back home. Even if the faults of their old laws were what caused the divisions among them in the first place, they still cling to those same customs out of sheer habit — the very customs that ruined them. This makes them troublesome and rebellious for the leader of the colony, who is supposed to be their lawgiver.

On the other hand, a population drawn from many different sources might be more willing to accept new laws. But getting such a mixed group to work together — to pull in the same direction, as they say of horses — is extremely difficult, and it takes years.

Still, nothing does more for the improvement of humanity than good legislation and thoughtful colonization.

Cleinias: I'm sure that's true. But I'd like to understand why you say so.

Athenian: Well, my friend, I'm afraid where my thinking is leading me might sound a bit unflattering to lawmakers. But if the point is relevant, there's no harm in saying it. And really, why am I worrying? I think the same principle applies to pretty much everything human.

Cleinias: What are you getting at?

Athenian: I was going to say that human beings never really legislate at all. It's accidents of every kind that do our legislating for us. Wars overturn governments. The crushing pressure of poverty rewrites laws. Diseases force political innovations — plagues sweep through, or years of bad harvests pile up one after another. Looking at all this, a person naturally rushes to the conclusion I was heading toward: no mortal truly legislates anything. In human affairs, chance rules almost everything.

And you could say the same about the arts of the sailor, the pilot, the doctor, and the general — and it would seem perfectly reasonable. But there's something equally true that can be said about all of them.

Cleinias: What's that?

Athenian: That God governs all things, and that chance and opportunity work alongside him in the management of human affairs. But there's also a third factor, a more moderate view: that human skill should play its part too. In a storm, it's surely a huge advantage to have a skilled pilot on board. Wouldn't you agree?

Cleinias: Yes.

Athenian: And doesn't the same principle apply to lawmaking? Even when all the favorable conditions are in place for a state's happiness, the right lawgiver still needs to appear on the scene from time to time.

Cleinias: Absolutely.

Athenian: In every field, the practitioner could rightly pray for certain conditions, and if fortune grants them, then all that's left is to exercise his skill.

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: And all those other experts we just mentioned — if asked to name what they'd pray for — would each offer up their own particular wish?

Cleinias: Of course.

Athenian: And the lawgiver would do the same?

Cleinias: I believe so.

Athenian: "All right, lawgiver," we'll say to him, "what conditions do you need in a state before you can organize it properly?" How should he answer? Shall I give his reply?

Cleinias: Yes.

Athenian: He'll say: "Give me a state governed by a tyrant. And let the tyrant be young, with a good memory, quick to learn, courageous, and noble by nature. And let him have that quality which, as I said earlier, must accompany all the other parts of virtue if any of them are to be worth anything."

Cleinias: I think, Megillus, that the companion virtue the Stranger is talking about must be self-control?

Athenian: Yes, Cleinias — self-control in the ordinary sense. Not the kind that certain philosophers inflate into some grand notion of "prudence," but the natural restraint that even children and animals can display — some living with self-discipline, others without it. When this quality stands alone, without the other virtues, we said it's hardly worth counting as a real good. You understand what I mean.

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: So our ideal tyrant must have this quality along with all the others, if the state is to acquire the best possible form of government in the shortest time. Because there isn't — and never will be — a faster or more efficient way to establish a good political system than through a tyranny.

Cleinias: Wait — how on earth can anyone accept such a shocking claim, Stranger?

Athenian: It's really not hard to see, Cleinias — it just follows the natural order of things.

Cleinias: You're saying we should assume a tyrant who's young, self-controlled, quick to learn, with a good memory, courageous, and noble?

Athenian: Yes — and add "fortunate." His good fortune must be that he lives at the same time as a great lawgiver, and that some happy accident brings them together. When that happens, God has done the best thing he ever does for a state he wants to make truly prosperous. The second-best scenario is a state with two such rulers working together, and the third-best is three. The difficulty grows as the number increases, and shrinks as it decreases.

Cleinias: So you're saying that the best government emerges from a tyranny — specifically, from the combination of a good lawgiver and a well-ordered tyrant — and that the transformation from tyranny to an ideal constitution happens most easily? Less easily from an oligarchy? And least easily from a democracy?

Athenian: Not quite. What I mean is: the transformation is easiest starting from a tyranny, second easiest from a monarchy, third from some form of democracy. Oligarchy comes fourth — it has the hardest time making this kind of change, because power is held by many potentates.

Here's my reasoning: I'm assuming the lawgiver is the real deal — a genuinely great one — and that his strength is united with that of whoever holds power. When the ruling element is small in number but very strong — as in a tyranny — the change is likely to be fastest and smoothest.

Cleinias: How so? I don't understand.

Athenian: I've said this several times now. But maybe you've just never actually seen a city under a tyrant?

Cleinias: No, and I can't say I have any great desire to see one.

Athenian: Well, if you did, you'd see exactly what I'm describing.

Cleinias: What do you mean?

Athenian: I mean you'd see how easily, and how quickly, a tyrant can change the character of an entire state — if he wants to. He just has to lead the way, whether toward virtue or vice. He sets the example through his own behavior, praising and rewarding certain actions, criticizing others, and disgracing those who disobey.

Cleinias: But how can we expect ordinary citizens to just follow the leader's example overnight? How can he have the power both to persuade and to compel them?

Athenian: Don't let anyone tell you, my friends, that there's a faster or easier way for states to change their laws than when the rulers lead from the front. That kind of change has never happened any other way, and it never will.

No, the real impossibility — the truly rare thing — is something different. It's the thing that's almost never achieved across entire ages. But when it does happen, ten thousand blessings follow — or rather, every blessing imaginable.

Cleinias: What are you talking about?

Athenian: The difficulty is finding a genuine love of self-control and justice in any powerful form of government — whether it's a monarchy or an oligarchy based on wealth or birth. You might as well hope to see another Nestor, who is said to have surpassed all men in eloquence but surpassed them even more in his self-restraint. That, however, was back in the days of Troy. In our own time, there's nothing of the sort. But if such a person has ever existed, or does exist now, or will someday exist — blessed is he, and blessed are those who hear the wise words from his lips.

And this holds true as a general principle: when supreme power coincides with the greatest wisdom and self-control in the same person, that's when the best laws and the best constitution come into being. Never any other way. So let's treat what I've been saying as a kind of sacred legend, an oracle. And let this be our proof that, from one angle, it can be terribly difficult for a city to get good laws — but from another angle, nothing could be easier or quicker, if our ideal conditions are met.

Cleinias: How do you mean?

Athenian: Let's have some fun, shall we? Old boys like us, amusing ourselves by shaping in words the laws that would suit your state.

Cleinias: Let's get on with it, without delay.

Athenian: Then let's invoke God at the founding of our state. May he hear us and be gracious, and come help us establish our city and its laws!

Cleinias: May he come!

Athenian: But what form of government are we going to give this city?

Cleinias: Could you spell out what you mean a bit more? Are you talking about democracy, oligarchy, aristocracy, or monarchy? Surely you're not suggesting tyranny.

Athenian: All right — which of you will go first and tell me what his own government should be called?

Megillus: Shouldn't I answer first, since I'm the elder?

Cleinias: Perhaps you should.

Megillus: Well, Stranger, now that I think about it, I honestly can't say what to call the government of Sparta. It looks like a tyranny to me in some ways — the power of our Ephors is astonishingly tyrannical. And yet sometimes it strikes me as the most democratic of all cities. But then again, it would be absurd to deny it's an aristocracy. And we also have a kingship held for life, which everyone — not just Spartans — agrees is the most ancient monarchy of all. So when you ask me point-blank, I really can't say precisely which of these the Spartan system is.

Cleinias: I'm in the same boat, Megillus. I can't confidently say that the government of Knossos fits neatly into any of those categories either.

Athenian: That's because, my excellent friends, you actually have genuine political systems. But the states I was just listing aren't really systems of government at all — they're just cities where people are dominated by and enslaved to one faction within the state. Each gets its name from whatever group holds power. But if we're going to name a state after its ruler, then a true state ought to be named after the God who rules over those who are wise.

Cleinias: And who is this God?

Athenian: May I use a myth to help answer your question? Would that be all right?

Cleinias: By all means.

Athenian: Long ago, in the primeval world — well before the cities we've been discussing were ever founded — there's said to have been, in the age of Cronus, a blessed form of rule and a blessed way of life. The best-governed states that exist today are merely copies of it.

Cleinias: Then we definitely need to hear about this.

Athenian: I agree completely — that's exactly why I brought it up.

Cleinias: Good. Since the story is directly relevant, please give us the whole thing.

Athenian: Here's what the tradition says. In those early days, human life was one of spontaneous abundance — everything provided without toil. And the reason, they say, was this: Cronus understood what we ourselves have been arguing — that no human nature, when given supreme power, can manage human affairs without becoming swollen with arrogance and injustice.

Knowing this, he didn't appoint men to rule over other men. Instead, he placed over us beings of a higher and more divine race — spirits, or what we might call demigods — to be the kings and rulers of our cities. He did what we do with our flocks of sheep and other domesticated animals. We don't appoint oxen to lord over oxen, or goats over goats. We ourselves, as the superior species, rule over them. In the same way, God, in his love for humanity, set over us these spirits — a superior race — who cared for us with great ease and pleasure, both for themselves and for us. They gave us peace, respect for law, an abundance of justice, and freedom from internal strife. They made the human race happy and united.

This tradition — and it's a true one — tells us that any city where a mere mortal rules instead of God has no escape from troubles and suffering.

The lesson is this: we should do everything we can to imitate the life that's said to have existed in the days of Cronus. Whatever part of us is immortal — our reason — that's what we must listen to, both in our private lives and in public affairs. We should organize our cities and households according to law, and by "law" I mean the rational ordering of mind.

But if a single ruler, or an oligarchy, or a democracy is driven by a soul that chases after pleasures and desires — endlessly craving, never satisfied, afflicted with an insatiable sickness — and this corrupted spirit tramples the laws underfoot and becomes master of a state or an individual, then salvation is hopeless.

So, Cleinias — will you accept this account?

Cleinias: Absolutely.

Athenian: You're aware, aren't you, that people say there are as many types of law as there are types of government? And we've already listed all the commonly recognized forms. Now, this isn't a minor point — it's actually crucial. Because what we're really arguing about, once again, is the standard for justice and injustice.

Some people say that laws shouldn't aim at military virtue or virtue in general. They say the only proper aim of law is to protect the interests, the power, and the survival of whatever group currently holds power. That, they claim, is the natural definition of justice.

Cleinias: What do you mean exactly?

Athenian: They say that justice is the interest of the stronger.

Cleinias: Could you be more specific?

Athenian: Sure. Their argument goes like this: "Obviously, whoever holds power in any state makes the laws, right?"

Cleinias: True.

Athenian: "And do you really think," they continue, "that any conquering power — whether it's a tyranny or a democracy or anything else — makes laws for any reason other than to keep itself in power? That's the first and foremost goal of every set of laws."

Cleinias: What other goal could they have?

Athenian: "And anyone who breaks these laws is punished as a criminal by the very lawgiver who calls those laws 'just.'"

Cleinias: Naturally.

Athenian: "So that's what justice always is, and how it always works."

Cleinias: Well, that's their view — if they're right about it.

Athenian: Yes — and this is precisely one of those false principles of government we were discussing.

Cleinias: Which one do you mean?

Athenian: One of the principles we examined when we asked: who ought to rule whom? We concluded that parents should rule children, the older should rule the younger, the noble should rule the common. There were many principles, and they didn't always agree with each other. One of those principles was exactly this one — the right of the stronger. And we noted that Pindar considered violence natural and justified.

Cleinias: Yes, I remember.

Athenian: So think about it: to whom should our new state be entrusted? Because here's something that has happened time and again throughout history —

Cleinias: What?

Athenian: When there's a power struggle and one side wins, they monopolize the government completely. They refuse any share to the losing side or their descendants. Both sides live in perpetual suspicion — the winners terrified that someone with memories of past wrongs will rise up against them.

Now, according to our view, these aren't real political systems at all, and the laws they produce aren't real laws. Laws passed for the benefit of one faction rather than the whole state don't deserve the name. States with such laws aren't genuine communities — they're just warring parties. And their notion of "justice" is meaningless.

I'm saying all this because in our state, I don't intend to give power to anyone simply because he's rich, or strong, or tall, or well-born. The person who is most obedient to the laws — that's the one who wins the prize. The highest office and the chief religious authority goes to whoever stands first in this competition. The second-highest office to whoever comes second. And so on down the line.

When I call these rulers "servants of the law" or "ministers of the law," I'm not just playing with words. I genuinely believe that the survival or destruction of a state depends on this principle. Where the law is subordinate to the rulers and has no real authority — I can see that state heading straight for ruin. But where the law stands above the rulers, and the rulers see themselves as servants of the law — there I see salvation, and every blessing that the gods can give.

Cleinias: Truly, Stranger, you see with the sharp vision of age.

Athenian: Well, yes — that's how it works. A man's eyesight for these things is weakest when he's young and sharpest when he's old.

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: Now then — what's the next step? Shall we imagine the colonists have arrived and are assembled before us, and deliver a speech to them?

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: "Friends," we'll say to them, "God, as the ancient tradition tells us, holds in his hands the beginning, middle, and end of all things. He moves in a straight line, following his own nature, toward the fulfillment of his purpose. And Justice walks always at his side, ready to punish those who fall short of the divine law.

"Whoever wants to be happy clings to Justice and follows in her company with humility and good order. But the person who's puffed up with pride — intoxicated by wealth, or status, or physical beauty — whose soul burns hot with arrogance, who's young and foolish and thinks he needs no guide or ruler, who imagines he's fit to lead others all by himself — that person is abandoned by God. And once abandoned, he gathers around him others like himself, and they go leaping about together, throwing everything into chaos. To many people he looks like a great man. But before long, Justice catches up with him, and he pays a penalty no one could argue against. He's utterly destroyed — along with his household and his city.

"Given that this is how human affairs work, what should a wise person do — or think, or avoid doing, or avoid thinking?"

Cleinias: It's obvious: every person should resolve to be one of God's followers. There's no question about it.

Athenian: Then what kind of life is pleasing to God and fitting for those who follow him? There's really only one answer, captured in the old saying: "Like is at home with like, when both keep to the right measure." But things that lack measure are at odds with each other and with everything that has it.

Now, God should be our standard of measurement in all things — not man, as people commonly say (a view attributed to Protagoras). Those words are far more truly said of God than of man. And whoever wants to be dear to God must become, as far as possible, like God. Which means: the person with self-control is God's friend, because that person is like God. The person without self-control is unlike God — different from him, and unjust. The same principle applies to everything else.

And from this follows what is both the noblest and truest thing that can be said: for a good person, offering sacrifice to the gods, conversing with them through prayers and offerings and every form of worship — this is the noblest, best, and most effective path to a happy life. It's perfectly right and fitting.

But for a bad person, the opposite is true. A bad person's soul is impure, and neither a good person nor God can properly accept gifts from someone who's polluted. So all the religious devotion of the wicked goes to waste, while the same devotion from a holy person is deeply pleasing to the gods.

This, then, is the target we should aim at. But what weapons do we use, and how do we direct them? Here's where we begin:

First, we declare that after the Olympian gods and the gods of the state, honor should be given to the gods of the underworld. To these, one should offer everything in even numbers, of the second quality, and associated with the unlucky side. The odd numbers, the first-quality offerings, and the things of good omen go to the gods above — for those who want to hit the mark of true piety.

After these gods, a wise person will honor the spirits or demigods, then the heroes, and after them the private ancestral gods, worshipped according to custom in their sacred places.

Next comes the honor due to living parents — and this is the first, greatest, and most ancient of all debts. A person should understand that everything he has belongs to those who gave him birth and raised him. He owes them everything he can give — first from his property, then from his physical service, and then from his soul — repaying the endless care and labor they poured into him during his helpless infancy, now that they're old and in their greatest need.

Throughout his entire life, he should never speak — and should never have spoken — a harsh or disrespectful word to them. For careless, cutting words carry the heaviest penalties. Nemesis, the messenger of Justice, watches over all such matters.

When parents are angry and want to vent their feelings in word or deed, a son should give way to them. A father who feels wronged by his son is understandably furious, after all.

When parents die, the most modest funeral is best — neither exceeding the traditional expense nor falling short of the honor shown by previous generations. And every year afterward, a person should faithfully pay tribute to the dead, honoring them above all by never neglecting their memory, and setting aside a reasonable portion of his resources for the deceased.

Living this way, we'll receive our reward from the gods and from the powers above us. We'll spend most of our days filled with good hope.

As for how a person should conduct himself toward his children, relatives, friends, fellow citizens — and how he should handle sacred duties of hospitality and all the relationships that grow from these obligations, with a view to adorning and ordering his life — these matters the laws themselves will address as we proceed. Partly through persuasion, and partly through force when people's natures don't yield to the persuasion of custom, the laws will, with the gods' help, make our state prosperous and happy.

But there are things that a lawgiver who thinks the way I do needs to say — things that absolutely must be said — but that would be out of place if cast in the form of a law. I think he should offer a sample of these things, for his own guidance and for the instruction of those he's legislating for. Then, once he's gone through all these preliminaries as thoroughly as he can, he can turn to the actual work of legislation.

Now, what form will these preliminary statements take? It might be hard to capture them all under a single heading, but I think we can get a sense of the idea if we can guarantee one thing."

Cleinias: What's that?

Athenian: I want the citizens to be as open to persuasion toward virtue as possible. Surely that will be the lawgiver's aim in every law he writes.

Cleinias: Of course.

Athenian: What I'm proposing seems genuinely valuable to me. I think a person will listen with more patience and goodwill to the lawgiver's instructions when his soul isn't completely unprepared to receive them. Even a small gesture of conciliation wins a hearing — and that's always worthwhile. Because human beings don't have much natural inclination to become as good as possible, as quickly as possible.

Most people prove the wisdom of Hesiod, who said that the road to wickedness is smooth and can be traveled without breaking a sweat, because it's so short:

"But before virtue, the immortal gods have placed the sweat of labor. Long and steep is the way, and rough at the start. But once you reach the summit, what was hard becomes easy."

Cleinias: Yes, he puts it well.

Athenian: Very true. And now let me tell you what our whole preceding discussion has made me realize.

Cleinias: Go on.

Athenian: Imagine we have a little conversation with our lawgiver. "Well, lawgiver," we say, "speak up. If you know what we ought to say and do, surely you can tell us."

Cleinias: Of course he can.

Athenian: "Didn't we just hear you saying that poets shouldn't be allowed to write whatever they please? That they wouldn't know when their words clashed with the laws and harmed the state?"

Cleinias: That's true — we did say that.

Athenian: Now, may we respond on behalf of the poets?

Cleinias: What response would we give?

Athenian: This one: "According to a tradition that has always held among us and is accepted by everyone, when a poet sits down on the tripod of the Muse, he's not in his right mind. He's like a fountain, letting whatever flows into him pour freely out. And since his art is imitation, he's often forced to portray people with opposite characters, and so he ends up contradicting himself. He can't even tell which of the things he's said is closer to the truth."

But that's not how law works. The lawgiver can't give two different rules about the same thing — he must give one and only one.

Take what you just said as an example. There are three kinds of funeral — too extravagant, too cheap, and just right. You chose the middle one and approved it without qualification. But if I had an extremely wealthy wife and she told me to describe her burial in a poem, I'd praise the lavish kind. A poor, stingy man with little money would go for the cheap option. And a man of moderate means, who was moderate himself, would recommend a moderate funeral.

But you, as lawgiver, can't just say "a moderate funeral." You have to define what "moderate" actually means and how much it costs. Unless you're specific, you're not speaking a language that can become law.

Cleinias: Absolutely not.

Athenian: So should our lawgiver put no preface before his laws? Should he just say "Do this, don't do that" — with the threat of punishment dangling over people's heads — and then move straight to the next law, never offering a word of advice or encouragement to the people he's legislating for?

That would be like certain doctors. And speaking of doctors — some have a gentler approach, others a rougher one. And just as children beg the doctor to be gentle with them, let's ask our lawgiver to treat our problems with the gentlest remedies possible.

Here's what I mean. Besides doctors, there are doctors' assistants who are also called doctors.

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: Whether these assistants are slaves or free men makes no difference. They learn medicine by following their masters around, watching and obeying — picking it up by experience rather than through the kind of systematic, scientific education that free-born doctors receive and then pass on to their own students. You're aware that there are these two classes of doctors?

Cleinias: Of course.

Athenian: And have you noticed that there are also two classes of patients in any state — slaves and free people? The slave doctors rush around treating slaves, or they wait for them at the dispensary. These practitioners never explain anything to their patients or let the patients describe their own symptoms. The slave doctor just prescribes whatever his experience suggests — as if he had perfect knowledge — and then dashes off to the next sick slave with the same brisk confidence. He's relieving the master of the burden of looking after his sick slaves, nothing more.

But the free-born doctor, who treats free people, takes a different approach entirely. He investigates thoroughly, tracing the illness back to its origins. He talks with the patient and with the patient's family, both gathering information and giving instruction. He won't prescribe anything until he's first persuaded the patient to understand and agree. Then, once he's brought the patient around through explanation and built a cooperative relationship, he begins the actual treatment.

Now — which is the better approach for a physician or a trainer? The one who achieves his goals through both education and treatment? Or the one who works in just one way — the cruder way?

Cleinias: I'd say, Stranger, the approach that uses both methods is far better.

Athenian: Would you like to see an example of the double and the single method applied to legislation?

Cleinias: Absolutely.

Athenian: What will our first law be? Won't the lawgiver, following the natural order, start by making regulations about births?

Cleinias: He will.

Athenian: And in all states, the birth of children begins with the union of marriage?

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: So, by rights, marriage laws should be the first laws established in any state?

Cleinias: Exactly.

Athenian: All right. Here's the marriage law in its simple form. It might go something like this: "A man shall marry between the ages of thirty and thirty-five. If he doesn't, he'll pay a fine of a specified amount and lose certain privileges."

That's the simple version. The double version would go like this:

"A man shall marry between the ages of thirty and thirty-five, keeping in mind that the human race has a natural share in immortality, which every person instinctively desires to the fullest. The wish to become famous and not lie nameless in the grave is nothing other than this love of continuity. Humanity is as old as time itself, following time's course forever, and so we're immortal in a sense — because we leave children and grandchildren behind us, participating in immortality through the unbroken chain of generations.

"For a man to deliberately deprive himself of this gift — as someone who refuses to marry and have children deliberately does — is an act of impiety. Whoever obeys this law will be left in peace and pay no fine. But whoever disobeys and remains unmarried past the age of thirty-five will pay a yearly fine of a specified amount, so that he doesn't get the idea that bachelorhood brings him comfort and profit. And he'll be excluded from the honors that younger citizens pay to their elders."

Now, comparing these two versions, you can judge for yourself whether laws in general should be double in length — even at their shortest — because they need to persuade as well as command. Or whether they should only threaten and be half as long.

Megillus: The shorter form would be more in keeping with Spartan custom, Stranger. But personally, if someone asked which I'd prefer in a state, I'd definitely choose the longer version. And I'd want every law written the same way. But I think Cleinias is the one to ask — since it's his state that's going to use these laws.

Cleinias: Thank you, Megillus.

Athenian: Whether words should be many or few is a pretty pointless question to argue about in the abstract. What matters is the best form, not the shortest. Of the two versions of the law I just recited, one isn't just twice as long as the other — it's twice as effective in practice. The analogy I drew to the two kinds of doctors fits perfectly.

And yet it seems like lawgivers have never realized that they have two tools available to them — persuasion and force. When dealing with the uneducated masses, they use only one tool, as far as they can. They don't blend persuasion with compulsion. They use force, pure and simple.

But there's also a third point, my friends — something that ought to be considered but never is, in any existing system of laws.

Cleinias: What is it?

Athenian: Something that arises naturally from our whole discussion — and it's coming to me now almost mysteriously. Think about it: all morning, from daybreak until noon, we've been talking about laws in this beautiful spot. And everything we've said so far has been preliminary — a prelude. Now we're about to start actually laying down laws. So what was all that earlier discussion? It was the prelude.

Why am I pointing this out? Because all kinds of discourse — lyric compositions, music of every sort — have preludes and overtures, carefully crafted artistic introductions designed to prepare the way for what follows. But the higher and truer art of law and politics? No one has ever composed a prelude for that, as though such a thing doesn't exist.

But our discussion today suggests that it does exist. These "double laws" we've been talking about aren't simply double in length. They're actually in two parts: the law itself, and the prelude to the law.

The bare command — the part I compared to the orders given by the slave-doctor — that's the law, pure and simple. And the part that comes before it, the part our friend here called merely "persuasive" — that functions as a genuine prelude, exactly the way a preamble functions before a speech.

Because I'm sure all that conciliatory language the lawgiver uses in the preface to a law is meant to create goodwill in the listener, so that he'll receive the actual command — the law itself — with a more receptive and understanding mind. And so, in my view, this preliminary material is more properly called the "preamble" than the substance of the law.

And let me add this: every individual law the lawgiver writes should have its own preamble. He should keep in mind what an enormous difference it makes whether a law has such a preface or not — as we've just demonstrated with our example.

Cleinias: If you ask me, the lawgiver should absolutely legislate in the way you're recommending.

Athenian: I think you're right, Cleinias, to insist that all laws should have preambles, and that throughout this entire work of legislation, every single law should have an appropriate one at the beginning. Because what follows the preamble is the most important part, and it makes all the difference whether people clearly remember the preamble or not.

At the same time, we shouldn't demand that all laws — small and great alike — have preambles of the same kind, any more than all songs or speeches need the same kind of introduction. Preambles may be natural to all laws, but they're not always necessary. Whether to use one or not must be left to the judgment of the speaker, or the musician, or in this case, the lawgiver.

Cleinias: I think that's exactly right. But Stranger, we've been talking long enough — let's get back to the substance. As the saying goes, let's make a second and better beginning. Let's go back to the principles we've been laying down — which we never thought of as a preamble at the time, but which we can now recognize as one. Let's treat them as a proper preamble and not just random topics of conversation.

We've said enough about honoring the gods and respecting parents. Let's move on to the topics that come next, until you consider the preamble complete. After that, you can begin going through the actual laws.

Athenian: So you're saying we've produced a sufficient preamble about gods, demigods, and parents both living and dead — and now you'd like us to bring the remaining topics into the light?

Cleinias: Exactly.

Athenian: Then what comes next is this: as speaker and listeners together, we'll try to work out everything that relates to the souls, bodies, and possessions of the citizens — their occupations and their leisure activities. Through this process, as far as we're able, we'll arrive at the true nature of education. These, then, are the topics that follow in order.

Cleinias: Very good.

Laws — Book V

Athenian Now listen, all of you who've just heard our laws about the gods and about honoring our ancestors. Of everything a person possesses, the soul is the most divine — second only to the gods themselves — and the most truly his own. In every person there are two parts: a better, ruling part, and a worse, subordinate part. The ruling part should always take priority. So I'm right when I say that after the gods — our masters — and the divine spirits who follow them, a person should honor his own soul above all else.

Now, everyone thinks they honor their soul. But almost no one actually does it properly. Here's the thing: honor is a genuinely divine good, and nothing evil can be honorable. So when someone thinks he's honoring his soul by flattering it — by praising it, indulging it, letting it do whatever it wants without making it any better — he's not honoring it at all. He's actually hurting it. Take a young man, for instance: from boyhood, he's convinced he already knows everything. He thinks he honors his soul by praising it and letting it have its way. But what he's really doing is damaging it, when he ought to be honoring it as second only to the gods.

Or take a man who blames others — never himself — for the mistakes he's made and the suffering that followed. He imagines he's honoring his soul, but he's doing the exact opposite: he's injuring it. And when someone chases pleasure in defiance of what the lawgiver recommends, he's not honoring his soul — he's dishonoring it, filling it with evil and regret. When someone can't endure the hardships, fears, and pain that the lawgiver says are necessary — when he gives up instead of pushing through — that's not honoring the soul either. All such behavior makes the soul disgraceful. And when someone thinks that life at any price is a good thing, that's another form of dishonor — because the soul gets this notion that the underworld is nothing but misery, and the person gives in to that fear instead of resisting it. He doesn't stop to consider that the world of the gods below might actually be the greatest of all goods.

Then there's the person who values physical beauty over virtue. What is that except a genuine insult to the soul? It amounts to saying the body is more honorable than the soul — and that's simply false. Nothing born from the earth is more honorable than what comes from heaven, and anyone who thinks otherwise has no idea how much he's undervaluing this extraordinary possession. And what about the person who's willing to get rich through dishonest means? He's not honoring his soul with gifts — far from it. He's selling her glory and honor for a handful of gold. But all the gold on earth or under it isn't enough to trade for virtue.

To put it simply: anyone who doesn't evaluate what's base and what's noble by the lawgiver's standard — anyone who doesn't avoid the one and practice the other with everything he's got — that person is abusing his soul in the worst possible way, even though the soul is the most divine part of a human being. And here's the thing hardly anyone considers: the greatest penalty for doing evil isn't some external punishment. It's that you grow to resemble evil people. As you become like them, you drift away from the company of the good. You're cut off from them and drawn instead toward the company of the wicked. And whoever joins their company must do and suffer what such people naturally do and say to one another. This isn't justice — it's retribution, the natural consequence that follows injustice. And whether a person escapes this retribution or endures it, he's miserable either way. If he escapes it, he's not cured. If he doesn't escape it, he's destroyed so that everyone else might be saved.

Speaking broadly, our glory lies in following what's better and improving what's worse, wherever improvement is possible. And of all human possessions, the soul is the one most naturally inclined to flee evil and seek out the highest good. Once a person finds that good, he should make it the center of his life for the rest of his days.

So the soul ranks second in honor, after the gods. And third — as anyone can see — comes the body, in the natural order of things.

But now we need to examine this further. The body has its own kind of honor, and some forms of that honor are genuine while others are counterfeit. Sorting out which is which falls to the lawgiver. And I suspect he'd say something like this: the honor doesn't belong to the beautiful body, the strong body, the fast body, or the tall body, or even to the healthy body — though plenty of people think otherwise. And it certainly doesn't belong to their opposites either. No, the moderate conditions — the middle ground in all these qualities — are by far the safest and most balanced. Going to one extreme makes the soul arrogant and reckless; the other extreme makes it servile and small. The same principle applies to money, property, and social status. An excess of any of these breeds hatred and division in cities and among individuals. A deficiency usually leads to slavery.

So don't pile up riches for the sake of your children, hoping to leave them as wealthy as possible. Great wealth isn't actually useful — not for them, not for the state. The best condition for young people is to be free from flattery yet not lacking life's necessities. That's the most balanced and harmonious state, the one most in tune with our nature, the one that makes life most free from suffering.

So what should parents leave their children? Not heaps of money, but a spirit of respect and reverence. Now, we tend to think children will learn reverence from us if we scold them when they're disrespectful. But that's not really how it works. A wise lawgiver would instead urge the older generation to show reverence toward the younger — and above all, to make sure no young person ever sees or hears an elder doing or saying something disgraceful. Where old people have no shame, young people will certainly have no reverence. The best way to train the young is to train yourself at the same time. Don't just lecture them — live out your own principles in practice.

A person who honors his family and reveres those who share the same gods and the same bloodline can reasonably hope that the gods who watch over birth and generation will bless him. And someone who considers the favors his friends do for him to be greater and more important than those friends themselves think, while considering his own favors to them to be smaller than they really are — that person will always have their goodwill throughout life.

In his relationship to the state and his fellow citizens, the best man is the one who'd rather win the prize of obedience to his country's laws than any Olympic victory or any triumph in war or peace — the one who has the reputation, above all others, of having obeyed those laws throughout his entire life.

When it comes to strangers, a person should consider a contract to be a most sacred thing. And wrongs done to strangers are, if anything, more directly under the protection of the gods than wrongs done to fellow citizens. The stranger has no family or friends to stand up for him, which makes him more deserving of pity from both gods and humans. So whoever has the most power to avenge the stranger is the most zealous in his cause — and the one with the most power is the guardian spirit and the god of strangers, who serve in the company of Zeus, the god of hospitality. Anyone with even a spark of caution will do his best to get through life without wronging a stranger.

And of all offenses, whether against strangers or fellow citizens, the greatest is the offense against those who come seeking protection as suppliants. The god who witnessed the agreement made with the suppliant becomes that person's special guardian. The suppliant will certainly not go unavenged.

So we've now covered how a person should act toward his parents, toward himself, toward his own affairs, toward the state, toward friends and family — both fellow citizens and strangers. Next we need to consider what kind of person someone should be in order to live the best possible life when it comes to those other matters that aren't regulated by law but shaped by praise and blame — the things that educate a person and make him more receptive to the laws we're about to establish.

Truth is the foundation of every good thing, for both gods and humans. Anyone who wants to be blessed and happy should embrace truth from the very beginning, so he can live as a truthful person for as long as possible. A truthful person can be trusted. But someone who loves deliberate falsehood can't be trusted, and someone who loves accidental falsehood is a fool. Neither condition is enviable. The untrustworthy and the ignorant end up without friends, and as time goes on, their reputation catches up with them. They store up loneliness for a bitter old age when life is fading — so that whether their children or friends are still alive or not, they're equally alone.

Worthy of honor is the person who does no injustice. But worthy of more than double that honor is the person who not only avoids injustice himself but also prevents others from committing it. The first counts as one good citizen; the second is worth many, because he alerts the rulers to the injustice of others. And even more highly esteemed is the one who actually cooperates with the rulers in correcting the citizens as far as he can — that person deserves to be called the great and complete citizen, the one who carries off the prize of virtue.

The same kind of praise applies to self-control, wisdom, and every other good quality that can be shared with others. The person who shares these goods should be honored as a true leader among people. The person who's willing but unable deserves second place. But the one who's jealous and deliberately refuses to share any good with others in a friendly spirit — that person deserves blame. Still, we shouldn't undervalue the good qualities he possesses just because he possesses them. We should still strive to acquire those qualities ourselves as best we can.

Let everyone compete freely for the prize of virtue, and let there be no envy. A person who competes without envy helps make his city great — he runs his own race without tearing down anyone else's reputation. But the envious person, who thinks he can get ahead by slandering others, puts less effort into pursuing genuine virtue himself and drives his rivals to despair with his unfair attacks. In this way, he sends the whole city into the competition of virtue untrained and unprepared, and diminishes its glory as much as he can.

Now, every person should be brave, but he should also be gentle. The only way to escape the cruel, barely curable, or completely incurable injustices that others inflict on you is to fight back, defend yourself, and conquer — and to never stop holding the wrongdoers accountable. No one who lacks a noble spirit can do this.

But when it comes to people who do wrong yet whose wrongdoing can be corrected, we need to remember something first: the unjust person isn't unjust by choice. No one would willingly harbor the greatest of evils in the most honorable part of himself. And the soul, as we've said, is universally recognized as the most honorable part of a person. So no one would deliberately let the greatest evil take root in his soul if he could help it. The wicked and the unrighteous always deserve our pity. And when the wrongdoer is curable, we can afford to be forgiving — to restrain our anger, to stay calm instead of nursing grudges like a bitter, petty person. But for the one who's truly beyond reform and wholly evil? On that person, we should pour out our full anger. That's why I say good people should be both gentle and fierce, as the occasion demands.

The greatest of all evils is one that's built into most people's souls — an evil that everyone excuses in himself and no one bothers to correct. It's captured in the saying that "every person is naturally and rightly his own best friend." But in reality, this excessive self-love is the root cause of all our failures. The lover is blind when it comes to the beloved, and so a person in love with himself misjudges what's just, good, and honorable, always thinking he should put himself ahead of the truth. But anyone who wants to be truly great shouldn't focus on himself or his own interests — he should focus on what's just, whether the just action is his own or someone else's.

It's the same error that leads people to mistake their own ignorance for wisdom. We know practically nothing, yet we think we know everything. And because we refuse to let others handle what we don't actually understand, we end up doing it badly ourselves. So let everyone guard against excessive self-love, and be willing to follow someone better than himself without letting false pride get in the way.

There are also smaller but equally useful principles that deserve frequent repetition. A person should remind himself of them often. After all, when something is flowing out, something should be flowing in — and recollection flows in while wisdom flows out.

So I'd say that a person should avoid extremes, whether of laughter or tears, and encourage his neighbor to do the same. He should keep his excessive joy or sorrow under wraps and try to behave with dignity — whether his good fortune stays with him, or whether at some critical moment, when he seems to be climbing high and steep places, the gods throw obstacles in his path. Still, a good person can always hope that whatever hardships the future brings, god will lighten them, that present troubles will change for the better, and that blessings opposite to current misfortunes will come in time. These should be our hopes, and this is how we should encourage one another — never missing a chance, on every occasion, to remind ourselves and each other of all these things, in both serious moments and lighter ones.

Now, we've said enough about divine matters — both the practices people should follow and the kinds of people they should strive to be. But we haven't yet talked about human things, and we need to — because we're talking to human beings, not gods. Pleasures and pains and desires are part of human nature, and every mortal being is inevitably consumed by them. So we need to praise the noblest life not just because it looks the best on the surface, but because, if a person will actually try it — and not abandon it while still young for something else — he'll find it surpasses every other way of life in the very thing we all want most: more pleasure and less pain throughout our whole lives.

This will become obvious if a person gets a genuine taste of these different lives. But what counts as a genuine taste? That's what the argument has to teach us — the question being what's according to nature and what isn't.

Here's how to compare one life with another, the more pleasant with the more painful: We want pleasure, and we don't want pain — that much is obvious. A neutral state we're willing to accept instead of pain, but not instead of pleasure. We prefer less pain with more pleasure, but we don't prefer less pleasure with more pain. When both are equal, we can't say with confidence what we'd choose. All these preferences differ in number, magnitude, intensity, and balance — and these differences determine what we actually want.

Given this natural ordering, we desire a life that contains many intense pleasures and pains, with the pleasures outweighing the pains. We don't want a life where the pains outweigh the pleasures. And we don't want a life where both pleasures and pains are small, few, and feeble, but the pains still come out on top. When there's a balance between pleasure and pain, we should regard that as the balanced, neutral life. We prefer lives that give us more of what we like and reject lives that give us more of what we don't like. These are the possible lives available to us, and we should understand that. If anyone desires some other kind of life, it's only because of ignorance and inexperience of the lives that actually exist.

So what are these lives, and how many are there? Let's lay them out. Say there's the self-controlled life, the rational life, the courageous life, and the healthy life. Against these four, let's set four opposites: the foolish life, the cowardly life, the undisciplined life, and the sickly life.

Someone who knows the self-controlled life would describe it as gentle in all respects — mild pains, mild pleasures, calm desires, love that isn't obsessive. The undisciplined life, by contrast, is violent in everything — sharp pains, intense pleasures, fierce and stinging desires, and love that's driven to insanity. In the self-controlled life, the pleasures outweigh the pains. In the undisciplined life, the pains outweigh the pleasures, both in magnitude, frequency, and sheer number. So one of these two lives is naturally and inevitably more pleasant, and the other more painful. And if someone wants to live pleasantly, it follows that he can't choose to live without self-control.

If this is true, the conclusion is clear: no one is undisciplined by choice. The great mass of humanity lacks self-control either from ignorance or from weakness of will — or both. The same applies to the healthy and the sickly life: both involve pleasure and pain, but in health the pleasure exceeds the pain, while in sickness the pain exceeds the pleasure.

Our goal in choosing a way of life isn't to maximize pain — it's to live the life where pleasure outweighs pain. We've established that. And the self-controlled life has fewer, smaller, and less frequent pleasures and pains than the undisciplined life; the wise life has fewer than the foolish life; and the courageous life has fewer than the cowardly life. In each pair, one life exceeds the other in pleasure — the courageous surpasses the cowardly, the wise surpasses the foolish. So overall, the lives of self-control, courage, wisdom, and health all exceed their opposites in pleasure. Put simply: any life that possesses virtue, whether of body or soul, is more pleasant than the vicious life — and far superior in beauty, correctness, excellence, and reputation. It makes the person who lives that way immeasurably happier than the person who lives the opposite way.

That's enough for the preamble. Now the actual laws should follow — or, to be more precise, an outline of them. Think of it like weaving a piece of fabric: the warp and the woof can't be made from the same material. The warp has to be stronger and firmer, while the woof is softer and more flexible. In the same way, people who are going to hold high offices in the state need to be clearly distinguished from those whose education has been less rigorous. Let's say there are two parts to a constitution: one is the creation of offices, and the other is the body of laws those offices will administer.

But before any of that, there's something we need to consider first.

A shepherd or herdsman or horse breeder, when he receives his animals, won't start training them without first sorting through the herd. He separates the healthy from the unhealthy, the well-bred from the poorly bred, and sends the bad ones to other herds. He tends the rest, knowing that all his work would be wasted on animals whose bodies and souls have already been corrupted by nature and bad upbringing — and that these damaged animals would drag down the healthy ones if left among them.

Now, with other animals this matters, but it's only worth mentioning for the sake of illustration. When it comes to human beings, the stakes are the highest imaginable. The lawgiver needs to investigate and determine what's appropriate for each person in terms of sorting and every other procedure.

Take the purification of a city, for example. There are many kinds — some easier, some harder. The best and most difficult purifications are ones that a lawgiver with absolute power might be able to carry out. But a lawgiver who doesn't have absolute power — who's setting up a new government and a new legal system — should count himself lucky if he can manage even the mildest form of purification.

The best kind of purification is painful, like a drastic medical treatment. It involves righteous punishment and, in the most extreme cases, sentences of death or exile. That's how we typically deal with the worst offenders — the incurable criminals who cause the greatest harm to the state.

The milder form of purification works like this: when people who have nothing, who are desperate for food, start showing a willingness to follow leaders in an attack on the property of the wealthy — these people, who are like a natural plague upon the state — the lawgiver sends them away as kindly as possible. The polite term for this is "founding a colony."

Every lawgiver should try to do something like this early on. But our present situation is unique. We don't need to arrange any colony or separating purification under the current circumstances. Instead, think of it this way: when many streams flow together from different sources — springs, mountain torrents — into a single lake, you need to make sure the combined water is perfectly clear. You pump out and divert the impurities. Similarly, in any political arrangement, there's going to be trouble and effort involved in this process.

But since we're just talking theoretically and not actually doing this, let's assume our selection has been completed and the desired purity achieved. As for the bad people who want to join and become citizens of our state — after we've tested them through every form of persuasion over a sufficient period of time, we'll keep them out. But the good ones we'll welcome as friends with open arms, as warmly as we possibly can.

Now, there's another piece of good fortune we shouldn't forget. Like the Heraclid colonists before us, we've escaped the need to deal with redistribution of land and cancellation of debts — which are always a source of dangerous conflict. A city that's forced to legislate on these matters is stuck: it can't let things stay as they are, but it also doesn't dare change them. All that's left is what amounts to prayers — hoping that gradual, cautious change might be accomplished over a long period of time. And this kind of change can only happen when those who have plenty of land and many debtors are willing, in a generous spirit, to share with those in need — sometimes forgiving debts, sometimes giving outright — holding to a path of moderation, and recognizing that poverty is really an increase in a person's desires, not a decrease in his property.

This principle is the foundation on which a state's salvation rests. Whatever political structure you build must be erected on this foundation. But if the change is built on an unsound principle, the whole future administration will be plagued with problems. That's a danger we've escaped. But even so, it's worth saying how we would have escaped it if we hadn't — and we can now assert that there's no other way out, whether narrow or broad, except through freedom from greed and a sense of justice. On this rock our city must be built. There should be no disputes among citizens about property. If there are longstanding property disputes among them, no lawgiver with any sense will take a single step in organizing the state until those disputes are settled.

But for people who've been given, as the gods have given us, the chance to found a new state that's still free from enmity — for those people to create hostility among themselves through their method of distributing land and houses would be the height of folly and wickedness.

So how do we properly arrange the distribution of land? First, we need to determine the number of citizens, then the number and size of the divisions they'll be organized into. After that, we divide the land and houses among them as fairly as we can.

The number of citizens can only be determined properly in relation to the territory and to neighboring states. The territory needs to be large enough to support a certain number of people at a moderate standard of living — no more than that. And the population needs to be large enough to defend itself against unjust neighbors and to help those neighbors effectively when they're wronged.

After surveying both our territory and our neighbors', we'll set these limits in practice as well as in theory.

Now, let's proceed to legislate with a view to completing the form and outline of our state. The number of citizens will be 5,040 — a particularly useful number. These citizens will own the land and protect their allotments. The houses and land will be divided so that every person corresponds to a lot.

First, divide the total into two parts, then into three. The number can also be divided into four, five, or any number up to ten. Every lawgiver should know enough arithmetic to figure out which number is most useful for all cities. We're choosing the number that contains the greatest and most regular series of divisions.

The entire number system has every possible division, and 5,040 can be divided by exactly fifty-nine different divisors. Ten of these proceed in an unbroken sequence from one to ten. This gives us numbers ready-made for matters of war and peace, for all contracts and transactions, including taxes and divisions of the land.

Those who are charged by law with knowing these things should verify these mathematical properties at their leisure — they're true. And they should be announced at the founding of the city for practical use.

Now, whether the lawgiver is founding a new state or restoring an old one that's fallen into decay, when it comes to gods and temples — which temples should be built in each part of the city, and which gods or lesser divinities they should be named after — a person with any sense won't disturb anything that the oracle at Delphi, or Dodona, or the god Ammon, or any ancient tradition has sanctioned. However these traditions were established — whether through visions, reported divine inspiration, or whatever means led people to institute sacrifices connected with sacred rites, whether homegrown or imported from Etruria, Cyprus, or elsewhere — and on the basis of which they consecrated oracles, images, altars, and temples, and set aside sacred land for each — not the smallest part of any of this should be disturbed by the lawgiver.

Instead, he should assign to each district some god, lesser divinity, or hero. And in distributing the land, he should give these divine patrons their chosen territory first, along with everything appropriate to them. This way, the inhabitants of each district will gather at fixed times, and they'll have the means to supply each other's needs and entertain one another with shared sacrifices and feasts, becoming friends and getting to know each other.

There's no greater good for a state than its citizens being well acquainted with one another. When darkness and ignorance of each other's characters prevail, no one gets the honor, the authority, or the justice he truly deserves. So in every state, above all else, every person should strive to be genuine and free from deceit — always true and straightforward — and should make sure no deceitful person takes advantage of him.

Now, the next move in our game of legislation is an unusual one — like moving a piece off the sacred line in a game of draughts. It'll probably cause some surprise when first mentioned. But if you think it through carefully, you'll see that our city is organized in a way that is, if not the very best, then the second best. Maybe some people won't approve because they think this kind of constitution isn't suited to a lawgiver who doesn't have absolute power. But here's the truth: there are three forms of government — the best, the second best, and the third best. Let's briefly mention all three and leave the selection to the person in charge of the settlement. Following this approach, we'll describe the first, second, and third forms of the state, and then leave the choice to Cleinias — or to anyone in the future who faces a similar task and wants to incorporate into his state whatever features suit his character and his country.

The first and highest form of state and government and law is the one where the old saying prevails most completely: "Friends share everything in common." Whether it exists anywhere now, or ever will exist — this community of wives and children and property, where the private and individual is completely eliminated from life, where things that are naturally private, like eyes and ears and hands, somehow see and hear and act in common, where everyone praises and blames and feels joy and sorrow on the same occasions, where the laws unite the city to the absolute maximum — whether all this is possible or not, I say that no one, working from any other principle, will ever create a state that's truer or better or more exalted in virtue. Whether it's governed by gods or sons of gods, one or many — happy are the people who live that way. This is the pattern we should look to, the ideal we should cling to, the model we should pursue with all our might.

The state we have in hand right now, once it's created, will come closest to that immortal ideal and take second place. After that, god willing, we'll describe the third. But for now, let's discuss the nature and origin of this second-best state.

Let the citizens distribute their land and houses right away, without farming the land in common — since communal ownership goes beyond what our proposed colony's origins, upbringing, and education can support. But in making the distribution, every landowner should understand that his particular lot also belongs to the whole city. And since the earth is their mother, let them tend her even more carefully than children tend their own mother. She is a goddess and their queen, and they are her mortal subjects. The same feelings should extend to the gods and divine spirits of the region.

To make sure the distribution remains stable forever, they should also keep in mind that the current number of households must always be maintained — neither increased nor decreased. Here's how to secure this for the whole city: let the owner of a lot choose his most beloved child — and only one — to be the heir of his household and the successor in his duty of service to the gods, the state, and the family, both the living and the dead. As for his other children, if he has more than one, he should give the daughters in marriage according to the law we'll establish later, and distribute the sons as adopted children to citizens who have no children of their own and are willing to receive them.

If there aren't enough willing adoptive families, or if particular individuals have too many or too few children — whether due to an excess of births or to infertility — in all these cases, the highest and most honorable magistracy we'll establish should judge what's to be done and figure out how to keep the number of 5,040 households constant.

There are many ways to regulate population. Those who produce children abundantly can be encouraged to slow down. On the other hand, special attention can be given to increasing births through rewards and social incentives. Or elders can advise and counsel the younger generation — that approach can also work.

And if, despite all this, we still face serious trouble maintaining the exact number of 5,040 households — if there's a surplus of citizens because of the deep love between those who live together and we're at our wit's end — there's always the old solution we've mentioned before: founding a colony of suitable people who'll leave us on friendly terms. On the other hand, if a wave of disease or plague of war sweeps through and the population falls far below the target because of widespread death, we shouldn't bring in citizens of inferior birth and education — not if we can possibly avoid it. But even god, they say, can't fight against necessity.

So let's imagine that this "high argument" of ours addresses us directly, saying: "Best of all people, never stop honoring — in keeping with nature — the principles of similarity, equality, consistency, and agreement, especially in regard to number and every good and noble quality. Above all, maintain the number 5,040 throughout your lives. Second, don't undermine the modest proportions of the inheritances you received in the original distribution by buying and selling them among yourselves.

"Because if you do, neither the god who assigned you the lot nor the lawgiver will be on your side. And the law makes clear to the disobedient that these are the terms on which the lot may or may not be held. First, the earth is sacred to the gods — that's a given. And second, priests and priestesses will offer prayers over a first, second, and even third sacrifice, praying that whoever buys or sells the houses or lands he was given will receive the punishment he deserves. They'll inscribe these prayers in the temples on tablets of cypress wood for future generations to read. And they'll station watchful magistrates over all of this — the magistracy with the sharpest eyes will be assigned to make sure any violation of these rules is detected and punished as an offense against both the law and the gods.

"How much good this kind of system does for all the cities that follow it — no dishonest person can ever appreciate, as the old saying goes. Only a person of experience and good character can understand."

In a society organized this way, there won't be much opportunity for making money. No one should — or will be allowed to — practice any degrading occupation. The vulgarity of such work is a matter of reproach for a free person, and no one should ever want to accumulate wealth through such means.

Furthermore, the law will forbid any private citizen from possessing gold or silver. There will be a local currency for everyday transactions — practically necessary for dealing with craftsmen and for paying wages to hired workers, whether they're slaves or immigrant laborers. Everyone who needs these services will use this currency.

So our citizens should have a coin that circulates among themselves but isn't accepted anywhere else in the Greek world. However, for expeditions and journeys abroad — embassies, dispatching heralds, or any other official business that requires travel — the state itself must maintain a supply of common Greek currency.

If a private citizen ever needs to travel abroad, let him get permission from the magistrates and go. When he returns, if he has any foreign currency left over, he must hand the surplus to the treasury and receive an equal amount in local currency. If he's caught keeping foreign money for himself, it gets confiscated. Anyone who knows about it and doesn't report it will be subject to the same curse and dishonor as the person who brought it back — and will pay a fine no less than the amount of the foreign money involved.

When it comes to marriage, no one shall give or receive a dowry of any kind. No one shall deposit money with someone he doesn't trust as a friend. No one shall lend money at interest. And the borrower should be under no obligation to repay either principal or interest.

That these are the best principles, anyone can see by comparing them with the foundational purpose of a state. The purpose of a well-governed state, as we've said, is not what the majority claim a good lawgiver should aim for — namely, making the state as great and as rich as possible, with gold and silver overflowing and the widest possible empire by sea and land. That's what they think legislation is about, and they inconsistently add that the true lawgiver should want the city to be as good and happy as possible. But they don't see that some of these goals are compatible and some aren't, and that the person ordering the state should pursue what's possible without wasting time on impossible fantasies.

Yes, the citizen must be happy and good, and the lawgiver will try to make him so. But being very rich and very good at the same time? That he cannot be — at least, not rich in the way most people mean it. When they say "the rich," they mean the handful of people with the most valuable possessions — possessions that any scoundrel could own just as easily. And if that's true, I can never agree that the rich person will be happy. He has to be good as well as rich. And to be good in the highest degree and rich in the highest degree at the same time is impossible.

"Why not?" someone will ask. Here's why: income from both just and unjust sources combined is more than double what comes from just sources alone. And expenditures that are neither honorable nor dishonorable are only half as great as those spent honestly on worthy purposes. So the person who earns double and spends half will always be wealthier than the person who does the opposite and is a good man. The first type — the saver, not the spender — isn't always bad. He might even be completely bad in some cases. But a genuinely good person? Never. Someone who acquires money both justly and unjustly and spends neither well nor badly will be rich — if he's also thrifty. But the truly bad person is generally a spendthrift, and therefore very poor. Meanwhile, the person who spends on noble causes and only earns money through honest means can hardly become exceptionally wealthy any more than he can become desperately poor.

So our statement stands: the very rich are not good. And if they're not good, they're not happy.

The whole intent of our laws was to make citizens as happy and as friendly to one another as possible. But people who are constantly in court with each other, people among whom many wrongs are committed, can never be friends. Only those among whom crimes and lawsuits are few and minor can achieve real friendship.

That's why we say that gold and silver shouldn't be allowed in the city, nor should there be much of the ordinary sort of commerce based on lending money or breeding the meaner kinds of livestock. Only the produce of agriculture should be the basis of wealth — and only so much of that as won't force us to neglect what wealth actually exists to serve. I mean the soul and body, which are worthless without exercise and education. So, as we've said not once but many times, the pursuit of riches should be our lowest priority.

There are three things every person has a stake in. The interest in money, when properly understood, is the third and lowest. Above it comes the interest of the body. And first and foremost comes the interest of the soul. The state we're describing will be properly constituted if it distributes honors according to this scale. But if any of the laws we've established puts health above self-control, or wealth above health and moderate habits, that law is clearly wrong.

So the lawgiver should constantly ask himself: "What do I really want?" and "Am I actually achieving it, or missing the mark?" Only by doing this can he fulfill his duty and free everyone else from the burden of legislation.

Let the person who receives a lot, then, hold it under the conditions we've described.

It would be ideal if every person came to the colony with equal possessions. But since that's impossible, and one person will inevitably have more than another — for many reasons — and especially to maintain fairness during special crises of the state, property qualifications need to be unequal. Offices, contributions, and distributions should be proportioned to the value of each person's wealth — not solely to the virtue of his ancestors or himself, nor to physical strength or good looks, but also to how wealthy or poor he is. By this kind of proportional inequality, each person will receive honors and offices as equitably as possible, and there'll be no quarrels or disputes.

To this end, four property classes should be established. Citizens will be ranked first, second, third, or fourth class based on their holdings, and they'll be called by these or similar names. A person may stay in the same class or move to another if his wealth increases or decreases.

Here's the law I'd propose as the natural next step: in a state that wants to be saved from the greatest plague of all — not mere faction, but outright disintegration — there should be neither extreme poverty nor excessive wealth among the citizens, because both conditions produce these evils.

So the lawgiver needs to set limits in both directions. Let the minimum be the value of the allotted lot. This must be preserved, and no ruler or anyone who cares about his reputation for virtue should ever allow it to be diminished. The lawgiver establishes this as the baseline.

Beyond that, a person may accumulate up to double, triple, or as much as four times the value of the lot. But if anyone comes to possess more than that — whether he's found it, received it as a gift, earned it in business, or gained it through some stroke of fortune — he should give the surplus back to the state and to the patron gods of the state. If he does this, he'll suffer no penalty or loss of reputation. But if he disobeys this law, anyone who wants may report him and receive half the value of the excess. The offender will then pay a fine equal to the surplus from his own property, and the other half goes to the gods.

Every possession of every citizen, apart from the lot itself, should be publicly registered with the magistrates appointed by law, so that all lawsuits about money can be straightforward and simple.

Next: the city should be placed as close as possible to the center of the country. We should choose a location that has everything a city needs — which is easy enough to imagine and describe. Then we'll divide the city into twelve portions.

First, found temples to Hestia, Zeus, and Athena on a spot we'll call the Acropolis, and surround it with a circular wall. From this central point, divide the entire city and surrounding country into twelve sections. Make the twelve portions equal by making those with better soil smaller and those with poorer soil larger.

The total number of lots will be 5,040, and each will be split in two: one section of land near the city, one section farther away. A lot near the city gets paired with a lot on the borders to form one complete allotment, and the next nearest gets paired with the next farthest, and so on. In both sections of each lot, the same principle of equalization applies — differences in soil quality are compensated by differences in size.

The lawgiver will divide the citizens into twelve groups and arrange the rest of their property to form twelve equal parts as far as possible. A full registration of everything will be made. Then twelve lots will be assigned to twelve gods, each portion named after and dedicated to its god, and the tribes will take their names from these gods. The twelve divisions of the city will mirror the twelve divisions of the country. And every person will have two homes: one near the center and one on the outskirts.

That covers the method of settlement.

Now we need to face something honestly: there can never be such a perfect alignment of circumstances as we've described. It's unrealistic to expect people who'll never take offense at this way of living together, who'll accept having their property capped at a moderate level for their entire lives, who'll have children according to our regulations, who'll tolerate being forbidden from possessing gold and other things the lawgiver — as is obvious from these provisions — will certainly prohibit, and who'll put up with the city being in the middle with their houses spread around it.

All of this sounds like a lawgiver telling his dreams, or building a city and its citizens out of wax. There's some truth in these objections, and everyone should take to heart what I'm about to say.

Let the lawgiver step forward and address us one more time: "My friends," he'd say, "don't think I'm unaware that there's real truth in your objections. But here's my view: when someone is planning for the future and presenting a model of what he's aiming for, he should hold nothing back from the highest and truest ideal. If he finds that some part of this plan is impossible to carry out, he should set that part aside and not attempt it. But he should work to accomplish whatever comes closest to it and is most akin to the ideal. Let the lawgiver complete his design first. Then you should join him in evaluating which parts of his legislation are practical and which will meet resistance. Surely any craftsman worth respecting should always make his work internally consistent."

So, having established that the distribution will be into twelve parts, let's consider how to carry this out. The twelve parts naturally admit of the greatest number of subdivisions of whatever they contain — and it's easy to see the additional numbers that follow from them, all the way up to 5,040. The law should therefore require that military units, administrative districts, and villages, as well as currency, and dry and liquid measures, and weights, all be made to harmonize and correspond with one another.

And we shouldn't be afraid of seeming overly precise if the law requires that all vessels a person owns follow a common standard of measurement. We should recognize that the divisions and variations of numbers are useful for all kinds of purposes — for measuring height and depth, for sounds, and for all types of motion, whether straight up and down or circular.

The lawgiver should take all of this into account and instruct the citizens never to lose sight of numerical order as much as possible. No single tool in the education of the young has as much power — for household management, for politics, and for every practical skill — as the study of arithmetic. Above all, arithmetic wakes up the naturally sleepy and dull mind, making a person quick to learn, sharp of memory, and shrewd. With this almost divine assistance, he makes progress far beyond his natural abilities.

All of these studies will be excellent and effective tools for education — provided the lawgiver, through other laws and institutions, can banish pettiness and greed from the citizens' souls, so they can use these tools properly and for their own benefit. But if he can't, he'll unintentionally cultivate in them not wisdom but cunning — the same unfortunate tendency we can observe among the Egyptians and Phoenicians and many other peoples, whose pursuits and acquisitions have been made vulgar, whether by incompetent legislators, bad luck, or unfavorable natural conditions.

And this brings up an important point, Megillus and Cleinias: we shouldn't overlook the fact that different places produce different kinds of people — some better, some worse — and we need to legislate accordingly. Some locations are subject to strange and powerful influences — unusual winds, extreme heat, the quality of the water, or the character of the food the land produces. These things affect not only people's bodies, for better or worse, but produce similar effects in their souls as well.

And the places that excel above all others are those where there's a divine inspiration, where divine spirits have their appointed territories and look favorably upon the settlers rather than opposing them. To all these matters the lawgiver should attend as far as humanly possible, and frame his laws accordingly.

And this is what you need to do, Cleinias. You need to give careful attention to these matters, since you're about to found a new colony.

Cleinias Your words are excellent, Athenian, and I'll do as you say.

Laws — Book VI (Part 1)

Athenian: Now that we've finished the preliminaries, let's move on to appointing the magistrates.

Cleinias: Sounds good.

Athenian: There are really two parts to organizing a state: first, deciding how many offices there should be and how to fill them; and second, once they're established, giving each one the right set of laws. But before we actually elect anyone, let's pause and say something important about the election process itself.

Cleinias: What's on your mind?

Athenian: Here's the thing: anyone can see that even if you write brilliant laws, they're worthless — actually worse than worthless — if you pair them with the wrong people in office. Good laws plus bad officials doesn't just fail to help. It actively causes the greatest political harm.

Cleinias: Obviously.

Athenian: So let's think carefully about what this means for our new state. First, you'd agree that anyone appointed to a position of authority should come from a family that's proven itself — the candidate's character should be well established from youth all the way up to the point of election. Second, the voters themselves should be well trained in the habits of lawful conduct and properly educated, so they can judge wisely who deserves approval or rejection. But here's the problem: how can we expect people who've just been thrown together — strangers to each other, uneducated in these matters — to avoid making terrible mistakes when choosing their magistrates?

Cleinias: It's impossible.

Athenian: This is a serious problem, and we can't just wave it away with excuses. Here's what I think you and I need to do. You've told me that you, along with nine others, have volunteered to establish this new colony on behalf of the Cretan people — and I'm supposed to help through this thought experiment of ours. Now, I certainly wouldn't want to leave our project wandering around without a head. A headless monster is a hideous thing.

Cleinias: Well said, Stranger.

Athenian: And I'll make good on that promise.

Cleinias: By all means, let's do what you're proposing.

Athenian: We will, god willing — if old age lets us get that far.

Cleinias: But god will be gracious.

Athenian: Yes. And with his guidance, let's consider another point.

Cleinias: What is it?

Athenian: Let's keep in mind what a bold and daring creation this city of ours really is.

Cleinias: What do you mean by that?

Athenian: I mean that we're rather casually expecting inexperienced colonists to just accept our laws right off the bat. Now, you don't need to be particularly wise to see that nobody easily accepts laws when they're first imposed. But if we could somehow wait until those who've been raised on these laws from childhood — who've been soaked in them and grown used to them — are old enough to participate in the state's elections, then I think there'd be very little danger. A state trained that way would stand on solid ground.

Cleinias: That's a reasonable point.

Athenian: So let's see if we can find a way around this difficulty. Here's what I'd insist on, Cleinias: the people of Knossos, more than any other Cretans, shouldn't be satisfied with just going through the motions when setting up this colony. They need to take the greatest care in establishing the first offices of government — and especially in selecting the guardians of the law. Those must be chosen first, and chosen with extreme care. The other offices are less critical.

Cleinias: What method should we use to elect them?

Athenian: Here's what I'd say to the Cretans: "Since the people of Knossos take precedence among the Cretan states, they should join together with the new settlers to choose a body of thirty-seven in all — nineteen from the colonists and eighteen from the citizens of Knossos. The Knosians will contribute these members to the colony as a gift, and you yourself, Cleinias, should be one of the eighteen and become a citizen of the new state. And if you and the others can't be persuaded to go voluntarily — well, the Knosians would be perfectly justified in applying a little pressure."

Cleinias: But Stranger, why don't you and Megillus take part in our new city too?

Athenian: Oh, Cleinias — Athens is proud, and Sparta is too, and they're both a long way off. But you and the other colonists are conveniently situated, just as you've described. I've been talking about how to manage things under the present circumstances. But in the future, if the city survives, here's how elections should work: every citizen who has served in the cavalry or infantry, or who has completed military service at the appropriate age, shall participate in electing magistrates. The election shall be held in whatever temple the state considers most sacred. Each voter will carry his ballot to the altar of the god, writing on a tablet the name of the person he's voting for, along with the candidate's father's name, tribe, and ward — and his own name as well. Anyone who thinks a tablet hasn't been properly filled out may remove it and display it in the public square for at least thirty days.

The top three hundred candidates shall then be presented by the magistrates to the whole city, and the citizens shall vote again from among these, selecting their favorites. This second round will produce one hundred names, which are again presented to the public. In the third round, anyone who wishes may select from these hundred — walking between the parts of sacrificial victims — and the thirty-seven who receive the most votes shall be declared the winners.

But who, Cleinias and Megillus, is going to organize all of this for the colony — the selection of magistrates and the vetting process? Think about it: cities that are being built from scratch need people to handle these things, but those people can't have been elected when there aren't any magistrates yet. Still, they have to come from somewhere, and they can't be second-rate. They have to be the best people available. As the proverb says, "a good beginning is half the job." Everyone praises getting off to a good start — and in my opinion, it's actually much more than half. It's never been praised enough.

Cleinias: That's absolutely true.

Athenian: So let's face the difficulty head-on and think clearly about how to get this beginning right. I have only one proposal, but given our circumstances, it's both necessary and practical.

Cleinias: What is it?

Athenian: I'd say our colony has a father and mother, and they are none other than the founding state. Now, I know that many colonies have ended up at war with their parent cities. But in the early days, the relationship is like a family — the child loves its parents and is loved in return. Even if tensions develop later, while the child still needs raising, it naturally loves its parents and turns to its relatives for protection. They're its only natural allies in time of need. This parental feeling already exists among the Knosians — their care for the new city shows it — and the new city feels it in return toward Knossos.

So let me repeat — because a good idea bears repeating — the Knosians should take an active interest in all of this. They should select the oldest and best of the colonists, at least a hundred of them, and provide another hundred from their own citizens. These two hundred, upon arrival, should jointly ensure that the magistrates are appointed according to law and properly vetted. Once that's done, the Knosians return home, and the new city takes responsibility for its own survival and prosperity.

Now, the thirty-seven — both now and in all future time — should have the following duties. First, they'll be the guardians of the law. Second, they'll oversee the property registers where each citizen declares their wealth before the magistrate. Citizens of the first class may keep four minas unregistered, the second class three, the third class two, and the fourth class one mina. If anyone is caught with unregistered property beyond these limits — out of greed and contempt for the law — everything in excess shall be confiscated. On top of that, anyone who wants to can bring a charge against them for "loving base gains" before the guardians of the law. If convicted, the offender loses his share of any public distributions and receives nothing beyond his original allotment. He'll be publicly recorded as a convicted man for as long as he lives, with the record posted where anyone can read it.

A guardian of the law shall serve no longer than twenty years. He must be at least fifty when elected. If he's elected at sixty, he serves only ten years. And the same principle applies across the board — no one should imagine they can hold an office this important past the age of seventy, even if they live that long.

Those are the three basic rules for the guardians of the law. As our legislation progresses, each new law will assign them additional duties. For now, let's move on to electing the other officers.

Generals need to be elected, along with their support staff — commanders, cavalry colonels, and infantry brigade leaders (what people usually just call "brigadiers"). The guardians of the law will nominate candidates for general from among native-born citizens, and the selection will be made by all current and former military-age citizens. If someone thinks a non-nominated person is better than one who's been nominated, he may name his preferred candidate in place of the other, swear an oath that the substitute is better, and put him forward. Whichever candidate wins the vote advances to the final selection. The three who receive the most votes become generals and superintendents of military affairs, after passing the same vetting process as the guardians of the law.

The newly elected generals then nominate twelve brigadiers, one for each tribe. Counter-nominations and voting follow the same procedure as for generals. Until the executive council and the senate are elected, the guardians of the law convene the assembly in a suitable sacred place, seating the heavy infantry in one group, the cavalry in another, and all remaining forces in a third. Everyone votes for generals and cavalry colonels, but only the shield-bearing infantry votes for brigadiers. The cavalry selects tribal commanders for the generals, while the generals themselves appoint captains of light troops, archers, and other specialized units.

For the cavalry officers: they're nominated by the same people who nominated the generals. The election and counter-nominations follow the same rules. The cavalry votes while the infantry observes. The two candidates with the most votes become commanders of all the horse. Disputed votes may be challenged once or twice, but if there's a third dispute, the presiding officers make the final call.

The council shall consist of three hundred sixty members — thirty times twelve — which is a convenient number for subdivision. We'll divide them into four groups of ninety, one group for each property class.

Here's how it works. On the first day, all citizens select candidates from the first class. Voting is mandatory — skip it, and you'll be fined. Once the candidates are recorded, we move on. On the second day, the same process for the second class, under the same rules. On the third day, candidates from the third class — everyone in the top three classes must vote, but the fourth class is excused. On the fourth day, candidates from the fourth and smallest class — again selected by all, but citizens of the third and fourth classes face no penalty for abstaining. Citizens of the second class who skip this vote pay triple the original fine; first-class citizens who skip it pay quadruple.

On the fifth day, the recorded names are posted for all citizens to see. Everyone must choose from among them — again, under penalty for failing to vote. From each class, they select one hundred eighty, and then half of these are chosen by lot. Those selected undergo a vetting process, and they become the council for the year.

This method of election hits a middle ground between monarchy and democracy, and a state should always aim for that middle ground. Servants and masters can never truly be friends, and neither can good and bad people — not just by declaring them equal. Treating unequals as equals creates its own kind of inequality, if it's not balanced with good judgment. Both kinds of imbalance — forced equality and unchecked inequality — fill cities with conflict.

There's an old saying: "equality makes friendship." It's a fine sentiment, and true enough — but there's real confusion about what kind of equality we're talking about. There are actually two kinds that go by the same name, but they're almost opposites in practice.

The first kind is easy — any state or lawmaker can apply it. It's the equality of measurement, weight, and number: give everyone the same amount.

But the second kind is better and harder to recognize. It's the judgment of Zeus, you might say. Among human beings it's rarely achieved — but that small measure of it that we do achieve is the source of the greatest good, both for individuals and for states. This kind of equality gives more to the greater and less to the lesser, proportional to the nature of each — and above all, it assigns greater honor to greater virtue and lesser honor to lesser virtue, in proportion to each person's measure of excellence and education. And this is justice — the true principle that states should aim for. This is what we should have in mind when ordering our new city, and any city that might be founded in the future.

The lawmaker should focus on this — not on the interests of tyrants, whether one or many, and not on the raw power of the people, but on justice. Justice means distributing natural equality among unequals in a way that's proportional.

Still, there are times when every state is forced to use the words "just" and "equal" in a looser sense, just to keep the peace. Equity and flexibility are compromises with strict justice. That's why we're sometimes forced to use the lottery — to prevent popular discontent. When we do, we pray to god and fortune to guide the lot toward what's truly just. Even though we have to use both kinds of equality, we should rely on chance as little as possible.

That, my friends, is how and why a state that wants to survive should operate. A city is like a ship sailing a treacherous sea of politics, vulnerable to all sorts of threats. Rulers must pass the watch from hand to hand, day and night, in an unbroken chain. A large body can never maintain that kind of vigilance with real energy. So the majority of senators will need to spend most of the year tending to their own affairs. We should therefore divide them into twelve groups corresponding to the twelve months, with each group providing one month of service as guardians of the state.

Their job is to be available and responsive — ready to receive any foreigner or citizen who approaches them, whether to share information or to raise one of those questions that cities need to answer when asked by other states, and that they sometimes need to ask themselves. When internal disturbances threaten — as they inevitably will in some form — they must try to prevent them; or, if they've already started, act immediately to inform the city and heal the damage. This rotating body is essentially the executive branch of the state, and it should always control the convening and dissolving of assemblies, both regular and emergency. All of this is to be managed by whichever twelfth of the council is on duty, keeping watch alongside the other officers of state during their month, and resting during the other eleven.

That's how the city will be properly organized. Now — who should oversee the countryside, and how should that be arranged? The entire city and territory have been divided into twelve portions. Shouldn't we appoint superintendents for the city's streets, houses, buildings, harbors, marketplace, fountains, sacred precincts, and temples?

Cleinias: Of course we should.

Athenian: Let's start with the temples. We'll need servants of the temples, along with priests and priestesses. We'll also need road and building superintendents who keep an eye on people — making sure they don't cause harm — and on livestock too, both within the city walls and in the suburbs. Three kinds of officers are needed to serve the city properly. Those responsible for the city itself will be called wardens of the city. Those overseeing the marketplace will be wardens of the market. And those tending the temples will be called priests.

Anyone who holds a hereditary priesthood shouldn't be disturbed. But if there are few or no hereditary priests — which is likely in a brand-new city — then priests and priestesses should be appointed to serve whichever gods currently lack them.

Some of these officers should be elected; others should be chosen by lot. People from every class should mingle together in a friendly way in every district and city, so that the state achieves the greatest possible unity of spirit.

Temple officers should be chosen by lot — that way, the selection is left to god, who can do what pleases him. Anyone who wins the lot must pass a vetting process: first, to confirm that he's physically sound and legitimately born; second, to verify that he comes from a completely unblemished family — no homicide or similar impiety in his own past, and a similarly clean record for both parents.

The laws concerning all religious matters should be brought from Delphi, and interpreters should be appointed to administer them. Priests should serve for one year only, and must be at least sixty years old. The same rules apply to priestesses.

As for the interpreters, here's how they'll be appointed. Divide the twelve tribes into three groups of four. Each group selects four candidates — one from each tribe in the group — repeating the process three times. From the twelve candidates each group produces, the three with the most votes are sent to Delphi after undergoing the usual vetting — nine in all. The god at Delphi then selects one from each group of three. The age and vetting requirements are the same as for priests. These interpreters serve for life. When one dies, the four tribes from his group select a replacement from the deceased's tribe.

In addition to priests and interpreters, we need treasurers to manage temple property, sacred lands, and their revenues and leasing. Three treasurers shall be chosen from the highest property classes for the major temples, two for the mid-sized temples, and one for the smallest. Their election and vetting follow the same process as for generals.

That covers the temples.

Now, everything needs protection. The city's defense should be entrusted to the generals, brigade commanders, cavalry officers, tribal leaders, executive council members, and the wardens of the city and marketplace — once all those elections are complete.

The defense of the countryside works like this. The whole territory has already been divided into twelve portions. Each tribe assigned to a district will provide five wardens of the country and watch commanders annually. Each group of five then selects twelve additional young men from their own tribe — at least twenty-five but no older than thirty. These twelve are assigned to different districts each month on a rotating basis, so they all gain thorough knowledge of the entire country. Both the commanders and the watchmen serve for two years.

After their initial stations are assigned by lot, they move from place to place in order, circling from left to right — that is, from west to east — as their commanders direct. At the start of the second year, the rotation reverses — they move from right to left, place to place — so that as many guards as possible experience every part of the country in every season of the year. In the third year, new wardens and watch commanders are chosen — five per district to supervise the groups of twelve.

While on duty at each station, here's what they should focus on. First and foremost, they protect the country against enemies. They dig trenches, build fortifications wherever necessary — whatever it takes to keep hostile forces from damaging the land or property. They'll use the local draft animals and laborers as their workforce, commandeering them as much as possible during their off-hours.

Their goal is to make the country impenetrable to enemies and easily accessible to friends. They'll maintain roads for people, pack animals, and cattle, keeping them as smooth as possible. They'll manage rainwater — when it comes pouring down from the mountains into the valleys, they'll channel it with earthworks and ditches so the lowlands absorb the rainfall and produce springs and streams, giving even the driest areas a reliable water supply. They'll beautify the springs and rivers with plantings and buildings. If there's a sacred grove or temple precinct nearby, they'll channel water to the temples themselves, making them beautiful in every season.

All around such places, the young men should build gymnasiums for themselves and warm baths for the elderly, stocking them with plenty of dry firewood — a welcome relief for anyone suffering from illness. A weary farmer, worn out from labor, will find far better care there than at the hands of some mediocre doctor.

Building these works will be both useful and beautiful — a delightful pastime, but also serious business. The sixty wardens will guard their districts not only against enemies but also against supposed friends. When disputes arise among neighbors or citizens — whether involving slaves or free persons — the five wardens should decide minor cases on their own authority. For more serious matters involving charges over three minas, the full body of seventeen (the five plus the twelve) shall hear the case. Every judge and magistrate should be accountable for their conduct in office — except those with final decision-making power, like kings.

As for the wardens of the country themselves: if they abuse their authority over the people in their care — imposing unfair workloads, seizing crops or equipment without permission, accepting bribes, or judging cases unjustly — they shall be publicly disgraced. If they yield to flattery, same thing. For any other wrongs they commit against the country's inhabitants: in cases under a mina, they'll submit to the judgment of the local villagers. In larger cases, or in smaller ones where the warden refuses to submit (banking on the fact that his monthly rotation will whisk him away to another district), the injured party can bring suit in the common court. If the warden is found guilty, the plaintiff collects double damages for the defendant's refusal to submit.

During their two years of service, the wardens and overseers must take their meals together at their stations and live communally. Any warden who misses the common meal or sleeps away from his post — even for a single day or night, without orders from his commander or genuine necessity — shall be denounced by the five. His name will be posted in the public square for not keeping his watch, and he'll be publicly shamed as a betrayer of the city (to the extent of his failure). Anyone who meets him may beat him with impunity. If one of the five commanders commits the same offense, the entire company of sixty must deal with it. Any member of the sixty who knows about the offense and doesn't bring the offender to trial is subject to the same penalties as the younger offender — only with a heavier fine and a permanent ban from ever commanding the youth again. The guardians of the law shall carefully oversee all of this, either preventing offenses or punishing them when they occur.

Every citizen should remember this universal principle: anyone who isn't a good servant will never be a good master. A person should take more pride in serving well than in commanding well — serving the laws first of all (which is also service to the gods), and serving honorable elders during his youth.

Furthermore, during their two years of countryside duty, the wardens should eat simply and humbly. When the twelve young men are first chosen, they should meet with the five commanders and agree that they'll be their own servants. They won't use other people's slaves for personal tasks, nor exploit the villagers' or farmers' workers for private advantage — only for public service. In general, they should be prepared to live independently, serving themselves and each other.

Beyond that, in every season — summer and winter — they must stay armed and patrol the entire country thoroughly. This serves a double purpose: they stand guard, and they gain expert knowledge of every corner of the territory. There may be no more valuable kind of knowledge than an intimate familiarity with your own country. For this reason, as well as for the general benefits of pleasure and fitness, the young men should pursue hunting with dogs and every other kind of sport.

This whole corps — whether you call them the "secret service" or the "wardens of the country" (the name doesn't much matter) — represents a vital institution. Everyone who cares about the safety of the state should devote themselves to this service wholeheartedly.

After the wardens of the country, we need to discuss electing the wardens of the marketplace and the wardens of the city. The country wardens number sixty. The city wardens will be three, and they'll divide the city's twelve districts among themselves. Like the country wardens, they'll oversee the roads and the various highways connecting the countryside to the city, making sure all buildings conform to the law. They'll also manage the water supply — ensuring that what the country guardians send flows to the city fountains pure and plentiful, serving as both an ornament and a benefit. These should be men of influence who have the leisure to devote to public affairs.

To elect them: every citizen nominates whoever he likes from the highest property class. Once the votes are tallied and the field is narrowed to six, the election officers choose three by lot. After passing the vetting process, they take office according to the established laws.

Next, the wardens of the market: five shall be elected from the first and second property classes. The procedure mirrors the city wardens' election — ten are elected by vote, then five are chosen by lot from those ten and confirmed through the vetting process.

Everyone must vote for every candidate. Anyone who refuses to vote, if reported to the magistrates, will be fined fifty drachmas and branded a bad citizen. Attendance at the general assembly and council meetings is required for citizens of the first and second classes, with a ten-drachma fine for no-shows. The third and fourth classes face no penalty for absence unless the magistrates have declared attendance mandatory due to some urgent situation.

The wardens of the market shall maintain the marketplace according to established regulations, oversee the temples and fountains within the market, and make sure nobody causes damage. If a slave or foreigner damages property, they're punished with whipping and imprisonment. If a citizen misbehaves in this way, the market wardens may impose fines up to one hundred drachmas on their own authority, or up to two hundred with the city wardens' consent. The city wardens have the same power to punish and fine within their jurisdiction — up to a mina on their own, up to two minas with the market wardens' consent.

Next, it'll be appropriate to appoint directors of music and athletics. We need two kinds of each: one kind focused on education, and the other on managing contests.

For education, we're talking about officials who oversee order and instruction in gymnasiums and schools, manage attendance, and maintain school buildings for both boys and girls. For contests, we need judges — some for athletic competitions among men and horses, others for musical performances.

In music, we should separate the judges: one group for solo performances — rhapsodes, harp players, flute players, and similar artists — and another group for choral performances.

First, let's choose directors for the choruses — boys, men, and young women — who will lead them in dance and handle our other musical arrangements. One director is sufficient for the choruses, and he should be at least forty years old. One director is also enough for the solo performers, judging competitions and guiding the contestants. He should be at least thirty.

The choral director is elected like this: anyone who regularly takes an interest in these matters goes to the meeting. Failure to attend means a fine — the guardians of the law will judge. But people who have no interest in these matters aren't forced to come. The voter nominates whoever he thinks understands music. The nominee can be challenged during the vetting process — opponents argue he lacks skill, supporters argue he has it. Ten are elected by vote; one is chosen by lot from the ten. After passing the vetting, he leads the choruses for the year. The same process applies to the solo music director. The winner of the lot serves as director for that year and delivers judgments through the official judges.

Next: judges for the athletic and equestrian contests. These should be selected from the second and third property classes. The top three classes must participate in the election; the lowest class may abstain without penalty. Twenty are elected by vote, then three are chosen by lot. These three must also pass the vetting process.

If anyone is rejected during the vetting at any stage, replacements are chosen by the same method and undergo the same scrutiny.

One office remains: the superintendent of education for youth — both male and female. One superintendent is sufficient. He must rule according to law, be at least fifty years old, and have legitimate children of his own — both sons and daughters if possible, but at a minimum, one or the other.

Both the person elected and the person doing the electing should understand that of all the great offices of state, this is the greatest. Think about it: the first growth of any plant, if it gets a good start toward its natural potential, has the biggest impact on how it matures. This is true not just of plants but of all animals, wild and tame — and of human beings. We say that humans are civilized creatures, and with proper education and a good nature, they become the most divine and civilized beings of all. But with insufficient or poor education? The most savage creatures on earth.

That's why the lawmaker must never treat the education of children as a secondary or casual concern. The first step is to make sure that the person elected to this role is truly the best citizen in every respect. The lawmaker should spare no effort in making that happen.

Here's how the election works: all the magistrates — except the council and the executive officers — go to the temple of Apollo and vote by secret ballot for whichever guardian of the law they believe would make the best superintendent of education. The candidate with the most votes undergoes a vetting process conducted by all the magistrates who elected him, excluding the guardians of the law. He serves for five years. In the sixth year, a successor is elected the same way.

If anyone holding public office dies with more than thirty days remaining in their term, the relevant officials elect a replacement through the same process. If a legal guardian of orphans dies, the relatives on both the father's and mother's side — including cousins living in the area — must appoint a new guardian within ten days, or face a fine of a drachma per day of delay.

Now, a city without proper courts of law isn't really a city at all. But a judge who sits silently through the proceedings, saying nothing more than the parties themselves — the way it happens in arbitration — will never be able to judge fairly. That's why a large panel of judges rarely judges well, but a small panel of bad judges is just as problematic. The point of contention between the parties needs to be made clear, and time, careful deliberation, and repeated examination are what help resolve doubts.

So here's the procedure: anyone with a legal dispute should first go to his neighbors and friends — the people who know the facts best. If he can't get a satisfactory decision from them, he should try another court. And if two courts can't settle it, a third one gets the final say.

Now, setting up courts of law is essentially choosing another kind of magistrate. Every magistrate has to judge certain matters, and a judge — even if he doesn't hold any other office — is really a very important official on the day he decides a case. So let's treat judges as magistrates too, and talk about who should serve, what kinds of cases they should decide, and how many judges each case needs.

The highest tribunal should be the one that the litigants themselves create by mutual agreement, choosing their own judges. Beyond that, there should be two other courts: one for private disputes, when one citizen accuses another of wronging him and wants a ruling; and one for public cases, when a citizen believes the state itself has been harmed by an individual and wants to defend the public interest.

We still need to address the qualifications and identity of the judges. First, there should be a final court of appeal, open to all citizens who've already been through two lower courts. It's composed as follows: at the end of each year, on the last day but one before the new year begins — in the month after the summer solstice — all the magistrates, both annual and longer-serving, gather at a temple. Calling god to witness, each office dedicates one judge from its ranks as a "firstfruit" — choosing whoever they think is the best and most likely to decide cases fairly and honorably in the coming year. After the selection, these judges undergo vetting in front of the electors themselves, and any who are rejected are replaced by the same process.

These vetted judges hear the cases of people who've exhausted the lower courts. They vote openly. Councilors and the magistrates who elected them are required to attend as observers, and any other citizen may attend if he wishes.

If anyone accuses a judge of deliberately ruling unjustly, he can bring the charge before the guardians of the law. A judge found guilty must pay the injured party damages equal to half the harm done. If the offense warrants a greater penalty, the judges determine what additional punishment is appropriate and how much more the guilty judge owes — to both the public treasury and the plaintiff.

In cases of offenses against the state, the people must participate. When someone wrongs the state, everyone is wronged, and citizens have a right to be upset if they're shut out of the decision. These cases should originate with the people and be finally decided by them, but the trial itself should take place before three of the highest magistrates, agreed upon by both the plaintiff and the defendant. If the parties can't agree, the council chooses between the two proposed options.

In private suits, too, as many citizens as possible should have a role. Anyone who has no share in the administration of justice tends to feel he has no share in the state at all. For this reason, there should be a court in every tribe, with judges chosen by lot, who give their verdicts immediately and are immune to lobbying.

The final word always rests with that highest court — the one we've established to be as incorruptible as anything human can be. That's the court for people who can't resolve their disputes in the neighborhood courts or the tribal courts.

So much for the courts of law — which, as I said, don't fit neatly into the category of "offices" or "not-offices." I've given a rough sketch, with some things laid out and others left for later. The proper place for a detailed statement of procedural rules will be at the end of our legislation. So let's set them aside for now.

We've been mostly occupied so far with establishing the offices of government. Complete precision and unity across every detail of political administration can't be achieved until our discussion has a proper beginning, middle, and end. At this point, we've reached the election of magistrates, and that's a natural stopping place. Now there's no reason to delay any longer — we can begin the actual work of legislation.

Cleinias: I like what you've said, Stranger. And I especially appreciate how you've connected the beginning of this new phase to the end of the previous one.

Athenian: Well, then — so far, this old men's intellectual pastime has gone pretty well.

Cleinias: You mean our serious and noble pursuit, I hope?

Athenian: Perhaps. But I'd like to know if you and I agree about something.

Cleinias: About what?

Athenian: You know how painters are with their work — endlessly adding and removing colors, touching things up, always making their paintings brighter and more beautiful? They never seem to stop.

Cleinias: I know a bit about that from what I've heard, though I've never been much of an art expert myself.

Athenian: Doesn't matter — we can still use the analogy. Imagine someone who set out to paint the most beautiful figure possible, hoping that instead of deteriorating, his work would only improve with time. Don't you see that since he's mortal, unless he leaves behind someone to carry on — someone who can fix whatever time damages, add what the artist left incomplete, and continue to refine and improve the painting — all his great labor will last only a short while?

Cleinias: True.

Laws — Book VI (Part 2)

Athenian: Isn't the lawmaker's situation similar? First, he wants his laws written down with all possible precision. Then, as time goes on and he actually tests his laws in practice, won't he inevitably find gaps? Can you imagine any lawmaker so foolish as to not realize that he'll necessarily leave things out — things that someone coming after him will have to fix, if the constitution and the order of government aren't going to deteriorate?

Cleinias: Of course. That's exactly the sort of thing anyone would want to get right.

Athenian: And if anyone has the means — whether by word or by deed, by whatever method, large or small — to teach people how to maintain and amend the laws, he should say what he has to say and not leave the work half-done.

Cleinias: Absolutely.

Athenian: And isn't that exactly what you and I need to do right now?

Cleinias: Do about what?

Athenian: We're about to legislate, and we've chosen our guardians of the law. Now, you and I are in the evening of our lives, while compared to us, these guardians are young men. So we shouldn't just legislate for them — we should also try to make them into lawmakers themselves, as far as that's possible.

Cleinias: Certainly — if we can manage it.

Athenian: At the very least, we have to try.

Cleinias: Of course.

Athenian: Here's what we'll tell them: "Friends, guardians and saviors of our laws — when we lay down any law, we'll inevitably leave out many details. That can't be helped. But we'll do our best to cover what's important and give you an outline that you'll need to fill in. Let me explain the principle you should follow. Megillus, Cleinias, and I have talked about these matters many times, and we believe we've come to sound conclusions. We hope you'll agree with us and become our students, keeping in mind what we believe a lawgiver and guardian of the law should always keep in view.

"Our central conviction was this: a person's entire energy throughout life should be devoted to acquiring genuine human excellence — whether that comes through study, habit, some particular method, desire, conviction, or knowledge. This applies equally to men and women, old and young. Everyone should always aim at this. Anything that gets in the way of this goal, the good person should show that he completely disregards.

"And if it finally comes down to this — that a person is forced to choose between becoming an exile from his homeland rather than bowing to the yoke of slavery under inferior rulers — then exile is what he must choose. He must endure all those hardships rather than accept a form of government that's likely to make people worse.

"These are our founding principles. Keep your eyes fixed on this standard of what a true citizen should be. Use it to judge the laws — criticize the ones that can't make citizens better, and embrace the ones that can. Live joyfully within good laws, and say a permanent goodbye to institutions that aim at so-called 'goods' of a different and lesser kind."

Now let's move on to another class of laws, starting with their religious foundations. And we need to return to the number 5,040. The whole number has a great many useful divisors, and the number of each tribe — a twelfth part of the total, formed by twenty-one times twenty (that is, 5,040 divided by 420 equals 12) — has them too. Not only is the whole divisible by twelve, but each tribal number is divisible by twelve as well.

Every portion should be regarded as a sacred gift from heaven, corresponding to the months and to the revolution of the cosmos. Every city has a guiding and sacred principle given by nature, but some cities have divided their territory more wisely than others, more in keeping with what's sacred and fortunate. In our view, nothing could be more right than choosing the number 5,040, which is divisible by every number from one to twelve — with the single exception of eleven. And that's easily fixed: just subtract two households from the total, and the problem disappears. We can prove this at leisure, but for now, let's take the principle on trust.

Let's divide the state accordingly. Each portion gets its own god or divine patron, along with altars and sacred rites. Twice a month, assemblies for sacrifice should be held at these altars — twelve for the tribes and twelve for the city's divisions. The first set of sacrifices should honor the gods and divine things. The second should promote friendship, mutual acquaintance, and every kind of good fellowship among the citizens.

People need to know the families they're marrying into — both the families they're joining and the families they're giving their children to. In matters like these, avoiding mistakes is absolutely crucial. And with this serious purpose in mind, let's establish festivals where young men and young women can dance together, seeing one another and being seen — at the right age, on suitable occasions, and without violating the rules of modesty. There. I said it.

The directors of the choruses will oversee and regulate these festivals. Together with the guardians of the law, they'll fill in whatever details we've left out. As we said before, when the legislator is dealing with countless small particulars, he'll inevitably miss some things. The annual officers who gain actual experience and learn what's needed should make improvements year by year until the system is properly worked out. A ten-year period of experimentation with the sacrifices and dances — covering every detail — should be quite sufficient. If the original lawmaker is still alive, the officers should consult him. If he's passed on, each officer should report any gaps to the guardians of the law and make corrections, until everything is perfected. From that point on, the system should be fixed. They should use these refined laws alongside the ones the lawmaker originally established, and they should never change any of them — if they can possibly help it.

But if some genuine necessity forces a change, all the magistrates must be consulted, the entire citizen body must weigh in, and they must seek guidance from all the oracles of the gods. If everyone agrees, then — and only then — may the change be made. If there's any dissent at all, no change is permitted. The dissenter's objection prevails, as the law requires.

Now then — marriage. Whenever a man over twenty-five, who has seen others and been seen by them at these festivals, believes he's found a compatible match suitable for producing children, let him marry — as long as he's still under thirty-five. But first, let him hear how he should go about finding the right partner.

As Cleinias says, every law should come with a proper prelude.

Cleinias: You've picked the right moment to bring that up, Stranger. You haven't missed a beat.

Athenian: Thank you. Here's what we'll say to the young man who comes from a good family:

"My son, you ought to make the kind of marriage that wise people would approve. They would advise you not to avoid a poor match or chase after a rich one. All else being equal, always give the edge to those of more modest standing, and seek to join your family with theirs. This benefits both the city and the families being united, because balance and symmetry contribute infinitely more to excellence than concentrated, unmixed qualities.

"If you know yourself to be headstrong — the kind of person who gets carried away in everything he does — you should seek to marry into a calm, orderly family. And if you're naturally the opposite — reserved and cautious — seek out the opposite kind of partner.

"Here's the general rule about marriage: every man should pursue not the match that's most pleasing to himself, but the one that's most beneficial to the state. Everyone naturally gravitates toward people who are like them, and this makes the whole city unequal in both wealth and temperament. The result is exactly what we'd least want to happen."

Now, if we added an explicit law — that rich people can't marry rich, powerful can't marry powerful, and that slower temperaments must marry quicker ones and vice versa — well, that would probably provoke both anger and laughter. People have a hard time grasping the idea that a city should be well mixed, like wine in a cup. When you pour wine straight, it's hot and fiery — but when a calmer element tempers it, you get an excellent, balanced drink. The same thing happens with marriage, but almost nobody sees it. So we can't quite put this into law. But we should try to charm people into believing that the balance of their children's characters matters more than piling up excessive wealth through marriage. Anyone who's too eager to marry rich, we should steer away through gentle social pressure — not through the force of written law.

That's our advice about marriage.

And let's remember what we said earlier: that a person should strive for a kind of immortality by leaving behind children and grandchildren to serve god in his place forever. Much more could be said by way of prelude about the duty of marriage.

But if a man won't listen — if he stays unsociable and cut off from his fellow citizens, and is still unmarried at thirty-five — he pays an annual fine. The highest class pays a hundred drachmas, the second class seventy, the third class sixty, and the fourth class thirty. This money is dedicated to Hera. Anyone who doesn't pay the annual fine owes ten times the amount, which the goddess's treasurer shall collect. If the treasurer fails to collect it, he'll be personally liable and will have to account for the money in his audit.

And there's more to the punishment than money. The confirmed bachelor loses all the respect that younger citizens normally show to their elders. No young person is obligated to obey him. If he tries to punish anyone, everyone should come to the defense of the person he's punishing. Any bystander who fails to come to the rescue will be declared by law a coward and a bad citizen.

As for marriage portions — I've already covered that. Let me repeat: no one should feel ashamed of poverty in marriage. The citizens of our state are provided with the necessities of life. Banning dowries means wives are less likely to become arrogant and husbands less likely to become servile and groveling because of their wife's money.

Anyone who follows this law is doing a noble thing. But anyone who defies it — giving or receiving more than fifty drachmas for marriage expenses if he's from the lowest class, more than a mina for the third class, a mina and a half for the second, or two minas for the highest class — must pay an equal amount to the public treasury. The excess gifts themselves are dedicated to Hera and Zeus. Their treasurers will collect the fines, just as Hera's treasurers collect from confirmed bachelors — or pay the penalty themselves.

For betrothals: a father's betrothal is valid in the first degree, a grandfather's in the second, and a brother's (from the same father) in the third. If none of these men are alive, a mother's betrothal holds in the same order. In cases of extraordinary misfortune — when no family member is available — the next of kin and the legal guardians have authority.

As for pre-wedding rituals and other sacred ceremonies related to past, present, or future marriages: the interpreters will handle that. Follow their advice, and you can rest easy.

For the wedding celebration itself: no more than five male and five female friends from each family, plus an equal number of relatives from each side. Nobody should spend more than he can afford. The richest class may spend one mina on the feast; the second class, half a mina; and so on in proportion. Everyone should praise the man who follows this rule. Anyone who goes overboard should be penalized by the guardians of the law — fined as a man with no taste and no understanding of proper wedding etiquette.

Now, getting drunk. It's always inappropriate — except at the festivals of the god who gave us wine. And it's especially dangerous when you're getting married. On this day, of all days, the bride and groom should have their wits about them. They should take care that their children are born to parents who are clearheaded — since nobody knows which day or night heaven will grant them conception.

Beyond that, children shouldn't be conceived when the parents' bodies are wrecked by intoxication. Offspring should be formed from what's solid and steady, calm and well-composed. A drunk person lurches through everything — his body is all over the place, and so is his mind. He's the worst possible seed-sower: unstable, unreliable, likely to produce children who are unsteady in both body and mind.

So throughout the entire year — and really throughout his whole life, but especially during the time he's fathering children — a man should avoid anything that damages his health or involves reckless behavior. He can't help leaving an impression of himself on the souls and bodies of his children, and he'll produce inferior offspring in every way.

And especially on the wedding day and night itself: abstain. The beginning of anything — which is itself a kind of divinity dwelling in human affairs — preserves all things, if it receives proper respect.

Moving on: the newlywed should treat one of the two houses in his allotment as the nest and nursery for his children. That's where he marries, sets up his home, and raises his family — away from his father and mother.

Now, in any close relationship, there needs to be some degree of missing each other, some longing, to cement the bond between different personalities. But too much togetherness — constant contact without the desire that comes from time apart — gradually dissolves affection through sheer saturation. That's why the young couple should leave their parents' homes and establish their own household, like colonists founding a new settlement. They'll visit their parents and be visited in return. They'll have children and raise them, passing the torch of life from one generation to the next, worshipping the gods according to the law, forever.

Now we need to consider what kind of property will be most practical. Most kinds of property are easy enough to understand and acquire. But the question of slaves — that's where it gets really difficult. And the reason is that everything we say about slaves is both right and not right. Our words about them are simultaneously consistent and inconsistent with how we actually treat them.

Megillus: I don't follow you, Stranger. What do you mean?

Athenian: That's not surprising, Megillus. The treatment of the Helots in Sparta is the most debated and controversial example of slavery in the entire Greek world. Some people approve of it, others condemn it. There's less argument about the Mariandynians enslaved by Heraclea, or the Penestae in Thessaly. But looking at all these cases, what should we do about slaves in our state?

The remark I made in passing — which naturally prompted your question — was this: we all agree that we'd like to have the best and most loyal slaves we can get. History is full of cases where slaves proved better than brothers or sons in every way — saving their masters' lives, their property, their entire households. We've all heard those stories.

Megillus: Of course.

Athenian: But we can also say the opposite — that the soul of a slave is utterly corrupt, and no sensible person should ever trust one. The wisest of the poets, speaking of Zeus, put it this way:

"Far-seeing Zeus takes away half the understanding of men whom the day of slavery subdues."

So we're left with two contradictory views. Some people completely distrust their slaves, treating them like wild animals — driving them with whips and goads until their souls become three times — no, many times — more slavish than before. Others do the exact opposite.

Megillus: True.

Cleinias: So given these differences in how people treat their slaves, what should we do in our own state, Stranger?

Athenian: Well, Cleinias, there's no getting around it: human beings are troublesome creatures. They aren't easily managed, and they won't become manageable just because we try to impose the neat categories of "slave," "free," and "master."

Cleinias: That's obvious enough.

Athenian: Troublesome indeed — as the repeated revolts of the Messenians have shown, along with the enormous problems in states that have many slaves speaking the same language, and the endless robberies and lawless behavior of the Italian bandits. When you consider all this, you're honestly at a loss.

Two remedies come to mind. First, don't let your slaves come from the same country or, if possible, speak the same language. That makes them much easier to control. Second, treat them well — not just for their sake but, even more importantly, out of respect for yourselves.

The right way to treat slaves is this: behave properly toward them. If anything, show them even more justice than you'd show your equals. Why? Because a person who genuinely reveres justice — who truly hates injustice — reveals his character most clearly in how he deals with those he could easily wrong. Anyone who remains untainted by cruelty and injustice in his treatment of slaves is sowing the best seeds of virtue in them. The same principle applies to every master, every ruler, every person who holds power over others.

That said, slaves should be punished when they deserve it — not talked to as if they were free citizens, which only makes them arrogant. The language you use with a servant should always be a command. Don't joke around with them, whether they're men or women. Plenty of people foolishly do this, and it makes life worse for everyone — slaves and masters alike.

Cleinias: True.

Athenian: Good. Now that each citizen has been provided with an adequate number of suitable slaves to help with their work, let's turn to the question of housing.

Cleinias: Very good.

Athenian: Since the city is new and previously uninhabited, we need to pay careful attention to all the buildings — how they're constructed, the temples, the walls. Ideally, Cleinias, we should have settled these matters before the marriages. But since we're only talking through a theoretical exercise, there's no harm in changing the order. If our plan ever becomes reality, the buildings will naturally come before the weddings — god willing. But for now, let's just sketch things out in general terms.

Cleinias: Fair enough.

Athenian: The temples should be placed all around the marketplace, and the whole city should be built on high ground in a circle — for defense and for purity. Near the temples, place the government buildings and the courts of law. The courts should be treated as sacred ground — partly because they deal with sacred matters, and partly because they house the gods of justice. This is where homicide trials and other capital cases should be held.

As for walls — Megillus, I agree with Sparta on this one. Let the walls sleep in the earth. Don't dig them up. There's a fine old saying that "walls should be made of steel and iron, not of earth."

Think about it: how absurd would it be to send our young men out every year to dig trenches and build fortifications to keep the enemy off our land — and then turn around and surround ourselves with a wall? Walls are bad for a city's health, in more ways than one. They encourage a kind of mental softness in the inhabitants, inviting people to run behind them instead of standing up to their enemies. People start thinking their safety comes from walls and gates, and that they can just sleep securely. They forget that real security comes from hard work, and that shameful laziness is just an invitation for more trouble.

But if people insist on having walls, then the private houses should be designed from the beginning so that the whole city effectively becomes one wall — uniform buildings with consistent frontage onto the streets, forming a single defensible structure. There's something appealing about a city that looks like one great house, and it's infinitely better for security, too.

Until the initial construction is finished, this should be the citizens' primary focus. The wardens of the city should oversee the work, fining anyone who's negligent. They should enforce cleanliness in everything related to the city, and prevent any private person from encroaching on public property through unauthorized building or excavation. They should also make sure rainwater drains properly, and handle whatever other urban management issues arise. The guardians of the law may pass additional regulations as experience shows them to be necessary, filling in whatever gaps remain.

Now — with the buildings around the marketplace, the gymnasia, the schools, and the theaters all ready and waiting for students and spectators — let's move on to what comes after marriage in our legal code.

Cleinias: By all means.

Athenian: All right, let's assume the marriages have taken place. Now we need to address the first year of married life, before children are born — how the bride and groom should live in a city that aspires to be better than all others. This isn't easy to figure out. We've already run into plenty of difficulties, but this might be the biggest one — and the most unpopular. Still, I have to say what I think is right and true, Cleinias.

Cleinias: Of course.

Athenian: Anyone who thinks he can legislate for public life while leaving citizens' private lives completely unregulated — expecting people to behave however they want at home but somehow conform to law in their public conduct — is making a serious mistake. Why do I bring this up? Because I'm about to propose that bridegrooms should continue eating at the common tables, just as they did before marriage.

When this custom was first established in your parts of the world, Megillus and Cleinias, I imagine it was the result of some war or similar emergency — the kind of crisis likely to arise in thinly populated areas under pressure. But once people tried it and got used to it, experience showed that communal dining was a tremendous benefit to public order. That's how the custom arose among you.

Cleinias: That seems likely enough.

Athenian: What I said was that this custom may have seemed strange and even dangerous to impose at first, but that it's no longer controversial. There is, however, a related institution that would be the natural next step — an excellent one, if it existed anywhere. But it doesn't. The institution I'm about to describe is so hard to implement that it's like what people say about the legislator "combing wool into the fire" — attempting something impossible and futile.

Cleinias: What on earth are you so hesitant about, Stranger?

Athenian: You'll hear — and I won't waste time beating around the bush. Law and order in a state cause every good thing, while disorder and lawlessness often ruin what's been well established. And that's where we are right now.

Here's the thing, Cleinias and Megillus: among your people, the communal tables for men are — as I said — a heaven-sent and admirable institution. But you've made a mistake in leaving the women completely unregulated by law. They have no equivalent institution of public dining. And the female half of the population — which by nature is more inclined to secrecy and stealth, owing to its relative weakness — has been left without any legal framework. This is a huge mistake.

Because of this neglect, all sorts of things have gone slack among you that could have been far better managed. Failing to regulate women's lives isn't just neglecting half the population. It's actually more than twice as damaging as it sounds, because — to the degree that women's nature is less inclined toward virtue than men's — the consequences of neglect are proportionally greater.

Careful attention to this issue — organizing institutions for both men and women on common principles — would be a tremendous benefit to the city's well-being. But as things stand today, the human race is in such a sorry condition that no sensible person would even dare to bring up the subject of communal dining in places where it's never been practiced. And how could you avoid looking absolutely ridiculous if you tried to force women to eat and drink in public?

Nothing would make women more furious. They're used to living their lives out of the spotlight, and if you tried to drag them into the light, they'd resist with everything they have — far too much for any lawmaker to handle. As I said, in most places they won't tolerate even hearing the idea without raising an almighty uproar. But perhaps in this state, they might.

So if we can agree that our whole discussion about the ideal state hasn't been just idle talk, I'd like to try to prove that this institution is good and proper — if you're willing to listen. If you'd rather not, I'll hold my peace.

Cleinias: There's nothing either of us would rather hear, Stranger. Please, go ahead.

Athenian: Very well. But don't be surprised if I go back a ways. We have plenty of time, and there's nothing preventing us from examining the subject of law from every angle.

Cleinias: True.

Athenian: Then let's return to something we've touched on before. Everyone should understand that the human race either had no beginning and will have no end — existing forever in both directions — or that it began an immeasurably long time ago.

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: And hasn't the world seen the rise and fall of countless states, every kind of orderly and disorderly pursuit, all manner of eating and drinking customs, and endless changes of climate — under which living creatures must have undergone countless transformations?

Cleinias: No doubt.

Athenian: And can't we suppose that grape vines appeared at some point when they hadn't existed before? And olive trees? And the gifts of Demeter and her daughter — grain — for which Triptolemus was the divine agent? And that before these things existed, animals survived by eating each other, as they still do?

Cleinias: True.

Athenian: We also know that the practice of human sacrifice still exists among some peoples. On the other hand, we hear of people who wouldn't even taste the flesh of a cow, who made no animal sacrifices but offered only cakes, fruits dipped in honey, and other pure offerings — abstaining from meat because they believed it was wrong to eat living things and sinful to stain the gods' altars with blood. In those days, people are said to have lived a kind of "Orphic life" — consuming everything that wasn't alive while abstaining from everything that was.

Cleinias: That's the longstanding tradition, and it's probably true.

Athenian: Someone might ask: "What's the point of all this?"

Cleinias: A very fair question, Stranger.

Athenian: So I'll try, Cleinias, to draw the natural conclusion.

Cleinias: Go on.

Athenian: What I see is this: everything in human life depends on three fundamental wants and desires. If these are properly guided, they lead to virtue. If misguided, to the opposite.

The first two are hunger and thirst, which are present from birth. Every animal has a fierce, instinctive drive to satisfy them, and it rebels furiously against anyone who says it can't indulge every appetite and eliminate every discomfort.

The third — the greatest and sharpest desire — erupts last: the fire of sexual passion, which kindles every kind of reckless and irrational behavior in human beings.

These three drives must be mastered by three great forces: fear, law, and right reason. With the help of the Muses and the gods who preside over contests, we can redirect them from what merely feels best to what truly is best, dampening their growth and overflow.

But let me get back on track. After marriage, we need to discuss the birth of children, and after birth, their upbringing and education. As the discussion unfolds, the individual laws will take shape, and eventually we'll arrive at the question of communal dining — whether it should be restricted to men or extended to women as well. When we get closer, we'll have a better view, and we'll be able to determine what prior institutions need to be established first. As I said, we'll see the details more clearly up close and be better equipped to lay down the appropriate laws.

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: Let's keep in mind what we've just said. We may need it later.

Cleinias: What do you want us to remember?

Athenian: The three things we identified: first, eating; second, drinking; third, sexual desire.

Cleinias: We'll remember, Stranger.

Athenian: Good. Now let's proceed to marriage law itself, and teach people how they should go about having children — with the warning that if they don't comply, the law has teeth.

Cleinias: What do you mean?

Athenian: The bride and groom should keep in mind that they owe the state the best and finest children they can produce. Now, everyone who's involved in any joint endeavor succeeds when they pay attention to what they're doing, and fails when they're careless or absent-minded. So the groom should give his full attention to his bride and to the business of producing children, and the bride should do the same — especially during the time before their children are born.

The women we've chosen as overseers shall monitor these matters. However many of them the magistrates decide on, they'll gather every day at the temple of Eileithyia — the goddess of childbirth — for a third of the day. There, they'll report to each other on any man or woman among the child-bearers who seems to be ignoring the rules laid down during the marriage ceremonies and sacrifices.

The period of supervised childbearing lasts ten years — no longer — from the time the marriage is considered fruitful. If after ten years a couple remains childless, they should consult with their relatives and the women overseers and arrange a divorce for their mutual benefit. If there's any dispute about what's proper or in either party's interest, they should choose ten of the guardians of the law to arbitrate, and accept whatever those guardians decide.

The women overseers have the authority to enter the homes of the young couples — partly to advise and partly to threaten — in order to make them give up any foolish or improper behavior. If the couples persist despite this, the women go to the guardians of the law, and the guardians intervene. If even the guardians can't fix the problem, they bring it before the public. The offender's name is posted, and the guardians swear under oath that they were unable to reform this person. Anyone whose name is posted in this way — and who can't win a court case against those who inscribed it — loses the following citizen privileges:

He may not attend weddings or the celebrations held after a child's birth. If he shows up anyway, anyone may strike him with impunity.

The same rules apply to women. A woman who's posted for disorderly conduct and can't overturn the verdict in court is barred from public appearances, denied civic honors, and excluded from wedding and birthday festivals.

Once a couple has fulfilled their obligation to have children according to the law, if either the husband or wife has sexual relations with someone who is still in their childbearing period, they face the same penalties as those who haven't yet completed their families. After the childbearing period is over, the man or woman who behaves with restraint shall be held in high regard, while those who don't shall be held in the opposite — that is to say, disrepute.

If most people behave decently, these regulations can remain on the books but dormant. But if people start acting out, the laws shall be enforced.

Every person's first year of life marks their beginning. The date of birth should be recorded in the family's ancestral temples. Each phratry — each civic brotherhood — should keep a whitewashed wall inscribed with the names of the successive archons used to reckon the years. Nearby, the names of living phratry members should be written, and erased when they die.

The legal marriage age for women is sixteen to twenty. For men, thirty to thirty-five. A woman may hold office at forty; a man at thirty. Military service for men runs from twenty to sixty. For women, if military service is deemed necessary, the period of service extends from after they've finished bearing children up to the age of fifty. In all cases, what's possible and appropriate for each individual should be taken into account.

Laws — Book VII (Part 1)

Athenian: Now, assuming children of both sexes have been born, it's time for us to consider their upbringing and education. This isn't something we can just ignore, and yet it might seem like a topic better suited to advice and guidance than to actual legislation. In private life, there are all sorts of little things — arising from individual pleasures, pains, and desires — that aren't always obvious, and that run counter to what the lawgiver intends. They make citizens' characters varied and inconsistent, and that's a real problem for a state. These matters are too small and frequent to make into criminal offenses — and if you did criminalize them, you'd actually undermine the written law, because people would get into the habit of constantly breaking the law over trivial things. The result is that you can't legislate about them, but you can't stay silent either. I realize I'm being a bit vague, but I'll try to bring my meaning into the light. I'll admit that what I'm saying right now lacks clarity.

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: Am I not right that a good education is one that develops both mind and body as much as possible?

Cleinias: Without a doubt.

Athenian: And isn't it obvious that the healthiest bodies are those that grow up from infancy in the best and straightest way?

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: Here's something else we can observe: the first burst of growth in every living thing is by far the greatest and most dramatic. Many people would even argue that a person at twenty-five isn't even twice the height they were at five.

Cleinias: True.

Athenian: And isn't rapid growth without proper, abundant exercise the source of countless problems in the body?

Cleinias: Yes.

Athenian: And the body should get the most exercise during the period when it's receiving the most nourishment?

Cleinias: But wait, Stranger — are we really going to impose all this exercise on newborn infants?

Athenian: Not newborns — even earlier. On babies still in the womb.

Cleinias: What do you mean? During pregnancy?

Athenian: Exactly. I'm not at all surprised you haven't heard of this particular kind of exercise for such tiny creatures. It's unusual, but I'll do my best to explain it to you.

Cleinias: Please do.

Athenian: The practice is easier for us Athenians to understand than for you, because of certain pastimes we take to extremes back home. In Athens, not just boys but often grown men keep quails and roosters that they train to fight each other. And they're far from thinking that the fights themselves provide enough exercise. On top of the fighting, they carry the birds around — the smaller ones in their hands, the bigger ones tucked under their arms — and take them for walks covering many miles, not for the sake of their own health, but for the health of the birds. This proves to anyone with sense that all bodies benefit from being shaken and moved, as long as the movement doesn't lead to exhaustion — whether the motion comes from the body itself, or from being rocked in a cradle, or from the motion of a ship at sea, or from riding a horse, or from any other kind of movement. By mastering their nourishment through motion, bodies gain beauty, health, and strength.

So, accepting all this — what follows? Should we pass a ridiculous law requiring pregnant women to walk around and shape the embryo the way we shape wax before it hardens? And after birth, swaddle the infant for two years? Should we force nurses, under threat of legal penalties, to always be carrying the children somewhere — to temples, to the countryside, to relatives' houses — until the children can stand properly? And require them to make sure the babies' limbs don't get distorted from bearing weight too young? The nurses should continue carrying them until the child completes its third year. They should be strong women, and there should be more than one per child. Should these be our rules, with penalties for neglecting them? No, no — the penalty we'd really face would fall on our own heads soon enough.

Cleinias: What penalty?

Athenian: Ridicule. And the sheer difficulty of getting nurses — with their stubborn and resistant natures — to actually comply.

Cleinias: Then why bring the whole thing up at all?

Athenian: Because when the leading citizens of a state hear about it, they're very likely to arrive at an important realization: that without proper regulation of private life in cities, you can't expect stability in your laws. And anyone who grasps this point may voluntarily adopt the practices I just described, run their household well, and be happy for it.

Cleinias: That's likely enough.

Athenian: So let's continue with our legislation until we've determined the exercises suited to children's souls, just as we've been working through the rules for their bodies.

Cleinias: By all means.

Athenian: Let's take this as our first principle for both the body and soul of very young children: nursing them and keeping them in motion day and night is good for all of them, and the younger they are, the more they need it. Ideally, infants should live as if they were always rocking on a ship at sea. This is the lesson we can draw from the experience of nurses, and also from the motion used in the rites of the Corybantes. When mothers want their restless children to fall asleep, they don't use stillness — just the opposite. They rock them in their arms. And they don't give them silence — they sing to them and wrap them in sweet melodies. The Bacchic women, too, are cured of their frenzy in the same way: through dance and music.

Cleinias: And what's the reason for that, Stranger?

Athenian: The reason is pretty clear.

Cleinias: What is it?

Athenian: The agitation of both the Bacchic worshippers and the children is a kind of fear, rooted in an unhealthy condition of the soul. When someone applies external movement to this kind of inner disturbance, the motion from outside overpowers the terrible, violent motion within, and produces peace and calm in the soul. It quiets the restless pounding of the heart — which is exactly what you want — sending children to sleep, and bringing the Bacchic worshippers, while still awake, to dance to the pipe with the help of the gods to whom they offer their sacrifices. It replaces their frenzy with a sound mind. To put it simply, there's a great deal to be said for this treatment.

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: But if fear has this kind of power, we should also realize something: any soul that's been exposed to a lot of fear from early childhood will become more prone to fear. And everyone would agree that this is the path to forming a habit of cowardice, not courage.

Cleinias: No doubt.

Athenian: On the other hand, the habit of overcoming fears and terrors from childhood onward — that can be called an exercise in courage.

Cleinias: True.

Athenian: So we can say that exercise and motion in the earliest years of life contribute greatly to building a part of virtue in the soul.

Cleinias: Quite true.

Athenian: Furthermore, a cheerful temperament — or the lack of one — plays a big role in developing either courage or cowardice.

Cleinias: To be sure.

Athenian: So now we need to work out how, and to what extent, we can implant either character in young children, if we choose.

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: There's a common view that luxury makes young people discontented, irritable, and wildly overreactive to trivial things. On the other hand, excessive and harsh servitude makes people mean, downtrodden, and hostile to their fellow humans — making them unfit as companions.

Cleinias: But how is the state supposed to educate children who don't yet understand the language of their country and can't appreciate any kind of instruction?

Athenian: Here's how. Every animal that's born tends to make some kind of cry, and this is especially true of human beings. Humans are also more inclined to weep than any other animal.

Cleinias: Quite true.

Athenian: When nurses want to figure out what an infant needs, they use these signs: when something is brought to the baby and it stays quiet, they assume it's happy. When it cries and screams, they assume it's not. Tears and cries are the signals by which children show what they love and hate. And this period — these first three years — is a very significant portion of a life, spent either well or poorly.

Cleinias: True.

Athenian: Now, doesn't it seem to you that a discontented and unpleasant nature is one that's full of more grief and sorrow than a good person ought to have?

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: Well then — if during those first three years, every possible effort were made to ensure that our young child experienced as little sorrow, fear, and pain as possible, wouldn't we expect to make their soul more gentle and cheerful in early childhood?

Cleinias: Obviously, Stranger — especially if we could provide them with a variety of pleasures.

Athenian: There I can't agree with you, Cleinias. You're amazing! That approach would be the child's absolute ruin. The beginning is always the most critical stage of education. Let's see if I'm right.

Cleinias: Go on.

Athenian: This point where you and I disagree is extremely important, and I hope you, Megillus, will help settle it. Here's what I maintain: the right kind of life shouldn't chase after pleasures, but it also shouldn't completely avoid pain. It should embrace a middle state — what I just described as gentle and moderate — which we rightly associate with the divine. Now I'm saying that any person who wants to approach the divine should pursue this same middle path. They shouldn't rush headlong toward pleasures, because that won't free them from pain. And we shouldn't let anyone — young or old, male or female — live that way, and least of all the newborn infant. Infancy is when character is most deeply shaped by habit.

In fact, if I weren't afraid of sounding ridiculous, I'd go further and say that a woman during her year of pregnancy should be cared for more carefully than anyone else. She should be kept from violent or excessive pleasures and pains, and should cultivate gentleness, kindness, and a calm spirit during that time.

Cleinias: You don't need to ask Megillus which of us has spoken more truly, Stranger. I myself agree that everyone should avoid a life of pure pleasure or pure pain, and should always pursue a middle course. You've spoken well, and I'm happy to say you've been well answered.

Athenian: Very good, Cleinias. Now let the three of us consider one more point.

Cleinias: What is it?

Athenian: All the things we've been describing are commonly known as "unwritten customs," and what people call "ancestral laws" are of the same kind. The thought we had a moment ago — that we can neither formally call these things laws nor leave them unmentioned — is justified. These customs are the bonds that hold an entire state together. They sit between the written laws that already exist and those yet to be enacted. They're ancestral practices of great antiquity that, when properly maintained, shield and preserve the written law. But if they fall into disorder, they're like the support beams of a building that slip out of place and cause a total collapse — one part drags another down, and the whole beautiful structure falls because the old foundations have been undermined.

Keeping this in mind, Cleinias, you should bind your new state together in every possible way, leaving out nothing — whether great or small — that falls under the heading of laws, customs, or practices. A city is held together by all these things, and they're only durable when they depend on one another. So we shouldn't be surprised to find that many apparently trivial customs and habits keep pouring in and extending our legislation.

Cleinias: Very true. We're inclined to agree with you.

Athenian: Up to age three, for both boys and girls, if someone strictly follows the guidelines we've laid out and makes them a priority, it'll do a great deal of good for the young children. But at three, four, five, and six, the child's nature will need games and play. Now is the time to curb self-will by punishing it — but not in a way that humiliates the child. We said the same thing about slaves: you shouldn't add insult to punishment, which just makes them angry, but you also shouldn't leave them unpunished, which makes them spoiled. The same principle applies to freeborn children.

Children at this age have natural ways of playing that they discover for themselves when they get together. All children between three and six should meet at the village temples, with the families of each village gathering in one place. The nurses must make sure the children behave properly and in an orderly way. The nurses and their groups will be supervised by twelve matrons — one for each group — chosen annually from the women we previously mentioned, the ones who oversee marriage. These matrons will be selected by those marriage-supervisory women, one from each tribe, all of the same age. As soon as each matron is appointed, she'll take up her duties and go to the temples every day, punishing any offenders — slaves or foreigners — with the help of public servants. If any citizen disputes the punishment, she'll bring the case before the city wardens. If there's no dispute, she can handle the punishment herself.

After age six, it's time to separate the sexes — boys with boys, girls with girls. Now the real learning begins. Boys go to teachers of horsemanship, archery, javelin-throwing, and the sling. Girls too — at the very least until they know how to handle these weapons, and especially how to manage heavy armor. Because let me point out something: the way things are done now is almost universally misguided.

Cleinias: In what way?

Athenian: People assume that the right hand and the left hand are naturally suited for different tasks. But when it comes to our feet and legs, no one sees any difference. The truth is, we're essentially crippled in our hands by the foolishness of nurses and mothers. Our limbs are naturally balanced, but we create an artificial difference through bad habits. In some cases this doesn't matter much — for example, when we hold the lyre in the left hand and the plectrum in the right. But in other cases, it's pure foolishness to maintain this distinction.

The Scythians prove our error: they hold the bow out with the left hand and draw the arrow with the right, but they can use either hand for both. And there are many similar examples in chariot-driving and other activities, showing that people who make the left side weaker than the right are working against nature. With something like a horn plectrum or similar instruments, it doesn't really matter. But it makes a huge difference when a warrior has to use iron weapons — bows, javelins, and the like — and especially when fighting in heavy armor against other heavily-armed opponents. There's an enormous gap between someone who's been trained and someone who hasn't, between someone who's practiced gymnastics and someone who hasn't.

Think of it this way: a person who's perfected the Pancratium, or boxing, or wrestling isn't helpless when fighting from the left side. They don't limp and stumble in confusion when their opponent forces them to switch positions. The same principle should hold for heavy-armed combat and everything else. Someone with the ability to attack and defend from both sides should never leave either capability unused or untrained. If a person had the nature of Geryon or Briareus, they ought to be able to throw a hundred darts with their hundred hands!

Now, the magistrates — both men and women — should oversee all of this. The women will supervise the nursing and play of the children, and the men will supervise their education. The goal is that all children, boys and girls alike, should be sound in hand and foot, and shouldn't — if it can be helped — ruin nature's gifts through bad habits.

Education has two branches: gymnastics, which is concerned with the body, and music, which is designed to improve the soul. Gymnastics itself has two branches: dancing and wrestling. One kind of dancing imitates musical recitation and aims at preserving dignity and grace. The other aims at producing health, agility, and beauty in the body's limbs, giving each the proper range of movement — a harmonious motion flowing through everything, forming a natural accompaniment to the dance.

As for wrestling: the tricks that Antaeus and Cercyon invented in their systems, born from petty competitiveness, or the boxing tricks devised by Epeius or Amycus — these are useless for war and don't deserve much discussion. But the art of wrestling while standing upright, keeping the neck, hands, and sides free, working with energy and determination, with controlled strength, for the sake of health — that's always useful and shouldn't be neglected. When we reach that part of our legislation, we'll require both teachers to give instruction freely and students to receive it gratefully.

We also shouldn't leave out war dances from our choruses. Here in Crete, you have the armed dances of the Curetes, and in Sparta, the dances of the Dioscuri. And our own patron goddess Athena, who delights in dance, didn't think it was fitting to dance with empty hands. She put on a full suit of armor and danced in that attire. Our young men and women should imitate her in every way, honoring the goddess, both for the demands of war and for festive occasions.

It'll also be right for the boys, until they reach military age, to march in processions and offer prayers to all the gods — armed, on horseback, in fast and slow formations, performing dances and marches. They should offer prayers to the gods and the sons of gods, and engage in contests and practice bouts with exactly this purpose. These kinds of exercises, and no others, are useful in both peace and war, and beneficial to states and private households alike. Other physical labors, sports, and exercises are unworthy of free citizens, Megillus and Cleinias.

I've now described the kind of physical training I said at the start should be covered. If you know of anything better, please share your thoughts.

Cleinias: It's not easy, Stranger, to set aside these principles of gymnastics and wrestling and propose better ones.

Athenian: Now we need to turn to what still needs to be said about the gifts of the Muses and of Apollo. Earlier, we thought we'd covered everything and only gymnastics remained. But now we can see clearly what points were left out and should be addressed first. So let's discuss them.

Cleinias: By all means.

Athenian: Let me tell you once more — though you've heard me say this before — that extreme caution is needed, both from the speaker and the listener, when dealing with anything that's really unusual and out of the ordinary. Because what I'm about to say is the kind of thing many people would be afraid to put forward. And yet I have a confidence that pushes me ahead.

Cleinias: What do you have to say, Stranger?

Athenian: Here's what I'm saying: in states generally, no one has noticed that children's games have a great deal to do with whether laws remain stable or fall apart. When games are set up so that children always play the same games, entertain themselves the same way, and take delight in the same toys, then the more serious institutions of the state are left undisturbed. But when games are constantly disrupted and changed, when young people never agree about what they like, when they don't have any settled sense of what's tasteful or vulgar — whether in how they carry themselves or how they dress — and when whoever invents something new and unusual in style and appearance is given special honor: well, I'd say there's no greater disaster that can befall a state.

The person who changes children's games is secretly changing the character of the young — training them to despise old traditions and embrace new ones. And I'm telling you, there's nothing more damaging to a society than this kind of talk and this kind of thinking. Do you want to hear just how serious I think this problem is?

Cleinias: You mean the problem of disrespecting tradition in a state?

Athenian: Exactly.

Cleinias: On that subject, you'll find us very receptive listeners — more than receptive, in fact.

Athenian: I'd expect so.

Cleinias: Go on.

Athenian: Well then, let's pay especially close attention to each other's words here. The argument is this: any change whatsoever, except from what's bad, is the most dangerous of all things. This is true of the changing of seasons, of winds, of bodily habits, of the habits of the mind — true of everything, except, as I said, what's bad. Consider someone whose body has adapted to eating any kind of food, drinking any kind of drink, doing any kind of work: at first, these things cause disorder, but over time, the body adapts. The person learns to appreciate variety, and enjoys good health and a pleasant life. But if afterward they're restricted to a superior diet, they're initially disturbed by the change and have difficulty adjusting to the new food.

We can imagine the same principle applies to people's minds and souls. When they've been raised under certain laws that — by some divine providence — have remained unchanged for long ages, so that no one has any memory or tradition of them ever being different, then everyone is afraid and ashamed to change what's established.

The legislator needs to find some way to instill this reverence for tradition, and here's what I'd propose. People tend to think — as I was saying — that when children's games change, they're just games. They don't see the serious and damaging consequences that follow. They go along with whatever children want instead of discouraging them, never considering that these children who innovate in their games will grow up to be different adults from the previous generation. Being different, they'll want a different kind of life. Under that desire, they'll want different institutions and different laws. And none of them stops to think that what follows is what I just called the greatest of evils for a state. Changes in outward fashion aren't such a serious matter. But constant changes in what a society praises and blames in conduct — those are the greatest of evils, and require the utmost foresight.

Cleinias: To be sure.

Athenian: And do we still hold to our earlier claim that rhythms and music in general are imitations of good and evil characters in people? What do you say?

Cleinias: That's the only position we can take.

Athenian: Then we must try by every means possible to prevent our young people from wanting to imitate new styles in either dance or song. And no one should be allowed to tempt them with novel pleasures.

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: Can any of us think of a better way to accomplish this than the method of the Egyptians?

Cleinias: What is their method?

Athenian: To make every kind of dance and melody sacred. First, we should establish festivals — calculating what the year requires, at what times, and in honor of which gods, sons of gods, and heroes they should be celebrated. Next, we should determine which hymns should be sung at each sacrifice, and which dances should accompany each festival. This should be arranged initially by designated officials, and once arranged, the entire citizen body should offer sacrifices and libations to the Fates and all the other gods, and consecrate the various songs to the appropriate deities and heroes.

If anyone introduces different hymns or dances to any of the gods, the priests and priestesses, working together with the guardians of the law, should exclude that person — with the backing of both religion and law. If the person refuses to submit, they'll be liable for the rest of their life to a charge of impiety, which anyone may bring against them.

Cleinias: Very good.

Athenian: While we're on this subject, let's remember what we owe to ourselves.

Cleinias: What do you mean?

Athenian: I mean this: when any person, young or old, encounters something strange or unfamiliar, they shouldn't immediately rush to embrace the new thing. Instead, they should stand and think it over, like someone who's reached a fork where three roads meet and doesn't quite know which way to go. Whether alone or with others, they should say to themselves: "Which is the right path?" — and not move forward until they're satisfied they're going the right way.

That's what we need to do right now. A strange discussion about law has come up that requires the most careful consideration. At our age, we shouldn't be too quick to speak about such weighty matters, or pretend we can settle them instantly.

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: Then let's allow ourselves time for reflection, and decide after we've given the subject enough thought. But in the meantime, so we don't get sidetracked from completing the natural order of our laws, let's proceed to the end of them in due order. If God is willing, perhaps the whole exposition, once complete, will shed light on our current difficulty.

Cleinias: Excellent, Stranger. Let's do as you suggest.

Athenian: Then let's accept this paradox: musical compositions are our laws. In fact, the ancients used the same word — "nomoi" — for both lyric songs and laws, so they probably wouldn't have objected much to the way we're using the term. Someone, whether dreaming or waking, must have had an intuition about their true nature.

So let our decree be this: no one, in singing or dancing, shall violate the publicly established and consecrated standards — the general musical customs of our society — any more than they'd violate any other law. Whoever observes this law will face no penalty. But whoever disobeys, as I said, will be punished by the guardians of the law and by the priests and priestesses. Let's consider this our law.

Cleinias: Very good.

Athenian: Now, can anyone who enacts such a law avoid looking ridiculous? Let's think about this. I believe our only protection will be to first establish certain standards for composers. Here's one of those standards: imagine a sacrifice is taking place, the offerings are burning on the altar according to custom — and then someone standing next to the altar, a son or brother of the celebrant, starts pouring out horrible blasphemies. Wouldn't his words fill his father and relatives with dread and dark forebodings?

Cleinias: Of course.

Athenian: And yet this is exactly what happens in almost all our cities. A magistrate performs a public sacrifice, and then not one but many choruses show up, take their positions near the altar, and proceed to pour out every sort of awful lamentation over the sacred rites, stirring the audience's souls with the most sorrowful words, rhythms, and melodies imaginable. And the one who makes the citizens weep the most at the very moment the city is offering sacrifice — he takes the prize!

Now, shouldn't we ban music like this? And if our citizens ever do need to hear such laments, then let it be on some unlucky, inauspicious day, with choruses of foreign hired performers — like those professionals who accompany funerals with harsh Carian dirges. That's the sort of setting that would be appropriate for such music, if we allow it at all. And let the singers' costumes not be garlands and gold ornaments, but the opposite.

Enough of all that. Let me simply ask one more time whether we'll adopt this as one of our principles for music —

Cleinias: What principle?

Athenian: That we should avoid every word of ill omen, and that songs of good omen should be heard everywhere and always in our state. I barely need to ask — I'll assume you agree with me.

Cleinias: Absolutely. That law has the full approval of all of us.

Athenian: And what should our next musical regulation be? Shouldn't prayers be offered to the gods whenever we sacrifice?

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: And our third rule, if I'm not mistaken, should be this: our poets, understanding that prayers are requests we make to the gods, must take special care not to accidentally ask for bad things instead of good ones. Making a prayer like that would be truly absurd.

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: Weren't we convinced just a little while ago that no golden or silver Plutus — no god of wealth — should have a place in our state?

Cleinias: We were indeed.

Athenian: And what has our whole argument been trying to show? Isn't it that poets aren't always capable of knowing what's truly good or evil? If a poet composes a misguided prayer in song or verse, he'll lead our citizens to pray for the exact opposite of what's good — on matters of the highest importance. As I was saying, there can be few bigger mistakes than that. So shall we propose this as one of our laws and standards for the Muses —

Cleinias: What exactly? Please spell out the law more precisely.

Athenian: The law shall be this: no poet may compose anything contrary to the city's accepted standards of what is lawful, just, beautiful, or good. No poet shall be allowed to share their compositions with anyone until they've been shown to the appointed judges and the guardians of the law, and those officials are satisfied with them. We've already indicated who should serve as our legislators for music and as the director of education. So, once more — as I've asked repeatedly — shall this be our third law, standard, and model? What do you say?

Cleinias: Let it be so, by all means.

Athenian: After this, it'll be appropriate to have hymns and praises to the gods, mixed with prayers. And following the gods, prayers and praises should be offered in the same way to demigods and heroes, each suited to their character.

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: Next, there should be no objection to a law honoring citizens who have died and who performed good and heroic deeds — whether of the soul or the body — and who were obedient to the laws. It would be very fitting for them to receive public praise.

Cleinias: Quite true.

Athenian: But honoring living people with hymns and panegyrics is a risky business. A person should run their course and reach a worthy end before we praise them. And praise should be given equally to women and to men who've distinguished themselves through virtue.

Here's how songs and dances should be organized. There are many excellent ancient musical compositions and dances, and the newly founded city may freely choose from among them whatever is proper and suitable. Judges of not less than fifty years of age shall make the selection. Any of the old works they consider adequate, they'll include. Anything deficient or completely unsuitable, they'll either reject entirely or revise and improve, calling on poets and musicians for assistance and making use of their creative talent — but always explaining the legislator's wishes, so that the artists adjust their dancing, music, and choral works according to the judges' vision, not their own personal tastes and whims.

Now, irregular, undisciplined music always becomes immeasurably better when it acquires order and structure — when it rejects the sweet, honeyed Muse — though I don't mean we should eliminate pleasure entirely, since pleasure is the very nature of all music. The point is this: if a person is raised from childhood to maturity on orderly, disciplined music, they'll detest the opposite kind when they hear it and call it vulgar. But if they're trained on sweet, popular music, they'll find the more disciplined kind cold and unpleasant. So, as I was saying, neither kind gives more pleasure than the other to someone who hears them — the advantage of one over the other is simply that the disciplined kind makes people better, while the other makes them worse.

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: We also need to distinguish, on some general principle, which songs are appropriate for women and which for men, and assign the proper melodies and rhythms to each. It would be terrible for a whole piece to be musically incoherent — rhythmically or harmonically off — and this is what happens when the melody doesn't match its subject. So the legislator must set guidelines for these things too. Both sexes have melodies and rhythms that naturally belong to them, and the difference is clearly indicated by their natural character. What's grand and tends toward courage we can fairly call manly. What inclines toward moderation and temperance — both in law and in common speech — can be called the more womanly quality. That'll be our general framework.

Now let's talk about how these things should be taught, to whom, and when. Like a shipwright who first lays down the keel and from there sketches the outline of the whole ship, I'm trying to map out the patterns of life according to the different natures of people's souls — genuinely asking how, and by what means, we can best navigate this voyage of life.

Now, human affairs are hardly worth taking seriously — and yet we must take them seriously. It's a sad necessity. And having come this far, it makes sense to finish the job if we can find a suitable approach. But what do I mean by that? Someone might well ask, and rightly so.

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: What I mean is this: serious matters deserve serious attention, but trivial matters don't. God is the natural and proper focus of our deepest seriousness and devotion. But humanity — as I said before — was made to be God's plaything, and this, rightly understood, is actually the best thing about us. Every man and woman should therefore live accordingly, spending their lives in the noblest forms of play, with a completely different mindset from the one that prevails today.

Cleinias: In what way different?

Athenian: Right now, people think their serious activities should serve their recreation — they view war as a serious pursuit, something that must be managed well for the sake of the peace that follows. But the truth is that there never was, never is, and never will be any real amusement or meaningful instruction in war — which, all the same, we treat as the most serious thing we do. What I'm saying is this: every one of us should live the life of peace as long and as well as they can.

And what's the right way to live? Should we spend our whole lives in play? If so, what kind of play? We should live our lives making sacrifices, singing, and dancing. Through these, a person can win the favor of the gods, defend against enemies, and conquer them in battle. The kind of songs and dances that will accomplish this has already been described, and the paths have been laid out. We should go forward in the spirit of the poet:

"Telemachus, some things you'll discover in your own heart, but other things the gods will suggest to you; for I believe you were not born and raised without the will of the gods."

And this ought to be the outlook of our young citizens. They should trust that what we've told them is enough, and that their own divine inspiration will guide them in what remains — telling them to whom, and when, and to which gods they should offer sacrifices and dances, winning the gods' favor and living according to nature. Humans are, for the most part, puppets — though we do possess some small share of genuine reality.

Megillus: You have a pretty low opinion of the human race, Stranger.

Athenian: Don't be too surprised, Megillus — forgive me. I was comparing us with the gods, and that's what moved me to speak that way. All right, let's grant it: the human race isn't to be despised, but deserves some consideration.

Moving on — next come the buildings for gymnasiums and schools, all open to the public. These should be placed in three locations in the center of the city. Outside the city and in the surrounding countryside, also in three locations, there should be grounds for horse-riding and spacious fields designed for archery and javelin practice, where young people can learn and train. We've already mentioned these, but if the earlier description wasn't detailed enough, let's fill it in now and set it in law.

In each of these schools, there should be living quarters for teachers, who'll be brought in from abroad and paid by the state. They'll teach their students the arts of war and of music. Children shall attend whether their parents want them to or not — there will be compulsory education, as the saying goes, for absolutely everyone, as far as it's possible. The students shall be regarded as belonging to the state rather than to their parents.

My law would apply to girls exactly as it does to boys. Both shall go through the same exercises. I say without any fear of contradiction that gymnastics and horsemanship are as suitable for women as for men. I'm convinced of this by ancient tradition, and in our own time, there are said to be vast numbers of women near the Black Sea — the Sauromatian women — who not only ride on horseback like men but are required to use bows and other weapons just as men do.

And let me go further: if these things are possible, then nothing could be more absurd than what happens in our own societies, where men and women don't pursue the same activities with all their strength and with a shared purpose. A state that does this cuts itself in half instead of being whole — and yet still has the same taxes to pay and the same burdens to bear. What bigger mistake could any lawgiver make?

Cleinias: Very true. And yet much of what you've said, Stranger, goes against what's customary in most states. Still, you spoke well when you said we should let the discussion run its full course, and then choose what seems best. I feel some regret for challenging you earlier. So tell us — what would you like to say next?

Athenian: Just what I said before, Cleinias: if the possibility of these things weren't sufficiently proven by actual evidence, then there might be grounds for objecting. But the evidence is as I've described it, so anyone who rejects this law will have to find some other reason to object. Failing that, our recommendation stands. No one will deny that women should share as fully as possible in education and everything else along with men. Think about it this way: if women don't share in men's way of life entirely, then they must have some other way of life altogether.

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: And what alternative arrangement can we find anywhere that's better than this partnership we're proposing? Shall we follow the Thracians and many other peoples who use their women to till the soil, herd their flocks, and serve them like slaves? Or shall we do as we do in our part of the world — gathering all our possessions into one household and handing them over to our women as stewards, who also preside over the spinning and weaving?

Or should we take a middle course, as in Sparta, Megillus? In Sparta, girls share in gymnastics and music. Grown women, no longer working at spinning wool, are busy weaving the web of life — no small or mean occupation — and they serve in caring for the household and raising the children. They take a kind of middle path, not participating in the toils of war. But if there were any real need for them to fight for their city and families — unlike the Amazons — they'd be unable to pick up a bow or any other weapon with skill, or to carry a shield or spear. They couldn't even stand their ground and fight nobly for their country when it was being destroyed, striking terror into their enemies simply by being seen in organized formation.

Living the way they do, they'd never dare to imitate the Sauromatian women, who compared to ordinary women would look like men. Let whoever wants to praise your lawmakers do so — but I have to say what I think. The lawgiver ought to be complete and whole, not half a craftsman. He shouldn't let the female sex live softly, spend money freely, and have no structure to their lives while he takes the greatest care of the male sex. That leaves half the state's life blessed with happiness, when he could have made the whole state happy.

Megillus: What should we do, Cleinias? Are we going to let this stranger criticize Sparta like this?

Cleinias: Yes. We've granted him freedom of speech, and we should let him continue until we've completed our work of legislation.

Megillus: Fair enough.

Athenian: Then may I continue?

Cleinias: By all means.

Laws — Book VII (Part 2)

Athenian: What will daily life look like for people whose food and clothing are provided in moderation, who've handed the practice of crafts over to others, and whose farmland — worked by slaves who pay a share of the harvest — brings in enough for a moderate life? Imagine they have common dining halls, with the men eating separately, and nearby, common tables for their families — their daughters and mothers. Each day, male and female officers inspect the diners, observe the company's behavior, and then dismiss them. Afterward, the presiding magistrate and attendants pour libations to whichever gods that day and night are sacred to, and then everyone goes home.

Now, for people whose lives are arranged this way — is there really no important work left to be done? Should each of them just live like a fattened animal? That's neither just nor honorable, and a person who lives like that won't escape the consequences they deserve. The proper fate of an idle, fattened beast is to be torn apart by some other brave animal whose body has been hardened by courageous deeds and honest toil.

Of course, these arrangements will never be perfectly carried out under present circumstances — not as long as women, children, houses, and everything else remain private property. But if we can achieve the second-best form of government, we'll be doing very well. And for people living under this second-best system, there's still a task to accomplish that's far from small or trivial. In fact, it's the greatest task of all, ordained by righteous law.

Here's what I mean: the life that's truly devoted to excellence of both body and soul requires twice — or more than twice — the effort that goes into training for the Pythian or Olympic Games, which already demands a person's full time and attention. There should be no side jobs interfering with the essential work of providing proper exercise and nourishment for the body, and instruction and education for the soul. Day and night aren't long enough to accomplish all of this perfectly. Therefore, all free citizens should organize every hour of their day — from morning to evening and from evening to the next sunrise.

Now, there might seem to be something improper about a legislator dictating the countless details of household management — including something as specific as the duty of staying awake for those who are to be permanent guardians of the whole city. The idea that any citizen should sleep through an entire night instead of being seen by all his servants as the first to wake and rise — whether we call this a law or just a standard of behavior — should be considered disgraceful and unworthy of a free person. Likewise, the idea that the mistress of the house should be awakened by her maids rather than waking them first — this is the kind of thing that every slave, servant, and helper in the house should view as shameful.

If they all rise early, they can get a great deal of both public and private business done — magistrates managing city affairs, and masters and mistresses managing their households — before the sun even comes up. Lots of sleep isn't what nature really requires, either for our souls, our bodies, or the work they do. No one who's asleep is good for anything — they might as well be dead. The person among us who values life and reason most will stay awake as long as possible, setting aside only as much time for sleep as health requires. And that's not much, once the habit of moderation is properly established. Magistrates who keep watch at night are feared by the wicked — whether enemies or their own citizens — and honored and respected by the just and temperate. They're useful to themselves and to the entire state.

A night spent this way, in addition to all the advantages I've mentioned, also instills a kind of courage in the citizens' minds.

When day breaks, it's time for young people to go to their teachers. Now, no animal — not sheep, not any creature — can survive without a shepherd, and children can't be left without tutors, any more than slaves can manage without masters. And of all animals, the boy is the most difficult to handle. The fountain of reason in him isn't yet regulated, making him the most cunning, sharp-witted, and unruly of creatures. He needs to be restrained with many bridles.

First, when he leaves the care of his mother and nurses, he needs tutors to manage him on account of his childishness and foolishness. Then, since he's a free citizen, he needs teachers to instruct him in various subjects. But he's also, in a sense, under the authority of everyone: any free person who comes across him may correct both the boy and his tutor or teacher if any of them is doing something wrong. And whoever encounters such wrongdoing and fails to punish it as it deserves will earn the greatest disgrace. The guardian of the law who serves as director of education should keep a sharp lookout for anyone who encounters these offenses and fails to correct them properly. He should take special care with the training of our children, guiding their natures and always steering them toward what's good, as the law directs.

But how can our law adequately train the director of education himself? So far, everything we've said has been incomplete — nothing has been stated clearly or satisfactorily on this point. Now, as far as possible, the law should leave nothing to his personal discretion but should explain everything, so that he can serve as an interpreter and guide to others.

About dances, music, and choral works, I've already spoken — both about how they should be selected and how they should be revised and consecrated. But we haven't yet addressed, my distinguished director of education, what your students should study in prose. You've been told what military music they should learn and practice. But as for reading and writing, playing the lyre, arithmetic — which, as we were saying, everyone needs to learn — and other subjects required for warfare and the management of households and cities; and beyond that, what's useful to know about the motions of the heavenly bodies — the stars, the sun, and the moon — and the various rules about these matters that the whole state needs for organizing days into months and months into years, so that seasons, sacrifices, and festivals maintain their proper, natural order, keeping the city alert and active, the gods receiving their due honors, and people gaining a better understanding of these things — all of this, my friend, has not yet been adequately explained to you by the legislator.

So pay attention to what I'm about to say. We were telling you that your education in reading and writing was incomplete. The objection was this: you were never told whether a citizen who aspires to be respectable should study these things in detail or not study them at all. The same was true of learning the lyre. But now we're saying: yes, he should study them.

A fair amount of time for a boy of ten to spend on reading and writing is three years. At thirteen, it's the proper time for him to start learning the lyre, and he should continue for another three years — no more, no less. Whether the boy or his father likes or dislikes the subject, he's not to be allowed to spend more or less time on music than the law permits. Anyone who disobeys will be denied the youthful honors we'll describe later.

But first, listen to what young people should actually learn in these early years, and what their teachers should teach them. They should study reading and writing until they can read and write competently. But if nature hasn't given them the ability to achieve perfect handwriting or great speed within the allotted years, let it go. No need to force it.

Now, what about written compositions that aren't set to music — prose works, whether in verse without musical accompaniment or in plain prose with no rhythm or melody at all? We've inherited a great many writings from authors of this kind, and some of them are quite problematic. What are we going to do with them, my excellent guardians of the law? How can the lawgiver properly guide you here? I think he'll find himself in considerable difficulty.

Cleinias: What's troubling you, Stranger? Why are you so perplexed?

Athenian: A fair question, Cleinias. To you and Megillus, my partners in this work of legislation, I need to lay out both the harder parts and the easier parts of the task.

Cleinias: What are you getting at in this case?

Athenian: I'll tell you. The problem is opposing the opinion of countless people.

Cleinias: But haven't we already gone against popular opinion on many important matters?

Athenian: That's quite true. And what you're implying is that the path we're taking may be unpopular with some, but is welcome to just as many others — or if not as many, then at least to people who are no less worthy. You're telling me to press forward along this legislative road that our discussion has opened up, to take heart and not falter.

Cleinias: Exactly.

Athenian: And I won't falter. Here's the thing: we have a great many poets writing in hexameter, trimeter, and every other meter — some serious, some just trying to get a laugh. And the universal opinion is that young people who receive a proper education should be immersed in this poetry, saturated with it. Some people insist they should be constantly hearing it read aloud, always memorizing it, learning entire poets by heart. Others select the best passages and long speeches and compile anthologies, saying these should be committed to memory if a person is to become good and wise through broad learning.

And now you want me to tell all these people plainly where they're right and where they're wrong.

Cleinias: Yes, I do.

Athenian: But how can I sum up my judgment on all of them in a single statement? I think — and if I'm not mistaken, there's general agreement — that every one of these poets has written some things well and some things badly. And if that's true, then I maintain that too much of this kind of learning is actually dangerous for young people.

Cleinias: So how would you advise the guardian of the law to act?

Athenian: In what respect?

Cleinias: What standard should he follow when deciding what the young should learn and what they should be kept from learning? Don't hold back — just tell us.

Athenian: Well, my good Cleinias, I think I'm actually rather fortunate.

Cleinias: How so?

Athenian: I'm not entirely without a standard to offer. When I think back over the words we've spoken from early this morning until now — words that I believe have been inspired by heaven — they seem to me very much like a poem. When I reflected on everything we've said, I felt a natural pleasure, because of all the discourses I've ever learned or heard, whether in poetry or prose, this one seemed to me the most balanced, the most fitting for young people to hear. I can't imagine a better standard than this for the guardian of the law who also serves as director of education.

He can't do better than to instruct the teachers to teach young people these very words, and anything else of a similar nature he might find — whether in poetry, in prose, or even in unwritten discussions that share our spirit. He should make sure to preserve such works and commit them to writing. First, he should require the teachers themselves to learn and approve of these materials. Any teacher who won't should be dismissed. Only those who share his judgment should be employed and entrusted with the instruction and education of our youth.

And with that, let my little digression about reading, writing, and their teachers come to an end.

Cleinias: I don't think, Stranger, that we've strayed outside the proper scope of our discussion. But whether our whole approach is right, I can't say with complete certainty.

Athenian: The truth, Cleinias, will probably become clearer when — as we've said many times — we reach the end of our entire discussion about laws.

Cleinias: Yes.

Athenian: Now that we've dealt with the teacher of reading and writing, it's time to give our instructions to the teacher of the lyre.

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: I think we only need to recall our earlier discussions to give suitable guidelines for this part of instruction and education.

Cleinias: What are you referring to?

Athenian: We were saying, if I remember correctly, that the sixty-year-old members of the chorus of Dionysus should have an especially keen sense of rhythm and musical composition, so they can distinguish between good and bad imitation — that is, imitation of good character versus bad character when under the influence of strong feeling. They should reject the one and display the other in hymns and songs, using them to charm young people's souls and invite them to pursue virtue through the power of imitation.

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: With this in mind, the teacher and the student should use the sounds of the lyre because its notes are pure. The player and the student should stay in unison, rendering note for note together. But complexity and variation — where the strings produce one sound while the poet or composer creates another, or where they combine smaller and larger intervals, fast and slow tempos, high and low notes into elaborate harmonies — or again, where they create complex rhythmic variations layered over the lyre's notes — all of that is not suitable for students who need to gain a practical and useful knowledge of music in three years. Mixing opposite principles creates confusion and makes learning difficult. And our young people need to learn quickly — their essential studies are neither few nor trivial, as we'll show in due course.

Let the director of education follow the musical principles we're laying down. As for the songs and lyrics themselves that the chorus masters should teach — their content and character — we've already covered that. They're the same ones which, once consecrated and adapted to the different festivals, we said would benefit the cities by providing wholesome enjoyment.

Cleinias: That too is true.

Athenian: Then let whoever has been elected as director of music take these rules from us as the genuine truth, and may he succeed in his duties! Now let's move on to lay down additional rules beyond the ones already given, about dancing and physical training in general. We've covered what remained to be said about music education — so let's address gymnastics in the same way. Boys and girls both should learn to dance and do gymnastic exercises, shouldn't they?

Cleinias: Yes.

Athenian: Then boys should have male dance instructors and girls should have female dance instructors to train them.

Cleinias: Very good.

Athenian: Then let's call in once again the person with the greatest responsibility here — the superintendent of youth, that is, the director of education. He'll have plenty on his plate, being in charge of both music and gymnastics.

Cleinias: But how will an elderly man manage such enormous responsibilities?

Athenian: Oh, don't worry, my friend. The law has already given — and will continue to give — him permission to choose any citizens, male or female, as his assistants. He'll know whom to choose, and he'll be careful not to make a mistake, both from a proper sense of responsibility and from awareness of how important his role is. He'll understand that if young people have been well brought up, everything goes smoothly. But if not — well, it's not fitting to describe what happens, and we won't, in case we seem to be speaking ill omens over our infant state.

We've already said a great deal about dancing and general physical movements — since we include under gymnastics all military exercises: archery, throwing weapons, using the light shield, all heavy-armed combat, military formations, troop movements, and encampment, plus everything related to horsemanship. There should be public teachers for all of these, paid by the state, and their students should include men and boys, as well as girls and women, in the entire state.

While they're still girls, they should practice armed dancing and the full art of fighting. Once they're grown women, they should train in military formations, tactics, and the proper way to take up and set down arms — if for no other reason, then in case the entire army has to march out of the city for a campaign, so that the women left behind are capable of guarding the children and the rest of the city. And on the other hand, if enemies — whether foreign or Greek — should attack with overwhelming force and push the fighting right to the city itself (which is far from impossible), what a tremendous disgrace it would be if the women had been so poorly trained that they couldn't fight for their children the way birds fight for their young against any predator, no matter how strong — ready to die or face any danger. Instead, what would they do? Rush straight to the temples, crowd the altars and shrines, and bring upon the entire human race the reproach that of all animals, we're the most cowardly!

Cleinias: Such a lack of training, Stranger, would certainly be both shameful and disastrous for any state.

Athenian: Then suppose we go so far as to make it law that women shall not neglect military training, and that all citizens — male and female alike — shall attend to it?

Cleinias: I fully agree.

Athenian: Now, about wrestling — we've discussed it partly, but I'd say the most important part hasn't been covered. And it's not easy to explain without demonstrating the movements physically, combining words with actions. Only when word and gesture come together will we be able to explain clearly that, of all forms of physical training, wrestling is the one most closely related to the military arts. Wrestling should be pursued for the sake of warfare — not warfare for the sake of wrestling.

Cleinias: Excellent.

Athenian: Enough about wrestling. Let's move on to other forms of bodily movement. This kind of motion can generally be called dancing, and it falls into two categories: one that imitates noble figures, and another that imitates base ones. Each of these has two further subdivisions.

Of the serious kind: one form involves people engaged in war and intense action — it's the exercise of a noble person with a courageous spirit. The other depicts a moderate soul enjoying prosperity and modest pleasures — this can truly be called the dance of peace.

The warrior dance is different from the peaceful one and can rightly be called the Pyrrhic. It imitates the ways of avoiding blows and missiles — ducking, giving way, springing aside, rising up, or dropping down. It also imitates the opposite: attacking postures, like the motions of archery, javelin-throwing, and delivering all sorts of strikes. When the imitation is of brave bodies and courageous souls, and the movement is direct and muscular — giving the limbs a straight, strong motion — that's the true form. But the opposite is wrong.

In the dance of peace, what we need to consider is whether a person moves naturally and gracefully, in the manner of people who properly follow the law.

But before going further, I need to distinguish the type of dancing that's in question from the type that isn't. Which kind is doubtful, and how do we tell them apart?

There are Bacchic-type dances — the kind where they say they're imitating drunken men, named after the Nymphs, Pan, Silenus, and the Satyrs. There are also the dances used in purification rites and mystery ceremonies. This whole category of dancing can't properly be classified as either warlike or peaceful — it doesn't really have a clear meaning at all. I think the best thing is to say it's distinct from both the war dance and the peace dance, and not suitable for a city. So let's set it aside.

Leaving that where it lies, let's turn to the dances of war and peace — those are undoubtedly our concern. The peaceful, non-warlike muse that honors the gods and the sons of gods in dance is entirely associated with a sense of well-being and prosperity. This type can be split into two subtypes: one expresses relief — an escape from some hardship or danger into safety, bringing greater pleasure; the other expresses the preservation and increase of existing blessings, with a less intense pleasure.

In all these cases, the greater the pleasure, the more a person moves their body; the less the pleasure, the less they move. Furthermore, if someone is more disciplined and has learned self-control through training, they move less. But if they're a coward with no training or restraint, they make bigger, more violent movements. And in general, when a person is speaking or singing, they can't keep their body completely still — and so from the imitation of words through gestures, the entire art of dancing was born.

In these various kinds of imitation, some people move in an orderly way, others in a disorderly way. And the ancients, who gave many excellent names to things according to their true nature, gave a truly fine name to the dances of people who are moderate in their pleasures during times of prosperity. They called these dances "Emmeleiai" — dances of order. With this, they established two kinds of noble dance: the war dance, which they called the Pyrrhic, and the peace dance, which they called the Emmeleia, the dance of order. Each received its fitting and proper name.

The legislator should outline these categories in general terms. The guardian of the law should then investigate them in detail, combining dancing with music and assigning to each sacrificial festival what's appropriate. Once he's consecrated everything in proper order, he should make no further changes — whether to the dances or the songs. From that point on, the city and its citizens will continue to enjoy the same pleasures, being as alike as possible in their tastes, and will live well and happily.

I've now described the dances appropriate to noble bodies and generous souls. But we also need to consider and understand the opposite: ignoble characters and thoughts — the kind meant to produce laughter in comedy, with a comic character in their style, song, and dance. Here's the thing: serious matters can't be understood without laughable ones. You can't understand any quality without understanding its opposite — not if you really want to grasp either one. But you can't practice both if you want to have any degree of virtue.

This is exactly why people should learn about comic imitation: so they can avoid doing or saying anything ridiculous or inappropriate out of ignorance. But the actual performance of such things should be left to slaves and hired foreigners. No one should ever take a serious interest in performing comedy, and no free man or woman should be caught making an effort to learn it. There should always be some element of novelty in the comic imitation.

So let these be our regulations — both legal and advisory — for the laughable entertainment we generally call comedy.

Now, what if the serious poets — the ones who write tragedy — come to us and say, "Strangers, may we come to your city and country? May we bring our poetry with us? What's your decision?"

How shall we answer these divine artists? I think our answer should go like this: "Most excellent strangers," we'll say, "we too are poets of a kind — tragic poets, in fact. And our tragedy is the finest and noblest. Our entire state is itself an imitation of the best and noblest life, which we believe is the truest tragedy of all. You are poets, and so are we — creators of the same art, rivals and competitors in the noblest of dramas, the kind that only true law can bring to perfection. So don't expect us to casually allow you to set up your stage in the marketplace, or to let your actors' fine voices ring out above our own, or to let you address our women and children and the general public about our institutions in language different from ours — and often the very opposite of ours. A state would have to be out of its mind to grant you that kind of license before its magistrates had reviewed your poetry and determined whether it was fit for public performance. So, sons and heirs of the gentler Muse: first show your songs to the magistrates. If they find your work is the same as ours, or better, we'll give you a chorus. But if not — well, my friends, we can't."

Let these, then, be the customs established by law regarding all forms of dance and their teaching. And let matters concerning slaves be kept separate from those concerning free citizens — if you don't object.

Cleinias: We can't possibly object when you put it that way.

Athenian: There are still three areas of study appropriate for free citizens. Arithmetic is one. The measurement of length, area, and depth is the second. The third concerns the motions of the stars in relation to one another.

Not everyone needs to work through all these subjects with strict scientific rigor — only a select few, and we'll say who they are later, at the proper point. But for everyone else, not knowing what's necessary for general human knowledge — not knowing the truth of these things — is a disgrace. And yet diving deep into the details isn't easy or even possible for everyone.

There's something in these subjects, though, that's genuinely necessary and can't be set aside. The person who first coined the proverb "not even God can fight against necessity" probably had this in mind — divine necessity, that is. Because when ordinary people use that phrase about mere human necessities, the application is completely ridiculous.

Cleinias: And what kind of necessary knowledge is divine rather than human, Stranger?

Athenian: The kind without which no one can be a god, or a demigod, or a hero who could genuinely guide humanity — or even take serious responsibility for human affairs. A divine being would hardly be one who couldn't count to three, or distinguish odd from even, or count at all, or reckon night from day, or who knew nothing about the motions of the sun, moon, and other heavenly bodies.

It would be absurd to imagine that any of this isn't essential knowledge for someone who aspires to the highest forms of understanding. But exactly which subjects, how many, and when they should be learned — and what should be studied together versus separately, and how they all relate to one another — all of this must be properly grasped first. Then, using these as guides, we can proceed to everything else. That's how natural necessity works — the kind we say no god fights against, or ever will.

Cleinias: I think, Stranger, that what you've just said is very true and consistent with nature.

Athenian: Yes, Cleinias, it is. But it's difficult for the legislator to begin with these subjects. We'll make detailed regulations for them at a more suitable time.

Cleinias: You seem to be worried about our habitual ignorance of these matters, Stranger. But that's no reason to hold back from speaking your mind.

Athenian: I'm certainly concerned about those difficulties. But I'm even more afraid of people who study these subjects badly. Complete ignorance isn't such a terrible or extreme evil, and it's far from the worst thing that can happen. Much worse is excessive cleverness and too much learning combined with a poor upbringing — that's far more destructive.

Cleinias: True.

Athenian: Every free citizen should learn at least as much of these subjects as every child in Egypt is taught when learning the alphabet. In Egypt, they've invented arithmetic games for little children, which they learn as a pleasure and amusement. They have them distribute apples and garlands — using the same number for larger and smaller groups of people. They arrange boxers and wrestlers into pairs, whether matched by lot or left over from the draw, and show how their turns come in natural order. Another way they teach is by distributing cups — sometimes gold, sometimes brass or silver, sometimes mixed — and through this, they work the principles of everyday arithmetic into children's play. This makes students far more useful to themselves in practical life and far more alert. It also helps with measurements of length, width, and depth — freeing us from that natural ignorance of these things that's so laughable and embarrassing.

Cleinias: What kind of ignorance do you mean?

Athenian: Oh, my dear Cleinias — I, like you, only learned late in life just how ignorant we are about these matters. To me, we seem more like pigs than humans in this regard. I'm thoroughly ashamed — not just of myself, but of all Greeks.

Cleinias: About what? Tell us what you mean, Stranger.

Athenian: I will — or rather, I'll show you what I mean through a question. Please answer me: you know what length is?

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: And breadth?

Cleinias: Of course.

Athenian: And you know that these are two distinct things, and that there's a third called depth?

Cleinias: Obviously.

Athenian: And doesn't it seem to you that all of these are measurable against each other?

Cleinias: Yes.

Athenian: That is: length is naturally measurable against length, breadth against breadth, and depth against depth?

Cleinias: Undoubtedly.

Athenian: But what if some things are measurable against each other while others are completely incommensurable — and you believe they're all commensurable? Where does that leave you?

Cleinias: Clearly in a very bad position.

Athenian: Now consider: when we compare length and breadth with depth, or breadth and length with each other — don't all Greeks assume these can always be measured against one another?

Cleinias: Quite true.

Athenian: But if they're actually incommensurable in some cases, and yet all of us treat them as commensurable — don't we have reason to be ashamed of our fellow citizens? Couldn't we say to them: "You fine Greeks, isn't this exactly the kind of thing we were saying it's disgraceful not to know — and yet merely having a surface knowledge of it is nothing to be especially proud of?"

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: And there are related matters where similar errors crop up.

Cleinias: What are they?

Athenian: The relationship between commensurable and incommensurable quantities. A person of any worth should be able to think through and distinguish these. Different people should challenge each other with these kinds of problems — it's a far better and more elegant way to spend their time than playing checkers as old men do.

Cleinias: I'd say you're right — and these mathematical challenges aren't so different from a game of checkers, in a way.

Athenian: Well, Cleinias, I maintain that these are the studies our young people should pursue. They're harmless, they're not difficult, and learning them will be enjoyable — and they'll benefit the state. If anyone disagrees, let them make their case.

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: Then if these studies hold up to scrutiny, we'll include them. If not, we'll drop them.

Cleinias: Agreed. But can't we now, Stranger, formally prescribe these studies as required and fill in this gap in our laws?

Athenian: Let's consider them provisional pledges that can be taken back and removed from our system if they don't satisfy either us, the givers, or you, the recipients.

Cleinias: A fair condition.

Athenian: Next, let's consider whether we're willing to require our young people to study astronomy.

Cleinias: Go on.

Athenian: Here we run into something truly bizarre — something that absolutely cannot be tolerated.

Cleinias: What are you referring to?

Athenian: People say that we shouldn't investigate the nature of the supreme God or the workings of the universe, that we shouldn't busy ourselves searching out the causes of things, and that such inquiries are impious. But the exact opposite is true.

Cleinias: What do you mean?

Athenian: What I'm saying might seem paradoxical and out of step with what you'd expect from someone my age. But when a person has a good and true idea that benefits the state and is in every way acceptable to God, they can't keep quiet about it.

Cleinias: That sounds reasonable enough. But will we actually find any good and true ideas about the stars?

Athenian: My friends, at this moment, all of us Greeks are telling lies — if I can put it that way — about those great gods, the Sun and the Moon.

Cleinias: What kind of lies?

Athenian: We say that the sun, the moon, and various other heavenly bodies don't follow the same path — that they wander. We even call them "planets," which means "wanderers."

Cleinias: That's very true, Stranger. In the course of my own life, I've often seen the morning star, the evening star, and various others not following their usual courses but wandering all over the sky. And I've seen the sun and the moon doing what we all know they do.

Athenian: Exactly, Megillus and Cleinias. And I maintain that our citizens and our young people should learn enough about the heavenly gods to be able to offer sacrifices and pray to them in reverent language — and not blaspheme against them.

Cleinias: You're right about that — provided such knowledge is actually attainable. If we're currently speaking incorrectly and could be better informed and learn to use better language, then I fully agree that we should acquire enough knowledge to speak properly. So please, try to explain your whole meaning, and we'll do our best to follow you.

Athenian: There's some difficulty in understanding what I mean, but it's not enormous, and it won't take a great deal of time. Here's my proof: I didn't know these things long ago or in my youth, and yet I can explain them to you fairly quickly. If they were truly hard, I certainly couldn't explain all of them — old man to old men — in any reasonable time.

Cleinias: True. But what is this knowledge you describe as wonderful and fitting for young people to learn, though we're ignorant of it? Try to explain it as clearly as you can.

Athenian: I will. You see, my friends, the common belief about the "wandering" of the sun, the moon, and the other heavenly bodies is not the truth — it's the very opposite of the truth. Each of them follows a single path — not many paths, but one, which is circular. The apparent variety in their movements is just that: apparent.

What's more, we're wrong to think the fastest of them is the slowest, or the slowest is the fastest. Now, if what I'm saying is correct, just imagine we had the same confusion at the Olympic Games about runners. Suppose we called the fastest runner the slowest and the slowest the fastest, and praised the loser as if he were the winner. Our praise would be false, and it certainly wouldn't be welcome to the runners — even though they're only human. But to make the same mistake about the gods — what was merely ridiculous and wrong in the case of humans becomes something far worse, doesn't it?

Cleinias: Worse than ridiculous, I'd say.

Athenian: At the very least, the gods can't be pleased with us spreading a false account of them.

Cleinias: That's certainly true, if that's really what's happening.

Athenian: So if we can demonstrate that this is indeed the case, then all these astronomical matters should be learned to the extent necessary to avoid impiety. But if we can't demonstrate it, then they can be left alone. Let that be our decision.

Cleinias: Very good.

Athenian: That covers our laws about education and learning. But now we need to turn our attention to hunting and similar pursuits. The legislator's duty turns out to extend beyond mere law-making. There's something that lies in a region between advice and law, and it's come up repeatedly in our discussion — for example, in the education of very young children, where there are things that can't be precisely defined, and treating them as formal legislation would be absurd.

Now, with our laws and the whole framework of our state laid out, the praise of a virtuous citizen isn't complete when we describe them merely as someone who serves and obeys the laws better than anyone else. The higher praise describes the good citizen as someone who passes through their whole life uncorrupted, obedient to the words of the legislator — both when he prescribes laws and when he assigns praise and blame. This is the truest commendation a citizen can receive.

The real legislator should not only write laws but should also weave in everything he considers honorable and dishonorable. And the ideal citizen should strive to uphold these standards no less than the legal rules backed by punishments.

Let me give an example to make my meaning clear — a kind of evidence for what I'm saying. Hunting is a broad subject that covers many things. There's hunting creatures in the water, hunting creatures in the air, and a great deal of hunting land animals of every kind — and not just wild beasts. The hunting of human beings also deserves attention: there's hunting people in war, and there's often a hunting of people through friendship — which can be either praised or blamed. Then there's the "hunting" done by thieves and robbers, and that of armies against armies.

Now, the legislator laying down laws about hunting can neither ignore all these varieties nor create detailed threatening ordinances with rules and penalties covering every one of them. What's he supposed to do? He should praise and blame different kinds of hunting with an eye toward the exercise and development of young people. And the young person, in turn, should listen obediently. Neither pleasure nor pain should deter them from following the legislator's commendations and instructions rather than the penalties he imposes by law.

With that understood, here comes our moderate praise and censure of hunting — praising the kind that makes young people's souls better, censuring the kind that has the opposite effect.

So let's address our young people directly, as a kind of prayer for their well-being: "Dear friends," we'll say to them, "may no desire or passion for sea-fishing, angling, or catching water creatures ever take hold of you — whether you're awake or asleep — by hook or by net, that lazy method. And may no desire for capturing human beings — through piracy at sea — ever enter your souls and make you cruel, lawless hunters. As for the temptation of stealing in the city or countryside, may it never even cross your mind. And may the sneaky art of bird-catching, which is hardly worthy of free people, never appeal to any young person among you."

What remains for our citizens, then, is only the hunting of land animals. And here, the kind that involves sleeping in shifts while hunting by night — where the hunters are basically lazy — is not to be commended. Nor is the kind that relies on rest between bouts of activity, where the wild strength of beasts is overcome by nets and traps rather than by the victory of a hardworking spirit.

The only kind of hunting that's truly approved is the best kind: hunting four-footed animals with horses, dogs, and one's own body, where the hunters pursue their quarry by running it down, striking it, and hurling weapons at it with their own hands. Those who care about developing godlike courage should practice this kind of hunting personally.

The praise and blame assigned to all these activities has now been declared. And let the law be as follows: no one shall prevent these sacred hunters from pursuing the chase wherever and however they wish. But the hunter who relies on nets and snares at night shall not be allowed to hunt anywhere. The bird-hunter in the mountains and wild places shall be permitted, but on cultivated land or consecrated wilderness, he shall not — and anyone who encounters him may stop him. As for the hunter in waters: he may hunt anywhere except in harbors, sacred streams, marshes, or pools — with the single requirement that he not pollute the water with poison.

And now we can say that all our regulations about education are complete.

Cleinias: Very good.

Laws — Book VIII

Book 8

Athenian: Next, with the help of the Delphian oracle, we need to establish festivals and make laws about them. We have to determine which sacrifices will be good for the city and to which gods they should be offered. But when and how often they should be offered — that's something we can partly regulate ourselves.

Cleinias: The number, yes.

Athenian: Then let's start by setting the number. Let the total be 365 — one for every day — so that at least one magistrate is always sacrificing to some god or divine spirit on behalf of the city, its citizens, and their property. The interpreters, priests, priestesses, and prophets should meet with the guardians of the law and fill in the details that the legislator necessarily has to leave out. And really, they're exactly the right people to notice what's been left out.

The law will say this: There are twelve feasts dedicated to the twelve gods after whom the tribes are named. Each month, the citizens shall sacrifice to each of these gods and organize choruses along with musical and athletic contests, arranging them to suit both the gods and the seasons of the year. They'll also have festivals specifically for women, distinguishing between those that should be separate from men's festivals and those that needn't be.

Furthermore, they must not mix up the rites of the underworld gods with those of the heavenly gods, but keep them separate. They should give Pluto his own rites in the twelfth month, which is sacred to him, as the law requires. Warriors shouldn't feel any aversion toward such a deity — they should actually honor him as humanity's constant best friend. Because the connection of soul and body is in no way better than their separation, and I'm prepared to argue that point seriously.

Beyond this, the people who organize these matters need to consider that our city has no rival among existing cities when it comes to leisure and access to life's necessities. Like an individual, it ought to live happily. And those who'd live happily should first of all do no wrong to one another, and shouldn't be wronged by others either. The first part isn't that hard; the great difficulty is acquiring the power to not be wronged. Nobody can be perfectly secure against being wronged unless they've become perfectly good. The same goes for cities: a good city enjoys a life of peace, while a bad one has war both inside and outside its walls.

Since that's how things are, the citizens ought to practice for war — not during wartime, but while they're at peace. Every city with any sense should take the field for at least one day every month, and more if the magistrates see fit. They shouldn't worry about winter cold or summer heat. They should go out as a full body, including their wives and children, whenever the magistrates decide to lead out the whole population — or in separate groups when summoned.

They should always make sure there are games and sacrificial feasts alongside these exercises. They should hold tournaments that imitate real battles as closely as possible. They should award prizes for victory and valor to the competitors, passing judgments and public honors on one another based on how they perform in the contests and in their whole lives — praising those who seem the best, and criticizing those who are the opposite.

As for poets who celebrate the victors — not just any poet should be allowed. First, a poet must be at least fifty years old. And he shouldn't be someone who has musical and poetical talent but has never done anything noble or distinguished in his own life. Only those who are themselves good people and honored by the state, creators of noble deeds — their poems should be sung, even if they're not the most musically gifted.

The judgment of these poems shall rest with the director of education and the other guardians of the law. They alone shall grant this privilege, and they alone shall be free to compose songs. Nobody else shall dare to sing a song that hasn't been approved by the guardians of the law — not even if his music is sweeter than the songs of Thamyras and Orpheus. Only poems judged sacred and dedicated to the gods, and works by good people in which praise or blame has been properly assigned and that have been deemed to serve their purpose well.

The same regulations about warfare and freedom of expression in poetry should apply equally to men and women. The legislator should think through the question in his own mind: "Who are my citizens, the ones I've organized this city for? Aren't they competitors in the greatest of all contests, with countless rivals?" "Of course," would be the natural reply. Well, if we were training boxers or wrestlers or any other kind of athlete, would they never train until the actual contest arrived? Would we do nothing to prepare in advance? Surely, if we were boxers, we'd have been training for many days beforehand, practicing all those punches and blocks we planned to use in the real fight. And to get as close to reality as possible, we'd put on boxing gloves instead of cestuses, so we could practice our strikes and defenses with everything we had.

If there were a shortage of sparring partners, we wouldn't let the mockery of fools stop us from hanging up a dummy and practicing on that. And if we had no opponent at all, living or otherwise, wouldn't we just shadow-box by ourselves? How else would we ever learn self-defense?

Cleinias: That's really the only way, Stranger.

Athenian: So shall the warriors of our city — who are destined to enter the greatest of all contests when the time comes, fighting for their lives, their children, their property, and the whole city — be worse prepared than boxers? Should the legislator hold back from ordering them to train, just because he's afraid their practice sessions might look ridiculous to some people?

No. He should command soldiers to perform lighter exercises without weapons every day, making all dancing and gymnastics serve this purpose. And he should also require more serious armed exercises at least once a month, with contests against one another throughout the country — seizing positions, setting ambushes, and imitating every aspect of real warfare. They should fight with boxing gloves and hurl javelins, using weapons that are somewhat dangerous and as close to the real thing as possible, so that the training isn't completely free from fear. It should have real terrors that, to some degree, reveal who has courage and who doesn't. Honor and dishonor should be distributed accordingly, preparing the whole city for the genuine struggles of life.

If someone dies in these practice battles, the killing is involuntary. We'll have the killer purified according to law and declare him clean, reasoning this way: if a few people die, others just as good will be born to replace them. But if fear itself dies — if the citizens never find a way to test who's superior and who's inferior — that's a far greater evil for the state than losing a few people.

Cleinias: We're in complete agreement, Stranger. The whole state should practice these things, and we should make laws about them.

Athenian: Now, does anyone know why these kinds of dances and contests hardly exist in actual cities — at least not to any significant degree? Is it because people and their legislators are just ignorant?

Cleinias: Perhaps.

Athenian: Not at all, my dear Cleinias. There are two causes, and they're more than enough to explain the problem.

Cleinias: What are they?

Athenian: The first is the love of wealth. It completely absorbs people and never gives them a moment to think about anything beyond their own private possessions. Every citizen's soul is fixated on daily profit. People are ready to learn any skill, pursue any career that leads to money, and they laugh at everything else. That's one reason why a city won't take these contests — or any other good and honorable pursuit — seriously.

Because of this insatiable love of gold and silver, every person will stoop to any trick or trade, respectable or not, in hopes of getting rich. They'll do anything, sacred or profane, utterly degrading — so long as they can stuff themselves like animals with every kind of food and drink and satisfy their every appetite.

Cleinias: True.

Athenian: So let's mark this down as one reason states fail to properly cultivate the art of war or any other noble aim. It turns decent, moderate people into merchants and ship captains and servants. And it converts the naturally brave into thieves and burglars and temple-robbers and violent, tyrannical bullies — many of whom are actually quite talented, but deeply unfortunate.

Cleinias: What do you mean by "unfortunate"?

Athenian: How can you call anyone anything other than truly unfortunate whose soul is forced to go through life constantly starving?

Cleinias: All right, that's one cause, Stranger. But you mentioned another.

Athenian: Thank you for the reminder.

Cleinias: You were saying that the insatiable, lifelong love of wealth is one thing that absorbs people and prevents them from properly practicing the arts of war. Granted. Now tell me — what's the other?

Athenian: You think I'm stalling because I'm stuck?

Cleinias: No, but we think you're being a bit too hard on the money-loving temperament. You seem to have a particular grudge against it in this discussion.

Athenian: That's a very fair pushback, Cleinias. I'll move on to the second cause.

Cleinias: Go on.

Athenian: I say it's the forms of government themselves — democracy, oligarchy, tyranny — which I've discussed at length already. But really, none of these are true governments at all. None of them exercises voluntary rule over willing subjects. They should really be called states of discord: the government may rule by choice, but the subjects always obey against their will and have to be coerced. And the ruler lives in fear of his subjects, so he won't allow them to become noble, or rich, or strong, or brave, or warlike in any way.

Those are the two chief causes of almost all the evils I've been talking about. But our state has escaped both of them. Its citizens have the greatest leisure, they're not subject to one another's tyranny, and I think our laws will make them the opposite of money-lovers. So we may reasonably suppose that this is the only existing constitution that would accept the education we've described and the military training we've outlined.

Cleinias: True.

Athenian: Now, the next point to remember about athletic contests: only the military kind should be practiced and should have prizes for victory. Non-military contests should be dropped. Let's describe and establish the military ones by law. And first, let's talk about running and speed.

Cleinias: Very good.

Athenian: The most militarily useful quality of all is general physical agility, whether on foot or with the hands. For escaping or capturing an enemy, you need speed of foot. For hand-to-hand combat, you need power and strength.

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: But neither reaches its peak performance without weapons.

Cleinias: How could it?

Athenian: So our herald, following prevailing practice, will first summon the runner — who will appear armed, because we won't give prizes to unarmed competitors. First to enter will be the one running the single course in armor. Next, the runner in the double course. Third, the horse-course runner. Fourth, the long-distance runner. Fifth, we'll send out a man in heavy armor to run a course of sixty stadia to a temple of Ares. And we'll send another, more heavily armed, to run over smoother ground. Finally, the archer: he'll run in full archer's equipment over a hundred stadia across mountains and every kind of terrain, to a temple of Apollo and Artemis. That's the order of the contest. We'll wait for them to return and award prizes to the winners.

Cleinias: Very good.

Athenian: Let's set up three age divisions for these contests: boys, beardless youths, and men. The youths will run two-thirds of the full course, and the boys half, whether they're competing as archers or heavy-armed. As for the women: girls who haven't yet reached maturity should compete in the stadium, the double course, the horse-course, and the long-distance race, running on the racecourse itself. Those from thirteen up until marriage should continue competing, provided they're no more than twenty years old. They must compete up to age eighteen. They'll enter the arena in appropriate clothing.

Those are the regulations for running contests, for both men and women.

Now, for contests of strength: instead of wrestling and similar heavy-contact sports, we'll institute armed combat — one against one, two against two, and so on up to ten against ten. As for what a combatant should and shouldn't suffer or do to win — just as wrestling masters have laid down rules about what's fair and unfair — we should bring in expert judges to help us legislate these armed fights. They'll determine who deserves to be called the victor, what moves are forbidden, and what counts as a defeat. These same rules shall apply to women until they're married, as well as to men.

The pancration will have a counterpart in light-armed combat: contestants will fight with bows, light shields, javelins, and by throwing stones with slings and by hand. Laws shall be made about this too, and prizes awarded to whoever best follows the rules.

Next in order, we'll need to legislate about horse-racing. But we don't actually need many horses — in a country like Crete, they can't be much use, so naturally we don't put great effort into breeding them or into horse races. Nobody among us keeps a chariot, and any rivalry in such matters would be completely out of place. It would make no sense to establish contests that don't fit our country's character.

So we'll give prizes for individual horses — for colts that haven't yet shed their baby teeth, for intermediate-age horses, and for fully grown ones. This way our equestrian games will suit the land's nature. Let them compete according to the law, and let the cavalry colonels and generals jointly decide about all courses and the armed competitors in them.

For unarmed contestants — whether in gymnastics or horse-racing — we have nothing to say. But the Cretan archer or javelin-thrower who fights in armor on horseback is genuinely useful, so we might as well include competitions for that among our games. As for women: they shouldn't be forced to compete by law. But if their previous training has made them strong enough and they want to take part — girls and grown women alike — let them, with no disgrace attached.

So that covers athletic competitions and how to learn them. We've also discussed the daily training routines under the guidance of instructors. And most of what relates to music has already been settled. As for rhapsodes and similar performers, and the choral contests to be held at festivals — all of that will be arranged once the months, days, and years have been assigned to their respective gods and divine spirits, whether the festivals occur every three years, every five years, or however the gods inspire people to organize them.

At the same time, we can expect that the musical contests will be overseen by the judges, the director of education, and the guardians of the law, meeting together for this purpose and acting as legislators for the timing, nature, and conditions of the choral contests and all dancing. The original legislator has already laid down frequently what these should be in terms of language, song, and the blending of harmony with rhythm and dance. His successors should follow his lead, matching games and sacrifices appropriately to their proper times and establishing public festivals.

It's not hard to figure out how to put these matters in good order. And adjusting the details won't do any great good or harm to the state. But there is another matter of great importance and difficulty — the kind of thing a god should legislate on, if it were possible to get a divine ruling. But since we can't count on divine help, it seems we need some bold person who especially values plain speaking and will say outright what he thinks is best for the city and its citizens. Someone who'll prescribe what's good and fitting for the whole state amid the corruption of human souls, opposing the most powerful appetites, with nobody to help him — standing alone and following reason only.

Cleinias: What are you talking about, Stranger? We don't understand what you mean yet.

Athenian: That's fair. Let me try to explain more clearly. When I came to the subject of education, I pictured young men and women socializing freely with each other. And naturally, a kind of worry came over me. I couldn't help thinking: how do you manage a city where the young people are well-fed and well-raised, where they don't have to do the kind of backbreaking, soul-crushing labor that stamps out desire, and where their only real obligations their whole lives are sacrifices, festivals, and dances? In a city like that, how are they going to resist the desires that drive so many men and women to ruin — desires that reason, acting as law, commands them to resist?

Now, the rules we've already established may succeed against most of these desires. The prohibition on excessive wealth goes a long way toward promoting self-control. Our entire educational system imposes discipline on the young. And the watchful eye of the rulers is always on them. These measures do, as far as humanly possible, regulate desire in general.

But how do we guard against unnatural sexual loves in either sex — the source of countless evils for individuals and cities alike? How do we devise a remedy and an escape from such a serious danger?

This is genuinely difficult, Cleinias. In many areas, Crete and Sparta provide great help to those who make distinctive laws. But on the matter of sexual love, I have to say frankly — they're completely against us.

If someone were to follow nature and lay down the law that existed before the time of Laius, declaring these desires to be contrary to nature — pointing to the animal kingdom as proof that such unions are unnatural — he might well prove his point. But he'd be completely at odds with the customs of your own states.

Furthermore, these practices clash with a principle we say the legislator should always observe: we're always asking which of our laws promotes virtue and which doesn't. Now suppose we grant that such loves are considered, by current law, to be honorable — or at least not disgraceful. To what extent will they contribute to virtue? Will such passions plant the habit of courage in the soul of the one who's pursued? Or the principle of self-control in the soul of the pursuer? Nobody would believe that. In fact, it's the opposite — everyone will criticize the weakness of the person who gives in to pleasure and can't resist it. Everyone will condemn as effeminate the man who plays the woman's role. So who would ever think of establishing such a practice by law? Certainly nobody who had a clear picture of what true law looks like.

How can I prove this? You need to understand the nature of friendship and desire, and of these so-called loves. There are really two kinds, and from those two a third arises that shares the same name. It's this shared name that causes all the confusion and difficulty.

Cleinias: How so?

Athenian: There's the love between equals — where like is dear to like in virtue, and equal to equal. And there's the love born from need — where the one who has plenty is dear to the one who lacks. When either of these friendships becomes excessive, we call it love.

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: Now, the friendship that arises from opposites — where one has and the other wants — is raw and crude, and often has no deep bond of community. But the friendship that arises from likeness is gentle and creates a bond that lasts a lifetime.

As for the third kind, the mixture of the two — well, first of all, it's hard even to figure out what the person gripped by this mixed love actually wants. He's pulled in two directions and caught between two principles. One urges him to enjoy the beauty of youth; the other forbids him.

The one is a lover of the body. He hungers after beauty the way you'd hunger after ripe fruit, and he wants to satisfy himself with no regard for the character of the person he desires. The other holds physical desire to be secondary. He looks with his soul rather than lusting with his body, his soul desiring the other's soul in the proper way. He regards satisfying bodily lust as degrading. He reveres and respects self-control, courage, nobility of spirit, and wisdom, and wants to live purely with the one he loves, who is equally pure.

The love that mixes these two is the third kind I've described.

Since there are these three kinds of love, should the law prohibit and ban all of them from our state? Or isn't it obvious that we'd want the kind of love that's rooted in virtue and desires the beloved to become the best person possible? The other two, if we can manage it, we should try to prevent.

What do you say, friend Megillus?

Megillus: I think you're absolutely right in everything you've been saying, Stranger.

Athenian: I knew I'd have your agreement, my friend, and I accept it. I don't need to analyze your Spartan customs on this point any further. Cleinias can give me his opinion some other time. For now, let's move on to the laws.

Megillus: Very good.

Athenian: On reflection, I see a way to impose this law that's easy in one respect but incredibly difficult in another.

Megillus: What do you mean?

Athenian: We all know that most people, despite their lawless natures, are very strictly and precisely restrained from one particular kind of sexual intercourse — and not against their will, but entirely with their will.

Megillus: When is that?

Athenian: When someone has a brother or sister who's attractive. The same unwritten law applies to sons and daughters, and it's a perfect safeguard. No one — openly or in secret — ever has sexual contact with them. The very thought never even enters most people's minds.

Megillus: Very true.

Athenian: A single little word extinguishes all such desires, doesn't it?

Megillus: What word?

Athenian: The declaration that these acts are unholy, hateful to the gods, and utterly shameful. And isn't the reason simply this: no one has ever said otherwise. From earliest childhood, every person hears people speaking the same way about this — always, everywhere. They hear it in comedy, they hear it in the solemn language of tragedy. When the poet puts a Thyestes or an Oedipus or a Macareus on stage — someone who's had secret intercourse with a sibling — he shows the character, once discovered, choosing death as the penalty for their sin.

Megillus: You're quite right. Tradition, when no opposing voice ever challenges it, has an extraordinary power.

Athenian: So doesn't this confirm what I said? That the legislator who wants to tame any passion that dominates people can easily see how to subdue it? He should consecrate the tradition that these things are evil in the eyes of everyone — slaves and free, women and children, throughout the entire city. That will be the surest foundation for his law.

Megillus: Yes. But will he ever succeed in getting all of humanity to speak with one voice on this?

Athenian: Good objection. But wasn't I just saying that I had a way to make people follow natural love and abstain from unnatural — a way that doesn't intentionally destroy the seeds of human reproduction or sow them in barren ground where they can't take root? A way that commands people to abstain from any sexual act that isn't likely to produce life?

Now, if a law to this effect could be made permanent and gain the kind of authority that already prevents sexual relations between parents and children — if it could achieve that level of power over other desires too — it would be the source of ten thousand blessings.

First, it would be following the order of nature. It would restrain people from sexual frenzy and madness, from adultery, from excessive eating and drinking. It would make them true friends to their own spouses. And countless other benefits would follow if such a law could be enforced.

Now, I can picture some vigorous young man standing nearby, overhearing this proposal, and yelling in crude language that we're making foolish, impossible laws, filling the room with his protests. And that's exactly why I said I knew a way to establish and maintain such a law that's very easy in one respect but extremely difficult in another.

It's not hard to see that such a law is possible, and how it could work. As I was saying, once the principle is truly consecrated as sacred, it would master every person's soul and terrify them into obedience. But things have now reached such a point that even then, the desired result seems almost unattainable — just as people say it's impossible for a whole city to maintain the practice of communal meals.

And yet that's partly disproven by the fact that communal meals already exist among you. Still, even in your cities, communal meals for women are considered unnatural and impossible. I was thinking about the rebelliousness of the human heart when I said that establishing these things permanently is very difficult.

Megillus: Very true.

Athenian: Shall I try to find some persuasive argument that proves such laws are possible and not beyond human nature?

Cleinias: By all means.

Athenian: Is a person more likely to resist the pleasures of sex and follow the rules when their body is in good condition through training, or when they're out of shape?

Cleinias: They'll be far more self-controlled when they're in training.

Athenian: Haven't we heard of Iccus of Tarentum? In his dedication to the Olympic and other contests — driven by both his devotion to his sport and his naturally disciplined character — he never had sexual contact with a woman or a man during his entire training period. The same is said of Crison, Astylus, Diopompus, and many others. And yet, Cleinias, these men were far less educated in mind than your citizens and mine, and far more vigorous in body.

Cleinias: You're right — the ancients did consistently confirm this about those athletes.

Athenian: So they had the discipline to abstain from what's generally considered a great pleasure, all for the sake of winning at wrestling or running or the like. And our young people will be incapable of the same endurance for a far nobler victory — the noblest of all? We'll tell them this from youth onward, charming them, as we hope, into believing it through stories, sayings, and songs.

Cleinias: What victory are you talking about?

Athenian: Victory over pleasure. If they win that battle, they'll live happily. If they lose it, the opposite. Beyond that, won't the fear of impiety help them master what other, lesser people have already mastered?

Cleinias: I'd expect so.

Athenian: Well, since we've reached this point in our legislation and hit a wall because of human weakness, I'll state simply what our law should say:

Our citizens ought not to be worse than birds and other animals, which are born in great numbers and yet remain virgin and unmated until the proper age for breeding. When they reach that age, they pair off — male with female — and live out the rest of their days in devotion and faithfulness, holding firmly to their original bond.

Surely, we'll say to our citizens, you should be better than the animals.

But if they're corrupted by the rest of the Greeks and the common practices of other peoples — if they see with their own eyes and hear with their own ears about so-called "free love" everywhere around them, and they can't resist the temptation — then the guardians of the law, acting as secondary legislators, shall devise a second law to deal with them.

Cleinias: And what law would you recommend if the first one fails?

Athenian: Obviously, Cleinias, the one that naturally follows.

Cleinias: Which is?

Athenian: Our citizens shouldn't let their pleasures grow stronger through indulgence. Instead, they should redirect that energy into other parts of the body through hard physical work. And this will happen if sexual activity is never practiced shamelessly.

They should be ashamed of frequent intercourse, and they'll find that pleasure, when rarely enjoyed, is a less tyrannical master. Not being caught should be considered honorable — sanctioned by custom and established as law by unwritten tradition. Being caught, on the other hand, should be considered disgraceful — though it's not as honorable as abstaining entirely.

This way, there will be a second standard of honor and dishonor, creating a second level of moral conduct. Three principles will encompass all those weak-willed people whom we call "inferior to themselves" — they form a single class — and will compel them not to transgress.

Cleinias: What are these three principles?

Athenian: Reverence for the gods, love of honor, and the desire for beauty — not of the body, but of the soul. These may sound like romantic ideals, but they're the noblest ideals imaginable, if only they could be realized in every state. And God willing, on the matter of sexual conduct, we may be able to enforce one of two standards.

Either, first: no one shall touch any freeborn or noble person except their lawfully wedded spouse, nor scatter their seed among prostitutes or in barren, unnatural unions.

Or, failing that, at the very least: we'll abolish sexual relations between men entirely. And as for women — if any man has relations with any woman other than the one who came into his household through sacred marriage rites (whether she was formally married to him or acquired in any other legitimate way), and he commits this offense openly in the sight of all — we'll be right to decree that he be stripped of his civic honors and privileges and considered what he truly is: a foreigner to the city's values.

Let this law, then — whether it's one law or should really be called two — be established concerning sexual love in general and the sexual relations that arise from desire, whether rightly or wrongly pursued.

Megillus: For my part, Stranger, I'd gladly accept this law. Cleinias can speak for himself and tell you his opinion.

Cleinias: I will, Megillus, when the right opportunity comes. But for now, I think we should let the Stranger continue with his laws.

Megillus: Very good.

Athenian: We'd gotten about as far as establishing the communal meals, which would be difficult in most places but which no one in Crete would think of changing. The question might come up about what form they should take — should they be like they are here in Crete, or like those in Sparta, or is there some third kind that might be better than either? The answer wouldn't be hard to find, but the discovery wouldn't do much good, since they're already quite well organized as they are.

Setting communal meals aside, then, let's move on to the means of providing food. In most cities, people make their living in many ways and from many sources — generally from two: sea and land. But our city relies on land alone. And this makes the legislator's job much easier. Half as many laws will be enough — actually, much less than half. And they'll be laws better suited to free people.

Our legislator has nothing to do with laws about shipowners, merchants, retailers, innkeepers, tax collectors, mines, money-lending, compound interest, and countless other such things. He can say goodbye to all of that. He gives laws to farmers and shepherds and beekeepers, and to the guardians and superintendents of their tools. He's already legislated about the bigger matters — marriage, the begetting and raising of children, education, the establishment of offices. Now he has to turn his attention to those who provide food and the labor of preparing it.

So let's start with a class of laws we'll call the laws for farmers. And let the very first be the law of Zeus, god of boundaries:

No one shall move a boundary marker — not of a fellow citizen who's a neighbor, nor of a stranger who lives at the border of the land. Understand that this truly means "moving the immovable." Everyone should be more willing to move the biggest boulder that isn't a landmark than the smallest stone that marks the sworn boundary between neighbors, the line of friendship and enmity. Zeus, the god of kinship, witnesses the citizen's oath, and Zeus, the god of strangers, witnesses the stranger's. When they're roused, terrible are the wars they stir up.

Whoever obeys this law will never know the fatal consequences of disobedience. But whoever breaks it shall face a double punishment — the first from the gods, the second from the law. Let no one willfully move a neighbor's boundary markers. If anyone does, let any landowner report him, and let them bring him to court. If he's convicted of secretly or forcibly re-dividing land, let the court determine what he should suffer or pay.

Next: many small injuries between neighbors, through their accumulation, can pile up into a crushing weight of resentment and make living next door to someone a genuinely bitter thing. A person ought to be very careful about offending their neighbor, especially about encroaching on their neighbor's land. It's easy for anyone to cause harm, but not everyone can do good.

Whoever encroaches on a neighbor's land and crosses their boundaries shall make good the damage. And to cure him of both his rudeness and his pettiness, he shall pay double damages to the injured party. The country wardens shall handle these matters and act as judges, assessing the damage. In more important cases, as we've already said, the full panel of wardens from whichever of the twelve districts is relevant shall decide. In lesser cases, the commanders shall judge.

If anyone grazes their cattle on a neighbor's land, the wardens shall assess the damage and set the penalty. If anyone steals another person's bees by luring them away with noise, he shall pay damages. If anyone sets fire to their own wood and takes no care to protect their neighbor's property, they'll be fined at the magistrates' discretion. If someone plants too close to their neighbor's land without leaving a proper distance, they'll be punished in accordance with the rulings of many lawgivers, which we may freely use. The great legislator of our state needn't bother determining every little thing that any ordinary person could decide.

For instance, farmers have long had excellent laws about water, and there's no reason for us to reinvent them. Anyone who wants may draw water from the main stream onto their own land, as long as they don't cut off the spring that clearly belongs to another owner. They can direct the water however they please, except through a house, temple, or tomb — but they must be careful not to cause damage beyond their own channel.

If there's a naturally dry area that soaks up the rain and causes a water shortage, let the landowner dig on their own property down to the clay layer. If they find no water at that depth, they may get water from their neighbors — as much as their household servants need for drinking. If the neighbors are also running short, they'll receive a fixed daily measure set by the country wardens, on those terms sharing their neighbors' water.

If heavy rain falls and someone on lower ground injures a farmer above them by refusing to let the water drain off — or if someone on higher ground recklessly dumps water onto their lower neighbor — and they can't work it out between themselves, let either party call in a city warden (if in the city) or a country warden (if in the country) and get a ruling on what each of them must do. Anyone who won't abide by the decision shall suffer for their stubborn and spiteful temperament and pay a fine to the injured party worth double the damage, because they refused to submit to the magistrates.

Now, the sharing of the harvest shall be regulated as follows. The goddess of autumn gives us two gracious gifts: one is the joy of Dionysus — grapes and fruit that aren't meant to be stored. The other is fruit that nature intends for keeping. So let this be the law concerning the fruits of autumn:

Anyone who tastes the common, storable fruits of autumn — whether grapes or figs — before the harvest season that coincides with the rising of Arcturus, whether on their own land or someone else's, shall pay a fine: fifty drachmas (sacred to Dionysus) if they pick from their own land, one mina if from a neighbor's, and two-thirds of a mina if from anyone else's.

As for the "choice" grapes and "choice" figs, as they're currently called: if someone picks them from their own land, they may do so however and whenever they like. But if they take them from someone else's land without permission, they shall always be punished under the law that says you shouldn't take what you didn't put there.

If a slave touches any of this fruit without the landowner's consent, he shall receive one lash for every grape on the bunch or every fig on the tree.

A resident alien may purchase the "choice" fruit, and then pick it as he pleases. But if a stranger is just passing through and wants something to eat, let him take some "choice" grapes for himself and one companion, free of charge, as a gesture of hospitality. The law does, however, forbid strangers from sharing in the storable kind. If anyone — master or slave — takes the storable fruit out of ignorance, the slave shall be beaten, and the free person dismissed with a warning and told to take from the other kinds of fruit — the ones that aren't suitable for making raisins, wine, or dried figs.

As for pears, apples, pomegranates, and similar fruits: there's no disgrace in taking them secretly. But anyone caught under the age of thirty shall be struck and driven off — without serious injury — and no free person shall have any legal claim for such blows. Strangers may eat these fruits just as they may eat the autumn fruits. And if a citizen over thirty eats them on the spot without carrying any away, he shall be treated the same as the stranger — allowed to have his fill. But if he won't follow this rule and tries to carry some off, let him risk disqualification from the competitions of virtue, in case anyone reports his behavior to the judges when the time comes.

Water is the most important nutrient for gardens, but it's easily polluted. You can't poison the soil, the sun, or the air — the other elements that nourish plants — nor can you divert or steal them. But all of these things can easily happen with water, which is why it needs legal protection.

Here is the law: If anyone intentionally pollutes another person's water — whether it's a spring or water collected in a reservoir — by poisonous substances, by digging, or by theft, the injured party shall bring the case before the city wardens and submit a written claim for the value of the loss. If the accused is found guilty of contaminating the water with harmful substances, he shall not only pay damages but also purify the stream or cistern that holds the water, in whatever manner the religious interpreters prescribe for each specific case.

Regarding the transport of harvested crops: a person may carry their own produce through any place where they either do no harm to anyone, or where they stand to gain three times as much as their neighbor loses. The magistrates should oversee these matters, as they should all cases where one person intentionally harms another or their property through fraud or force, or by misusing their own property.

For all these matters, a person should bring their complaint before the magistrates and receive damages, as long as the injury is no more than three minas. If the claim involves a larger amount, they should bring their suit to the public courts and have the offender punished. And if any magistrate appears to be imposing penalties in an unfair spirit, they shall be liable to pay double to the injured party. Anyone may bring charges against magistrates for wrongdoing in any particular case before the public courts.

There are countless little procedural details about methods of punishment, filing suits, issuing summonses, and witnesses for summonses — for example, whether two witnesses are required for a summons, or how many — and all such details that can't be left out of legislation but are beneath the dignity of an experienced legislator. These lesser matters, lesser as they truly are compared to the greater ones, should be regulated by the younger generation through laws modeled on the patterns we've set down, reflecting their own experience of what's useful and necessary. Once those rules are properly established, let there be no changes. Let the citizens live by them.

Now, regarding craftsmen and artisans, the rules should be as follows:

First, no citizen or servant of a citizen should work in the manual trades. A person who's going to preserve and maintain the public order of the state already has a full-time job — one that requires extensive study and wide-ranging knowledge. It doesn't allow for moonlighting. And hardly any human being is capable of doing two jobs or practicing two trades well, or of practicing one trade themselves while supervising someone else in a different one.

So let this be our first principle: no one who's a metalworker should also be a carpenter. And if someone is a carpenter, he shouldn't supervise metalwork alongside his own craft, using the excuse that overseeing multiple workers brings in more revenue than his own trade alone. Every person in the state shall have one craft and earn their living from that alone.

The city wardens shall enforce this law. If any citizen turns toward any occupation other than the study of virtue, they shall punish him with disgrace and loss of standing until they bring him back to his proper course. If any foreigner practices two trades, they shall punish him with imprisonment, fines, and expulsion from the state, until they compel him to be one person, not many.

As for payments, contracts for work, and disputes: if anyone wrongs a citizen or is wronged by one, for amounts up to fifty drachmas, the city wardens shall decide the case. For larger amounts, the public courts shall decide according to law.

No one shall pay any import or export duty. As for frankincense and similar perfumes used in worship that come from abroad, and purple dye and other colors not produced locally, and materials for any craft that must be imported but aren't essential — no one should bring these in. Likewise, no one should export anything the country needs.

There shall be inspectors and superintendents for all of this, drawn from the guardians of the law — specifically the twelve next in seniority after the five senior ones.

For weapons and all military equipment — if there's a need to import any craft, plant, metal, chain, or animal for use in war — the cavalry commanders and generals shall have authority over imports and exports. The city shall send them out and receive them, and the guardians of the law shall make proper laws about them.

But there shall be absolutely no retail trade for profit — whether in these or any other articles — anywhere in the city or the country.

Regarding food and the distribution of the country's produce, the right approach seems to be roughly the Cretan custom. Everyone should divide the fruits of the earth into twelve parts and consume them that way.

The twelfth portion of each product — wheat, barley, and the rest of the earth's produce, along with the animals for sale in each of the twelve districts — shall be divided into three parts: one for free citizens, one for their servants, and one for craftsmen and foreigners in general, whether they're permanent residents who have to earn a living like everyone else, or visitors who've come on business with the state or some individual.

Only this third portion of necessities should be required to be sold. Nobody shall be forced to sell from the other two-thirds.

Now, how will these portions be most fairly distributed? Well, clearly, the distribution is equal in one sense but unequal in another.

Cleinias: What do you mean?

Athenian: The earth inevitably produces food of varying quality — sometimes better, sometimes worse.

Cleinias: Of course.

Athenian: Given that, none of the three portions should be larger than the other two — not the one for masters, not the one for slaves, not the one for strangers. The distribution should be equal and identical for all. Each citizen shall take their two portions and distribute them among slaves and free people, with the authority to determine the quantity and quality of each share. Whatever's left over, they shall distribute by measured amounts among the animals that need to be fed from the earth, based on the total number of animals.

Next, our citizens should have separate, well-ordered houses. Here's the proper arrangement for people like them:

There shall be twelve hamlets, one in the center of each twelfth of the territory. In each hamlet, they shall first set aside a marketplace, along with temples to the gods and their attendant divine spirits. If there are any local deities of the Magnetes, or sacred sites of ancient gods whose memory has been preserved, they shall pay them their traditional honors. But Hestia, Zeus, and Athena shall have temples everywhere, together with the god who presides over each of the twelve districts. The first houses shall be built around these temples, on the highest ground, to provide the safest and most defensible place of retreat for the guards.

For the rest of the country, they shall organize things like this: They'll divide the craftsmen into thirteen groups. One group they'll establish in the city proper, subdivided into twelve sections distributed among the twelve city districts. The rest shall be settled in the villages across the countryside. In each village, they'll settle various classes of craftsmen, chosen to suit the needs of the farmers.

The chief officers of the country wardens shall oversee all of this, determining how many craftsmen each place needs, and of what kind, and settling them where they'll cause the least trouble and do the most good for the farmers. The city wardens shall handle similar arrangements within the city.

Now, the wardens of the marketplace should attend to the marketplace's details. Their first concern, after seeing to the temples in the marketplace, should be to prevent anyone from cheating in their dealings. Second, as guardians of good behavior and public order, they should punish anyone who needs it.

Regarding goods for sale, they should first make sure that the products citizens are required to sell to foreigners are actually being sold as the law prescribes. And the law is as follows:

On the first day of the month, the persons in charge — whether foreigners or slaves acting on behalf of citizens — shall present to the foreigners their share. First, a twelfth of the grain: foreigners shall purchase their grain for the whole month, along with other cereals, on the first market day. On the tenth of the month, one party shall sell and the other buy enough liquids to last the whole month. On the twenty-third, there shall be a sale of animals by those willing to sell to those wanting to buy, along with farming implements and other goods that farmers sell — things like hides and all kinds of clothing, whether woven, felted, or otherwise made — which foreigners must purchase.

As for retail trade in these items — barley or wheat flour, or any other kind of food — no one shall sell them to citizens or their slaves, nor shall any citizen buy them. Instead, foreigners shall sell these goods in the foreigners' market to craftsmen and their slaves, exchanging wine and food — what's commonly called retail trade. Butchers shall sell cuts of meat to foreigners, craftsmen, and their servants.

Any foreigner who wants may buy firewood wholesale on any day from those who manage it in the countryside, and may sell it to other foreigners as much as he wants, whenever he wants.

All other goods and equipment that are likely to be needed shall be sold in the common market, at whatever locations the guardians of the law and the wardens of the market and city select at their discretion. At these locations, goods shall be exchanged for money and money for goods, with neither party giving credit. Whoever gives credit must accept the consequences — whether they get their money back or not — because in such transactions, the law won't protect them.

Whenever property has been bought or sold in amounts greater in quantity or value than the law allows — the law having set limits on how much a person may increase or decrease their possessions — the excess shall be recorded in the books of the guardians of the law. If there's been a decrease, there shall be an erasure. The same rules shall apply to the registration of property belonging to resident aliens.

Anyone who wishes may come and settle as a resident alien, on certain conditions. A foreigner may dwell in the land if he's willing and able, but he must practice a trade and not stay longer than twenty years from the time he registers. He shall pay no residency tax, however small, except good behavior — no other tax for buying and selling either.

When the twenty years are up, he shall take his property and leave. If during those years he happens to distinguish himself by doing the state some significant service, and he believes he can persuade the council and assembly to grant him an extension or allow him to stay permanently, let him go make his case. Whatever the city agrees to at his request shall take effect.

For the children of resident aliens who are craftsmen: the clock starts at age fifteen. Let them stay for twenty years and then go where they please. Any who wish to remain may do so, if they can persuade the council and assembly. And if a resident alien departs, let him erase all the entries that were made in his name in the register kept by the magistrates.

Laws — Book IX

Athenian: The next natural step in our legislation, after everything we've covered, is lawsuits. We've already dealt with suits related to agriculture, but the more important ones are still ahead. Let me go through them by their standard categories, lay out the punishments for each offense, and specify who should judge them.

Cleinias: Very good.

Athenian: There's something embarrassing about legislating, as we're about to do, for every detail of criminal behavior in a state that's supposed to be well-governed and perfectly suited for the practice of virtue. To assume that in such a state someone will commit crimes as terrible as those found in the worst places, and that we have to anticipate this person's existence by writing laws to deter and punish him — that's a bit disgraceful, frankly. But we're not like the ancient lawmakers, who gave laws to heroes and sons of gods, being themselves (according to popular belief) descendants of gods, legislating for others who were also children of divine parents. We're just men, making laws for the sons of men. So there's nothing uncharitable in suspecting that some of our citizens may be like a seed that's touched an ox's horn — with a heart so hard that no amount of fire can soften it. Among our citizens, there may be people who can't be tamed by all the strength of the laws. For their sake — though it's an unpleasant task — I'll begin with my first law, about robbing temples, in case anyone dares to commit such a crime. I don't expect or imagine that any well-raised citizen would ever catch this infection, but their servants, foreigners, and foreigners' servants might be guilty of many impieties. With them especially in mind — though also keeping a watchful eye on the weakness of human nature in general — I'll proclaim the law about temple robbers and similar incurable, or nearly incurable, criminals.

As we've already agreed, every such law should come with a short prelude. So here's what we'll say to the criminal — the one whom some tormenting desire tempts, night and day, to go and rob a temple. We'll address him in as few words as possible:

"Friend, the impulse driving you to rob temples isn't an ordinary human affliction. It's not a visitation from heaven, either. It's a kind of madness, born from ancient and unexpiated crimes in your family line — a recurring curse. You must guard against it with all your strength. Here's how: When this thought enters your mind, go and perform rites of purification. Go as a humble petitioner to the temples of the gods who ward off evil. Seek out the company of those who are called good men among you. Listen to them describe how every person should honor what's noble and just, and try to repeat their words yourself. Run from the company of the wicked — run and don't look back. If these remedies lighten your condition, well and good. But if they don't, then accept that death is nobler than such a life, and depart from this world."

That's the prelude we sing to all those who have thoughts of unholy and treasonous acts. For the one who listens, the law has nothing more to say. But for the one who's disobedient once the prelude is over, we cry out loudly:

Anyone caught in the act of robbing a temple — if he's a slave or a foreigner — shall have his crime branded on his face and hands. He'll be beaten with as many stripes as the judges see fit and cast out naked beyond the borders of the land. This punishment will probably bring him to his senses and reform him, since no penalty the law inflicts is designed to cause evil. It always aims to make the offender either better, or at least not as much worse as he would have been otherwise.

But if any citizen is found guilty of some great and unspeakable crime — against the gods, or his parents, or the state — let the judge consider him incurable. After all, if someone who received an excellent education and upbringing from youth onward still couldn't keep himself from the worst crimes, there's no saving him. His punishment shall be death, which for him will actually be the least of evils. His example will benefit others: he'll perish in disgrace and be cast beyond the borders. But let his children and family, if they reject their father's ways, be honored. Let them receive public recognition for having nobly and courageously escaped from evil into good. None of their property should be confiscated by the state — the citizens' allotted land must always remain the same and equal.

As for collecting fines: when someone clearly deserves a fine, he shall pay it from whatever he owns beyond his assigned lot, but not a penny more. To ensure accuracy, the guardians of the law should check the property registers and report the precise figures to the judges, so that no lot goes uncultivated for lack of funds. But if someone deserves a greater penalty, let him undergo a long and public imprisonment and be stripped of his civic honors — unless some of his friends are willing to post bail and help him pay the fine.

No criminal shall go unpunished — not for a single offense, not even if he's fled the country. The penalty should match the crime: death, imprisonment, beatings, degrading positions in public, removal to some temple on the borders, or fines, as we've said. In capital cases, the judges shall be the guardians of the law together with a court selected on merit from the previous year's magistrates. The procedural details — how cases are brought to court, how summonses are served, and so on — can be left to the next generation of lawmakers. But the manner of voting we must determine ourselves.

The vote shall be given openly. Before voting, the judges shall sit in order of seniority, facing the plaintiff and defendant. All citizens who can spare the time should attend and take a serious interest in listening to these cases. First, the plaintiff makes one speech. Then the defendant makes one. After the speeches, the eldest judge begins examining the parties and conducts a thorough inquiry into what's been said. After the eldest has spoken, the remaining judges proceed in order, each examining whichever party seems to have left gaps in the evidence — whether something was stated poorly or left out entirely. Any judge with nothing to ask passes the examination to the next. All the judges shall set their seals on whatever testimony they find relevant and place these written records on the altar of Hestia. The next day, they'll meet again, conduct the same examination, and again seal the evidence. After they've done this three times and have gathered sufficient witnesses and evidence, each judge shall cast a sacred vote, having sworn by Hestia to decide justly and truthfully to the utmost of their ability. And so the suit comes to an end.

Next, after crimes against the gods, come crimes against the state itself. Whoever subjects the city to faction by handing power to a tyrant, who enslaves the laws and stirs up civil strife through violence and illegal means — that person is the greatest enemy of the entire state. But the man who takes no part in such schemes, yet holds high office and either doesn't know about the treason or, knowing about it, is too cowardly to act on behalf of his country — he's nearly as bad. Every citizen worth anything will report the conspiracy to the authorities and bring the traitor to trial for his violent and illegal attempt to overthrow the government. The judges for such cases shall be the same as for temple robbery, the procedure shall be the same, and a majority vote shall condemn to death.

But here's a general rule: the disgrace and punishment of the father must not be visited on his children — except when someone's father, grandfather, and great-grandfather have all been executed. In that case, the state shall send the family away with all their possessions to the city and country of their ancestors, keeping only the original allotted lot. And from citizens who have more than one son of at least ten years of age, the family shall select ten candidates, as nominated by the father or grandfather on either the mother's or father's side. They shall send these names to Delphi, and whomever the god chooses shall be established as heir of the failed house. May he have better fortune than his predecessors!

Cleinias: Very good.

Athenian: And there shall be a third general law: the same rules about judges and trial procedure — and the same rules about whether descendants may remain or must depart — shall apply equally to all three categories: traitors, temple robbers, and those who violently subvert the laws of the state.

Now, for theft. Whether someone steals much or little, there shall be one law and one punishment for all: first, pay back double the amount stolen, provided the thief has enough property beyond his allotment. If he doesn't have enough, he shall be imprisoned until he either pays or persuades the person who won the verdict to forgive him. But if someone is convicted of stealing from the state — well, if he can persuade the city to pardon him, or if he pays back twice the amount, he'll be released from prison.

Cleinias: Wait — are you really saying that theft is all the same, whether the thief takes a lot or a little, from sacred or secular places? There are all kinds of differences in thefts. Shouldn't the lawmaker adapt to these differences and impose completely different penalties?

Athenian: Excellent point. I was running ahead too fast, Cleinias, and you've pulled me back to my senses — reminding me of something I'd already been thinking about: that legislation has never yet been properly worked out. Remember the comparison I made earlier? I compared the people we're legislating for to slaves being treated by slave-doctors. Imagine this: one of those empirical physicians — the kind who practice medicine without any real understanding of the science — walks in on a gentleman-doctor talking to his gentleman-patient, using language that's practically philosophy, starting from the root causes of the disease and discussing the entire nature of the body. The empirical doctor would burst out laughing. He'd say what most so-called doctors always have on the tip of their tongue: "You fool! You're not healing the sick man — you're educating him! He doesn't want to become a doctor. He just wants to get well."

Cleinias: And wouldn't he have a point?

Athenian: Perhaps. And he might make the same observation about us — that in all this talk about laws, we're really giving our citizens an education, not a legal code.

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: But here's where we're fortunate.

Cleinias: How so?

Athenian: We're not under any pressure to produce laws on a deadline. We're free to examine every form of government, figure out what's best and what's most practical, and how both goals can actually be achieved. Right now, in this very moment, we can choose: do we aim for what's best, or what's most immediately necessary? Which shall it be?

Cleinias: There's something funny about putting it as an either-or choice, as if we were legislators under some urgent deadline that can't wait until tomorrow. But we're more like people gathering stones and raw materials, piling them up at our leisure, and then selecting what's suitable for our construction when we're ready. Let's think of ourselves that way — not as men frantically building, but as people partly collecting materials and partly assembling them. Some of our laws, like stones, are already set in place. Others are just lying around, ready to be used.

Athenian: That's right — our approach to law will be more natural that way. But there's another issue facing lawmakers that I need you to think about seriously.

Cleinias: What is it?

Athenian: In every city you'll find all sorts of writings. Some are by legislators; others are by different kinds of writers.

Cleinias: Of course.

Athenian: Should we pay more attention to those other writers — poets and the like, who've recorded their advice about how to live, whether in verse or prose — rather than to the writings of legislators? Or should we give the lawmakers' writings priority above all?

Cleinias: The lawmakers', far above all others.

Athenian: And shouldn't the lawmaker, alone among writers, feel free to share his views on what's beautiful, what's good, and what's just — and to teach how these things should be pursued by anyone who wants to live a happy life?

Cleinias: Absolutely.

Athenian: And isn't it true that if it's disgraceful for Homer and Tyrtaeus and other poets to lay down bad principles about life in their writings, it's even more disgraceful for Lycurgus and Solon and other lawmaker-writers? Of all the writings found in any city, those about laws — when you actually open them up and read them — should be by far the noblest and the best. Everything else should either agree with them, or be laughed off the page if it disagrees. Here's the question we should ask ourselves: shouldn't the laws of a state have the character of loving and wise parents, rather than tyrants and masters who just issue commands and threats, scribble their decrees on the walls, and walk away? That's the gentler vision of law we should aim for — whether or not we can fully achieve it, at least we'll show we're willing to try. And may the result be good. God willing, it will be.

Cleinias: Excellent. Let's do it that way.

Athenian: So let's return to our careful examination, as we proposed, of everything relating to temple robbery, theft of all kinds, and offenses in general. And we shouldn't get frustrated if, in the middle of legislating, we've enacted some laws but haven't made up our minds about others. We're not finished lawmakers yet — we're works in progress. If you don't mind, let's take these matters up now.

Cleinias: By all means.

Athenian: On the subject of honor and justice, let's try to figure out where we're being consistent with ourselves and where we're not — and where ordinary people, from whom we'd certainly like to differ, agree or disagree among themselves.

Cleinias: What inconsistencies are you noticing in us?

Athenian: I'll try to explain. If I'm not mistaken, we all agree that justice — just people, just things, just actions — is always admirable. If someone argued that just people, even when they're physically ugly, are still perfectly beautiful because of the excellence of their sense of justice, nobody would call that inconsistent.

Cleinias: They'd be quite right.

Athenian: Maybe so. But let's think more carefully. If everything that's just is also admirable, then we have to include just punishments in that "everything" — since just punishments go hand in hand with just actions.

Cleinias: And what follows from that?

Athenian: The conclusion is that a just action, insofar as it participates in justice, also participates equally in what's admirable.

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: And wouldn't a just punishment, by the same logic, also have to be admirable to the same degree — if we're being consistent?

Cleinias: True.

Athenian: But what if we admit that a punishment is just yet also shameful? Then the word "shameful" gets applied to justice, and the just and the admirable end up at odds.

Cleinias: What do you mean?

Athenian: It's not hard to understand. The laws we've already enacted seem to announce principles that are the exact opposite of what we're saying.

Cleinias: The opposite of what?

Athenian: We enacted, if you recall, that the temple robber and the enemy of lawful order may justly be put to death. And we were about to enact all sorts of similar penalties. But we stopped, because we realized these punishments are infinite in number and severity, and they are at once the most just and also the most shameful of all sufferings. So doesn't justice end up being sometimes the same as what's admirable, and other times the exact opposite?

Cleinias: That does seem to be the case.

Athenian: And that's how ordinary people use their language — they rip apart what's admirable and what's just, treating them as completely disconnected.

Cleinias: Very true, stranger.

Athenian: Then let's look at our own position, Cleinias, and see how consistent we are on these matters.

Cleinias: Consistent in what way?

Athenian: I think I stated this clearly in our earlier discussion, but if I didn't, let me say it now —

Cleinias: Say what?

Athenian: That all bad people are bad involuntarily — always. And from this, I need to draw a further conclusion.

Cleinias: What conclusion?

Athenian: That the unjust person may be bad, but he's bad against his own will. Now, it's a contradiction to say that a voluntary action is done involuntarily. So anyone who maintains that injustice is involuntary must also hold that the unjust person commits injustice involuntarily. That's my position too: I maintain that all people commit injustice involuntarily. If some argumentative person objects — "Sure, people are unjust against their will, but plenty of them do wrong willingly" — I disagree. No one does wrong willingly.

But then, how do I avoid contradicting myself? Suppose you, Cleinias, and you, Megillus, were to say to me: "Well, stranger, if that's all true, then what about legislating for our city of Magnesia? Should we legislate or not?" Of course we should, I'd reply. "Then will you distinguish between voluntary and involuntary crimes, and make the punishments heavier for voluntary offenses and lighter for involuntary ones? Or will you punish everything the same, on the grounds that there's no such thing as voluntary crime?"

Cleinias: Good question, stranger. So what's the answer?

Athenian: A very fair question. Here's what we need to do first —

Cleinias: Do what?

Athenian: Let's remember what we established earlier: that our ideas about justice are deeply confused and contradictory. With that in mind, let's ask ourselves whether we've found a way through the difficulty. Have we ever properly determined how these two categories of action — voluntary and involuntary — actually differ from each other? In every state, every lawmaker who's ever lived has recognized two kinds of actions: voluntary and involuntary. And they've legislated accordingly. But is our new principle — that nobody does wrong willingly — just going to sit there like an oracle from god, spoken but never explained or defended? You can't base legislation on an idea that nobody understands. That's impossible. Before we legislate, we have to prove that these are genuinely two different categories and explain what the difference between them is. That way, when we assign a penalty to either one, everyone can understand our reasoning and have some basis for judging whether the penalty fits.

Cleinias: I agree with you, stranger. One of two things has to be true: either we stop claiming that all unjust acts are involuntary, or we explain what we mean and prove it.

Athenian: The first option is completely intolerable to me. I can't refuse to speak what I believe is the truth — that would be wrong and unholy. But if acts of injustice can't be divided into voluntary and involuntary in the usual way, then I need to find some other way to distinguish between them.

Cleinias: You're absolutely right, stranger. There can't be two opinions among us on that point.

Athenian: All right, then think about this: people harm each other in all kinds of ways in the course of daily life, and there are plenty of examples of both voluntary and involuntary harm.

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: Now, I don't want anyone to assume that all harms are automatically "injuries," and that these injuries come in two flavors — voluntary and involuntary. The involuntary harms that people cause are just as numerous and just as serious as the voluntary ones. And please consider carefully whether what I'm about to say is right or wrong, because here's my key point: Cleinias and Megillus, I deny that someone who harms another involuntarily is committing an involuntary "injury." I wouldn't legislate about such an act as if it were an involuntary injury. I'd say that such a harm, whether great or small, isn't really an injury at all.

And here's the flip side: when a benefit is wrongly given, the person who gave it can often be said to have committed an injustice. You see, my friends, the mere act of giving or taking something away shouldn't automatically be labeled just or unjust. What the lawmaker needs to examine is this: did the person act from a just intention and principle, or not? He has to keep his eye on the distinction between injustice and mere harm. When there's harm, the law should, as far as possible, make it good — saving what's been ruined, raising up what's fallen, mending what's been broken or wounded. And once compensation has been provided for the injustice, the law should always try to turn the parties involved from feelings of hostility into friendship.

Cleinias: Very good.

Athenian: Now, as for unjust harms — and unjust gains, too, when injustice brings profit — we can heal as many of these as are capable of being healed. Think of them as diseases of the soul. And the cure for injustice runs in this direction:

Cleinias: What direction?

Athenian: When anyone commits an injustice, large or small, the law will instruct and compel him either never to do such a thing again, or never to do it willingly, or at least to do it far less often. And in addition, he must pay for the damage he caused. Whether the goal is achieved through words or actions, through pleasure or pain, through granting or removing privileges, through fines or rewards — whatever method the law uses to make a person hate injustice and love the nature of justice, or at least stop hating it — this is the noblest work that law can do.

But if the lawmaker sees that someone is incurable, he'll assign a law and a penalty for that person. He knows perfectly well that for people like this, there's no benefit in continuing to live. By departing, they'd do a double service to everyone else: they'd serve as a warning to others not to offend, and they'd rid the city of bad citizens. In such cases — and only such cases — the lawmaker should impose death as the punishment.

Cleinias: What you've said seems very reasonable. But could you do me a favor and explain a bit more clearly the difference between harm and injustice, and how the voluntary and involuntary get tangled up in them?

Athenian: I'll try. Here's what's generally understood about the soul: one element in its nature is passion — whether you call it a condition or a part of the soul — and it's hard to fight against and resist. By sheer irrational force, it overturns a great many things.

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: And pleasure is not the same as passion. It operates with a different kind of power, achieving its goals through persuasion and the force of deception.

Cleinias: Quite true.

Athenian: And we can truthfully say that ignorance is a third cause of crimes. But the lawmaker should usefully divide ignorance into two kinds. There's simple ignorance, which leads to lighter offenses. And then there's double ignorance — ignorance combined with the delusion that you're wise. Someone under this second kind's influence thinks he knows everything about matters he actually knows nothing about. When this double ignorance is backed by power and strength, the lawmaker will treat it as the source of enormous and monstrous crimes. But when it's accompanied by weakness, it produces only the mistakes of children and old people. The lawmaker will treat these as mere errors and write the mildest and most merciful laws for them.

Cleinias: You're perfectly right.

Athenian: We all observe that some people are superior to pleasure and passion, and others are inferior to them. That's a common thing to say.

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: But nobody has ever heard anyone say that one person is "superior to ignorance" and another "inferior to it."

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: Yet all three of these — passion, pleasure, and ignorance — drive people toward fulfilling their desires, often pulling them in opposite directions at the same time.

Cleinias: Yes, that happens often.

Athenian: And now I can define clearly and without ambiguity what I mean by justice and injustice. When anger and fear, pleasure and pain, jealousy and desire tyrannize over the soul — whether or not they actually cause harm — I call that injustice. But when a person's belief about what's best — wherever in human nature you think this faculty resides, whether in states or in individuals — has control of the soul and directs the person's life, then even if it's sometimes mistaken, whatever is done in accordance with it should be called just. The governing principle in each person that obeys this rational rule is what's best for their whole life, and it's to be called just — even though harm done through honest mistake is often thought by many to be "involuntary injustice."

Let's not quarrel about terminology. We've identified three sources of wrongdoing. Let me bring them back into sharper focus. The first was the painful kind — what we call anger and fear.

Cleinias: Right.

Athenian: The second consists of pleasures and desires. And the third involves hopes and aspirations toward what's truly best — though this last category subdivides into three. So now we have five sources of human action, and for these five we'll create two kinds of law.

Cleinias: What are the two kinds?

Athenian: One kind covers acts of violence done openly, in broad daylight. The other covers acts done in darkness, through secret deception — and sometimes with both violence and deception combined. The laws dealing with this second kind should be especially severe.

Cleinias: Naturally.

Athenian: Now let's return from this digression and finish the work of legislation. We've already enacted laws about temple robbers, traitors, and those who corrupt the laws to overthrow the government. It's quite possible that someone commits one of these crimes while in a state of madness, or while suffering from disease, or under the influence of extreme old age, or in a fit of childish foolishness — essentially being no better than a child. If this is demonstrated to the judges trying the case, on the appeal of the criminal or his advocate, and the judges determine that this was indeed his condition when he committed the offense, then he simply has to pay for whatever damage he caused. Beyond that, he's exempt from other penalties — unless he killed someone and has blood on his hands. In that case, he must leave for another land and country, and live there for a year. If he returns before the legally appointed time, or even sets foot in his native land, the guardians of the law shall confine him in the public prison for two years, and then release him.

Now that we've begun talking about homicide, let's try to lay down laws for every different kind. First: violent and involuntary homicides.

If anyone kills a friend accidentally during an athletic contest at the public games — whether the victim dies immediately or later from the blows — or if the same thing happens during war, military exercises, or practice combat (whether armed or unarmed), ordered by the authorities, then once the killer has been purified according to the law from Delphi governing such matters, he shall be innocent.

The same applies to doctors: if their patient dies against their will, the law holds them blameless.

If someone kills another person with his own hand, but unintentionally — whether unarmed or with some weapon or projectile, or by giving food or drink, or through the application of heat or cold, or by suffocation, whether by his own hand or through the agency of others — he shall be considered the responsible party and shall suffer one of the following penalties:

If he kills someone else's slave, believing the slave was his own, he must compensate the dead man's master for the loss, or pay a fine of twice the slave's value as assessed by the judges. He must also undergo purification rites — greater and more numerous than those for someone who killed at the games. What exactly these rites are, the divinely appointed interpreters shall have authority to declare.

If a man kills his own slave, he shall undergo the legally required purification and be clear of the homicide charge.

If a man unintentionally kills a free person, he shall undergo the same purification as someone who killed a slave. But he should also take to heart an ancient story, which goes like this: A person who has suffered a violent death, when newly dead — if he had the soul of a free man in life — is angry at the one who killed him. Being himself filled with terror and panic from his violent end, he's shaken when he sees his killer walking around in all his familiar haunts. This disturbs the dead man's spirit, and his disturbance, combined with the killer's guilty conscience, is transmitted to the murderer with overwhelming force, destabilizing both his actions and his mind. For this reason, the killer must stay away from all the victim's usual places for an entire year, keeping clear of any spot the dead man frequented, throughout the whole country. If the dead man was a foreigner, the killer must also stay away from the foreigner's home country for the same period.

If someone voluntarily obeys this law, the victim's next of kin, seeing that everything has been done properly, shall take pity on him, make peace with him, and show him every kindness. But if someone disobeys — if he dares to visit any of the temples and sacrifice while still impure, or refuses to stay in exile for the appointed time — then the next of kin shall bring him to trial for murder. If convicted, every part of his punishment shall be doubled.

And if the next of kin fails to prosecute the crime? Then the pollution falls on his own head. The murdered man will fix the guilt on his kinsman, and anyone who wishes may compel the negligent relative to leave the country for five years, according to law.

If a foreigner unintentionally kills another foreigner living in the city, anyone who chooses may prosecute the case under the same rules. If the killer is a resident alien, he must leave for one year. If he's a complete foreigner, then in addition to the purification — whether he killed a foreigner, a resident alien, or a citizen — he shall be banished for life from the country governed by our laws. If he returns illegally, the guardians of the law shall put him to death and hand over his property, if he has any, to the victim's nearest relative. If he's shipwrecked and driven onto the coast against his will, he may camp on the seashore with his feet in the water, watching for a chance to sail away. If he's brought ashore by land and isn't his own master, the first magistrate he encounters in the city shall release him and send him safely across the border.

Next: if someone kills a free person with his own hand, and the deed is done in a fit of passion. Here we have to draw an important distinction. There are two scenarios: First, when someone suddenly and without any intention to kill causes another's death through blows or the like, on a momentary impulse, and immediately regrets it. Second, when someone is insulted in word or deed, nurses the desire for revenge, and intentionally kills, feeling no remorse afterward.

We have to treat these as two distinct kinds of homicide, both arising from passion. They occupy a middle ground between the fully voluntary and the fully involuntary, though each is really only a shadow or likeness of one or the other. The person who nurses his anger and takes revenge deliberately, after an interval and with calculated planning, resembles the voluntary killer. The person who acts instantly, in the heat of the moment, without premeditation, approaches the involuntary — but even he isn't truly involuntary. He's only an image of the involuntary.

So when it comes to homicides committed in hot blood, it's genuinely difficult to decide whether we should classify them as voluntary or involuntary. The best and truest approach is to treat them as likenesses — one resembling the voluntary, the other the involuntary — and distinguish them based on whether there was premeditation or not. We should punish more severely those who kill with angry premeditation, and more leniently those who strike in the moment without forethought. What resembles the greater evil deserves heavier punishment; what resembles the lesser evil, lighter punishment. That's the rule our laws will follow.

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: Let's proceed. If anyone kills a free person with his own hand, and the deed is done in a moment of anger without premeditation, the offender shall suffer the same penalties as someone who committed involuntary homicide, plus an exile of two years — to learn to control his passions.

But someone who kills from passion with premeditation shall likewise suffer the base penalties, plus an exile of three years instead of two. His punishment is longer because his passion was greater.

Here's how their return should work — and this is where the law runs into difficulty, because sometimes the killer judged by law to be worse is actually the less cruel one, while the one judged less cruel may really be worse and may have carried out the killing more savagely, whereas the other may have been gentler. But generally, the degrees of guilt will be as I've described. The guardians of the law must weigh all these factors.

When a killer of either kind has completed his term of exile, the guardians shall send twelve judges to the borders of the land. These judges will have spent the intervening time investigating the criminals' behavior during exile. They'll decide whether to pardon the killer and allow his return, and the killers must accept their judgment.

But if someone who has returned home commits the same act again in a moment of anger, he shall be exiled permanently. If he returns, he shall suffer the same fate as the foreigner in the analogous case.

If someone kills his own slave, he shall undergo purification. If someone kills another person's slave in anger, he shall pay the owner twice the slave's value.

If any killer disobeys the law and pollutes the marketplace, the games, or the temples without undergoing purification, anyone who wishes may bring suit against the victim's next of kin for permitting this, and against the murderer as well. The accuser may compel the one to demand, and the other to undergo, double fines and double purification rites. The accuser himself shall receive the fine in accordance with the law.

If a slave kills his master in a fit of passion, the dead man's relatives may do with the killer whatever they please — provided they don't spare his life. They'll be considered ritually pure.

If a slave kills a free person who isn't his master, the slave's owner must surrender him to the victim's relatives. They are required to put him to death, but may do so in any manner they choose.

And if — though this is rare, it does sometimes happen — a father or mother kills a son or daughter in a moment of passion, by blows or some other violence, the killer shall undergo the same purification as in other cases and be exiled for three years. When the exile returns, the husband must separate from the wife, and the wife from the husband. They may never again have children together, share a roof, or participate in the same sacred rites with the family of the person they killed. Anyone who violates these rules by committing an act of impiety may be brought to trial by anyone who wishes.

If a husband kills his wife in a fit of anger, or a wife kills her husband, the killer shall undergo the same purification, and the exile shall be three years. When the killer returns, he or she may have no part in sacred rites with their children and may not sit at the same table with them. Any parent or child who disobeys shall be liable to prosecution for impiety by anyone who wishes.

If a brother or sister kills a sibling in a fit of passion, the same purification and exile shall apply as for parents who kill their offspring. They may not live under the same roof or share in the sacred rites of those family members who've lost a brother or child. Anyone who disobeys shall be subject to the law of impiety.

If anyone is so violent in his rage against his parents that he dares to kill one of them in the madness of his anger — and if the murdered parent, before dying, freely forgives the killer — then let the killer undergo the purification prescribed for involuntary homicide, completing all the required rites, and he shall be considered purified.

But if the parent does not forgive? Then the perpetrator of such a deed is subject to multiple laws at once. He faces the harshest penalties for assault, for impiety, and for robbery of a temple — because he has robbed his parent of life. If a person could be killed more than once, the one who kills his father or mother in a fit of rage would most justly deserve many deaths.

Think about it: this is the one person whom no law in the world will allow to kill his parents, even in self-defense — even if his parents are trying to kill him. The lawmaker will command him to endure any extremity rather than commit that act. How, then, could someone who does commit it deserve any punishment less than death? Death, then, shall be the penalty for anyone who kills a father or mother in a fit of passion.

If brother kills brother in a civil conflict, or in any similar circumstance, and the other struck first, and the killer was only defending himself — let him be free from guilt, as he would be if he'd killed an enemy. The same applies if a citizen kills a citizen, or a foreigner kills a foreigner, in self-defense.

If a foreigner kills a citizen or a citizen kills a foreigner in self-defense, the same rule applies. Likewise if a slave kills a slave. But if a slave kills a free person in self-defense, he is subject to the same law as someone who kills a parent. And the rule about a parent's deathbed forgiveness — the remission of penalty in cases of parricide — shall apply equally to every other such remission. Whenever a victim voluntarily forgives the person who harmed him, believing the act was involuntary, the perpetrator shall undergo purification and remain in exile for one year, according to law.

Enough about violent, involuntary, and passion-driven murders. Now we must address voluntary crimes — killings done with full injustice and premeditation, driven by pleasures, desires, and jealousies.

Cleinias: Very good.

Athenian: Let's start by identifying, as best we can, the various kinds and causes. The greatest cause is lust — desire that seizes a soul already maddened by craving. And this lust is most commonly found where the passion is strongest and most widespread among the masses: I mean the power of wealth, which breeds endless desires for more and more, arising from both natural disposition and a wretched lack of education.

And what causes this bad education? The false praise of wealth that's trumpeted everywhere, among both Greeks and non-Greeks. People treat wealth as the greatest of goods, when in reality it's only the third greatest. This is the lie that damages both them and their descendants. Here's the truth that should be proclaimed in every state: wealth exists for the sake of the body, just as the body exists for the sake of the soul. Wealth and body are good things — nature intends them to serve the soul — but they rank below it. Third in the order of excellence. This principle teaches us that whoever wants to be happy shouldn't seek to be rich — or rather, he should seek to be rich justly and with self-control. If people did that, there'd be no murders in our cities requiring purification by yet more blood.

But as I said from the beginning, greed is the chief cause and source of the worst cases of voluntary homicide.

The second cause is ambition. It breeds jealousy — a troublesome companion, most of all for the jealous person himself, but also a danger to the leading citizens of the state.

The third cause is cowardly and unjust fear. When someone is doing something, or has done something, that he desperately wants to keep secret, he'll kill anyone who might expose him — if he can't find another way to silence them.

Let all of that serve as a prelude to crimes of violence in general. And I must also mention a tradition that's firmly believed by many and received from those who are learned in the sacred mysteries: they say that such deeds will be punished in the underworld, and that when the perpetrators return to this world, they'll suffer the same fate they inflicted — ending their lives in the same manner, at another's hand.

If the person contemplating murder believes this, and the mere prelude makes him dread such a penalty, there's no need to go further with the law. But for those who won't listen, let the following law be proclaimed and recorded:

Whoever deliberately and with premeditation kills any of his own kinsmen with his own hand shall first be stripped of all legal rights. He shall not pollute the temples, the marketplace, the harbors, or any other public gathering place — whether or not anyone formally forbids him, because the law itself, speaking for the entire state, forbids him, and always has, and always will.

If a cousin or closer relative of the dead person, whether on the father's or mother's side, fails to prosecute and have the killer declared an outlaw — then that relative is tainted by the pollution himself and incurs the hatred of the gods. The curse of the law calls down human voices against him too. And beyond that, he becomes liable to prosecution by anyone willing to seek justice on behalf of the dead.

Whoever wishes to avenge a murder shall observe all the required purification ceremonies — lavations and whatever else the god commands in cases of this kind. He shall issue a formal proclamation and then compel the perpetrator to face justice according to law.

The lawmaker can easily show that all this must be accompanied by prayers and sacrifices to the gods who are concerned with preventing murders. But which gods, exactly, and what the proper procedure should be for conducting these trials in accordance with religious law — that the guardians of the law, together with the interpreters and prophets and the god himself, shall determine. Once they've determined it, they'll carry on with the prosecution.

The case shall be tried by the same judges appointed for temple robbery cases. If convicted, the killer shall be put to death and shall not be buried in the country of the person he murdered — that would be both shameless and impious.

If he flees and refuses to stand trial, let him flee forever. But if he ever sets foot anywhere in the murdered person's country, the first relative of the deceased — or any other citizen — who encounters him may kill him without penalty, or else bind him and deliver him to the magistrates among the case's judges, so they can execute him.

The prosecutor shall require the accused to post bail — three sureties deemed sufficient by the magistrates trying the case, who will guarantee the accused's appearance at trial. If the accused is unwilling or unable to provide these sureties, the magistrates shall take him into custody, hold him in chains, and produce him on the day of trial.

If someone doesn't commit a murder with his own hands but engineers another person's death — being the author of the deed in intention and design — and then continues living in the city with a soul stained by the guilt of murder, he shall be tried the same way, with one exception: the surety requirement. If found guilty, his body may be buried in his native land after execution. In all other respects, his case shall be treated the same as the previous one.

Whether a foreigner kills a citizen, a citizen kills a foreigner, or a slave kills a slave — there shall be no difference when it comes to murder by one's own hand versus murder by contrivance, except regarding the sureties. As we said, sureties shall be required only of the person who actually committed the killing, and the prosecutor shall bind them over at the time of accusation.

If a slave is convicted of deliberately killing a free person, either by his own hand or by contrivance, the public executioner shall lead him toward the dead man's tomb, to a spot where he can see it, and inflict as many lashes as the person who caught him orders. If the slave survives the lashing, he shall then be put to death.

If anyone kills a slave who has done nothing wrong — killing him out of fear that the slave might reveal some shameful or criminal secret, or for any similar reason — he shall face the same penalty for murder as if he'd killed a citizen.

There are things that are terrible and unpleasant to legislate about, but impossible to leave unaddressed. If, for instance, there are murders of family members — perpetrated by relatives, either by their own hands or through scheming, and done voluntarily with pure malice — the sort of thing that happens most often in poorly governed and poorly educated states, though it might occur even where you'd least expect it. Let me repeat the story we told a little while ago, in the hope that anyone hearing it will be more inclined to voluntarily refrain from murders that are utterly abominable.

The tale — or myth, or saying, or whatever we should call it — has been clearly set forth by priests of old: the justice that guards and avenges the blood of kindred follows the law of retaliation, and decrees that whoever has committed murder must inevitably suffer what he has done. He who has killed a father shall himself be killed by his own children in some future time. He who has killed a mother shall of necessity be reborn as a woman and lose his life at the hands of his own offspring in ages to come. Where a family's blood has been polluted, there is no other purification. The stain cannot be washed away until the murderous soul has given life for life, appeasing and laying to rest the wrath of the entire family.

These are the retributions of heaven, and they should be enough to deter anyone. But if they're not — if some fatal impulse drives a person to deliberately and with full intent murder his father, mother, siblings, or children — then the earthly lawmaker legislates as follows:

The same proclamations about outlawry and the same surety requirements from the earlier cases shall apply. If convicted, the servants of the judges and the magistrates shall execute him at an appointed place outside the city, where three roads meet. There they shall strip his body naked. Each of the magistrates, on behalf of the whole city, shall take a stone and cast it upon the dead man's head — thus symbolically delivering the city from pollution. After that, they shall carry him to the borders of the land and cast him out, unburied, according to law.

And what about the person who kills the one who, as people say, should be his own best friend? I mean the suicide — the person who violently deprives himself of his allotted share of life, not because the law of the state requires it, not because some painful and unavoidable catastrophe has befallen him, not because he's been made to suffer irremediable and intolerable shame, but who out of sheer laziness or lack of courage imposes upon himself an unjust penalty.

For this person — what purification rites should there be, and what kind of burial? God knows. The next of kin should consult the interpreters and the relevant laws, and follow their instructions. Those who die in this way shall be buried alone. No one shall be laid beside them. They shall be buried without ceremony or honor in the uncultivated border areas between the twelve districts, in nameless places. No column or inscription shall mark where they lie.

If a beast of burden or any other animal causes someone's death — except in the case of a public athletic competition — the kinsmen of the deceased shall prosecute the animal for murder. The wardens of the countryside, as many as the kinsmen appoint, shall try the case. If the animal is convicted, it shall be killed and cast beyond the borders.

And if any lifeless object causes someone's death — except for a thunderbolt or some other divine missile from the gods — whether a person is killed by something falling on him or by his falling on it, the next of kin shall appoint the nearest neighbor as judge, thereby absolving himself and the whole family of guilt. The guilty object shall be cast beyond the border, just as we said about animals.

If someone is found dead and the killer is unknown, and after a thorough search can't be found, the same proclamation and interdict shall be issued as in previous cases. They shall proceed against the unknown killer, and a herald shall announce in the marketplace that the person who killed so-and-so, having been convicted of murder, shall never set foot in the temples or anywhere in the dead man's country. If he appears and is discovered, he shall die and be cast out unburied beyond the border.

Let this, then, stand as our law on murder. And let cases of this sort be handled accordingly.

Now let's address the cases and circumstances in which a killer is rightly free from guilt.

If someone catches a thief breaking into his house at night, and kills him, he shall be guiltless. If someone kills a mugger in self-defense, he shall be guiltless. Anyone who does violence to a free woman or a young person shall be killed with impunity by the victim, or by the victim's father, brothers, or sons. If a man finds his wife being assaulted, he may kill the assailant and be guiltless in the eyes of the law. And if someone kills another person while defending his father, mother, children, siblings, or spouse from deadly harm — when those family members have done nothing wrong — he shall most certainly be guiltless.

So much, then, for the nurturing and education of the living human soul — the training without which a person cannot live, and the punishments for violent deaths. Let this be enacted.

We've already discussed the nurturing and education of the body. What comes next in order is violence that people commit against one another — voluntary and involuntary assaults — which we'll now distinguish, as best we can, by their nature and frequency, determine the appropriate penalties, and assign them their proper place in our legal code.

Even the most basic lawmaker would agree that wounds and injuries should come next after homicide. Let wounds be classified the same way we classified homicides: involuntary wounds, wounds inflicted in passion or from fear, and wounds inflicted voluntarily and with premeditation.

Before laying out these laws, we need to issue a general proclamation along these lines: Human beings must have laws and conform to them, or their lives would be as bad as those of the most savage beasts. And here's why: no person's nature is capable, on its own, of knowing what's best for human society. And even if someone did know, he wouldn't always be able — or willing — to put that knowledge into practice.

First, there's the difficulty of recognizing that the true art of politics concerns the public good, not the private good. The public good is what holds states together; private interest only tears them apart. Both public and private good — for individuals and for states alike — are better served when the state's interests come first, the individual's second.

Second, even if someone understands this in theory, the moment he has absolute and unchecked power he'll never hold firm to these principles or keep putting the public good ahead of his own. Human nature will always pull him toward selfishness and greed, making him avoid pain and chase pleasure without any rational basis. He'll push these desires to the front, crowding out what's more just and better. And so this darkness in his soul will eventually fill both him and the entire city with evils.

Now, if a person were born so divinely gifted that he could naturally grasp the truth, he'd have no need of laws to govern him. There's no law or system that's higher than knowledge, and it would be unholy to treat a genuinely wise mind as the subject or slave of anything — it should be the ruler of all. I'm talking about a mind that's truly free and in harmony with nature. But such a mind barely exists anywhere. And that's exactly why we must choose law and order, which are second best. Laws can only see things as they generally are; they can't survey every individual case.

That's why I've said what I've said.

Now we need to determine what penalty a person should pay or suffer for hurting or wounding someone. It's easy to imagine all the questions that come up in these cases: What was the wound? Who was wounded? How, and when? The details are endless, and they differ enormously from case to case. It's impossible to let courts decide all of them, but equally impossible to let them decide none. There's one thing courts must always determine: the question of fact — did it happen? But for the lawmaker to try to prescribe the punishment in every last case, from the smallest to the greatest? That's just about impossible.

Cleinias: So what's the solution?

Athenian: The solution is that some things should be left to the courts, and some things the lawmaker must decide himself.

Cleinias: And which should the lawmaker decide, and which should he leave to the courts?

Athenian: Here's my answer. In a state where the courts are corrupt and silent — where judges hide their opinions and decide cases behind closed doors — or worse, in a state where the courts are rowdy and chaotic, like a theater audience, clapping and booing for one side or the other — that's a very serious problem affecting the whole state. A lawmaker forced to write laws for courts like that should keep their power to a minimum, deciding the punishments for only the smallest offenses and handling most things himself.

But when a state has good courts, with well-trained judges who've been rigorously tested, it's both fair and advantageous to let them determine most penalties for the guilty. So we shouldn't be criticized for not legislating about that whole range of cases that even far less educated judges than ours could handle — assigning each offense what's proportionally due to both the perpetrator and the victim. We believe the judges we're training will be the best qualified people in the world to handle these decisions, and we can entrust the greater part to them.

Still, as I've said before, we should give the judges an outline — a model of the punishments to be imposed — so they won't cross the line of justice. That practice served us well before, and now, as we return to the work of legislation, it's worth repeating.

Here's the law on wounding: If anyone has the purpose and intent to kill someone who is not his enemy and whom the law does not authorize him to kill, and he wounds him but fails to kill him, the person who had that intent and inflicted that wound deserves no pity. He deserves no consideration whatsoever — he should be regarded as a murderer and tried for murder.

And yet, out of respect for the fortune that in a way smiled on him, and the providence that took pity on both him and his victim — saving one from a fatal blow and the other from a cursed fate — as a thank-offering to this guiding power, and so as not to defy its will, the law will set aside the death penalty in such a case. Instead, it will require the offender to emigrate to a neighboring city for the rest of his life, where he'll retain all his possessions. But if he caused lasting injury to the victim, he must pay compensation as assessed by the court — the same judges who would have tried the case if the victim had died.

If a child intentionally wounds a parent, or a servant his master — death shall be the penalty.

If a brother or sister intentionally wounds a brother or sister and is found guilty — death shall be the penalty.

If a husband wounds a wife, or a wife wounds a husband, with intent to kill, the offender shall go into permanent exile. If they have young children, the guardians shall manage the property and care for the children as orphans. If their children are grown, the children are under no obligation to support the exiled parent, but shall possess the property themselves.

If the person who meets with such a misfortune has no children, the relatives of the exile — out to the degree of cousins' children, on both the father's and mother's side — shall gather together, consult with the guardians of the law and the priests, and appoint one of the 5,040 citizens as heir of the house. Here's the reasoning: no house among the 5,040 belongs solely to its occupant or even to the whole family. It's the public and private property of the state. And the state should strive to have its houses as holy and blessed as possible.

If any house is stricken with misfortune and stained by impiety — if the owner leaves no heirs but dies unmarried, or married but childless, having been executed for murder or some other crime against the gods or the state for which death is the explicit legal penalty — or if a childless citizen has been permanently exiled: first, let that house be purified and undergo the proper expiatory rites. Then let the kinsmen of the house, together with the guardians of the law, search for the family in the state that has the highest reputation for virtue and also for good fortune — one in which there are several sons. From that family, they shall take one son and introduce him to the father and forefathers of the dead man as their son. For the sake of the good omen, let him be called by that family name, so that he may continue their line, keep their hearth fire burning, and serve their sacred rites with better fortune than his predecessor had. Once they've offered this prayer, they shall make him the heir according to law. The offender, meanwhile, shall be left nameless, childless, and portionless when catastrophes like these overtake him.

Now, some boundaries in life don't quite touch each other — there's a borderland between them. We were saying that acts done from passion are exactly like that: they fall in between the voluntary and the involuntary.

If someone is convicted of inflicting wounds in a fit of passion: first, if the wound is curable, he shall pay twice the amount of the injury. If the wound is incurable, four times the amount. If the wound is curable but causes great and notable disgrace to the wounded person, he shall pay fourfold.

And whenever someone, by wounding another, injures not just the victim but also the state — by rendering the wounded person unable to defend his country against its enemies — then, beyond all other penalties, he must compensate the state for the loss. In addition to serving his own terms of military service, he must serve on behalf of the disabled person and take his place in war. If he refuses, he shall be liable to prosecution for refusal of military service.

Whether the compensation should be twofold, threefold, or fourfold shall be determined by the judges who convict him.

If a brother wounds a brother in a similar way, the parents and relatives from both sides — including children of cousins, whether on the father's or mother's side — shall meet to judge the case and entrust the assessment of damages to the parents, as is natural. If the estimate is disputed, the paternal kinsmen shall determine it. If they can't reach agreement, they shall refer the matter to the guardians of the law.

When similar charges of wounding are brought by children against their parents, the required judges shall be people over sixty years of age who have children of their own — not adopted. If the parent is convicted, these judges shall determine whether the parent ought to die or suffer some other punishment either greater than death or at any rate not much less. No relative of the accused shall serve as a judge, even if he meets the age requirement of the law.

If a slave in a fit of anger wounds a free person, the slave's owner shall hand him over to the wounded man, who may do as he pleases with him. If the owner doesn't hand him over, he must make good the injury himself. And if anyone claims the slave and the wounded man are conspiring together, let him argue the point. If he loses, he pays triple. If he wins, the free man who conspired with the slave shall be liable to prosecution for kidnapping.

If anyone unintentionally wounds another, he shall simply pay for the harm done. No lawmaker can control chance. In such cases, the judges shall be the same as those appointed when children sue their parents, and they shall assess the amount of the injury.

All the injuries we've discussed, and every kind of assault, are acts of violence. And here's the principle every man, woman, and child should understand: the elder has precedence over the younger in honor, both among the gods and among people who want to live in safety and happiness.

It's a foul thing, hateful to the gods, to see an older man assaulted by a younger one in the city. It's right and reasonable that a young man, when struck by an elder, should bear the blow patiently, storing up for himself the same honor when he's old.

Here's the law: Everyone shall show respect to anyone twenty or more years their senior, whether male or female, treating them as they would a father or mother. He shall keep his hands off anyone old enough to have been his parent, out of reverence for the gods who preside over birth. He shall likewise keep his hands off any foreigner, whether long-established or newly arrived. He shall not presume to correct such a person with blows, either as the aggressor or in self-defense.

If he believes a foreigner has struck him out of arrogance or insolence and deserves punishment, he shall bring the foreigner to the wardens of the city — but he shall not strike him himself. That way the foreigner is kept far from the possibility of raising his hand against a citizen. The wardens of the city shall take the offender and examine him, remembering their duty to Zeus, the God of Strangers. If the foreigner appears to have struck the citizen unjustly, let him receive as many blows with the lash as he inflicted, and let his arrogance be put down. But if the foreigner is innocent, let them warn and rebuke the man who brought the complaint, and let both go.

If one person strikes another of the same age or somewhat older, who has no children — whether it's an old man striking an old man or a young man striking a young man — the person struck shall defend himself naturally, without a weapon, using only his hands.

Anyone over forty who dares to get into a brawl — whether as the aggressor or in self-defense — shall be considered rude, ill-mannered, and slavish. It's a disgraceful label, but that's exactly what makes it an appropriate punishment.

The obedient citizen will yield to such advice. But for the disobedient, here's the law: If anyone strikes a person who is twenty or more years older than himself — first, any bystander who is not younger than the combatants and not their equal in age shall separate them, or be disgraced under the law. But if the bystander is the same age as the victim or younger, he shall defend the injured person as he would a brother, a father, or an even older relative.

Furthermore, anyone who dares to strike an elder shall be tried for assault, as I've said. If found guilty, he shall be imprisoned for at least a year. If the judges think a longer sentence is warranted, their decision is final.

If a foreigner or resident alien strikes someone twenty or more years his senior, the same rule about bystanders assisting shall apply. A convicted foreigner who isn't a resident shall be imprisoned for two years. A resident alien who violates the law shall be imprisoned for three years — unless the court assigns a longer term.

Any bystander who was present during any of these incidents and failed to assist as the law requires shall be fined: one mina if he belongs to the highest property class; fifty drachmas for the second class; thirty for the third; twenty for the fourth. The court for these cases shall be composed of generals, taxiarchs, tribe-commanders, and cavalry commanders.

Laws serve two purposes: partly to instruct good people in how to live together as friends, and partly to deal with those who refuse to be instructed — whose spirits can't be broken, softened, or kept from plunging into evil. These are the people who force the lawmaker to speak what he's about to speak. He legislates for them out of necessity, while hoping his laws will never need to be used.

Whoever dares to lay violent hands on his father or mother, or any still older relative — having no fear of the wrath of the gods above or the punishments described in the world below — whoever transgresses in contempt of ancient and universal traditions, as if he were too clever to believe in them, requires the most extreme preventive measures.

Now, death is not the worst thing that can happen to a person. The punishments said to await people in the underworld are far worse. But although these tales are absolutely true, they have no effect on souls like these. If they did, there would be no killers of mothers and no impious hands raised against parents. The punishments of this world, imposed during a person's lifetime, must therefore be at least as terrifying as what awaits below — if that's even possible.

Here's the law: If anyone dares to strike his father or mother, or their parents, while being of sound mind — then anyone present must come to the rescue, as we've already said. A resident alien who comes to the rescue shall be given the honor of a front-row seat at the games. If he doesn't come to the rescue, he shall suffer permanent exile. A non-resident who comes to the rescue shall receive public praise. One who doesn't shall receive public blame.

If a slave comes to the rescue, he shall be set free. If a slave doesn't come to the rescue, he shall receive a hundred lashes, administered by the wardens of the marketplace if the incident occurs there, or by the city wardens if it happens elsewhere in the city, or by the commanders of the country wardens if it happens in the countryside.

Anyone who's nearby at the time — whether young or old, male or female, local resident or visitor — must come to the rescue and denounce the attacker as impious. Anyone who fails to come to the rescue shall fall under the curse of Zeus, the god of kinship and of ancestors, according to law.

If anyone is found guilty of assaulting a parent, he shall first be banished forever from the city into the countryside, and he shall keep away from the temples. If he doesn't keep away, the wardens of the country shall punish him with beatings or in any way they see fit. If he returns to the city, he shall be put to death.

And if any free person eats or drinks with him, or has any kind of dealings with him, or even voluntarily touches him in passing — that person shall not enter any temple, the marketplace, or the city until he has been purified. He must recognize that he's been tainted by a curse. If he disobeys the law and pollutes the city and the temples, any magistrate who sees this and fails to prosecute shall face it as the most serious charge at his performance review.

If a slave strikes a free person — whether a foreigner or a citizen — anyone present must come to the rescue or pay the prescribed penalty. The bystanders shall bind the slave and deliver him to the injured party. The injured party shall put the slave in chains and inflict as many lashes as he pleases. But after punishing him, he must return the slave to his master, as the law requires. He may not keep the slave or deprive the owner of his property.

Here's the law: A slave who strikes a free person without orders from a magistrate shall be received in chains by his owner from the person he struck. The owner shall not release the slave until the slave has convinced the person he struck that he deserves to be released.

The same laws shall apply in all relations between women and women, and between men and women.

Laws — Book X

Athenian: Now that we've covered assaults, let's wrap up all acts of violence under one general law. It goes like this: No one shall take or carry off anything belonging to their neighbor, and no one shall use another person's property without the owner's consent. These offenses are the source of all the problems we've been discussing — they always have been, and they always will be. The worst of them are the excesses and outrages of the young, and they're most serious when directed against religion — especially when they violate public and sacred rites, or the ceremonies shared by tribes and brotherhoods. The second most serious are offenses against private religious rites and burial places. Third in severity — leaving aside the cases we've already discussed — are insults against parents. Fourth are acts of violence against the authority of public officials, when someone takes, carries off, or uses their property without consent. And fifth is any violation of an individual citizen's rights that calls for legal remedy. We need a single law covering all of these.

Now, we've already laid out the punishments for sacrilege, whether committed through fraud or force. What we still need to determine is the punishment for those who speak or act with contempt toward the gods. But first, let's give them a warning. It goes something like this:

No one who genuinely believes in the gods, as the laws require, has ever willingly committed an unholy act or spoken an unlawful word. If someone does, it's because they hold one of three beliefs: first, that the gods don't exist at all; second, that they exist but don't care about human beings; or third, that they exist and care, but can be bought off with sacrifices and prayers.

Cleinias: So what should we say or do about these people?

Athenian: Well, my friend, let's first hear the objections they'll throw at us. I suspect they feel rather superior, and they won't hold back.

Cleinias: What objections?

Athenian: Something disrespectful, along these lines: "People of Athens, Sparta, and Knossos — fair enough: some of us deny the gods exist entirely, while others, as you say, think they don't care about us, and still others think they can be swayed by gifts. Now, you yourselves agreed that before punishing us and making threats, you should first argue your case and try to convince us. So we're taking you up on that. Try teaching us first — persuade us that gods exist, using solid evidence. Show us they're too good to be bribed or turned from the path of justice. Because when we hear the most respected poets, orators, prophets, and priests saying these things about the gods, most of us don't resolve to avoid wrongdoing — we figure we can do wrong and then make up for it afterward. From lawmakers who claim to be reasonable rather than harsh, we expect persuasion first. Prove to us that gods exist — if not more eloquently than others have tried, then at least more truthfully. Who knows? Maybe we'll listen. If that's a fair request, then accept our challenge."

Cleinias: But is it really that hard to prove the gods exist?

Athenian: How would you go about it?

Cleinias: How? Well, for starters — the earth, the sun, the stars, the entire universe, the beautiful order of the seasons, the way they're divided into years and months. And then there's the fact that every Greek and every foreigner believes in them.

Athenian: I'm worried, my dear friend — though I won't say I'm too concerned — about the contempt these godless people would pour on arguments like that. You don't really understand what's driving their unbelief. You assume they've just given in to pleasure-seeking.

Cleinias: Well, what other reason is there?

Athenian: One that you, living in a different world, would never guess.

Cleinias: What is it?

Athenian: A particularly devastating kind of ignorance — one that passes itself off as the highest wisdom.

Cleinias: What do you mean?

Athenian: In Athens, there are writings preserved — the kind of thing your more disciplined society refuses to tolerate. They discuss the gods in both prose and verse. The oldest of these works describe the origins of the heavens and the world, and before long they get into stories about how the gods were born and how they behaved toward each other. Whether these stories have been good or bad for people in other respects, I'd rather not criticize too harshly — they're ancient, after all. But when I consider them from the standpoint of how children should think about their parents, I can't call them praiseworthy, useful, or even true. But I'll say no more about the old writers.

It's the younger generation and their so-called wisdom that I can't let pass. Just look at what their ideas lead to. When you and I argue for the existence of the gods and point to the sun, moon, stars, and earth as evidence of divine power, someone schooled in these new philosophies will say those things are just earth and stone — lifeless matter that couldn't possibly care about human affairs. They'll say all religion is just a tissue of pretty words and make-believe.

Cleinias: Even one such teacher would be bad enough, Stranger. And you're saying there are many of them, which is far worse.

Athenian: So then — what do we do? Should we imagine that one of these godless people is confronting us, challenging the very basis of our legislation? Should we picture them saying, "How outrageous that you're making laws on the assumption that gods exist!" Should we defend ourselves? Or should we drop it and get back to the laws, before this introduction becomes longer than the legal code itself? Because if we're going to engage with the godless on their own terms — partly arguing, partly warning, partly reasoning — this discussion is going to stretch on for quite a while before we get to the actual laws.

Cleinias: Yes, but Stranger — how many times have we already said that on this occasion there's no reason to prefer brevity over thoroughness? As the saying goes, nobody's chasing us. It would be pitiful and absurd to choose the shorter path over the better one. It matters enormously that we prove, one way or another, that gods exist, that they're good, and that they care about justice more than humans do. A demonstration of this would be the finest and noblest introduction to all our laws. So let's take our time, without impatience or hurry, and marshal every argument we can. Let's bring the full force of persuasion to bear.

Athenian: Given how serious you are about this, I feel like offering a prayer that I'll succeed. But I need to press forward at once. Who can stay calm when called upon to prove that gods exist? Who can help feeling anger toward the people who have forced us into this argument? I'm talking about those who refuse to believe the stories they heard as infants from their mothers and nurses — stories repeated in play and in earnest, like charms; stories they heard in sacrificial prayers, accompanied by the sights and sounds that so delight children; stories they watched their parents act out with absolute conviction during sacrifices, praying to the gods with intense sincerity, prostrating themselves in worship. They've seen Greeks and foreigners alike, at sunrise and sunset, through every twist of fortune, kneeling and bowing — not as people who suspect the gods might not exist, but as people for whom the gods' existence is beyond all question and all doubt.

When people dismiss all of this on no solid grounds — as anyone with a shred of intelligence would agree — and when they force us to make the argument we're now making, how is anyone supposed to address them gently? And yet the attempt has to be made. It wouldn't do for half of humanity to go mad with indulgence while the other half goes mad with outrage. So we'll speak to these lost and misguided souls without passion. Let's imagine we've picked out one of them and are reasoning with him calmly, holding back our anger.

"My son," we'll say, "you're young. Time will change many of the opinions you hold now. Wait a while. Don't rush to judgment on the highest matters — and the highest of all, which you currently think is nothing, is this: knowing the gods rightly and living accordingly.

"Let me point out something important, something I'm quite sure about: you and your friends are not the first to hold this view about the gods. In every generation, more or fewer people have caught the same disease. I've known many of them, and I can tell you this: no one who adopted the belief that gods don't exist while young ever held that same view into old age. The other two opinions sometimes persist — the idea that gods exist but don't care about humans, or that they care but can be bribed — but the outright denial of the gods? That almost never lasts.

"So my advice is this: wait. Consider whether it might be true. Ask others, and above all, ask the lawgiver. In the meantime, be very careful not to offend against the gods. For the lawgiver's duty — now and always — is to teach you the truth about these matters."

Cleinias: Everything you've said so far, Stranger, is excellent.

Athenian: Quite true, Megillus and Cleinias. But I'm afraid we've stumbled onto a strange doctrine without realizing it.

Cleinias: What doctrine?

Athenian: One that many people consider the wisest of all.

Cleinias: Please, speak more plainly.

Athenian: The doctrine that everything that exists, has existed, or will exist comes about either by nature, by design, or by chance.

Cleinias: Isn't that true?

Athenian: Well, these philosophers are probably onto something. In any case, let's follow their reasoning and see what they and their students actually mean.

Cleinias: By all means.

Athenian: Here's what they say: the greatest and most magnificent things in the universe are the products of nature and chance, while the lesser things are the work of human craft. Art, they say, takes the raw materials that nature has already produced on a grand scale and shapes them into the smaller, less impressive things we typically call "artificial."

Cleinias: What do you mean exactly?

Athenian: I'll spell it out. They say that fire, water, earth, and air all exist by nature and chance — none of them by design. The larger bodies that came next — earth itself, the sun, the moon, the stars — were created from these entirely lifeless elements. These elements move around according to chance and various natural affinities: hot attracts cold, dry attracts moist, soft attracts hard, and so on through every combination of opposites thrown together by necessity. This is how the entire heavens were created, according to them — all the celestial bodies, all animals, all plants, all the seasons — not through the action of mind, they insist, not through any god or purposeful design, but purely through nature and chance.

Art, they say, came later — mortal art born from mortal beings. It produced certain playful imitations of reality, images that don't share much truth in themselves — the kind of thing music, painting, and the companion arts create. Some arts do have a more serious purpose and cooperate with nature: medicine, agriculture, gymnastics, for example. Politics, they say, cooperates with nature too, but to a lesser degree and with more artifice. And legislation, they claim, is entirely artificial — built on assumptions that have no basis in truth.

Cleinias: What do you mean by that?

Athenian: In the first place, my dear friend, these thinkers say that the gods don't exist by nature — they're human inventions, products of law and convention. Different gods in different places, depending on what the locals agreed upon when they wrote their laws. And they say that what's truly honorable is one thing by nature and another thing by law. Justice, they insist, has no existence in nature at all. People are constantly arguing about it and changing the rules, and whatever changes get made by human art and legislation have no natural basis — they're just whatever happened to get decided at the time.

This, my friends, is the kind of thing being said by people considered wise — by poets and prose writers alike — and it's seeping into the minds of the young. They're told that the highest form of right is might, and so the young fall into godlessness, believing the gods aren't the kind of beings the law tells them to imagine. This breeds political factions — philosophers inviting young people to live a "natural" life, which really means living in dominion over others rather than in lawful obedience.

Cleinias: What a terrifying picture you've painted, Stranger! Think of the damage this does to young people, and through them to entire families and cities!

Athenian: You're right, Cleinias. So what should the lawgiver do when this corruption has been festering for a long time? Should he simply stand up and threaten everyone — declaring that if they won't say and believe the gods are as the law describes, if they won't shape their conduct to match the law's standards of honor, justice, and virtue, then they'll face death, or beatings, or imprisonment, or loss of citizenship, or confiscation of property and exile? Or should the lawgiver, while making his laws, try to weave in the spirit of persuasion and soften his words as much as possible?

Cleinias: Why, Stranger, if there's any possibility of persuasion, then a lawgiver worth his salt should never tire of persuading! He should leave nothing unsaid in defense of the ancient belief that gods exist, and of all the truths you were just discussing. He should defend the proposition that law and craft both exist by nature — no less than nature itself — since they're creations of mind working in accordance with right reason. That's what you seem to be arguing, and I'm inclined to agree.

Athenian: Enthusiastic Cleinias! But aren't these things difficult for a crowd to grasp? And don't they take a dismally long time to explain?

Cleinias: Stranger, if we didn't lose patience when the subjects were drinking and music, shall we grow tired now when the subject is the gods and divine matters? And here's the great advantage of written legislation: the laws, once set down, sit still. They can be studied and reconsidered at any future time. So if they seem difficult at first hearing, there's no cause for alarm — even a slow reader can go over them again and again. And if they're long but useful, then it seems to me neither reasonable nor pious for anyone to refuse to examine them with all their might.

Megillus Stranger, I agree with everything Cleinias is saying.

Athenian: Yes, Megillus, and we should do exactly as he proposes. If godless arguments weren't scattered all across the world, there'd be no need to defend the existence of the gods. But since they are everywhere, such arguments are needed. And who should come to the defense of the most fundamental laws when they're under attack from bad people, if not the lawgiver himself?

Megillus No one is better suited for it.

Athenian: All right then, Cleinias — I need you as my partner here. Tell me: doesn't this materialist view hold that fire, water, earth, and air are the first elements of everything? That these people call this "nature"? And that they think the soul was formed afterward, out of these elements? This isn't just my guess about what they mean — it's exactly what they're saying.

Cleinias: Exactly.

Athenian: Then, by heaven, we've found the source of this misguided theory held by all these natural philosophers! Examine their arguments very carefully. This isn't a trivial matter — their godlessness is deeply serious. It's not just that they reason badly. It's that their bad reasoning misleads others. That's what I truly object to.

Cleinias: You're right. But I'd like to understand how this works.

Athenian: I'm afraid the argument will seem unusual.

Cleinias: Don't hold back, Stranger. I can see you're worried this discussion will carry us beyond the bounds of legislation. But if there's no other way to demonstrate our shared belief that gods exist — the very gods our laws are said to honor — then let's take this path, my friend.

Athenian: Then I need to lay out the strange argument these people make — the ones who manufacture the soul according to their godless theories. What they claim is the first cause of generation and destruction is actually last, and what's actually last they put first. That's the root of their mistake about the true nature of the gods.

Cleinias: I still don't follow.

Athenian: Nearly all of them, my friends, seem to be ignorant of the nature and power of the soul — especially its origin. They don't realize that the soul is among the first of all things, that it existed before all physical bodies, and that it's the primary cause of all their changes and transformations. And if this is true — if the soul is older than the body — then mustn't the things that belong to the soul's nature also be prior to the things that belong to the body?

Cleinias: They must be.

Athenian: Then thought, attention, mind, art, and law are prior to hard and soft, heavy and light. And the great original works and actions are works of design — they come first. Nature and the works of nature — though people wrongly apply the word "nature" to them — come second, and are governed by art and mind.

Cleinias: But why is the word "nature" wrong?

Athenian: Because the people who use it mean "nature" is the first creative power. But if soul turns out to be the primeval element — not fire or air — then in the truest sense, soul is what most deserves to be called "natural." And this is true if you can prove that soul is older than the body. Otherwise, it isn't.

Cleinias: You're quite right.

Athenian: Shall we take this up as our next point of investigation?

Cleinias: Absolutely.

Athenian: Let's be careful, though. This argument has a youthful, deceptive appeal — it could easily trip us old men up and make fools of us. We might be aiming at something grand and end up missing even the basic point. Here's what I suggest. Imagine the three of us have to cross a swift river. I'm the youngest of us and the most experienced with rivers, so I'll go first by myself, while you two wait safely on the bank. I'll test whether the river is safe for older men like yourselves. If it is, I'll call you over, and my experience will help guide you across. If it's too deep, the only one at risk will be me. Fair proposal?

What I mean is this: the argument ahead is probably going to be too difficult and too deep for you, since you're not accustomed to this kind of philosophical questioning. A torrent of questions could leave you dizzy and confused — not a pleasant experience. So I think it's better if I ask the questions and answer them myself while you listen from safe ground. That way I can work through the entire proof that the soul is prior to the body.

Cleinias: Excellent, Stranger. Please do exactly that.

Athenian: Come, then. If ever there was a time to call on the gods, this is it. Let's invoke them with all seriousness to help us demonstrate their own existence. Holding tight to that rope, let's venture into the deep.

Here's how I'd start. If someone asks me: "Stranger, is everything at rest and nothing in motion? Or is the opposite true? Or are some things in motion and some at rest?" I'd answer: some things are in motion, some at rest.

"And don't things that move move in a place, and things at rest stay in a place?" Of course. "And some move or rest in just one place, while others move through more than one?" By "moving in one place," we mean the kind of motion you see when a globe spins — rotation around a center, like a ball on a lathe. In that rotation, the same motion carries both the larger and the smaller circle around at the same time, distributed proportionally — faster at the rim, slower at the center. Here's something remarkable: the same motion produces different speeds in proportion to the size of the circles. "Quite true."

And by "moving through more than one place," we mean things that travel from point to point, sometimes having one center of motion, sometimes more than one, as they spin on their axes. When they collide with something stationary, they split apart. When they meet other bodies moving toward them from the opposite direction, they combine into a unity. "Agreed."

And when they combine, they grow. When they divide, they diminish — assuming their basic constitution holds. If it doesn't, that's a different kind of destruction entirely.

"When are all things created, and how?" They're created when a first principle grows from one dimension to two, from two to three, and at the third dimension becomes perceptible to the senses. Everything that changes and moves in this way is in the process of coming into being. It has real existence only when it's at rest. When it passes into a different state, it's destroyed completely.

Have we now covered all the kinds of motion and classified them — with the exception, my friends, of two?

Cleinias: Which two?

Athenian: Precisely the two that our whole inquiry is really about.

Cleinias: Say more.

Athenian: Our inquiry is ultimately about the soul, isn't it?

Cleinias: It certainly is.

Athenian: Then let's say there's one kind of motion that can move other things but can't move itself. That's one kind. And there's another kind that can move both itself and other things — working through combination and separation, growth and diminution, generation and destruction. That's another kind of motion.

Cleinias: Granted.

Athenian: Let's call the motion that moves other things but is itself moved by something else the ninth kind. And the motion that moves itself and everything else — the motion involved in every action and every experience, the true source of change and motion in all things — let's call that the tenth.

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: Now, of these ten kinds of motion, which should we say is the mightiest and most powerful?

Cleinias: I'd have to say the motion that can move itself is ten thousand times superior to all the others.

Athenian: Well said. But may I correct something I said earlier?

Cleinias: What correction?

Athenian: When I called self-motion the tenth kind, that wasn't quite right.

Cleinias: What was wrong about it?

Athenian: In the true order of things, what I called the tenth is actually the first — first in origin and first in power. And what comes after it, the motion I strangely labeled the ninth, is really second.

Cleinias: What do you mean?

Athenian: Think about it. When one thing is moved by another, and that thing by something else, and so on — can there ever be a first mover in such a chain? How could something moved by something else ever be the beginning of change? That's impossible. But when the self-moved moves other things, and those move still others, and so thousands upon thousands of bodies are set in motion — mustn't the very beginning of all this motion be the change of the self-moving principle?

Cleinias: Absolutely. I agree completely.

Athenian: Or let me put it another way. If, as most of these philosophers have the nerve to claim, everything were originally at rest in one undifferentiated mass — which of our principles of motion would be the first to arise?

Cleinias: Obviously self-motion. There could be no change arising from an external cause in a mass where everything is at rest. The change would have to begin within.

Athenian: Then we must conclude that self-motion, as the origin of all motions — the first to arise among things at rest and the first among things in motion — is the oldest and mightiest principle of change. And what is changed by another thing but sets other things in motion is second.

Cleinias: That's exactly right.

Athenian: Now let me ask a question at this point in the argument.

Cleinias: What question?

Athenian: If we saw this self-moving power existing in something made of earth, water, fire, or any combination of elements — what would we call it?

Cleinias: Are you asking whether we'd call a self-moving power "life"?

Athenian: That's exactly what I'm asking.

Cleinias: We certainly would.

Athenian: And when we find soul in anything, we have to say the same thing — that it has life?

Cleinias: We do.

Athenian: Now, bear with me here — you'd agree that we can know things in three ways?

Cleinias: What do you mean?

Athenian: We can know the essence of something, the definition of that essence, and the name. And there are two kinds of questions we can ask about anything.

Cleinias: Two?

Athenian: Sometimes a person gives you the name and asks for the definition. Other times they give you the definition and ask for the name. Let me illustrate.

Cleinias: Go ahead.

Athenian: Take numbers. Some numbers can be divided into two equal parts. When a number can be divided that way, we call it "even." So the name is "even," and the definition is "a number divisible into two equal parts."

Cleinias: True.

Athenian: My point is this: whether we start from the definition and arrive at the name, or start from the name and arrive at the definition, we're talking about the same thing. "Even" means "a number divisible into two equal parts" — same thing, two ways of expressing it.

Cleinias: Exactly.

Athenian: So what's the definition of what we call "soul"? Can we give it any other definition than the one we've already arrived at — the motion that can move itself?

Cleinias: Are you saying that the essence we've defined as "the self-moved" is the same thing that goes by the name "soul"?

Athenian: Yes. And if that's true, can we still say there's anything lacking in the proof that soul is the first origin and moving power of everything that exists, has existed, or will exist — and of all their opposites? Soul has been clearly shown to be the source of change and motion in all things.

Cleinias: Nothing is lacking. It's been proven beyond any doubt that soul, as the source of all motion, is the oldest of all things.

Athenian: And the kind of motion produced in one thing by the action of another — motion that never involves any self-moving power, being merely the change of lifeless matter — that's second in rank, or as far down the scale as you like?

Cleinias: Exactly.

Athenian: Then we're right — absolutely and perfectly right — when we say that soul is prior to body, that the body is second and comes afterward, and that the body was born to obey the soul, which is its ruler.

Cleinias: Nothing could be more true.

Athenian: And do you remember what we agreed to earlier — that if soul is prior to the body, then the things belonging to soul must also be prior to the things belonging to the body?

Cleinias: Of course.

Athenian: Then character, temperament, wishes, reasoning, true beliefs, reflections, and memories are all prior to length, width, depth, and physical strength — if soul is indeed prior to the body.

Cleinias: Necessarily so.

Athenian: And the next step: mustn't we accept that soul is the cause of good and evil, of what's noble and base, of justice and injustice, and of all other opposites — if we're saying soul is the cause of all things?

Cleinias: We must.

Athenian: And since soul orders and inhabits everything that moves, in whatever way it moves, mustn't we also say that soul orders the heavens?

Cleinias: Of course.

Athenian: One soul, or more than one? More than one — I'll answer that for you. We certainly can't suppose there are fewer than two: one that's the source of good, and another that's the source of evil.

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: Yes. So soul directs all things in heaven, on earth, and in the sea through its own movements — movements we describe with words like will, deliberation, attention, reasoning, true and false belief, joy, sorrow, confidence, fear, hatred, love, and all the other primary impulses of the soul. These in turn set in motion the secondary, physical changes in material things, guiding everything toward growth and decay, composition and decomposition, and all the qualities that accompany them — heat and cold, heaviness and lightness, hardness and softness, whiteness and blackness, bitterness and sweetness.

When soul truly receives divine mind and works with it, she governs everything rightly, guiding all things toward their proper fulfillment. But when she keeps company with folly, she does exactly the opposite. Shall we accept all this, or do we still have doubts?

Cleinias: No room for doubt at all.

Athenian: So shall we say that the soul which governs heaven and earth and the entire world is a principle of wisdom and virtue — or a principle that has neither?

Cleinias: How would you answer?

Athenian: Like this: if the whole path and movement of the heavens, and of everything in them, is by nature akin to the movement, revolution, and calculation of mind — if it proceeds according to kindred laws — then clearly we must say that the best soul governs the world and guides it along the path of good.

Cleinias: True.

Athenian: But if the world moves wildly and erratically, then it's an evil soul that guides it.

Cleinias: Also true.

Athenian: Now, what kind of motion does mind exhibit? This is a hard question to answer well, so let me help.

Cleinias: Good.

Athenian: Let's not try to look directly at the answer, as if staring straight into the sun at noon — we'd only blind ourselves. I mean, let's not pretend we can fully grasp the nature of mind with mortal understanding. It's safer to look at an image.

Cleinias: What image?

Athenian: Of our ten kinds of motion, let's pick the one that most closely resembles mind. I'll remind you of it and then answer the question on behalf of all of us.

Cleinias: That sounds right.

Athenian: You remember our distinction between things at rest and things in motion?

Cleinias: Yes.

Athenian: And that among things in motion, some move in one place while others move through more than one?

Cleinias: Yes.

Athenian: Of these two, the motion that stays in one place — rotating around a center like a sphere on a lathe — is most closely related to the circular movement of mind.

Cleinias: What do you mean?

Athenian: I'm saying that both mind and circular motion share the same qualities: they move in the same way, in the same place, around the same center, in relation to the same thing, according to a single proportion and order — like the motion of a spinning globe. That's a fair image of mind, and it does us credit.

Cleinias: It certainly does.

Athenian: And the opposite kind of motion — the kind that's irregular, never in the same place, never around the same center, with no consistent proportion, order, or pattern — that would be akin to mindlessness and folly.

Cleinias: Absolutely.

Athenian: So after everything we've said, it's not hard to state clearly: since soul drives all things in their courses, either the best soul or its opposite must of necessity govern the revolution of the heavens.

Cleinias: And judging by our argument, Stranger, it would be impious to suggest that any soul other than the most perfect governs the heavens.

Athenian: You've grasped my meaning perfectly, Cleinias. Now let me ask you another question.

Cleinias: Go ahead.

Athenian: If soul drives the sun and moon and the other stars through their courses, doesn't it drive each one individually?

Cleinias: Of course.

Athenian: Then let's take one of them as our example. The same reasoning will apply to all.

Cleinias: Which one?

Athenian: Everyone can see the body of the sun. But no one sees its soul — or the soul of any other body, living or dead. And yet there's strong reason to believe that this invisible nature surrounds all of them, though it can only be perceived by the mind. So let's use mind and reflection to grasp the following point.

Cleinias: What point?

Athenian: If soul drives the sun, we won't go far wrong in proposing one of three possibilities.

Cleinias: Which three?

Athenian: Either the soul that moves the sun resides within that round, visible body — the way our soul lives within us and carries us around. Or the soul provides itself with an external body made of fire or air, as some thinkers claim, and physically pushes the sun along. Or third, the soul has no body at all but guides the sun through some extraordinary and wondrous power.

Cleinias: Yes — the soul must operate in one of these three ways.

Athenian: And this soul of the sun, which is necessarily greater than the sun itself — whether it carries the sun along in a chariot to give us light, or acts from outside, or guides it by whatever mysterious means — this soul ought to be considered a god by every person.

Cleinias: Yes — by anyone with the slightest trace of sense.

Athenian: And what about the stars, the moon, the years, the months, and the seasons? Mustn't we say the same thing? Since souls possessing every kind of excellence are the causes of all these things, those souls are gods — whether they inhabit physical bodies and govern the heavens from within, or whatever their mode of existence may be. Could anyone who accepts all this still dare to deny that the universe is full of gods?

Cleinias: No one would be that mad, Stranger.

Athenian: Good. Now, Megillus and Cleinias, let's offer terms to the person who has until now denied the existence of the gods, and then move on.

Cleinias: What terms?

Athenian: Either he must teach us that we were wrong to say that soul is the origin of all things, and produce a better argument — or, if he can't do better, he must yield to us and live the rest of his life believing that gods exist. Let's consider whether we've said enough, or not enough, to those who deny the existence of the gods.

Cleinias: More than enough, Stranger.

Athenian: Then we'll say no more to them. Now we need to address the person who believes gods exist but thinks they don't care about human affairs.

"My friend," we'll say to him, "your belief in the gods is driven by a kind of natural kinship — something in you is drawn to them, leading you to honor and believe in them. But then you see wicked, unjust people prospering in both private and public life — people who aren't truly happy but are wrongly judged to be, people celebrated by poets and writers alike. And this shakes your faith. Or perhaps you've personally witnessed monstrous acts of impiety, and you've seen people use criminal means to climb from nothing to the heights of power and wealth. When you observe all this, you don't want to blame the gods — they're your relatives, after all — but you can't make sense of it either. So, caught between confused reasoning and unwillingness to criticize the gods, you've ended up believing they exist but don't concern themselves with human affairs.

"To prevent this opinion from deepening into still greater impiety, let's see if we can reason it away before it takes root. We'll build on the argument we already made to the person who denied the gods entirely. Megillus and Cleinias, answer for our young friend as you did before. And if we hit any rough patches, I'll take over and carry you across the river, just as I did last time."

Cleinias: Very good. Do as you say, and we'll help however we can.

Athenian: It probably won't be hard to prove that the gods care about small things as much as great ones. After all, our friend was present and heard what we said — that the gods are perfectly good, and that caring for all things is fundamental to their nature.

Cleinias: Yes, he certainly heard that.

Athenian: So let's consider together what we mean by the virtue we're attributing to them. Surely we'd agree that being wise and self-controlled belongs to virtue, and the opposite belongs to vice?

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: And courage is part of virtue, cowardice part of vice?

Cleinias: True.

Athenian: And one is honorable, the other disgraceful?

Cleinias: Of course.

Athenian: And whatever is base and contemptible — those are human failings. The gods have no share in anything of the sort.

Cleinias: Everyone would agree with that.

Athenian: Now — would we count carelessness, laziness, and self-indulgence as virtues? What do you think?

Cleinias: Absolutely not.

Athenian: They belong to the opposite category?

Cleinias: Yes.

Athenian: And their opposites — diligence, attentiveness, discipline — belong to the category of virtue?

Cleinias: Yes.

Athenian: So anyone who truly possesses all these good qualities wouldn't be lazy, heedless, or self-indulgent — like those useless drones the poets compare to stingless bees?

Cleinias: A perfect comparison.

Athenian: Then we certainly can't attribute to God a nature that God himself would despise. Anyone who says such a thing is completely out of line.

Cleinias: Of course not. How could God have a nature he hates?

Athenian: Think about it this way. If someone is responsible for managing something — whether they're god or human — and they pay attention to the big picture while neglecting the small details, wouldn't we be entirely wrong to praise them? It has to be for one of two reasons.

Cleinias: What are they?

Athenian: Either they think neglecting small things doesn't matter to the whole, or they know it matters but neglect those things out of carelessness and laziness. Is there any other explanation? Obviously, when something is genuinely beyond someone's power to manage — when even a god or lesser being lacks the strength or ability to handle it — that's not negligence. That's just limitation.

Cleinias: Obviously not.

Athenian: Now, let's put the question to both groups of offenders at once — the ones who say the gods can be bribed, and the ones who say the gods don't care about details. We're three, and they're two, so let's say to them: "First, you both acknowledge that the gods hear and see and know all things, and that nothing within the range of sense or knowledge can escape them. Do you accept that?"

Cleinias: Yes.

Athenian: "And do you accept that they possess all the power that mortals and immortals can possess?"

Cleinias: Of course they'll accept that too.

Athenian: "And all five of us — the three of us and the two of them — have agreed that the gods are good and perfect."

Cleinias: Without question.

Athenian: But if they're everything we've agreed they are, is it even conceivable that they'd act out of carelessness or laziness? Think about it: in human beings, inactivity is born of cowardice, and carelessness is born of inactivity and self-indulgence.

Cleinias: Exactly right.

Athenian: Then no god could ever be negligent out of laziness or carelessness — because gods have no cowardice in them.

Cleinias: Perfectly true.

Athenian: So if the gods do neglect the smaller and lesser matters of the universe, the only remaining explanation is that they know such things don't need their attention. What other explanation could there be?

Cleinias: None.

Athenian: So, my excellent friend — which interpretation should I take from your position? That the gods are careless because they're ignorant and don't know they ought to attend to these things? Or that they do know what's right but, like the lowest sort of people, choose the worse course because they're overcome by pleasure or pain?

Cleinias: That's impossible.

Athenian: Consider this: doesn't everything that has a soul share in the divine nature? And isn't man the most religious of all creatures?

Cleinias: That can't be denied.

Athenian: And we agree that all mortal creatures belong to the gods, just as the whole of heaven does?

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: So whether someone considers these possessions great or small, it would go against the gods' nature to neglect them — since the gods own us, and they're the most attentive and excellent of all owners. But there's another point to consider.

Cleinias: What's that?

Athenian: Perception and power work in opposite ways when it comes to difficulty. It's harder to perceive small things than large ones — but it's easier to manage and control small things than large ones.

Cleinias: Much easier.

Athenian: Consider a doctor who's willing and able to cure a patient's whole body. If he pays attention only to the major organs and ignores the smaller parts, how will the patient fare?

Cleinias: Not well at all.

Athenian: The same goes for generals, pilots, household managers, statesmen — every kind of manager you can name. The big things don't hold together without attention to the small. As builders say: the large stones don't sit right without the smaller ones.

Cleinias: Of course not.

Athenian: Then let's not consider God inferior to human craftsmen. A good craftsman uses the same skill to perfect both large and small work. And God, the wisest of all beings — who is both willing and able to take care of things — can't be compared to some lazy good-for-nothing who gives up on the easy tasks and only bothers with the hard ones.

Cleinias: Never, Stranger! Let's never entertain such an impious and false idea about the gods.

Athenian: I think we've argued enough with the person who accuses the gods of negligence.

Cleinias: Yes.

Athenian: He's been forced to see his error. But I think he still needs some words of comfort.

Cleinias: What comfort would you offer?

Athenian: Let's say to the young man:

"The ruler of the universe has arranged all things with an eye to the excellence and preservation of the whole. Every part, as far as possible, acts and is acted upon in a way appropriate to its nature. Over every part, down to the smallest fraction, overseers have been appointed who have worked out their governance with infinite precision. And your life, insignificant man, is one of those parts. Small as it is, it contributes to the whole. But what you fail to realize is this: every created thing exists for the sake of the whole, so that the life of the whole may flourish. You were created for the sake of the whole — not the whole for the sake of you.

"Every doctor, every skilled craftsman, does everything for the sake of the whole — working toward the common good, shaping the part to serve the whole, not the whole to serve the part. And you're resentful because you don't understand how what happens to you serves the good of the universe as far as the laws of creation allow.

"Now, since the soul passes through different bodies and undergoes all kinds of changes — whether through its own choices or through the influence of other souls — all that remains for the cosmic player is to move the pieces accordingly: sending the better nature to a better place, the worse to a worse place, giving each its proper portion."

Cleinias: What do you mean by that?

Athenian: I'm describing how the gods' oversight of everything could be perfectly easy. Imagine if someone were to rearrange all things at random, without regard to the whole — creating a living creature of water from fire, for example, instead of following the orderly progression of transformations, where many things come from one and one from many in a regular sequence. The complexity would be infinite. But the ruler of the world actually has a remarkably straightforward task.

Cleinias: How so?

Athenian: Here's how. When the king — the cosmic ruler — saw that all our actions are animated by soul, and that there's much virtue and much vice in them; that soul and body, though not eternal like the popular conception of gods, are nonetheless indestructible once they've come into being (for if either could be destroyed, living creatures would cease to be generated); and when he observed that goodness of soul naturally benefits, while evil naturally harms — seeing all this, he arranged each part so that goodness would most easily and effectively triumph over evil in the grand scheme of things.

He devised a universal plan determining where each type of soul would go and what place it would occupy. But the development of character and quality he left to individual free will. Each of us becomes what we are through the direction of our desires and the nature of our soul.

Cleinias: Yes, that's probably right.

Athenian: Everything that has a soul carries within itself a principle of change. As it changes, it moves in accordance with the law and order of destiny. Souls that have undergone only minor changes move less and stay closer to the earth's surface. But those that have changed more drastically and become more corrupt sink down into the abyss — into Hades and the regions below, the very places whose names fill people with terror, places they glimpse in dreams both during life and after death.

And whenever the soul takes on more goodness or more evil — through its own efforts or the powerful influence of other souls — when it enters into communion with divine virtue and becomes divine, it's carried to a different and better place, one perfect in holiness. But when it keeps company with evil, it changes its place accordingly.

"This is the justice of the gods who dwell on Olympus."

Young man — you who imagine the gods have forgotten you — know this: if you become worse, you'll join worse souls. If you become better, you'll join better ones. In every cycle of life and death, you'll do and suffer what like justly suffers at the hands of like. This is heaven's justice, and neither you nor any other unlucky soul will ever escape it. The powers that ordained it made sure of that. Take it seriously — because it will certainly take you seriously.

If you say, "I'm small — I'll burrow into the earth and hide," or "I'm great — I'll fly up to heaven and escape" — you're neither small enough nor great enough to avoid the fitting consequence, whether it comes in this life, in the world below, or in some still harsher place.

And this also explains those cases that troubled you — wicked people who seemed to rise from misery to greatness through unholy deeds. You thought you were seeing proof of divine neglect. But you were seeing a mirror, and you didn't know how to read the reflection. You didn't understand how the gods make all things work together for the good of the whole.

Bold man — do you really think you don't need to understand this? Without understanding it, no one can form any true idea of happiness or unhappiness, or hold any rational discussion about the meaning of life.

If Cleinias here and this worthy company of ours can convince you that you don't know what you're talking about when it comes to the gods, then God himself will help you. But if you want to hear more, listen to what we say to our third opponent — assuming you have any capacity to understand at all. I believe we've sufficiently proven that the gods exist and that they care about human beings. What remains is the third claim: that the gods can be bribed by the wicked and turned aside by gifts. This is something we must not concede to anyone, and every person should refute it with all their strength.

Cleinias: Very good. Let's do exactly that.

Athenian: Well then — I call on the gods themselves as my witnesses — tell me: if the gods are to be bribed, how would that work? Who are they, and what's their nature? They must at least be the rulers who constantly govern the entire heavens, mustn't they?

Cleinias: True.

Athenian: And what earthly rulers can we compare them to? Or who can be compared to them? Where can we find a smaller image of what's greater? Are they like charioteers driving teams of horses? Or like pilots steering ships? Maybe they're like generals commanding armies? Or doctors fighting against the diseases that attack the body? Or farmers anxiously watching the seasons' effect on their crops? Or shepherds tending their flocks?

We've established that the world is full of many good things and also many evils — more evils than goods, in fact. There's an unending battle raging, one that requires extraordinary vigilance. The gods and lesser divine beings are our allies in this battle, and we are their charges. What destroys us is injustice, arrogance, and folly. What saves us is justice, self-control, and wisdom. These virtues exist in their fullest form in the life of the gods, though traces of them can be found among human beings too.

But here on earth, we know there are souls driven by injustice — souls that can be compared to animals fawning on their keepers, whether those keepers are dogs, shepherds, or the most accomplished masters. For these corrupt souls, as wicked people openly declare, use flattery, prayers, and incantations to ingratiate themselves with their keepers, and they're allowed to profit at others' expense. And this sin, which goes by the name of dishonesty, is really the same kind of evil as disease in a body, pestilence in a season, and — when it appears in cities and governments — injustice.

Cleinias: Exactly right.

Athenian: So what must someone actually be claiming when they say the gods are always lenient to wrongdoers, as long as the wrongdoers share the spoils? It's as if wolves tossed a piece of their prey to the guard dogs, and the dogs, bought off by the offering, let the wolves tear the flock apart. Isn't that exactly the argument of anyone who says the gods can be bribed?

Cleinias: Precisely.

Athenian: Now, to which of those categories of guardian could anyone compare the gods without absurdity? Would anyone say the gods are like pilots who get drunk on offerings of wine and rich food, and end up capsizing the ship with everyone aboard?

Cleinias: Certainly not.

Athenian: Surely they're not like charioteers bribed to throw the race and let another team win?

Cleinias: That would be a horrifying image of the gods.

Athenian: And they're not like generals, or doctors, or farmers, or shepherds. No one would compare them to guard dogs that have been silenced by wolves.

Cleinias: Unspeakable.

Athenian: And aren't the gods the supreme guardians of all, watching over our highest and most important concerns?

Cleinias: The very highest.

Athenian: Then shall we say that these guardians of our noblest interests — the best guardians in existence — are inferior in virtue to dogs, or even to moderately decent human beings, who would never betray justice for the sake of bribes impiously offered by wicked people?

Cleinias: Absolutely not. The very idea is intolerable. Anyone who holds such a view deserves to be singled out as the most wicked and impious person alive.

Athenian: Then can we say that our three propositions have been sufficiently demonstrated? That gods exist, that they care about human beings, and that they can never be persuaded to commit injustice?

Cleinias: You have our complete agreement.

Athenian: I've spoken with some heat, I know — because I'm passionate in my opposition to wicked people. Let me tell you why, dear Cleinias. I didn't want the wicked to think that because they have clever arguments on their side, they can do whatever they please and believe whatever they want about the gods. That passion pushed me to speak too forcefully. But if we've succeeded even a little in making these people hate their own vices and love their opposites, then this introduction to our laws on impiety will not have been in vain.

Cleinias: Let's hope so. And even if we haven't fully succeeded, our style of argument won't disgrace the lawgiver.

Athenian: Now, after this introduction, the law itself must follow — the law that will put our arguments into practice. To all impious persons, the message is this: abandon your ways and turn to piety. And for those who refuse, the law on impiety shall be as follows:

If anyone is guilty of impiety in word or deed, any person who witnesses it shall report it to the magistrates, in support of the law. The magistrates who first receive the report shall bring the accused before the appropriate court, as the law requires. And if any magistrate, after receiving such a report, fails to act, that magistrate shall himself be tried for impiety by anyone willing to uphold the laws. If anyone is convicted, the court shall determine the punishment for each specific act of impiety. All such criminals shall be imprisoned.

There shall be three prisons in the state. The first is the ordinary prison, near the marketplace, for the general run of offenders. The second shall be near the Nocturnal Council and shall be called the "House of Reformation." The third shall be located in some remote, desolate region in the heart of the country, and shall bear a name suggesting retribution.

Now, there are three causes of impiety, as we've discussed, and each cause produces two varieties — making six types of impiety in total, which deserve to be distinguished and should not all receive the same punishment.

Consider the person who doesn't believe in the gods but has a naturally righteous character — someone who hates wickedness, despises injustice, avoids unrighteous people, and is drawn to the righteous. Then consider the person who, besides believing the world has no gods, is also intemperate — someone who happens to have a sharp memory and a quick wit. Both are unbelievers, but the second does far more harm than the first.

The first type may talk loosely about the gods, about sacrifices and oaths. By laughing at other people's beliefs, he may lead others into similar views — if he goes unpunished. But the second type, who holds the same opinions and is called "clever," is full of cunning and deceit. From this class come tyrants and demagogues, generals and founders of secret cults, and the so-called Sophists with their ingenious schemes. There are many varieties of unbelievers, but legislation is needed for only two: the hypocritical type, whose crime deserves death many times over, and the type who merely needs confinement and a talking-to.

Similarly, the belief that the gods don't care produces two more types of offense, and the belief that the gods can be bribed produces two more — six types in all.

Those who have fallen into error purely from lack of understanding — not from malice or corrupt character — shall be placed by the judge in the House of Reformation for a period of no less than five years. During this time, they shall have no contact with other citizens, except for members of the Nocturnal Council, who shall visit them with the aim of healing their souls. When their imprisonment is up, if any of them has come to their senses, they shall be restored to normal society. But if they haven't reformed and are convicted a second time, they shall be put to death.

As for the truly monstrous cases — those who not only deny the gods or claim the gods are negligent or bribable, but who go further, holding humanity in contempt, claiming to conjure the souls of the living, promising to summon the dead, and offering to charm the very gods with sacrifices and prayers, all for the sake of money — people who would destroy individuals, entire families, and whole cities for profit — anyone convicted of such crimes shall be confined in the prison in the center of the country. No free person shall ever visit them. They shall receive their food rations from public servants, as directed by the guardians of the law. And when they die, their bodies shall be cast beyond the borders, unburied. If any free citizen helps to bury them, that citizen shall face prosecution for impiety by anyone willing to bring the charge. However, if the convicted person leaves behind children fit for citizenship, the guardians of orphans shall care for them, just as they would for any other orphans, from the day of their parent's conviction.

In all these cases, there should be one additional law that will make people in general less likely to offend in word or deed, and less foolish — because they won't be allowed to practice unauthorized religious rites. Here is the straightforward rule:

No one shall maintain private religious shrines. When someone wishes to sacrifice, they shall go to the public temples and hand their offerings to the priests and priestesses who oversee these sacred matters. They may pray, and anyone who wishes may join them in prayer.

The reasoning is this: setting up gods and temples properly is no small matter — it requires great intelligence. And women especially, but men too, when they're sick or in danger or facing any kind of difficulty, or when they experience some stroke of good fortune — they have a way of consecrating the moment, vowing sacrifices, promising to build shrines to gods, demigods, and divine heroes. And when people are shaken by terrifying visions and dreams, they seek remedies in altars and temples, and they'll fill every house and every village square with them — placing them in the open air, or wherever the vision occurred. For all these reasons, the law must be obeyed.

There's another consideration as well. The law keeps an eye on the impious, ensuring they don't imagine they can propitiate the gods in secret — raising private temples, building private altars, offering private sacrifices and prayers — while actually multiplying their offenses infinitely. Such behavior brings divine punishment not only on themselves but on those who tolerate it, people who may be far better than they are. And in the end, the whole state reaps the harvest of their impiety — which, in a sense, it deserves.

God will not blame the lawgiver for enacting the following: No one shall possess shrines of the gods in private houses. If someone is found maintaining them and performing any sacred rites not publicly authorized — assuming the offender isn't also guilty of some other grave and impious crime — the person who discovers it shall inform the guardians of the law. The guardians shall order the offender to transfer their private rites to the public temples. If they refuse to comply, penalties shall be imposed until they do.

And if someone is proven guilty of impiety — not the trivial kind that comes from youthful foolishness, but the serious kind that grown adults commit — whether they have sacrificed publicly or privately to unauthorized gods, their sacrifice is impure, and they shall be punished with death. Whether the act was committed in earnest or from childish frivolity shall be determined by the guardians of the law before they bring the case to court and prosecute the offender for impiety.

Laws — Book XI

Athenian: Next, we need to properly regulate how people deal with each other in everyday life. The principle is actually very simple: don't touch what's mine, and don't take even the smallest thing that belongs to me without my permission. And may I be wise enough to treat others the way I'd want them to treat me. Let's start with buried treasure. I should never pray to the gods to find treasure that someone else buried for themselves and their family — someone who wasn't one of my own ancestors. And if I do stumble across such a treasure, I shouldn't dig it up. I should never have dealings with those so-called fortune-tellers who advise me to take what was entrusted to the earth, because the gain to my wallet wouldn't come close to matching what I'd lose in justice and virtue of soul. Justice in the soul is a better possession, in a better part of myself, than any amount of money in the bank. There's an old saying that applies to many things — "Don't move what shouldn't be moved" — and this is one of them. And we'd do well to believe the common tradition that says people who do such things end up without descendants.

Now, as for someone who doesn't care about having children and couldn't care less about the lawgiver — someone who digs up what neither he nor any ancestor of his buried, without the permission of the person who put it there, violating the simplest and most noble of laws, a rule laid down by no ordinary man: "Don't pick up what you didn't put down" — well, what this person deserves from the gods, only god knows. But here's what I'd have happen in practice: the first person who sees him should report him to the wardens of the city, if it happened in the city; to the wardens of the agora, if it happened in the marketplace; or to the wardens of the country and their commanders, if it happened in the countryside. Once the report is filed, the city shall send to Delphi, and whatever the oracle says about the money and the person who took it, the city shall carry out. If the informer is a free person, he'll earn the honor of having done the right thing. If he's a free person who fails to report it, he'll earn the dishonor of having done the wrong thing. If the informer is a slave, the state shall free him and pay his master the purchase price. But if a slave knows and doesn't report it, he'll be punished with death.

The same principle applies, in matters great and small, to lost property: if someone leaves something behind, whether on purpose or by accident, anyone who comes across it should leave it alone. These things are under the protection of the Goddess of the Roads, and the law dedicates them to her. But if someone defies this law and takes the property home — well, if the item is small and the person who takes it is a slave, any citizen at least thirty years old who catches him may give him a thorough beating. If the person is free, he'll be considered a mean-spirited law-breaker and shall pay ten times the value of what he took to the person who left it.

Now, if someone accuses another of possessing something that belongs to him — whether it's a large amount or small — and the other person admits he has the item but denies it belongs to the accuser, here's the procedure: if the property is registered with the magistrates according to law, the claimant shall summon the possessor, who must bring the item before the magistrates. If the public register shows who the rightful owner is, that person takes it and goes on his way. If the property is registered to someone who isn't present, anyone who posts sufficient bond on the absent owner's behalf can take the item as that person's representative. But if the property in question isn't registered with the magistrates at all, it shall stay in the custody of the three eldest magistrates until the case is tried. If the item is a living animal, the losing party shall pay the magistrates for its upkeep, and they shall settle the case within three days.

Anyone of sound mind may arrest his own slave and do with him whatever is lawful. He may also arrest the runaway slave of a friend or relative, for safekeeping. But if someone tries to take away a person who's being recaptured as a slave, claiming he wants to free him, the person doing the recapturing shall release the slave — provided the intervener posts three sufficient bonds. Only with those bonds may he take the slave away. If he takes the slave by any other means, he'll be guilty of assault, and if convicted, he'll pay double damages to the person deprived of the slave.

A person may also reclaim a freedman who doesn't show proper respect to the one who freed him. And here's what "proper respect" means: the freedman shall visit the hearth of his former master three times a month and offer to perform whatever services he reasonably can. He shall also agree to marry someone his former master approves of. He's not allowed to own more property than the person who freed him — anything over that amount belongs to his former master. A freedman can't remain in the state for more than twenty years. Like other foreigners, he must leave and take his property with him — unless he gets permission from both the magistrates and his former master to stay. If a freedman or any other foreigner accumulates property exceeding the census of the third class, he has thirty days from that point to pack up and leave. In this case, not even the magistrates can grant him permission to stay. If he disobeys and is brought to court and convicted, the punishment is death and confiscation of property.

Lawsuits on these matters shall be heard before the tribal courts, unless the plaintiff and defendant have already settled things through their neighbors or through privately chosen arbiters.

If someone claims that an animal or other piece of property belongs to him, the person in possession should point to the seller or to some honest, trustworthy person who legitimately transferred the property. If that person is a citizen or a resident alien living in the city, this must happen within thirty days. If the property was received from a foreigner, the timeframe is five months, with the middle month including the summer solstice.

When goods are bought and sold, the exchange — goods for payment — shall take place at a designated spot in the agora, and that's that. No buying or selling in any other location, and no credit. If an exchange happens elsewhere, or if the seller gives credit, he does so with the understanding that the law offers no protection for transactions conducted outside these rules. The same goes for voluntary contributions: anyone who likes may take up a collection among friends, but if any dispute arises about it, the law won't step in. That's his risk.

Anyone who sells goods worth more than fifty drachmas must stay in the city for ten days, and the buyer must be told where the seller lives. This is to handle the kind of complaints and returns that tend to come up. Here are the rules on returns:

If someone sells a slave who has tuberculosis, kidney stones, urinary disease, epilepsy, or some other chronic and incurable condition of body or mind that isn't obvious to a layperson — and the buyer is a doctor or trainer — there's no right of return. There's also no right of return if the seller disclosed the condition up front. But if a professional sells such a slave to a non-professional, the buyer can demand a return within six months — or within a year in the case of epilepsy. The case shall be decided by physicians agreed upon by both parties. If the seller loses, he pays double the sale price.

If one private person sells to another private person, there's still a right of return on the same terms, but the seller only has to refund the original price if he loses.

If someone sells a slave who's committed a homicide and both parties know about it, there's no right of return. But if the buyer doesn't know, he has the right of return whenever he discovers the truth. The case shall be decided by the five youngest guardians of the law. If the seller is found to have known, he must ritually purify the buyer's house according to the rules of the religious authorities, and pay back three times the purchase price.

When anyone exchanges money for money, or anything for anything else — whether living or not — the goods must be genuine and unadulterated, in accordance with the law.

And let's have a prelude on this whole subject of fraud, just as we've had preludes for our other laws. Everyone should recognize that adulteration belongs in the same category as lying and deceit. Now, plenty of people are fond of saying that lying and cheating are perfectly fine "at the right time and place." But they leave "the right time" and "the right place" completely vague, and this lack of precision causes enormous harm to themselves and others. A lawgiver can't afford to leave these things undefined — he needs to draw a clear line.

Here's the rule: no one shall invoke the gods to back up something false, deceitful, or dishonest — unless he wants to be the most hateful person in their eyes. And who's most hateful to the gods? First, the person who swears a false oath without any fear of them. Second, the person who tells lies in the presence of his superiors. Better people are the superiors of worse people; elders are the superiors of the young; parents are the superiors of children; men are the superiors of women and children; and rulers are the superiors of those they govern. Everyone should show reverence to those in positions of authority, especially those holding state office.

This is exactly why I'm bringing it up. Every person guilty of selling adulterated goods in the marketplace is telling a lie and committing fraud. And when he invokes the gods — swearing by the customs and cautions of the marketplace wardens — he's swearing with no respect for god or man. It's an excellent practice not to take the gods' names lightly, the way most people do, caring nothing about piety or purity in their religious dealings.

But if someone won't follow that excellent practice, here's the law: anyone who sells goods in the agora shall name one price and one price only. If he doesn't get it, he takes his goods home. On that day, he shall not raise or lower the price. And there shall be no puffing up of merchandise and no oath-swearing about it. If someone disobeys this rule, any citizen at least thirty years old may, without penalty, give the oath-swearer a beating. But if a citizen witnesses this and does nothing, he'll be liable for betraying the laws.

If someone sells adulterated goods and refuses to comply with these rules, anyone who can prove it in front of the magistrates — if the informer is a slave or resident alien — shall receive the adulterated goods as a reward. If the informer is a citizen and fails to pursue the charge, he'll be called a scoundrel and deemed to have robbed the gods of the marketplace. But if a citizen does prove the charge, he shall dedicate the confiscated goods to the gods of the agora.

Anyone proved to have sold adulterated goods shall not only lose the goods themselves but shall also be beaten — one lash for every drachma of the goods' price. A herald shall publicly announce in the agora what offense he's being beaten for. The wardens of the agora and the guardians of the law shall consult with experts about the various kinds of fraud and adulteration sellers commit. They shall write up clear rules about what sellers must and must not do, and inscribe these rules on a column in front of the court of the agora wardens, so that anyone doing business in the marketplace has clear guidance. We've said enough already about the wardens of the city — if anything's been left out, they should work with the guardians of the law to fill in the gaps and inscribe both the primary and secondary regulations on a column at the court of the city wardens.

After adulteration, retail trade naturally comes next. Let's start with a word of reason before we get to the law itself. Retail trade, by its nature, isn't meant to do harm — quite the opposite. Isn't someone who smooths out the inequalities in the distribution of goods actually a public benefactor? That's exactly what money does, and you could say that's what merchants are appointed to do. Innkeepers, hired workers, and all sorts of other occupations — some more respectable than others — all serve the same purpose: satisfying our needs and evening out our possessions. So let's try to understand what's given retail trade such a bad name, and why people consider it dishonorable and unseemly. If we can figure that out, we can at least partially fix the problem through legislation. Though I'll warn you — it's not easy, and it takes a great deal of virtue.

Cleinias: What do you mean?

Athenian: My dear Cleinias, only a very small number of people — people who must be exceptionally gifted by nature and well-trained by education — can resist temptation when their desires press in on them, hold to moderation, and choose a reasonable profit over an enormous one. The vast majority of people are the exact opposite: their desires have no limits, and when they could make a decent living, they'd rather chase unlimited profits. That's why everything connected with retail trade, commerce, and innkeeping gets lumped together as dishonorable.

Here's a thought experiment — and I know it sounds ridiculous, but bear with me. Suppose we could somehow force the very best people in society to run taverns for a while, or to work in retail trade, or to do anything of the sort. Or suppose some twist of fate compelled the finest women to do the same. Then we'd see just how pleasant and respectable these occupations really are. If they were run on honest principles, we'd honor them the way we honor a mother or a nurse.

But here's what actually happens. Some man sets up shop in an isolated spot, reachable only by a long journey, where travelers are desperate for shelter. He takes in strangers who are battered by storms or roasting in the heat. He gives them shelter and rest. And then — instead of treating them like friends and showing them proper hospitality — he treats them like prisoners of war at his mercy, refusing to let them go until they've paid the most outrageous, extortionate ransom he can squeeze out of them. That's the kind of behavior that gives these professions such a terrible reputation. And a lawgiver should always be looking for remedies for evils like this.

There's an old saying — a true one: "It's hard to fight on two fronts." And that applies here too, because the war is against two enemies: wealth and poverty. Wealth corrupts the soul with luxury, and poverty drives people into total shamelessness through sheer desperation. What can a sensible city do about this disease? Three things. First, keep the number of retail traders as small as possible. Second, assign the occupation to the class of people whose moral corruption would cause the least harm to the state. Third, devise some system so that the people in these occupations don't easily fall into habits of unlimited greed and pettiness.

With that prelude, let our law run as follows — and may fortune be with us:

No landowner among the Magnetes — no one from the 5,040 households whose city the god is restoring — shall become a retail trader, voluntarily or involuntarily. No landowner shall be a merchant, or perform personal services for private individuals unless they provide equal service in return — the only exceptions being service to his father, mother, grandparents, or elders who are free persons, served in a manner worthy of a free person. Now, it's hard to define precisely what's worthy or unworthy of a free person, but let those who have won prizes for virtue make that judgment based on their sense of right and wrong. Anyone who engages in the pettiness of retail trade may be indicted for dishonoring his family, by any citizen who wishes, before the tribunal of those judged most virtuous. If he's found to be degrading his father's household through an unworthy occupation, he'll be imprisoned for a year and required to stop. For a second offense: two years. And every subsequent conviction doubles the sentence.

Second law: anyone who engages in retail trade must be either a resident alien or a foreigner.

Third law: to make sure the retail traders living in our city are as good — or as little bad — as possible, the guardians of the law must remember that they're not only responsible for watching over the wellborn and well-bred, who are relatively easy to keep in line. They should pay even more attention to people of a different sort, who follow occupations with a strong tendency to make them bad. So regarding the many varieties of retail trade — those that are allowed to continue because they're clearly necessary to the state — the guardians of the law should meet with people experienced in each type of trade, just as we directed earlier regarding adulteration, which is a related issue. In those meetings, they shall determine what level of revenue, after deducting expenses, will produce a moderate profit for the retail trader. They shall set in writing and strictly enforce what they find to be the right profit margin. This shall be overseen by the wardens of the agora, the wardens of the city, and the wardens of the country. Done properly, retail trade will benefit everyone while doing the least possible harm to those who practice it.

When someone makes an agreement and then doesn't follow through — unless the agreement was one that the law or the assembly doesn't allow, or was made under unjust pressure, or was prevented from being fulfilled by some unexpected circumstance beyond his control — the other party may take him to the tribal courts for breach of agreement, provided they haven't already settled things through arbiters or their neighbors.

The class of craftsmen who've furnished humanity with the arts is sacred to Hephaestus and Athena. And there's another class of craftsmen — those who protect the works of all craftsmen through the arts of defense — who are sacred to Ares and Athena. Both classes serve the country and the people throughout their lives. Some are military leaders; others produce tools and works for hire. They should never deceive in their business, out of respect for the gods who are their patrons.

If a craftsman fails through laziness to complete his work on time — not respecting the god who provides his livelihood, foolishly thinking he's his own god and will let himself off easy — well, first, the god will deal with him. And second, the law will follow suit. He'll owe the person who hired him the price of the work he failed to complete, and he'll have to redo the job for free within the original timeframe.

When a person undertakes a job, the law gives him the same advice we gave to sellers: don't try to charge more than what it's worth. Just ask a fair price. A craftsman knows the true value of his work, and in a free society, he shouldn't try to exploit laypeople by hiding behind his expertise. If someone is cheated in this way, he has a right of action against the person who cheated him.

And the reverse is equally true: if someone hires a craftsman and then doesn't pay him according to their lawful agreement, he's disrespecting Zeus, guardian of the city, and Athena, partner of the state. He's undermining the foundations of society for a little bit of savings. Let the law and the gods defend the bonds that hold our community together. If someone has received the completed work but doesn't pay within the agreed time, he shall pay double the price. And if a year goes by — although we don't allow interest on loans — for every drachma he owes the craftsman, he shall pay an additional obol per month in interest.

These suits shall be decided by the tribal courts. And since we've mentioned craftsmen, we shouldn't forget that other craft — the craft of war. Generals and military strategists are craftsmen too, who take on, voluntarily or not, the work of keeping us safe, just as other craftsmen take on other public projects. If they do their work well, the law will never tire of praising anyone who gives them the honors that brave soldiers justly deserve. But if someone has already benefited from noble military service and then fails to give those soldiers the honor they've earned, the law will condemn him.

So let this be the law, framed with an ingredient of praise: it doesn't compel but advises the great body of citizens to honor the brave men who are the saviors of the whole state, whether through their courage or their military expertise. They should honor them, I say, in second place. For the first and highest honor goes to those who are able, above all others, to honor the words of good lawgivers.

We've now regulated the greater part of dealings between people, with one major exception: orphans and the supervision of orphans by their guardians. These have to come next.

But to get there, we need to start with the testamentary wishes of the dying and the cases of people who happen to die without a will. When I said we need to regulate these things, Cleinias, I had in mind just how difficult and tangled these matters always are. You can't leave them unregulated, because individuals would make their own arrangements that clash with one another, contradict the laws and habits of the living, and even contradict their own prior wishes. If people were simply allowed to make any will they pleased, to take effect in whatever mental state they happened to be in at the end of their life — well, most of us lose our clarity of mind, in a way, and feel overwhelmed when we think we're about to die.

Cleinias: What do you mean, Stranger?

Athenian: Oh, Cleinias — a dying man is an impossible creature. He tends to say things that cause the lawgiver no end of anxiety and trouble.

Cleinias: In what way?

Athenian: He wants absolute control over every last piece of his property, and he'll use some pretty angry words to get it.

Cleinias: Like what?

Athenian: "By the gods!" he'll cry. "How monstrous that I'm not allowed to give my own property to whoever I want — or not give it! Less to those who've treated me badly, and more to those who've treated me well — people whose true character I've tested through sickness and old age and every kind of fortune!"

Cleinias: Well, Stranger, doesn't he have a fair point?

Athenian: In my opinion, Cleinias, the ancient lawgivers were too soft-hearted. They made their laws without paying enough attention to how human beings actually are.

Cleinias: What do you mean?

Athenian: I mean they were afraid of the dying man's complaints, so they passed a law that let a person dispose of his property however he wished. But you and I — if I'm not mistaken — will have something better to say to our departing citizens.

Cleinias: What?

Athenian: "Dear friends," we'll say to them, "it's hard for you, creatures of a day, to know what's truly yours. It's hard, as the Delphic oracle says, to even know yourselves — especially at this hour. Now, I, as your lawgiver, don't regard you or your possessions as belonging entirely to you. They belong to your whole family, past and future. And even more than that, both your family and your possessions belong to the state. So if some flatterer comes along and catches you when you're tossed on the waves of illness or old age, and talks you into disposing of your property in a way that isn't for the best — I'm not going to let that happen, not if I can help it. I'll legislate with an eye to the whole picture, considering what's best for both the state and the family, rating an individual's feelings, as I should, at a lower value. And I hope you'll depart in peace and goodwill toward us, since you're going the way all humankind must go. We'll take impartial care of all your affairs, and we won't neglect a thing — not if we can possibly help it."

Let this be our prelude and our consolation to the living and the dying, Cleinias. And let the law be as follows:

A father who makes a will shall first name one of his sons as his heir — whichever one he thinks best. If he's giving any of his children to be adopted by another citizen, the adoption shall be recorded. If he has a son left over who hasn't been assigned to any household lot and who may be expected to be sent to a colony according to law, the father may give this son as much of his remaining property as he likes — except for the ancestral lot and the fixtures on it. If there are still more sons, he may divide whatever exceeds the lot among them in whatever proportions he chooses. But he shall not give money to a son who already has a household of his own, nor to a daughter who's been betrothed — though he may give money to an unbetrothed daughter. If any son or daughter later acquires another lot of land in the country after the will has been made, they shall leave their inherited lot to the original heir designated in the will.

If the testator has no sons but has daughters, he shall choose a husband for whichever daughter he pleases, designate that man as his son and heir, and record it. If a man has lost a son — his own or adopted — while the child was still young and hadn't yet reached manhood, the testator shall note the circumstance and name whomever he chooses as a second son, in hope of better fortune. If the testator has no children at all, he may give up to a tenth of his acquired property to anyone he likes. But he shouldn't be blamed if he leaves all the rest to his adopted son, making him a friend according to the law.

If a man's sons need guardians and he dies leaving a will that appoints them, those named guardians — whoever they are and however many — shall be recognized as guardians according to the will's provisions, provided they're able and willing to take on the job. But if he dies without a will, or with a will that names no guardians, then the next of kin — two from the father's side, two from the mother's side, and one friend of the deceased — shall serve as guardians, appointed by the guardians of the law whenever orphans need them. The fifteen eldest guardians of the law shall have overall care and responsibility for all orphans, divided into groups of three by seniority — one group of three serving for one year, then the next group the following year, cycling through all five groups. This rotation shall continue indefinitely.

If a man dies without any will at all and leaves sons who need guardians, they'll be protected by these same laws.

Now, if a man dies unexpectedly and leaves behind daughters, he should forgive the lawgiver if, in arranging their marriages, the lawgiver considers only two out of three conditions: closeness of kinship and preservation of the household lot — but leaves out the third condition that a father would naturally consider, which is choosing a husband based on character and disposition. The father should understand that this third consideration is, frankly, beyond the lawgiver's ability. So let the law on these matters be as follows, where practicable:

If a man dies without a will and leaves daughters behind, his brother — whether from the same father or the same mother — if he has no lot of his own, shall marry the daughter and take the dead man's lot. If there's no brother, but there's a brother's son, they shall marry, provided they're of suitable age. If there's no brother's son, but there's a sister's son, the same applies. In the fourth degree: the testator's father's brother. In the fifth: his father's brother's son. In the sixth: the child of his father's sister.

Kinship shall always be reckoned this way: when a person leaves daughters, the line of relationship proceeds upward through brothers and sisters, then their children — males first, then females in the same family. The judge shall assess whether the ages are suitable for marriage, inspecting the men unclothed and the women unclothed down to the waist.

If the family lacks kinsmen all the way out to grandchildren of a brother or grandchildren of a grandfather's children, the young woman may choose — with her guardians' consent — any willing citizen she wishes. That man becomes the heir of the deceased and the husband of his daughter. Circumstances vary, and sometimes there's an even greater shortage of relatives within the state. If a young woman has no living relatives in the city and there's someone who's been sent to a colony, she may make him heir to her father's estate if he's truly her kinsman — in which case he takes the lot according to the law. If he isn't her kinsman but is chosen by the daughter and approved by her guardians, he may return home and take the lot of the man who died without a will.

If a man dies without children of either sex and without a will, the previous law applies in general. A man and a woman from the family shall come forward and share the empty household, and the lot shall belong absolutely to them. The order of inheritance for the heiress: first degree, a sister; second, a brother's daughter; third, a sister's daughter; fourth, the father's sister; fifth, the daughter of the father's brother; sixth, the daughter of the father's sister. They shall live with their male kinsmen according to degree of relationship and right, as we established earlier.

Now, let's not kid ourselves — laws like these can be oppressive. Sometimes there's real hardship in the lawgiver commanding a dead man's relative to marry another relative. The lawgiver might seem not to have considered the countless obstacles that can arise. There may be cases where the parties refuse to obey and would do anything rather than marry, because there's some physical or mental illness or disability among those being told to marry. People might imagine the lawgiver never thought of this, but they'd be wrong.

So let's compose a shared prelude on behalf of both the lawgiver and his subjects. The law asks the subjects to forgive the lawgiver, because he has to look after the common good and can't simultaneously account for every individual circumstance. And the law asks the lawgiver to forgive the subjects, because sometimes they naturally can't fulfill a command that he, in his limited knowledge, imposes on them.

Cleinias: And how, Stranger, can we handle this most fairly?

Athenian: We need to appoint arbiters to deal with these laws and the people affected by them.

Cleinias: What do you mean?

Athenian: Here's an example. A nephew whose father is rich might be unwilling to marry his uncle's daughter. He feels he can do better and wants to aim higher. Or there might be cases where the lawgiver is effectively imposing a terrible calamity on someone — requiring him to take a wife who's mentally ill, say, or who has some other awful condition of body or mind that makes life unbearable. So let's put this into law:

If anyone objects to the established laws on wills and inheritance — particularly regarding marriage — and claims that the lawgiver, if he were alive and present, wouldn't force them to obey; that is, wouldn't force those our law requires to marry or be given in marriage to actually do so — and some kinsman or guardian disputes this claim — then here's the answer: the lawgiver left fifteen of the guardians of the law to serve as arbiters and surrogate fathers for orphans of both sexes. The disputants should bring their case to them, and their decision shall be final.

But if anyone feels this gives too much power to the guardians of the law, he may take his adversaries to the court of select judges and have the disputed points settled there. The loser shall bear the censure and blame of the lawgiver — which, for anyone with sense, is a penalty far heavier than a large financial loss.

And so orphan children will receive, in a way, a second birth. After their first birth, we talked about how they'd be raised and educated. After their second birth — when they've lost their parents — we need to make sure the misfortune of being orphaned is as painless as possible. First, we declare that the guardians of the law are lawmakers and fathers to them — no less capable than their natural fathers. They shall take charge of them year by year as if they were their own family. We've already given suitable guidance to both them and the children's own guardians about how to raise orphans.

And I think we spoke well in our earlier discussion when we said that the souls of the dead have the power, after death, to take an interest in human affairs. There are many stories and traditions about this — long stories, but true ones. Since they're so numerous and so ancient, we should believe them. And we should believe the lawgivers who tell us these things are true — unless we're prepared to call them complete fools.

If these things really are so, then first, people should fear the gods above, who watch over the loneliness of orphans. Second, they should fear the souls of the departed, who by nature are especially attentive to their own children — kindly disposed toward those who honor them, hostile toward those who mistreat them. People should also fear the souls of the living who are old and honored: wherever a city is well-governed and prosperous, their descendants take good care of them and live happily as a result. Old people are quick to notice everything that concerns them. They're favorable to those who treat orphans justly, and they punish those who wrong the orphaned and the desolate, considering them the most sacred and important of all trusts.

Every guardian and magistrate with any brains should take all this to heart, paying careful attention to the upbringing and education of orphans, doing them every possible good — because in doing so, he's making a contribution to his own well-being and that of his children.

Anyone who heeds this prelude and does no wrong to an orphan will never experience the lawgiver's wrath. But anyone who disobeys and wrongs a child who's lost a father or mother shall pay twice the penalty he'd have paid for the same wrong done to a child whose parents were alive.

As for other legislation about guardians' duties toward orphans, or magistrates' oversight of guardians — the guardians already have the example of how they bring up their own freeborn children and manage their own property. They already have well-stated laws about exactly these things. There's no need to treat orphans as some special category requiring completely separate rules. As things stand, the condition of orphans in our state isn't fundamentally different from that of children with fathers — though in practice, the honor and attention given to each group aren't usually equal.

That's why the law on this subject speaks in the most serious tones, with both persuasion and threat. And here's a threat that's entirely appropriate:

Every guardian of an orphan of either sex, and every guardian of the law assigned to supervise that guardian, shall love the unfortunate orphan as if the child were his own. He shall be just as careful and diligent in managing the orphan's property as he would with his own — or even more so. Everyone who has charge of an orphan shall observe this law.

If a guardian violates it, the magistrate may fine him. If the offender is a magistrate himself, the guardian may bring him before the court of select judges, and if convicted, the fine shall be doubled. If a guardian appears — to the orphan's relatives or to any citizen — to be acting negligently or dishonestly, they may bring him before the same court. Whatever damages are awarded, he'll pay fourfold — half to the orphan, half to the person who brought the case. If an orphan comes of age and believes he was mistreated by his guardians, he has five years after the guardianship ends to bring them to trial. If any guardian is convicted, the court shall determine what he must pay or suffer. If a magistrate is found to have wronged the orphan through neglect and is convicted, the court shall determine what he must pay or suffer. If there was dishonesty in addition to neglect, he shall not only pay the fine but be removed from his office as guardian of the law, and the state shall appoint a replacement for both the city and the country.

Sometimes the conflicts between fathers and sons grow larger than they should. Fathers may feel the lawgiver should let them officially disown their sons — announcing it through a herald for all the world to hear. Sons may feel they should be allowed to charge their fathers with incompetence when disease or old age has taken its toll. These things really only happen when both parties have thoroughly bad natures. When only one side is bad — the father good but the son bad, or vice versa — no great disaster results from that level of conflict.

But in our state, unlike others, a disowned son doesn't simply remain a citizen. He must emigrate, because not a single household can be added to the 5,040. So someone who deserves this fate must be renounced not just by his father alone but by the entire family. Here's how the law should work:

If a father — in the sad turmoil of his soul, whether justly or unjustly — wants to expel a son he begot and raised, he can't do it hastily or on a whim. First, he must assemble his own relatives out to the cousin level, plus his son's relatives on the mother's side. Before all of them, he shall make his case that the son deserves to be expelled from the family. The son shall have an equal opportunity to address them and show that he doesn't deserve it.

If the father persuades them — and gets more than half the votes of all the adult family members of both sexes, not counting the father, the mother, and the accused son himself — then and only then may the father disown his son.

If any other citizen wants to adopt the disowned son, no law shall prevent it — young men's characters go through many changes over the course of their lives. But if ten years pass and nobody adopts him, those in charge of excess population destined for colonies shall see to it that he's properly placed in a colony.

And if disease, old age, or harshness of temperament — or all three together — makes a man more out of his mind than most people, but this is only visible to those who live with him, and he's ruining his household while still controlling the property — and his son is hesitant about charging him with insanity — then the law directs the son to first go to the eldest guardians of the law and tell them about his father's condition. They shall investigate thoroughly and advise whether or not to proceed. If they advise going forward, they'll serve as both his witnesses and his advocates. If the father is found incompetent, from that day on he'll have no power to manage the smallest detail of his life. He shall live in his house as a child for the rest of his days.

If a husband and wife are hopelessly incompatible, ten impartial guardians of the law and ten of the women who oversee marriages shall look into the matter. If they can reconcile the couple, the reconciliation is official. But if the couple's passions are too volatile, the committee shall try to find each of them a better-matched partner. These people aren't likely to have the mildest temperaments, so we should try to pair them with deeper, gentler natures. Couples who have no children — or very few — at the time of their separation should choose new partners with a view to having children. But couples who already have enough children should separate and remarry so they'll have someone to grow old with and take care of each other in their later years.

If a wife dies leaving children, male or female, the law will advise — but not compel — the husband to raise them without bringing in a stepmother. But if he has no children, he must remarry until he's fathered enough sons for both his family and the state.

If a husband dies leaving enough children, the mother shall stay with them and raise them. But if she seems too young to live virtuously without a husband, her relatives should consult with the women who oversee marriages, and together they should do what seems best. If there's a shortage of children, the new match should be made with an eye to having more. Two children — one of each sex — shall be considered sufficient in the eyes of the law.

When a child is acknowledged as the offspring of certain parents, but a decision must be made about which parent the child follows — here are the rules: if a female slave has a child with a male slave, or with a free man, or with a freedman, the child always belongs to the master of the female slave. If a free woman has a child with a male slave, the child belongs to the master of the slave. But if a child is born to a slave woman by her master, or to a master's wife by a slave — and this is proven — then the women who oversee marriages shall send away the woman's child along with its father to another country, and the guardians of the law shall send away the man's child along with its mother.

Neither god nor any person of understanding would ever advise anyone to neglect their parents. As a prelude to our discussion of honoring and dishonoring parents, let me offer this introduction about serving the gods.

There are ancient and universal customs regarding the gods, and they come in two kinds. Some gods we can see with our own eyes, and we honor them. Others we honor through their images — we set up statues and worship those. And even though these statues are lifeless, we believe the living gods feel goodwill and gratitude toward us on account of this devotion.

Now, if a man has a father or mother — or their parents — living in his house, old and frail, he should understand this: no statue is more powerful in granting his prayers than those elderly parents sitting right there at his hearth — if only he knows how to serve them properly.

Cleinias: And what do you call serving them properly?

Athenian: I'll tell you, my friend — this is worth hearing.

Cleinias: Go on.

Athenian: The stories tell us that Oedipus, when his sons dishonored him, called down curses on them — curses that everyone agrees the gods heard and fulfilled. Amyntor in his rage cursed his son Phoenix. Theseus cursed Hippolytus. Countless others have called down the gods' wrath on their children. And this makes one thing clear: the gods listen to the prayers of parents. The curses of parents against their children are more powerful than any others, as is only right.

So consider: if the gods hear a father's or mother's prayers when they've been dishonored, and rain down punishment accordingly — shouldn't we suppose they also hear a parent who's been honored, and who joyfully prays to the gods for blessings on their children? If the gods answered curses but ignored blessings, they'd be very unfair distributors of good — and we've said that's contrary to their nature.

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: As I was saying, there's no image more honored by the gods than a living father or grandfather, or a mother grown old. When a person honors them, the god's heart rejoices and he's ready to answer their prayers. Truly, the figure of a living ancestor is a marvelous thing — far more powerful than any lifeless statue. The living, when we honor them, join their prayers to ours. When we dishonor them, they curse us. Statues do neither. So if a person treats his father, grandfather, and other elderly relatives as they deserve, he'll have the most powerful advocates for winning the gods' favor — better than any image ever carved.

Cleinias: Excellent.

Athenian: Every person with any sense fears and respects their parents' prayers, knowing full well that those prayers have been answered many times for many people. Given this natural order of things, good people consider it a blessing from heaven when their parents live to a ripe old age. And if their parents are taken before their time, they grieve deeply. But for bad people, parents are always a source of terror.

So let every person honor their parents with every lawful honor, in the spirit of what we've just said. But if this prelude is meaningless noise in someone's ears, let the law follow, and let it be imposed in these terms:

If anyone in this city fails to take proper care of his parents — if he doesn't consider and satisfy their wishes above those of his sons, his other children, or even himself — the mistreated parent may come in person, or send someone, to report the matter to the three eldest guardians of the law and three of the women who oversee marriages. They shall look into it and punish the offenders — men under thirty and women under forty — with beatings and imprisonment. If the offenders are older than that and still continue the same neglect, or do actual harm to a parent, they shall be brought before a court where every single one of the eldest citizens serves as judge. If convicted, the court shall determine what the offender must pay or suffer, and no penalty shall be off the table.

If the mistreated person can't get word to the magistrates, any free person who learns about it must report it. If he doesn't, he'll be considered contemptible, and anyone who wants may bring a suit for damages against him. If a slave provides the information, he shall be freed. If he's the slave of either the offender or the victim, the magistrates shall free him. If he belongs to another citizen, the state shall pay the owner his price. And the magistrates shall make sure no one retaliates against the slave for giving information.

We've already discussed cases where one person fatally poisons another. But we haven't yet addressed cases where someone intentionally and maliciously harms another with substances — food, drink, or ointments — in a non-fatal way. There are actually two kinds of harm by substances that people practice, and the line between them isn't clear. There's the straightforward kind, which I just mentioned, that injures bodies through other bodies according to natural cause and effect. Then there's another kind — sorcery, spells, and what people call "magic knots" — which convinces the bolder sort that they can do real damage through supernatural means, and makes other people believe they're being harmed by a magician's powers.

It's not easy to know the true nature of all these things. And even if you do know, it's hard to convince others. When people see wax figures nailed to their doors, or placed at crossroads, or left on their parents' graves, it's useless trying to persuade them to dismiss such things just because nobody really knows how they work. So we need a law in two parts, covering both kinds of harmful practices. And we should urge, encourage, and advise people not to resort to such things — scaring the public out of their wits like children, forcing the lawgiver and judge to cure the fears the sorcerer creates.

The first thing to tell people is this: anyone who tries to poison or enchant someone doesn't actually know what he's doing — not regarding the body, unless he has medical training, and not regarding enchantments, unless he happens to be a prophet or diviner.

So let the law on poisoning and sorcery be as follows: if someone uses poison to cause non-fatal injury to a person or his servants, or any injury — fatal or not — to his livestock or bees, and the poisoner is a physician convicted of the crime, the punishment is death. If he's a private citizen, the court shall determine what he must pay or suffer.

If someone appears to be the kind of person who harms others through magic knots, enchantments, spells, or similar practices — and he's a prophet or diviner — he shall die. If he's not a prophet but is convicted of sorcery, the court shall decide what he must pay or suffer, just as in the previous case.

When someone injures another through theft or violence, the damages shall be proportional — greater damages for greater injury, lesser for lesser. But in every case, the compensation must be enough to cover the loss. On top of that, the offender shall pay an additional penalty for the correction of his crime. If the wrong was committed under someone else's influence, through the recklessness of youth or something similar, the penalty shall be lighter. But if the wrong came from the offender's own weakness — overcome by pleasure or pain, by cowardly fear, or lust, or envy, or implacable anger — the punishment shall be heavier.

Not because he's being punished for having done wrong — what's done can never be undone — but so that in the future, both he and everyone who sees him corrected will utterly hate injustice, or at least significantly reduce their wrongdoing. With all this in mind, the law, like a skilled archer, should aim at the right measure of punishment — and in every case, the deserved punishment. The judge shall be the lawgiver's partner in this work, whenever the law leaves it to him to determine what the offender must pay or suffer. And the lawgiver, like a painter, shall provide a rough sketch of the cases where the law applies.

This is what we must do, Megillus and Cleinias, as well and as fairly as we can — spelling out the punishments for all acts of theft and violence, and crafting laws of the kind that the gods and children of gods would have us craft.

If a person is insane, he must not be allowed to roam the city freely. His relatives shall keep him at home by whatever means they can. If they don't, they'll be fined: a member of the highest property class shall pay a hundred drachmas — whether it's a slave or free person he's neglecting. Members of the second class shall pay eighty drachmas, the third class sixty, and the fourth class forty.

Now, there are many kinds of madness. Some arise from disease, which we've already discussed. But others spring from a naturally bad and passionate temperament, made worse by poor upbringing. From the slightest quarrel, this type of person will erupt in a storm of abuse — and nothing like that should be tolerated in a well-ordered state.

So here's the law on verbal abuse, covering all cases: no one shall speak evil of another person. When someone has a dispute, he should try to teach and learn from the other person and from those present, but he must abstain from insults. Because from the curses people hurl at each other — the petty habit of slinging mud and using foul language, words as light as air — real and terrible enmities and hatreds spring up. The speaker indulges his anger, which is the lowest element of his nature. He nurses his rage by dwelling on hostile thoughts, makes savage again the part of his soul that education once civilized, and ends up living in a state of bitter misery — paying a steep price for his anger. And in almost every case, people in disputes resort to ridicule. But no one who makes a habit of mocking others ever achieves genuine virtue and seriousness — or at the very least, they lose the better half of greatness.

Therefore: no one shall utter taunting words in a temple, at public sacrifices, at the games, in the agora, in a courtroom, or in any public gathering. The presiding magistrate shall punish the offender — and shall face no blame for doing so. But if the magistrate fails to act, he shall forfeit any claim to the prize of virtue, since he's someone who ignores the laws and doesn't do what the lawgiver commands.

In any other place, if someone engages in this kind of abuse — whether he started it or is retaliating — any elder present should uphold the law and physically restrain those indulging their passions, using force if necessary. If the elder fails to act, he'll be liable to pay the standard penalty.

Now here's the thing: anyone who insults another person inevitably tries to be funny about it. And when it's done in a moment of anger, that's exactly what we condemn. But where does this leave comedy? Do we allow comic writers who love to make fun of people — if they do it good-naturedly — to turn their wit against our citizens? Or do we draw a line between jest and earnest, allowing someone to use humor playfully and without anger about anything or anyone, but not if he's angry and has a serious agenda?

The earnest prohibition stands — that's final. But we still need to decide who gets permission and who doesn't when it comes to harmless humor.

Here's the rule: no comic poet, no writer of satirical iambic or lyric verse, shall be permitted to ridicule any citizen — whether by words or by caricature, whether in anger or without it. If anyone disobeys, the judges shall either expel him from the country immediately or fine him three minae, to be dedicated to the god who presides over the contests. Only those who've received official permission may write humorous verses about each other, and only in jest, without anger. In anger and with serious intent, it's forbidden. The superintendent of the general education of the young shall decide what gets approved. Whatever he licenses may be produced. Whatever he rejects, the poet may not perform himself or teach to anyone else — slave or free — under penalty of being publicly dishonored and declared disobedient to the laws.

The person who truly deserves pity isn't someone who's merely hungry or suffering physical hardship. It's someone who possesses temperance or some other virtue — and suffers misfortune despite it. It would be extraordinary if such a person, whether slave or free, were completely abandoned and fell into the worst kind of poverty in any reasonably well-governed state.

So the lawgiver can safely lay down this rule: there shall be no begging in our state. If anyone goes around begging, trying to scrape together a living through hopeless appeals, the wardens of the agora shall drive him out of the marketplace, the wardens of the city shall drive him out of the city, and the wardens of the countryside shall escort him across the border and out of the land entirely — so the country may be cleared of this kind of creature.

If a slave of either sex damages someone else's property through inexperience or carelessness, and the person who suffered the damage isn't partly to blame himself, the slave's master must either make full restitution or hand over the slave. But if the master argues that the charge is a scam — a collusion between the injured party and the slave to get the slave transferred — he may sue the person claiming injury for fraud. If he wins, he receives double the value the court sets as the slave's price. If he loses, he must pay for the damage and hand over the slave.

If a pack animal, horse, dog, or any other animal damages a neighbor's property, the owner shall pay for the damage in the same way.

If anyone refuses to serve as a witness, the person who needs him shall issue a summons, and the summoned person must appear at the trial. If he has relevant knowledge and is willing to testify, let him testify. If he says he doesn't know anything, let him swear by the three divinities — Zeus, Apollo, and Themis — that he doesn't know, and then he's free from any further involvement in the case.

A person summoned as a witness who fails to answer the summons shall be liable for any resulting harm, according to law.

If someone calls on a person currently serving as a judge to be a witness, that person may give testimony but shall not afterward vote on the case.

A free woman over forty may give testimony and argue a case in court, and she may bring an action if she has no husband. But if her husband is alive, she's only permitted to serve as a witness.

A slave of either sex, and a child, may give evidence and argue in court — but only in murder cases. They must provide sufficient bonds guaranteeing they'll remain available through the trial, in case they're later charged with perjury.

Either party in a lawsuit may bring an accusation of perjury against witnesses, regarding their testimony in whole or in part, if the party believes false evidence was given. But the perjury charge must be filed before the final verdict in the case.

The magistrates shall preserve perjury accusations under seal from both parties and produce them on the day the perjury trial takes place.

If a person is convicted of perjury twice, he shall no longer be required to serve as a witness. If convicted three times, he shall not be allowed to testify at all. If he dares to testify after three convictions, anyone may report him to the magistrates, who shall turn him over to the court. If convicted again, the punishment is death.

In any case where testimony is rightly found to be false and that testimony gave the victory to the winning party, and more than half the witnesses are condemned for perjury, the original verdict won by those means shall be thrown out. There shall be a hearing to determine whether the original case was decided on the basis of that false testimony. However the determination goes, the original case shall be resolved accordingly.

There are many noble things in human life, but most of them have evils attached that seem fated to corrupt and spoil them. Isn't justice noble? Justice has been the great civilizer of humanity. And if justice is noble, how can the advocate of justice be anything less? And yet this profession — which presents itself to us under the fine name of an "art" — has acquired a terrible reputation.

Here's why: we're told that through clever arguments and a skilled advocate, the law can be made to hand victory to either side — just or unjust. The art itself, and the persuasive power it provides, are available to anyone willing to pay.

In our state, this so-called art — whether it's truly an art or just experience and practice masquerading as one — should ideally never come into existence at all. And if it does exist among us, it should heed the lawgiver's request: leave for another country, and don't speak against justice.

If the practitioners obey, we'll say nothing more. But for those who don't, here's what the law says:

If anyone is thought to be perverting the power of justice in the judges' minds — bringing frivolous lawsuits or engaging in dishonest advocacy — any citizen may indict him for malpractice of law and dishonest advocacy before the court of select judges.

If convicted, the court shall determine whether he acted out of love of money or out of pure combativeness. If it was combativeness, the court shall set a period during which he's barred from filing or arguing any case. If it was love of money: a foreigner shall be banished from the country and never allowed to return, on pain of death. A citizen shall die — because he's a person who loves money by any means. And likewise, if someone is convicted a second time for combativeness alone, the punishment is death.

Laws — Book XII

Persons of the dialogue:
  Athenian
  Cleinias
  Megillus

The discussion continues along the road from Knossos to the cave of Zeus.

Athenian: If a herald or ambassador delivers a false message from our city to another, or brings back a false report from the city he was sent to, or if he's proved to have misrepresented — whether dealing with allies or enemies — what they actually said, he shall be charged with violating the sacred duties imposed on him by Hermes and Zeus, acting contrary to the law. And a penalty shall be set: if convicted, he'll pay or suffer whatever the court determines.

Theft is a low act, and robbery is outright shameless — and none of the sons of Zeus take pleasure in fraud or violence, or ever practiced either. So don't let anyone be misled by poets or mythmakers into thinking such behavior is acceptable. Don't let anyone suppose that when he steals or robs, he's just doing what the gods themselves do. Those stories aren't true, and they aren't plausible. Anyone who steals or robs in violation of the law is never a god or a god's child — the lawmaker should know that better than all the poets put together. Happy is the person — and may they always be happy — who listens to these words and takes them to heart. But whoever disobeys will have to contend with the following law:

If someone steals public property, whether the amount is large or small, the punishment shall be the same. Because the person who steals a little has the same intent as someone who steals a lot — just less ability to pull it off. And the person who takes a larger sum that wasn't theirs is completely unjust. The law isn't inclined to go lighter on one than the other just because one stole less. Rather, the distinction is this: one thief may still be fixable, and another may not be.

If a foreigner or a slave is convicted in court of stealing public property, the court shall determine the appropriate punishment or fine, keeping in mind that the offender is probably still capable of being reformed. But the citizen who was raised the way our citizens will be raised — if he's found guilty of robbing his own country through fraud or force, whether caught in the act or not — he shall be punished with death. He's beyond saving.

Now, when it comes to military campaigns, a great deal of thought and many laws are needed. The overriding principle is this: no one, male or female, should ever be without a commander. No one's mind should get accustomed to doing anything on its own initiative, whether in jest or in earnest. In war and in peace alike, every person should look to their leader and follow orders — being guided even in the smallest things. When told to stand, stand. When told to move, move. Exercise, wash, eat meals, get up in the night for guard duty or to carry messages — all when ordered. In the heat of battle, don't pursue and don't retreat except on your commander's orders. In short, train the mind never to know how to act apart from others.

The soldier's life should be, in all things and at all times, as communal and collective as possible. There never has been, and never will be, a higher or better or more effective principle than this for achieving success and survival in war. And we should practice this habit in peacetime too, from youth onward — the habit of commanding others and being commanded by them. Anarchy should have no place in human life, or in the life of any animal under human control.

I'd add that all dances should be performed with an eye toward military fitness. Agility and flexibility should be cultivated for the same purpose, along with endurance of hunger and thirst, winter cold and summer heat, and sleeping on hard ground. And above all, we should be careful not to ruin the natural qualities of the head and feet by wrapping them in unnecessary coverings, stunting the natural growth of hair and the toughening of the soles. These are the body's extremes, and whether they're kept strong or not makes a huge difference — the feet serve the whole body, and the head commands it, since that's where all the governing senses are naturally housed.

Let our young men take what I've just said as a eulogy of the military life. Here's the law itself:

Anyone whose name is on the military roster, or who's been assigned to special service, shall serve. If anyone is absent due to cowardice, without leave from the generals, he shall be charged before the military commanders with failure to serve when the army returns home. His fellow soldiers shall be his judges — heavy infantry judged by heavy infantry, cavalry by cavalry, and each branch by its own peers. Anyone found guilty shall never be allowed to compete for prizes of valor, or to bring charges against anyone else for failing to serve, or to act as an accuser in any military matter whatsoever. The court shall also determine whatever additional punishment he deserves.

When the trials for failure to serve are done, the leaders of each branch shall hold another assembly to award prizes of valor. Anyone who wants to can seek recognition within his own branch of service, speaking only about the current campaign — no references to previous expeditions, no outside evidence or witnesses, just the matter at hand. The crown of victory shall be an olive wreath, which the winner shall dedicate at the temple of whatever war-god he chooses, with an inscription that will last his lifetime recording that he received first, second, or third prize.

If anyone goes on campaign but comes home before the appointed time — when the generals haven't withdrawn the army — he shall be charged with desertion before the same judges who handle failure-to-serve cases. If convicted, the same punishment applies.

Now, anyone involved in a legal case should be extremely careful about bearing false witness, whether intentionally or not, whenever it's in their power to avoid it. Justice is rightly called an honorable maiden, and falsehood is naturally repugnant to honor and justice. A witness needs to be especially careful not to offend justice in cases involving the throwing away of arms — he has to distinguish between dropping your weapons out of genuine necessity and doing it out of cowardice, and not make the former a disgrace or bring charges against innocent people on that account.

Making this distinction can be difficult, but the law has to try to draw the line somehow. Let me illustrate with an old story: if Patroclus had been brought back to the tent still alive but without his armor (and that kind of thing has happened countless times), with the original arms — the ones the gods gave to Peleus as a wedding gift when he married Thetis — still in Hector's hands, then the petty spirits of that era might have accused Menoetius' son of throwing away his arms. And then there are cases of people who've been hurled off cliffs and lost their weapons, or people at sea in rough waters who've been suddenly overwhelmed by floods — there are endless situations like this that could be cited to excuse what's really just bad luck that's easily misrepresented.

So we have to do our best to separate the truly serious offense from the lesser one. And there's a useful distinction in the language of reproach itself: a person doesn't always deserve to be called someone who "threw away his shield." He might simply be someone who "lost his weapons." There's a vast — really an absolute — difference between a person who's stripped of his arms by overwhelming force and one who voluntarily lets his shield go.

Here's the law: if a person carrying arms is overtaken by the enemy and doesn't turn to fight, but instead voluntarily drops or throws away his weapons — choosing a shameful escape and a quick run over a courageous, noble, and blessed death — in such a case of throwing away arms, justice shall be done. But the judge shouldn't concern himself with the case I just described, where the loss was unavoidable. Bad men should always be punished, in the hope they might be reformed. But there's no point in punishing the merely unfortunate.

And what punishment fits the person who threw away his weapons of defense? There's a legend that Caeneus of Thessaly was changed by a god from a woman into a man. It'd be poetic justice if we could work the reverse miracle on someone who drops his shield — but since that's impossible, let's make a law that comes as close to it as we can. The man who loves his own life too much shall spend the rest of his days in no danger whatsoever, living forever under the stigma of cowardice.

Here's the law in formal terms: anyone found guilty of disgracefully throwing away his arms in war — no general or military officer shall allow him to serve as a soldier or give him any position in the ranks. Any officer who assigns the coward a post shall be fined by the public examiner: a thousand drachmas if he's in the highest property class, five minas for the second, three minas for the third, one mina for the fourth. And the person found guilty of cowardice shall not only be dismissed from the manly dangers of war — a disgrace fitting his nature — but shall also pay: a thousand drachmas for the highest class, five minas for the second, three for the third, and one mina for the fourth.

Now, what about public auditors? We have magistrates who are elected by lot for a year, and others chosen from select candidates for longer terms. Who's going to be a competent examiner of these officials — what if one of them, crushed by the demands of office or by his own inability to carry the role with dignity, goes crooked?

It's extremely hard to find a magistrate who's better than other magistrates in virtue, but we still have to try to find some examiner or auditor who's better than the rest — almost superhuman. Because the truth is, a state has many potential points of failure, just like a ship or a living body. They all have their ropes, their supports, their sinews — one vital force running through many parts, called by many names. And the office of public examiner is one of the most critical factors in a state's survival or collapse. If the examiners are better people than the magistrates, and they do their job fairly and impartially, then the whole state and country flourishes. But if the examination of magistrates is conducted badly, then the justice that holds every institution together starts to unravel. Every power in the state pulls away from every other, they stop pulling in the same direction, and the city fills with factions — turning one city into many — and before long, everything is destroyed.

That's why our examiners must be outstanding in every kind of virtue. Let's design a way to create them:

Every year, after the summer solstice, the entire city shall gather in the shared precinct of Helios and Apollo and present to the god three men from their own number, chosen as follows. Each citizen shall nominate — not himself, but another citizen he considers the very best in every way, who is at least fifty years old. From those who receive the most votes, they shall make a further cut, reducing the field to half if the total is even. If the total is odd, they drop the person with the fewest votes to make it even, then keep the half with more votes. If two candidates are tied and this pushes the number past half, they drop the younger of the two. They keep voting until three candidates remain with unequal vote counts. But if all three, or two of the three, are tied, they'll leave it to fate and fortune, separating first, second, and third place by lot.

These three shall be crowned with olive wreaths and given the prize of excellence, with a public proclamation that the city of the Magnetes, by the gods' providence, is once again preserved, and presents to the Sun and to Apollo its three best men as an offering, a shared gift to both gods in accordance with ancient custom — for as long as their lives prove worthy of the honor.

In their first year, these three shall appoint twelve examiners, who serve until each reaches seventy-five years of age. After that, three new examiners shall be added each year. These examiners shall divide all magistracies into twelve categories and test the holders of each by every kind of scrutiny appropriate for a free person. While in office, the examiners shall live in the precinct of Helios and Apollo where they were chosen. Each examiner shall form judgments on some matters individually and on others together with his colleagues. He shall post a written report in the marketplace about each magistracy, detailing what punishment or fine the magistrate deserves according to the examiners' decision.

If a magistrate doesn't accept that the judgment against him was fair, he can bring the examiners before the select judges. If acquitted by their decision, he may — if he wishes — turn around and prosecute the examiners themselves. But if he's convicted and the examiners have sentenced him to death, then he dies — you can only die once, after all. For any other penalties that can be doubled, he'll pay twice.

Now let's consider the examiners themselves — what will their own review look like?

During their lifetimes, these men whom the whole city considers worthy of virtue's highest rewards shall have the first seat at all public assemblies, at all Greek religious festivals and sacred delegations, and at every public and holy ceremony they attend. The leaders of each sacred mission shall be chosen from among them. They alone of all citizens shall wear the laurel crown. They shall all be priests of Apollo and Helios, and one of them — judged the foremost among the priests appointed that year — shall be high priest. His name shall be recorded each year to serve as a marker of time for as long as the city endures.

After their deaths, they shall be laid out and carried to their graves in a manner different from all other citizens. They shall be dressed in robes entirely of white, and there shall be no weeping or mourning. Instead, a chorus of fifteen girls on one side of the bier and fifteen boys on the other shall sing hymns to the departed priests in alternating verses, proclaiming their blessedness in song throughout the entire day.

At dawn, a hundred of the finest young athletes — chosen by the deceased's family — shall carry the bier to the tomb. The young men shall march in front, dressed for war: cavalry with their horses, heavy infantry in full armor, and each branch in its proper gear. Boys shall walk near the bier and before it, singing the national hymn. Girls shall follow behind, and after them, women past the age of childbearing. Then — although priests and priestesses are normally forbidden from attending other burials — let them follow this one, unless the oracle at Delphi forbids it. This burial carries no pollution.

The place of burial shall be an underground chamber, vaulted and oblong, built of tufa stone that will last forever, with stone couches set side by side. There they'll lay the blessed person, cover the tomb with a circular mound of earth, and plant a grove of trees all around except on one side, where the burial ground can be extended indefinitely without needing a new mound.

Every year, the city shall hold contests in their honor — music, athletics, and horsemanship — in tribute to the dead.

These are the honors for examiners who pass their own review without fault. But if any of them — trusting that the hard part is over — later reveals the common wickedness of human nature, here's what happens: anyone who wants can bring charges against him. The case shall be tried before a court composed of the guardians of the law, the surviving examiners, and the court of select judges. The accuser shall state that so-and-so is unworthy of his prize of virtue and his office. If convicted, the examiner shall be stripped of his office, his special burial rights, and all the other honors he was given. But if the accuser fails to win even a fifth of the votes, he pays a fine: twelve minas for a first-class citizen, eight for second, six for third, two minas for fourth.

The so-called judgment of Rhadamanthus is worth real admiration. He knew that the people of his time genuinely believed in the gods — and that was reasonable, since most men in those days were sons of gods, and tradition says he was one himself. He seems to have decided that judgments shouldn't be left to men at all, but only to the gods. So he had both parties swear oaths on the points in dispute, and that settled matters quickly and reliably.

But things are different now. A certain number of people don't believe in the gods at all. Others figure the gods don't care about human affairs. And the opinion of the worst sort of people is that with a small sacrifice and a few flattering words, the gods will help them get away with large-scale theft and shield them from terrible punishments. The method of Rhadamanthus doesn't suit the needs of justice anymore. People's beliefs about the gods have changed, and the laws need to change with them.

When it comes to lawsuits, a rational system should eliminate oaths from both parties. The person bringing a suit should put the charges in writing, but shouldn't add an oath. The defendant should likewise submit a written denial to the magistrates, without swearing. Because it's a terrible thing to realize — when you've got many lawsuits going on in a city — that nearly half the people you meet at public dinners and in everyday social life have committed perjury, and don't even seem bothered by it.

So here's the law: a judge who's about to render a verdict shall take an oath. Anyone selecting magistrates for the state shall vote either under oath or with a voting tablet brought from a temple. Similarly, judges of dance and music, officials overseeing athletic and equestrian contests — wherever, as far as human judgment can tell, there's nothing to be gained from a false oath. But in all cases where a sworn denial clearly gives the oath-taker a major advantage, the case shall be decided without the parties' oaths. The presiding judges shall not let either side use oaths to persuade, or call down curses on themselves and their families, or resort to undignified pleading and emotional scenes. Instead, they shall teach and learn what justice requires, using fitting language. Whoever speaks otherwise shall be considered off-topic, and the judges shall bring him back to the matter at hand.

On the other hand, foreigners dealing with other foreigners shall continue to have the power to give and receive oaths, as they do now. They won't often grow old in our city or leave behind a brood of young ones to become its heirs.

As for the process of initiating private suits: the procedure for deciding cases between citizens shall be the same as in cases where a free person is disobedient to the state in minor matters — the kind that don't warrant flogging, imprisonment, or death. But regarding attendance at choruses, processions, and other public events, and regarding public duties — whether celebrating sacrifices in peacetime or paying contributions in wartime — in all these cases, the first priority is providing a remedy for the loss. Those who refuse to comply shall put up security with the officers whom the city and the law empower to collect what's owed. If they forfeit their security, let the pledged goods be sold and the money given to the city. If they owe more than that, the relevant magistrates shall impose an appropriate penalty and bring them before the court until they're willing to do as they're told.

Now, a state that makes its money entirely from agriculture and has no foreign trade needs to think carefully about its people traveling abroad and about receiving visitors from elsewhere. The lawmaker needs to consider these matters, and he should start by trying to persuade rather than compel.

Contact between cities tends to create a jumble of customs. Foreigners are always introducing novelties to other foreigners. When states are well-governed under good laws, this mixing causes enormous harm. But since most cities are the opposite of well-ordered, the confusion that comes from receiving visitors and from their own citizens rushing off to other places — when anyone, young or old, wants to travel abroad for whatever reason — doesn't really matter, because things are already a mess.

On the other hand, flatly refusing to admit foreigners, and never letting your own citizens go anywhere else, is completely impractical. And to the rest of the world it looks harsh and uncivilized — the kind of policy associated with ugly words like "xenelasia," the expulsion of foreigners, and with harsh, unfriendly attitudes. Whether or not the rest of the world thinks well of you is no small matter. The majority of people may be far from virtuous themselves, but they're not bad at recognizing who else is good and who isn't. Even wicked people have a kind of instinct that rightly sizes others up, and many thoroughly corrupt individuals form accurate judgments about the difference between good and bad people.

That's why most cities rightly encourage us to value a good reputation abroad. And there's no greater or more important truth than this: whoever is truly good — and I'm talking about someone who would be genuinely excellent — should seek a good reputation, but not without the reality of goodness to back it up. Our Cretan colony should likewise earn the finest and noblest reputation for virtue from the rest of the world. And there's every reason to expect that if the reality lives up to the idea, this city will be one of the few well-ordered states that the sun and the other gods look upon with approval.

So here's what we'll establish regarding travel abroad and receiving visitors:

First, no one under forty shall be permitted to travel to a foreign country at all. And no one shall go in a private capacity — only on some official mission: as a herald, an ambassador, or a member of a sacred delegation. Military campaigns and wartime service don't count as the kind of travel we're regulating here.

Citizens should be sent to the festivals of Apollo at Delphi, Zeus at Olympia, and to Nemea and the Isthmus, to take part in the sacrifices and games dedicated to the gods. They should send as many as possible, and the best and finest people they can find. These representatives will make the city famous at sacred gatherings in peacetime — earning a kind of glory that's the mirror image of what's won in war. And when they come home, they'll teach the young that the institutions of other states are inferior to their own.

They should also send another kind of observer, if the guardians approve: citizens who want to take a more leisurely look at how other people do things. No law should prevent this. Because a city that has no experience with good and bad people, and no contact with them, can never be truly civilized. And citizens can't properly uphold the laws through mere habit alone, without genuinely understanding them.

The truth is, there are always a few genuinely inspired people in the world — people whose company is beyond price — and they turn up just as often in badly governed cities as in well-governed ones. Citizens of a well-ordered state should always be seeking these people out, traveling by land and sea to find the one who is incorruptible — so they can strengthen the good institutions they already have and fix what's lacking. Without this kind of investigation and inquiry, no city will ever remain perfect. And it won't work if the investigation is done badly, either.

Cleinias: How can we have both an investigation and a good one?

Athenian: Like this: our observer shall be at least fifty years old. He must be a man of distinguished reputation, especially in military matters, if he's going to represent the guardians of the law to other cities. But once he's past sixty, he shall no longer continue in this role.

When he's carried out his observations for however many years he chooses during his ten-year term, he shall come home and present himself to the assembly that reviews the laws.

This shall be a mixed body of younger and older members, and they'll be required to meet every day between dawn and sunrise. The assembly shall consist of, first, the priests who have earned the rewards of virtue; second, the ten eldest guardians of the law; and third, the current superintendent of education, along with all the previous holders of that office. Each member shall bring along as a companion a young man of his own choosing, between thirty and forty years old.

This assembly shall be in constant conversation and discussion about the laws of their own city, about any especially good laws they hear about from elsewhere, and about branches of knowledge that seem useful — the kind that shed light on the examination of laws and without which the subject becomes murky and uncertain. Whatever knowledge the elders approve of, the younger members shall study with complete dedication. If any of the invited young men proves unworthy, the whole assembly shall blame the person who invited him. The rest of the city shall keep watch over the young men who distinguish themselves in this assembly — honoring them especially if they succeed, but holding them in even lower regard than others if they turn out to be inferior.

This is the assembly that the returning observer shall report to immediately upon coming home. If he's discovered anyone who has something valuable to say about the making of laws, education, or upbringing — or if he's made observations of his own — he shall share them with the whole assembly.

If he comes home neither better nor worse than when he left, he should at least be praised for his dedication. If he comes home significantly improved, he deserves even more praise. And not only while he lives — after his death, the assembly shall honor him with fitting tributes.

But if on his return he appears to have been corrupted — if he pretends to be wise when he isn't — then he shall have no contact with anyone, young or old. If he listens to the authorities and keeps to himself, he may live as a private citizen. But if he won't, and if he's convicted in court of meddling with education and the laws, let him die. And if he deserves to be indicted but none of the magistrates indicts him, that shall count as a mark against those magistrates when the rewards of virtue are being decided.

That's the kind of person who should go abroad, and those are the conditions. Now let's talk about receiving foreigners. There are four kinds of visitors we need to address.

The first kind is the seasonal trader — like a migratory bird — who shows up in summer, flies across the sea chasing commerce as long as the weather holds, and then moves on. These people shall be received in marketplaces and harbors and public buildings near the city but outside it, supervised by the magistrates appointed for that purpose. Those magistrates shall ensure that every foreign visitor receives fair treatment, but the visitor shall not be allowed to introduce any innovations. Official dealings with him shall be kept to the necessary minimum.

The second kind is a genuine sightseer — someone who comes to see and hear the festivals of the Muses. Hospitable accommodations should be provided for them at the temples, and the priests and temple staff should look after them. But they shouldn't stay longer than a reasonable time. Let them see and hear what they came for, and then let them go, having neither suffered nor caused any harm. If any dispute arises involving them — up to fifty drachmas — the priests shall be the judges. For anything larger, the case goes before the market wardens.

The third kind is someone who comes on official business from another country. He shall be received with public honors, hosted exclusively by the generals and cavalry commanders, and the person who entertains him — along with the city council — shall have sole responsibility for his care.

The fourth kind corresponds to our own observers — a visitor from another land who comes to study ours. These visits will be rare, and the visitor should be at least fifty years old. He may be coming to see something remarkable in other states, or to show something equally remarkable from his own. Let such a person go uninvited to the doors of the wise and the distinguished — being such a person himself. Let him go, for example, to the house of the superintendent of education, confident that he's a fitting guest for such a host. Or let him visit the homes of those who've won the prize of virtue, to exchange ideas — learning from them and teaching them in turn. When he's seen and heard everything, he shall depart as a friend taking leave of friends, and they shall honor him with gifts and appropriate marks of respect.

These are the customs by which our city should receive all visitors of either sex from other countries, and should send forth its own citizens — showing respect to Zeus, the god of hospitality. We won't forbid foreigners from our meals and sacrifices, the way they do in Egypt, and we won't drive them away with brutal proclamations.

When someone acts as a surety, let him formalize the arrangement clearly in a written document, in the presence of at least three witnesses if the amount is under a thousand drachmas, and at least five witnesses if it's above a thousand. The agent of a dishonest or untrustworthy seller shall be personally responsible — both agent and principal shall be equally liable.

If someone wants to search for something in another person's house, he shall enter wearing nothing but a short tunic, without a belt, after first swearing by the customary gods that he expects to find the item there. Then he may conduct his search, and the homeowner shall open the house and allow him to search everything, both sealed and unsealed.

If the homeowner won't allow the search, the person who was prevented shall take him to court, estimating the value of what he's looking for. If the homeowner is convicted, he pays double the item's value.

If the homeowner happens to be away, the people living in the house shall let the searcher examine the unsealed property. On the sealed items, the searcher shall place an additional seal and appoint whoever he likes to guard them for five days. If the homeowner is away longer than that, the searcher shall bring the city wardens with him, open the sealed property as well, and then — together with the household members and the wardens — seal everything back up as it was.

There shall be time limits on disputed property, after which the possessor can no longer be challenged.

Houses and land can't be disputed in our state. But for other property: if someone has been openly using and displaying items in the city, the marketplace, or the temples, and no one has claimed them — and someone later says they were searching for those items the whole time while the possessor made no attempt to hide them — if this goes on for a year, the seeker loses his right to claim after the year is up. If the items aren't shown in the marketplace or the city but only in the countryside, and no owner comes forward within five years, the claim is barred forever. If the items are used in the city but kept inside the house, the time limit is three years — or ten years if they're on private property in the country. And if someone has the items in a foreign country, there's no time limit at all. The owner can claim them whenever he finds them.

If anyone forcibly prevents another person from being present at a trial — whether that person is a principal party or a witness — and the person prevented is a slave (whether his own or someone else's), the case shall be declared incomplete and invalid. But if the person prevented is a free citizen, besides the case being invalid, the one who prevented him shall be imprisoned for a year and can be prosecuted for kidnapping by anyone who wants to bring the charge.

If anyone forcibly prevents a rival competitor from being present at an athletic, musical, or any other kind of contest, the person who discovers this shall inform the presiding judges, who shall ensure the would-be competitor is free to participate. If they can't manage it, and the person who blocked the competitor wins the prize, then the prize of victory shall be awarded to the one who was blocked. He can have himself inscribed as the winner in whatever temples he chooses. The one who interfered shall not be allowed to make any dedication or inscription referencing that contest, and in any case he'll be liable for damages — whether he won or lost.

If anyone knowingly receives stolen property, he shall suffer the same punishment as the thief. If someone harbors an exile, the penalty is death.

Every person should regard the state's friends and enemies as their own. If anyone makes peace or war on his own account, without the state's authority, he too shall face the death penalty — just like the one who harbors an exile. And if any faction of the city declares war or peace independently, the generals shall indict the instigators, and if convicted, death shall be the penalty.

Those who serve their country should serve without accepting bribes. And we shouldn't make excuses or approve the saying that "you should take gifts as a reward for good deeds, just not for bad ones." Knowing which you're really doing, and standing by that knowledge, is no easy thing. The safest course is simply to obey the law that says: accept no bribes for services. Whoever disobeys and is convicted shall simply die.

For purposes of taxation, every citizen ought to have his property assessed. Each tribe's members should also file a register of annual income with the country wardens, so that there are two valuations available. Public officials can then use whichever assessment they think is better in any given year — whether they prefer to take a percentage of total value or of annual revenue, after deducting what's paid to the common dining tables.

Regarding offerings to the gods: a moderate person should show moderation in what he offers. The land itself and the hearth of every home are already sacred to all the gods, so no one should dedicate them to the gods a second time.

Gold and silver, whether in private hands or in temples, breed envy in other cities. Ivory, being the product of a dead body, isn't a proper offering. Iron and bronze are instruments of war. But offerings of wood are fine — let someone bring whatever he likes, as long as it's carved from a single block. Same with stone for public temples. For woven work, no one should offer more than one woman can produce in a month. White is the color that suits the gods, especially for woven goods. Dyes should only be used for military decorations.

The most divine gifts are birds and painted images, and they should be the kind a single artist can complete in a day. All other offerings should follow a similar rule of modesty.

Now that the entire city has been divided into its parts — the kind and number we've described — and we've established laws covering all the most important contracts, as far as we could, the next step is to see that justice is properly administered.

The first tier of courts shall consist of judges chosen jointly by the plaintiff and the defendant. These should really be called arbiters rather than judges. The second tier shall be the village and tribal courts corresponding to our twelve-part division of the land, where litigants go when the stakes are higher and the first arbiters couldn't settle things. The defendant, if he loses a second time, shall pay a fifth more than the original damages. If he still isn't satisfied and wants to try a third time, he can take the case to the select judges. If he loses there too, he pays the full damages plus half again as much.

For the plaintiff: if he loses before the first judges but presses on to the second court and wins, he gets the original damages plus an extra fifth. If he loses, he pays that same amount. If he's still not satisfied and insists on going to a third court, then if he wins he gets the damages plus half again. If he loses, he pays half the amount he was claiming.

As for the assignment of judges to courts by lot, filling out their numbers, appointing court officers, scheduling cases, managing votes and procedural delays, the order in which cases are heard, the deadlines for filing responses and appearing — all of these things we've already addressed. But there's no harm in saying what's right twice or even three times. All the smaller, easier procedural details that the senior lawmaker left out can be filled in by a younger colleague. Private courts will be adequately regulated this way.

For public and state courts, and the courts that magistrates use in administering their offices — many respectable systems already exist in other states, designed by good people. The guardians of the law can draw on these through careful study, adapting what's needed for our new state, testing things through experience, and adjusting until every detail seems right. Then they'll set the final seal on these procedures and make them permanent.

As for the silence that should be maintained by judges, the avoidance of ill-omened words and their opposites, and the different conceptions of justice, goodness, and honor that exist in our state compared with others — some of this has already been mentioned, and more will be said as we approach the end.

Anyone who wants to be a fair judge should keep all these things in view and should possess written texts about them, so he can study and learn. Of all forms of knowledge, the knowledge of good laws has the greatest power to improve the person who studies it. Otherwise there'd be no meaning in the fact that our divine and admirable law has a name related to "mind" — nomos and nous. And of all other words — praise and blame of individuals found in poetry and prose, whether written down or spoken in daily life, whether argued over contentiously or agreed with too easily — the one sure touchstone is the writings of the lawmaker. The righteous judge should carry these in his mind as an antidote to all other words. In this way he makes himself and the city stand upright: for the good, he ensures the continuance and growth of justice; for the bad, he works toward conversion — from ignorance, from lack of self-control, from every kind of wrongdoing — as far as their flawed minds can be healed.

But for those whose life's thread is truly finished — death is the only remedy for souls in their condition. And I'll say it again, as I've said before. Judges and chief judges who act on these principles will deserve the praise of the whole city.

When the year's lawsuits are completed, the following rules shall govern their enforcement: First, the judge shall assign to the winning party all the property of the losing party, except for bare necessities. This assignment shall be announced by a herald immediately after each decision, in the hearing of the judges. When the month following the court session arrives — unless the winner has already been paid — the court shall follow up on the case and hand over the loser's assets. If the loser doesn't have enough to pay, and the shortfall is at least one drachma, the insolvent person shall have no right to bring any lawsuit against anyone else until he's satisfied the winner's claim. Other people, however, can still bring suits against him.

If anyone who's been convicted refuses to acknowledge the authority of the court that convicted him, the magistrates whose authority is being flouted shall bring him before the court of the guardians of the law. If he's found guilty there, he shall be put to death as a subverter of the entire state and its laws.

And so a man is born and raised. He begets and raises his own children. He has his dealings with other people — suffers punishment when he does wrong, receives satisfaction when he's been wronged. And eventually, in the fullness of time, he grows old under the protection of the laws, and his end comes in the natural order.

Regarding funeral rites for the dead, of either sex: the religious ceremonies that are properly performed — whether they belong to the gods of the underworld or of this world — shall be determined by the interpreters, and their authority on this shall be absolute.

Burial sites must not be on land suited for farming. There shall be no large or small monuments on productive ground. The dead shall occupy that part of the country naturally suited for receiving and concealing bodies, with as little impact on the living as possible. No one — living or dead — shall deprive the living of the sustenance that their foster-mother, the earth, is naturally disposed to provide.

The burial mound shall be piled no higher than five men could build in five days. The headstone shall be no larger than what's needed to hold the dead person's eulogy in four lines of verse. The body shall not be laid out at home any longer than necessary to confirm the person is truly dead and not merely unconscious. Generally speaking, the third day after death is a reasonable time for carrying the body to the grave.

Now, we must believe the lawmaker when he tells us that the soul is in every way superior to the body, and that even in life, what makes each of us who we are is the soul alone. The body merely follows us around, shaped in our likeness. That's why it's quite right to say that the bodies of the dead are our images, our shadows — for the true and immortal being of each of us, which we call the soul, departs to give an account before other gods. That's an inspiring hope for the good, but terrifying for the wicked, as our ancestral traditions tell us.

Those traditions also say there isn't much you can do for someone after they're dead. The living — that's who everyone should be helping, all their kin. While a person is alive, help them be the holiest and most just they can be, so that after death they won't have serious offenses to answer for in the world below.

If that's true, then no one should waste money under the illusion that this lifeless mass of flesh being buried has anything to do with the real person. The real person — son, brother, beloved, whoever it is they think they're laying in the earth — has gone away to fulfill his own destiny. The duty of the living is to tend to the present, to spend moderately, and to treat the lifeless body as a fitting altar to the gods below. But moderation shouldn't be confused with stinginess.

Here's the law: total funeral expenses for someone of the highest property class shall not exceed five minas. For the second class, three minas. For the third, two minas. For the fourth, one mina. These are reasonable limits.

The guardians of the law should take special care of every stage of life — childhood, adulthood, every age. And at the very end, there should be one guardian of the law presiding over the funeral, chosen by the deceased's friends. It shall be to his credit if things are managed with fairness and moderation, and a mark against him if they aren't.

The laying out of the body and other ceremonies should follow custom. But when a statesman adopts custom as his guide, we have to allow him certain changes. It would be wrong, for example, to order anyone to weep or to refrain from weeping over the dead. But he may forbid wailing, and he may require that the voice of mourning not be heard outside the house. He may forbid bringing the body into the open streets and processing through them with mourners. And he may require that the funeral party be outside the city before daybreak.

These are our laws on these matters. Whoever obeys is free from penalty. Whoever disobeys even one of the guardians of the law shall be punished by all of them with a suitable penalty.

Other forms of burial — and the denial of burial, which shall be refused to temple robbers, patricides, and the like — have already been addressed in earlier laws. So our work of legislation is very nearly complete.

But in every endeavor, the end doesn't consist in simply doing something, acquiring something, or establishing something. The real end is reached only when we've provided for the perfect and lasting continuation of what we've built. Until we do that, our creation remains unfinished.

Cleinias: That's well said, Stranger. But I'd like you to explain more clearly what you mean.

Athenian: Cleinias, many things were wisely said and sung in ancient times. The saying about the Fates was one of them.

Cleinias: Which saying?

Athenian: The one that says Lachesis — the Allotter — is the first of the Fates, Clotho — the Spinner — is the second, and Atropos — the Unchangeable — is the third. It's Atropos who preserves the things we've spoken of, the things we compared to cloth made permanent by fire: both she and fire create the quality of irreversibility.

I'm talking about the force that gives a state and its government not just health and physical survival, but law — or rather, the preservation of law — in its very soul. And unless I'm mistaken, this is what our laws are still missing. We still need to figure out how to implant in them this quality of being unchangeable.

Cleinias: That would be no small achievement — finding how to give anything that kind of permanence.

Athenian: But it certainly can be done. That much I see clearly.

Cleinias: Then let's not even think about stopping until we've given our laws this quality. It would be ridiculous to spend all this effort and then set the whole thing on a shaky foundation.

Athenian: I agree completely. I'm with you on that.

Cleinias: Good. So what, in your view, is going to save our government and our laws? How do we do it?

Athenian: Didn't we say there must be a council in our city, formed as follows? The ten oldest guardians of the law, along with everyone who has won prizes of virtue, shall meet in the same assembly. The council is also to include those who've traveled abroad hoping to learn something useful for preserving the laws — men who've returned safely, been tested in these matters, and proved themselves worthy of participation. Each member selects a young man of at least thirty, having first judged for himself whether the young man is worthy by nature and education, and then proposing him to the others. If they also think he's worthy, they accept him. If not, the rejection is kept secret from the general public, and especially from the rejected candidate himself.

The council was to meet early in the morning, when everyone is most free from other business, public or private. Didn't we say something like this earlier?

Cleinias: Yes, we did.

Athenian: Then, returning to this council — I'd say that if we set it firmly in place as the anchor of the state, our city, equipped with everything it needs, will preserve everything we want it to preserve.

Cleinias: What do you mean?

Athenian: Now is the time for me to speak the full truth, in all seriousness.

Cleinias: Well said. I hope you'll follow through.

Athenian: Consider this, Cleinias: in everything that exists, there is a natural guardian, a natural savior. In a living creature, the soul and the head are the primary saviors.

Cleinias: Again — what do you mean?

Athenian: The well-being of those two is what preserves every living thing.

Cleinias: How so?

Athenian: The soul, among other things, contains mind. The head, among other things, contains sight and hearing. When mind combines with the noblest senses and becomes one with them — that can truly be called the salvation of any living being.

Cleinias: Yes, exactly.

Athenian: Yes, indeed. But what does that intelligence focus on when — combined with the senses — it saves ships in storms and in fair weather alike? On a ship, when the pilot and sailors unite their perceptions with the guiding mind of the helmsman, don't they save both themselves and their vessel?

Cleinias: Absolutely.

Athenian: We don't need a lot of examples here. Think about it: what would a general aim at, if he were seeking victory? What would a doctor aim at?

Cleinias: Right.

Athenian: Doesn't the general aim at victory and superiority in war? And don't the doctor and his staff aim at producing health in the body?

Cleinias: Obviously.

Athenian: A doctor who's ignorant of what we just called health — of what the body needs — or a general who doesn't know what victory means, or anyone ignorant of the specifics of the skills we just described — none of them can be said to truly understand those fields.

Cleinias: They can't.

Athenian: So what about the state? If someone turns out to be ignorant of the goal the statesman should be aiming at, should he be called a ruler at all? And even if we do call him that, will he ever be able to preserve something when he doesn't even know what he's trying to preserve?

Cleinias: Impossible.

Athenian: Then if our settlement is going to be complete, we need some institution that can tell us what the aim of the state is, and how to reach it, and which law or which person will give us the best guidance toward that end. Any state that lacks such an institution is likely to operate without mind or reason, doing everything by sheer chance.

Cleinias: Very true.

Athenian: So in which part or institution of our state can we find this kind of guardian power? Can we say?

Cleinias: I'm not entirely sure, Stranger. But I have a suspicion you're referring to the assembly you just said should meet at night.

Athenian: You understand me perfectly, Cleinias. And as our argument implies, this council must possess every virtue. The beginning of virtue isn't guessing at many things and getting it wrong. It's looking steadily at one thing and directing all our efforts toward it.

Cleinias: Exactly.

Athenian: So now we can see why it's no surprise that states go astray. The reason is that their lawgivers aim at such different things. Some set it down that certain individuals should rule the state, whether they're good or bad, and call that justice. Others say the goal is making citizens rich, never mind whether they end up as someone else's slaves or not. Others are focused entirely on freedom. And some try to aim at two things at once — they want to be free while also ruling over other states. The "wisest" men — or so they think they are — look at all these goals and similar ones, but there isn't a single unified aim that they honor above all others and orient everything toward.

Cleinias: Then our earlier point stands, Stranger. We said that all laws should look to one thing only, and we agreed that the right name for that one thing is virtue.

Athenian: Yes.

Cleinias: And we said virtue has four kinds?

Athenian: Exactly.

Cleinias: And that mind is the leader of the four, and that the other three virtues — and everything else — should defer to it?

Athenian: You're following beautifully, Cleinias. Stay with me to the end. We've already said that the mind of the pilot, the mind of the doctor, the mind of the general — each looks to the one thing it should look to. Now let's turn to the mind of the statesman, and put our question to it as though it were a living being:

"Remarkable creature — what are you looking at? The doctor can name his single aim in life. The general can name his. But you, who claim to be superior to all other intelligent beings — when you're asked, you can't say what your aim is?"

Can you tell me, Megillus? And you, Cleinias? After all the explanations I've given you — can you say clearly what the aim of political intelligence is?

Cleinias: We can't, Stranger.

Athenian: But shouldn't we want to see it — to understand where to find it?

Cleinias: For example, where?

Athenian: For example: we've said there are four kinds of virtue. Since there are four, each must be one thing.

Cleinias: Of course.

Athenian: And yet we call all four by a single name. We say courage is virtue, wisdom is virtue, and the same for the other two — as if they weren't really many, but one thing: virtue.

Cleinias: Right.

Athenian: It's not hard to see how these two — say, courage and wisdom — differ from each other. They have different names, after all. The same goes for the others. But it is hard to explain why we call these two, and the rest, by the single name "virtue."

Cleinias: What do you mean?

Athenian: Let me make it clear. Let's divide this into questions and answers.

Cleinias: Again — what do you mean?

Athenian: Ask me: "What is this one thing you call virtue, and then turn around and describe as two — one part being courage, the other wisdom?" I'll tell you how it works: one of them has to do with fear. Even animals share in it, and very young children. I'm talking about courage. A courageous temperament is a gift of nature, not of reason. But a wise and understanding soul — that has never existed, doesn't exist, and never will exist without reason. It's an entirely different thing.

Cleinias: True.

Athenian: So I've told you how the two are different. Now you tell me how they're one and the same. Imagine I ask you: "In what way are the four one?" And once you've answered that, you'll have earned the right to ask me: "In what way are they four?" Then let's take it further. When something has both a name and a definition, is it enough for real knowledge to know only the name and not the definition? Can someone who's supposed to know about great and important truths be ignorant of all this without disgrace?

Cleinias: I don't think so.

Athenian: And is there anything greater for a lawmaker, a guardian of the law — for someone who thinks he surpasses all other people in virtue and has won the prize of excellence — than these very qualities we're talking about: courage, temperance, wisdom, justice?

Cleinias: How could there be?

Athenian: And shouldn't the interpreters, teachers, and lawgivers — the guardians of the other citizens — be able to surpass everyone else in explaining to those who need to learn, or whose misdeeds call for punishment and correction, what virtue and vice actually are? Or should some poet who's wandered into the city, or some random person claiming to educate the young, prove himself superior to the man who's won the prize for every virtue? And if the guardians aren't adequate in speech and action, if they lack proper knowledge of virtue — can we be surprised when such an unguarded city suffers the same fate as so many others do today?

Cleinias: Surprised? No.

Athenian: Then should we follow through on what we've said? Or can we find a way to give our guardians a more precise understanding of virtue — in both word and deed — than the average person has? Can we somehow make our city resemble a rational being with a functioning head and senses, because it possesses such a guardian power?

Cleinias: What exactly is your comparison, Stranger?

Athenian: Don't we see that the city is the body, and the younger guardians — chosen for their natural talents — are stationed in the head of state, their souls full of eyes with which they survey the whole city? They keep watch, pass their observations on to the memory, and report everything that happens to the elders. And those we compared to the mind — the old men who have many wise thoughts — they deliberate, using the younger men as their agents, advising with them. In this way, both together truly preserve the entire state.

Is this how our state should be organized? Or should all citizens be equal in their training and knowledge? Should certain people receive more thorough education than others?

Cleinias: That they should all be equal, my good friend, is impossible.

Athenian: Then we need to move to a more rigorous level of training than anything we've discussed so far.

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: And isn't the kind of training we need exactly the one we were just describing?

Cleinias: Exactly.

Athenian: Didn't we say that a craftsman or guardian, if he's to be truly excellent, shouldn't just see many different goals — he should press forward to the one, and knowing it, order everything with a view to it?

Cleinias: Yes.

Athenian: And is there any sharper method of examining anything than the ability to look at a single idea drawn from many different things?

Cleinias: Perhaps not.

Athenian: Not "perhaps not" — "certainly not," my friend, is the right answer. No one has ever discovered a truer method than this.

Cleinias: I'll defer to your judgment, Stranger. Let's proceed as you suggest.

Athenian: Then it seems we must require the guardians of our divine state to grasp, first and foremost, what that principle is which is the same in all four virtues — the same thing present in courage, temperance, justice, and wisdom that, being one, we rightly call by the single name "virtue."

This, my friends — if you'll agree — we must hold on to and not let go until we've explained it adequately. Tell me: is it to be understood as one thing, or as a whole, or as both, or in some other way? Are we likely to be in a truly virtuous condition if we can't even say whether virtue is many things, or four, or one?

If we take counsel together, we'll find some way to give this principle a place in our city. But if you've decided we should just let the matter drop, we will.

Cleinias: We must not, Stranger — I swear by the god of strangers, we must not! In our view, you're speaking the absolute truth. But we'd like to know how you'll make this happen.

Athenian: Hold on — before you ask that, let's first make sure we agree that it does need to happen.

Cleinias: Of course it does — if it can.

Athenian: And what about the good and the honorable? Should we take the same approach? Should our guardians only know that each is many, or also how and in what way they are one?

Cleinias: They have to understand how they're one.

Athenian: And should they just think about it privately, unable to articulate what they believe?

Cleinias: Absolutely not. That would be the condition of a slave.

Athenian: And can't the same be said about all good things — that the true guardians of the laws should know the truth about them, be able to explain it in words, and carry it out in action, judging what is and isn't well-ordered according to nature?

Cleinias: Certainly.

Athenian: And isn't the knowledge of the gods — which we explored with such care — one of the noblest forms of knowledge? To know that the gods exist, and to understand how great their power is, as far as human understanding allows? We can excuse the mass of citizens for merely following the voice of the laws. But we cannot accept as guardians anyone who hasn't labored to acquire every possible piece of evidence about the gods. Our city is absolutely forbidden to choose as a guardian of the law, or to place in the highest order of virtue, anyone who isn't divinely inspired and hasn't devoted himself to these questions.

Cleinias: That's only just, as you say — that anyone who's lazy about these matters, or incapable of engaging with them, should be excluded from positions of honor.

Athenian: Are we confident that two things lead people to believe in the gods, as we said before?

Cleinias: What two things?

Athenian: One is the argument about the soul — that it is the oldest and most divine of all things that come into being. When motion reaches the soul, it gives it perpetual existence.

The other is the argument from the orderly motion of the stars and of all things under the mind that designed the universe. No one who has looked at the world with care and understanding has ever come away more godless from the experience. The opposite happens — though most people assume otherwise. They think that people who study these things through astronomy and the associated sciences must end up atheists, because what they see looks like things happening by blind necessity rather than by an intelligent will pursuing what's good.

Cleinias: What's actually the case?

Athenian: Exactly the opposite of what people used to think. There was a time when people thought the sun and stars had no soul. Even back then, people wondered at them, and some who studied them more carefully began to suspect that if these bodies were truly soulless and mindless, they could never have moved with such astonishing mathematical precision. Even then, some dared to propose that mind was the force ordering the universe.

But these same thinkers made an error about the soul — they thought it was younger than the body, not older. And that mistake overturned everything. Or rather, it overturned themselves. Because when they looked at the heavenly bodies, everything appeared to be made of stones and earth and other lifeless stuff, and they assigned the causes of everything to these dead materials. That's what gave rise to so much atheism and confusion. It provoked the poets to heap abuse on philosophers — comparing them to dogs howling at the void, and other such insults.

But now, as I was saying, the situation is reversed.

Cleinias: How so?

Athenian: No one can be a true worshiper of the gods who doesn't understand these two principles: that the soul is the oldest of all things that are born, that it's immortal, and that it rules over all bodies. Moreover — and I've said this several times now — anyone who hasn't studied the mind of nature visible in the stars, who hasn't gone through the preparatory training, who hasn't seen how music connects to all these things and harmonized them with laws and institutions — such a person can't give a reasoned account of things that have reasons. And anyone who can't acquire this knowledge on top of the ordinary virtues of a citizen is not fit to be a ruler of the whole state. He should be subordinate to other rulers.

So, Cleinias and Megillus, let's consider whether we should add to all the laws we've discussed one more: that this nocturnal assembly of magistrates, which has also participated in the entire educational program we've outlined, shall be established by law as a guard set for the salvation of the state. Shall we propose this?

Cleinias: Of course, my good friend — absolutely, if it's in any way possible.

Athenian: Then let's all make a shared effort to achieve it. I'll gladly do my part. I've thought long and hard about these matters and have considerable experience with them. And I expect I'll be able to find others who can help too.

Cleinias: I agree, Stranger. We should follow the road where God is leading us. And the question of how to travel it rightly — that's what needs to be worked out and explained.

Athenian: Megillus — Cleinias — we can't legislate the details of this council until it's actually constituted. When it is, then we'll determine what authority it should have. But explaining how all of this should be organized properly would require a long discussion.

Cleinias: What do you mean? What's this new point?

Athenian: First, you'd need to draw up a list of people who are suited for council duty by their age, their studies, their character, and their habits. Next, it won't be easy for them to discover on their own what they should study, or to find someone who's already figured it out and become that person's student. On top of that, trying to prescribe in advance exactly when and how long each subject should be studied would be pointless. The students themselves don't know what's truly been learned until the knowledge has actually settled into their souls. So all these details, while they couldn't properly be called secret, might be called impossible to lay out in advance. Stated ahead of time, they'd be meaningless.

Cleinias: Then what should we do, Stranger, given all this?

Athenian: As the proverb says, the answer isn't hidden — it's out in the open for all of us. We have to stake everything on the throw, risking triple sixes or triple ones. And I'm willing to share the risk with you by stating and explaining my views on education and upbringing — the question that keeps resurfacing.

The risk is not small or ordinary. And I'd urge you, Cleinias, in particular, to take this to heart. If you organize the city of the Magnetes properly — or whatever name God may give it — you'll win the greatest glory. Or at least you'll be remembered as the most courageous of men by those who come after.

Dear companions — if we can only establish this divine assembly, we should hand the city over to them. Not one of us present here, lawmakers as we've been, would hesitate to do that. And then the state will be made perfect. It will become a waking reality — what just a short while ago we were trying to create as a dream, as a vision in the mind. We were mixing together reason and intelligence in a single image, hoping our citizens might be properly blended and rightly educated. And dwelling in the citadel of the land, having been educated in the way we described, they would become perfect guardians — the likes of which we've never seen in our entire lives — by virtue of the saving power that is in them.

Megillus Dear Cleinias, after everything that's been said, either we have to convince the Stranger to stay — by begging him, by any means necessary — and make him a partner in founding this city, or we have to give up the whole undertaking.

Cleinias: You're absolutely right, Megillus. I'll do my best. And you have to help me.

Megillus I will.

Dialogues

by Plato

Editor's Introduction

Contents

Euthyphro

Apology

Crito

Phaedo (Part 1)

Setting: The prison of Socrates

Echecrates: What ship is that?

Echecrates: Who was there?

Echecrates: Were there any foreigners?

Echecrates: What about Aristippus and Cleombrotus?

Echecrates: Anyone else?

Socrates: Why — isn't Evenus a philosopher?

Simmias: How so?

Socrates: What is it?

Cebes: What do you mean?

Simmias: What do you mean?

Socrates: Then before that?

Cebes: What do you mean?

Cebes: What evil is that, Socrates?

Cebes: How so?

Echecrates: What happened next?

Phaedo: What should I do with them?

Phaedo: Careful about what?

Phaedo (Part 2)

What is it?

Meno

Protagoras (Part 1)

Scene: The house of Callias

Companion: From where?

Companion: Wait — Protagoras is in Athens?

Protagoras (Part 2)

Different things, then?

Gorgias (Part 1)

Scene: The house of Callicles

Gorgias (Part 2)

Symposium (Part 1)

Scene: The House of Agathon

PHAEDRUS' SPEECH

PAUSANIAS' SPEECH

ERYXIMACHUS' SPEECH

ARISTOPHANES' SPEECH

AGATHON'S SPEECH

Symposium (Part 2)

Phaedrus (Part 1)

Phaedrus (Part 2)

The Republic

Republic — Book I

Republic — Book II

Republic — Book III

What remains?

Why not?

Republic — Book IV

Republic — Book V

And wasn't I right about that, Adeimantus?

How so?

How so?

Which specific years?

And in ours?

How?

What is it?

In what respect?

What things?

What is it?

What?

How so?

Republic — Book VI

What quality?

What's that?

Or fear death?

What?

Yes?

What forces?

What's that?

Isn't that unavoidable?

What's left?

How so?

Who indeed!